summary You know Josh is gross – the way he looks at you, touches you, says things no decent guy would – but somehow, his desperate obsession feels intoxicating. He's pathetic, and filthy, which is exactly why nobody can know. (read on ao3)
wc 8.4k words
warnings explicit (MDNI!), PIV, fingering, masturbation, semi-rough sex, degradation, humiliation&praise kink, dub-con elements, bit of overstimulation, semi-public sex, emotional manipulation, obsessive/manipulative behaviour, general creepy and grossness from josh, unprotected sex, some noncon touching, alcohol use, sub/dom dynamics grey area
pairing josh washintgon x fem!reader (+ mentions of rest of until dawn gang)
You don’t tell your friends about Josh.
You can’t. He’s just… ugh. Gross.
Not in a hygienic way. No, he showers—probably too often, given how his skin always looks stretched tight over his cheekbones, shiny and a little raw, like he scrubs himself bloody each morning to peel away whatever filth clings to him from the night before.
And his hair, while thick and styled with cheap gel that flakes off onto his shoulders, still somehow reeks of expensive cologne. The type that burns your nostrils with its sharp, synthetic sweetness, clashing horribly with the stale tang of sweat that seeps through by midday.
No, gross in the way he looks at you.
His gaze is… devouring.
Like he’s trying to imagine exactly what you’d look like stripped bare, mouth parted, eyes wet—like he’s undressing you in his mind and finding ways to ruin you all at once.
His eyes dart over your body too fast, greedy, like he doesn’t want anyone else to notice what he’s doing but he also can’t control it.
And when your eyes accidentally meet, he always smirks. That horrible, twitchy smirk that never reaches his eyes, his tongue running across his bottom lip as if tasting something only he can see.
Your friends noticed it immediately.
The first time he stumbled over to your group at a house party, a few beers deep, pupils blown wide and glassy, that grin split his face so wide it almost looked painful.
“Ladies,” he slurred, his voice thick with booze and something else, something sticky and leering, “what’s going on over here, huh? Talking about me?”
“Fuck off.” You snapped at him immediately.
You remember your immediate eye roll, how it only seemed to spur him on. His eyes snapped to you, laser-focused, pupils twitching like he couldn’t keep them still.
He let out a short, barking laugh, leaning closer, his free hand coming up to clumsily fix his fringe before it fell right back into his eyes.
“Or are we talking about you tonight?” he drawled, swaying forward so close you could smell the stale beer and cheap cologne mixing with his sweat. “God, you look—fuck— you know you look good, right? You’re like… fuckin’ dangerous.” He hiccuped, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving yours. “You’re… Sam’s little pal, yeah? Bet she doesn’t even know what to do with you.”
You scoffed, looking away, refusing to give him the reaction he wanted. “Fuck. Off.”
But he didn’t. His gaze dropped to your chest, lingering there like he was etching every inch into memory, then dragged lower with a grossly audible sigh. He licked his lips, slow and deliberate, before leaning in, his mouth brushing your ear as he whispered, voice trembling with cocky desperation, “Bet you taste even better than you look, huh? Fuck… I’d ruin you.”
Then, like nothing happened, he snapped upright with that manic, boyish grin plastered back onto his face, eyes flicking around the group, manic energy radiating off him. “Anyway—who’s getting me another drink? I’m fuckin’ parched.”
He watched your reaction with a flicker of dark amusement, eyes narrowing slightly as his grin widened. It was like he was cataloguing every tiny twitch of disgust on your face, savouring it.
But what really caught his attention—what made his pupils darken with something greedy and almost triumphant—was how you didn’t tell him to fuck off this time.
You just stood there, glaring, lips pressed tight, shoulders tense.
And he liked that. He liked it way too much.
Chris had to drag him away by the elbow, muttering an apology under his breath as Josh twisted to keep staring at you, his eyes unfocused but hungry, like a stray dog seeing scraps.
As soon as he left, your friends circled up, wide-eyed.
“Oh my god, what was that?” one asked, laughing nervously. “What’d he say to you?”
“Where do men get the audacity?” another chimed in, rolling her eyes. “He’s so gross.”
Then they turned to you, eyebrows raised. “Did you see the way he was looking at you? Like he wanted to… I don’t even know. Eat you alive or something.”
“Literally. He gives me the creeps,” one friend shuddered, sipping her drink. “Did you hear what he said to Anna last week? Told her she ‘looked like a pornstar from the nineties, in a hot way’. Who even says that?”
“Ugh, remember when he asked Sarah if her boobs were real? At brunch? In front of everyone? He’s disgusting. You'd think all that money, he'd have some manners.”
You just laughed along with them, cheeks burning, ignoring the way your stomach twisted at the thought of him wanting to ‘eat you alive’.
Another time you’d mentioned to Sam offhand that you were cramping badly, and Josh, overhearing from across the kitchen, piped up: “That’s kinda hot though. Like… primal or some shit.”
You’d gagged into your cereal bowl.
Men like him have always existed.
Too cocky for their own good, a little unhinged, but never quite dangerous enough for anyone to actually cut them off. The type who toes the line with crude jokes and lingering touches, only to grin and apologise with that manic glint in his eyes, and somehow everyone just lets it slide.
He’s funny, or at least loud enough to pass for it.
Charismatic in that slippery, suffocating way that keeps him invited to every party you go to, keeps him perched at the edge of every group dinner, leaning back with his arms spread across the seat like he owns the world.
But it’s the way he looks at you that makes your skin crawl.
His gaze turns dark when it lands on you—hungry, feverish, like he wants to peel you open and crawl inside, nestle there and never leave. Like he wants to keep you all to himself, hidden away beneath his fingernails and teeth.
And he never tries to hide it.
Not at parties. Not in the warm candlelight glow of a crowded dinner table. Not when you’re laughing with friends and feel his stare burn across your throat like a brand.
You always catch it.
The way his eyes slid over your body like oil, lingering a bit too long on your chest, your thighs, lips parted just slightly like he was already picturing what they’d feel like wrapped around him.
He’s touchy, too.
Always brushing past you when there’s plenty of room, his palm hot against your lower back as you walk through a crowd. When he compliments a dress or shirt you’re wearing, he just has to know what it feels like, running his fingers over the material, dragging them across your skin beneath it if he can, even when your face scrunches up in disgust and your friends’ jaws drop at the sheer audacity of Josh.
The worst part is… you never really discourage him. You just roll your eyes, mumble a half-hearted “Stop it, Josh,” and move on. You never actually push him away when his hands settle near your midriff or drift up towards your collarbone, fingers gripping at the fabric like he wants to rip it away.
He’s just one of those guys.
He laughs too loud – breathy and obnoxious, echoing through the room.
He says things that are just a bit too sexual, even to his other female friends like Jess or Ashley, little comments that make them shift uncomfortably closer to their boyfriends, which he loves doing in front of them.
He jokes too much about wanting to roleplay or choke someone out, watching your face closely after he says it, eyes dark and mouth curled up in that stupid smirk.
He messages you at 3am, “u up? ❤️,” and when you don’t respond, he sends another. And another.
Sometimes you wonder why he’s like that.
His sisters seem totally normal – Hannah’s a bit naïve, sure, and Beth can be firm when she needs to be, but they’re normal. They’re just too rich for their own good. Their parents stopped caring a long time ago.
And Josh… Josh fucking loves that mountain lodge they own. He’s always talking about it, about how quiet it is up there, alone in the snow, how you could scream and no one would hear.
He once told you, straight-faced, “You’d look so fucking hot crying. Like, properly sobbing. Bet your mascara would run all down your face.”
It wasn’t even during an argument, or after a joke, or anything that might have excused it. You’d just been sitting there on the back deck, scrolling through your phone as he smoked, the fading sun casting gold across the lake.
You hadn’t even been talking to him. You’d just sighed quietly to yourself at some sad video, blinking fast to keep your eyes from watering.
Josh exhaled a cloud of smoke, eyes locked on your face, studying every little twitch of your expression. Then he said it. Calm. Flat. Like an observation about the weather.
You looked up sharply, heart stuttering in your chest. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” you whispered, disgust curling thick and heavy in your throat.
He just smirked wider, tongue flicking across his bottom lip as his gaze flicked down your face, lingering at your mouth. “Nothing,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Absolutely nothing at all.”
Then he stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and walked back inside, leaving you there with your pulse pounding in your temples, your skin crawling so violently it felt like you might scratch it all off just to be clean again.
He’s pathetic. He’s gross. Weird. Perverted.
Which is exactly why nobody could know.
It happened at the lodge, of course. Where else would it happen?
Just a winter getaway, late January. You’d come up with Sam, your duffel bag stuffed with sweaters and thick socks, expecting nothing more than hot cocoa, card games, and maybe a freezing dip in the lake for bragging rights.
Josh called while you were halfway up the mountain road, the icy trees blurring past outside. The moment he heard your voice crackling through the car speakers, you swear he nearly came right then and there.
“Fuck, yeah. Fuck. Yeah.” His breathing was ragged over the line, like he’d been running or… something else. “You’re gonna have the time of your life, babe, I swear. I’ve told you about how q—”
“—I know, Josh. It’s quiet. Shut up now,” you snapped, cutting him off before his filthy mouth could say something else that would make Sam roll his eyes in disgust.
Too late, she was gagging at the ‘babe’ of it all.
Josh just laughed. That low, manic, bubbling laugh that always made your stomach twist, equal parts revulsion and dread. He was never put off by your impatience.
If anything, it only spurred him on.
“God, you’re such a little bitch sometimes,” he chuckled, voice dropping low, filthy, almost fond. “Gonna be a fun weekend.”
“Watch it, Josh,” Sam remarked. “Seriously, she’s my friend, stop acting all… you.”
“She doesn’t mind, do you babe?”
“Fuck off,” Is all you say.
It started earlier that night.
You’re rummaging through your duffel bag looking for clean socks when you notice your folded underwear sitting a little off from how you packed them. Your stomach clenches cold. The lace is twisted around itself in a way you know you didn’t leave it. Wrinkled. Handled.
You frown, fingers brushing over the cotton, then glance up to see Josh standing in the doorway.
Watching.
He smiles slowly, eyes flicking down to your open bag before meeting yours again. His gaze is glassy, hungry, lips parted just slightly like he’s been panting. You notice then the way his hand flexes at his side, fingers twitching like they’re aching to touch.
“Need any help unpacking?” he asks, voice syrupy sweet, but there’s a rasp to it, raw and shaky, like he’s been breathing heavy for a while.
Your skin crawls. “No,” you snap, shoving the bag closed, feeling your cheeks burn with disgust and something shameful under his stare.
But as you walk past him, his arm brushes yours. He leans in close enough that his breath fans hot over your ear, and under his deodorant and sweat you catch a faint, bitter tang that makes your stomach flip—like he’s been working himself up alone in the dark.
“Cute panties,” he whispers, so low you’re not sure you heard it right. But then he laughs, a quiet, broken little chuckle, and you know.
You push past him, heart hammering, bile rising in your throat. But even as you leave, you can feel it. His stupid fucking staring.
The cabin was warm and golden with firelight, flickering shadows making everyone look softer, prettier, a little drunker than they really were. You’d spent most of dinner ignoring Josh’s gaze burning into your side profile as you laughed at Mike’s stupid impressions. You felt it – every time you tilted your head back, his eyes dragged down your throat, your chest, your arms. Devouring.
He barely spoke through dinner. Just watched. Picking at his food with trembling fingers, flicking glances around the table to keep up the pretence of normalcy, then dragging them back to you like gravity.
Afterwards, he and Chris set up beer pong, coaxing everyone to join in with drunken cheers and clumsy bravado.
“You play?” Josh asks as he gets one in.
You stood beside the table, sipping on a beer yourself. “Not really. Can’t aim for shit.”
“I’ll teach you. C’mon, it’s easy,” He insists, waving you to come closer.
You sigh, feeling the glances of Emily and Jess, both of whom have mightily advised you to stay away from Josh.
“He’s a sweet guy, like, we wouldn’t be friends with him if he was a total dick, right? But like, you can do so much better, girl.”
Despite it, you agree. He smiles as you step closer, taking the ping pong ball out of his hand.
“What? I just bounce it right in?”
“Yeah. Yeah. You just- alright, maybe pick a cup you wanna get it in.”
“Fine. Um. Third row from the front, second from the left.”
“Good girl,” he says without thinking, voice low and hoarse. Your stomach clenches at that, unbidden.
You glance up sharply, but he’s already moving to stand behind you, big clammy hands coming to rest on your hips. You tense. His thumbs press circles into the fabric of your hoodie, squeezing like he’s trying to memorise the shape of your bones beneath it.
“Okay, okay, relax,” he murmurs near your ear, breath hot and beer-sour. “Just… line it up. You wanna flick it, not throw it.”
You can feel everyone’s eyes on you – Mike grinning drunkenly, Jess smirking, Emily rolling her eyes like she’s already written this scene off as pathetic.
But Josh doesn’t care, and maybe you don’t either. His entire body is pressed against yours now, his chest firm against your back.
His fingers slide down from your hips to rest lightly on your thighs, the touch far too intimate for a party game. You feel him press in a little harder, the swell of his crotch flush against your ass, and you stiffen instinctively.
“Josh,” you hiss under your breath, a light reprimand, but he just laughs quietly, his grip tightening like iron shackles.
“Shh, babe, I’m just helping you aim,” he murmurs, voice dripping with fake innocence, though you can feel the twitch of his grin against your ear. “C’mon, focus for me.”
You swallow hard, forcing yourself to raise your arm, wrist flicking as you send the ball flying in a clumsy arc. It hits the rim of your chosen cup and bounces out, clattering across the table.
“Ah, so close,” Josh breathes, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs as he pulls you tighter against him. You feel him through the thin fabric of your leggings, and your cheeks burn with humiliation.
He finally steps back, hands sliding back up to your waist, giving it a squeeze that makes you wriggle under him. “Good try. Keep going.”
You wriggle under the touch, shoving him off with your hip as best you can, glaring over your shoulder. But he’s already stepped back, watching you with that heavy-lidded stare, pupils blown wide, tongue flicking across his bottom lip like he’s tasting the moment.
You can’t believe you listen to him.
You do. You try again, shaking out your wrist, and he stays back this time, arms crossed over his chest. His hoodie sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, veins snaking down his forearms, hands twitching like he’s resisting the urge to touch you again.
“Aim with your wrist, not your hand,” he mentions lazily, like it’s a casual afterthought, like he didn’t just grind himself against you in front of half your friends.
“Fuck off,” you remind him flatly, eyes locked on the cup. But you take the advice anyway.
You flick your wrist, the ball arcs neatly, and lands directly in the cup you’d chosen before.
Beer sloshes over the rim. Chris and Mike whoop, Ashley cheers, Emily claps sarcastically.
“Babies first beer pong,” Jess teases, raising her cup to her lips.
You smile despite yourself, feeling a flicker of pride, looking down at the ping pong table and shaking your head. Then you glance at Josh, expecting a cocky comment, and find him staring at you with an expression so intense it makes your stomach clench.
You give him a small, reluctant smile, just a twitch of your lips. “Thanks, coach,” you mutter, sipping your beer to hide the flush in your cheeks. Then you add under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear: “Never touch me again, though.”
He just grins at that, wide and twitchy and obscene, raising both hands like he’s surrendering to the cops. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he says, voice thick with mock innocence.
You roll your eyes, but there’s heat rising in your chest that you try to shove down, turning away before you can think too much about it. As you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, you catch Emily watching you from across the table, eyebrows raised, an amused, questioning smile curling at the corner of her mouth.
Your smirk fades instantly. You duck your head, focusing hard on your beer, willing the flush on your cheeks to cool down before anyone else notices.
You’ve always heard nothing good happens past midnight.
You’d have to agree.
You slept too much on the drive over, and now you’re wide awake, curled up on the loveseat as the fire burns low, dying phone in hand. Chris had nearly lit himself on fire trying to get the thing started earlier, and everyone had laughed until their ribs ached.
Now it’s quiet. Everyone else has drifted off to bed, sprawled out in spare rooms and on couches, bodies heavy with beer and whiskey and shots of something sweet Josh found in the back of the liquor cabinet.
You sobered up a while ago, nursing a wine, staring into the embers as they collapsed in on themselves.
Almost everyone had gone to bed.
You hear the footsteps before you see him. Heavy, uneven, like he’s dragging his feet across the polished wood floors just to let you know he’s coming. You don’t bother turning. You already know.
Josh stumbles in from the kitchen, hoodie unzipped, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair sticking up in greasy tufts like he’s been tugging at it all night. Like he’s been pacing and thinking and pacing some more.
When he sees you, his whole face changes. That stupid grin unfurls across his lips, slow and twitchy, his eyes going soft and dark all at once. Hungry. Lazy. Like he’s just come home to something warm and waiting.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he wonders.
You don’t look up from your phone. “Nope.”
He chuckles under his breath, moving closer, the floor creaking under his weight. “Yeah. Me neither.”
He exhales a shaky sigh, like the sight of you actually calms him, shoulders dropping as he steps around the couch to stand in front of you. The shadows from the fire flicker across his face, catching on the sharp plane of his cheekbones, the wet gleam of his lips. He smells like sweat and cologne and stale beer. Overpowering. Cloying.
For a moment he just… looks at you, stood between the couch and fireplace. Like he’s drinking in the sight, pupils blown wide, tongue darting out to wet his lips. You flick your gaze up at him, and his breath catches, chest hitching like you just punched the air out of his lungs.
“Stop staring at me like that,” you mutter, voice flat, phone now of no interest to you.
He raises his hands again, surrendering. “Like what?”
“Josh…” You sigh, tired, rubbing at your eyes with the heel of your palm. The fire crackles behind him, shadows dancing across his sharp cheeks, making him look almost skeletal. Gaunt. Haunted.
Because he knows. He knows exactly how he looks at you. Everybody does. He finally drops it.
“Oh, come on,” he scoffs, but there’s no real bite behind it. His words are low, slurred at the edges, eyes flickering over your face with something like pleading. “I’m— I’m nothin’ but a gentleman to you, aren’t I?” His brows twitch together, mouth twisting into something sour. “I… I keep my distance. I deal with your attitude, don’t I?” He chuckles, but it’s hollow, wet at the end like he’s swallowing back something desperate.
You stare at him, brows drawn tight. He’s rambling, voice dropping to a whisper.
“Can’t I just— can’t I just have one thing?”
You blame the wine for how you don’t stop him as he takes a slow step closer, like you’re his prey. Except he just watches.
“Is that alright with you?” He mumbles. “If you’re not… gonna give me what I want.”
You can’t help it. “What do you want?”
He scoffs a dry laugh at that and points at you like you’ve just told a hilarious joke. “The playing dumb thing is cute. Real cute, you know?” He chuckles to himself.
God, if your friends knew you were even entertaining this.
A beat of quiet goes by till he takes a seat in the empty spot next to you. He spreads his legs wide, knee bumping against yours. You curl more into yourself, tucking your foot up onto the seat, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands as you inhale sharply, staring into the fire with him.
Yeah. He’s fucking weird.
And just… crude, and touchy.
But maybe you’re touch-starved. Maybe your ex was too nice. Maybe you’re bored. But he wants you. He’s never not shown that. Not like the others, who flirt when it’s convenient, whose eyes flick away the moment they’re bored of the chase.
He looks at you like he’s starving. Like he’d gnaw his own arm off if it meant getting to touch you for a second.
And maybe that’s why you ask him—
“Why do you like me?” you whisper, voice almost lost beneath the crackle of the fire. You stare down at your lap, fingers fidgeting with the fraying ends of your sleeves.
Josh almost doesn’t hear it. His glazed eyes remain fixed on the fire, flickering orange reflected in his blown pupils. For a second, you think he’s not going to answer. But then he exhales, a shaky sound that rattles his chest.
“You’re hot,” he says flatly. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
You scoff, rolling your eyes, but before you can cut him off he keeps going, words tumbling out clumsy and unfiltered.
“You’re… nice. Not always to me, n’ all, but that’s usually ‘cause I’ve got it comin’,” he chuckles, rubbing a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to hide his smile. “But I see you with Sam. With the others. You… I dunno. You care about stuff. About people. You’re funny. And you’re just so fuckin’ sexy, you know?”
He lets out a low, breathy laugh, shaking his head slightly. It sounds almost disbelieving, like he can’t believe he’s saying this and you’re actually listening. His knee nudges yours again, firmer this time, like he can’t help himself.
“I mean—fuck—you’re sittin’ here lookin’ like that, and you’re talkin’ to me, and… shit, dude,” he mumbles, voice going quiet at the end. His gaze finally drags over to you, eyes half-lidded and heavy with exhaustion and liquor and that same disgusting, obsessive hunger. “It’s like… I dunno. You make me fuckin’ crazy.”
Your chest tightens, stomach twisting uncomfortably. It’s pathetic.
He’s pathetic.
But there’s a part of you—some small, rotting part buried deep in your chest—that feels something warm curl through your ribs at his words. At least he wants you. At least he’s obsessed. And that’s worth something. Even if he’s gross.
Which is exactly why you lean in without thinking, pressing your lips against his cheek. Your cheap red gloss leaves a faint smear on his sharp bone.
You watch him twitch at the contact, squirming under your gaze when you pull back, still close, your body fully angled towards him now.
He turns his head to look at you, eyes wide, confused, silent.
Good. He should shut up more often, you think.
Before he can say anything, you lean in again.
This time, your lips press against his. Soft at first – he goes completely still, frozen in shock, before his mouth starts to move against yours, clumsy and desperate. You can feel how plush his lips are, how they part under yours like he’s starving for it.
You kiss him deeper for just a second, tasting stale beer and mint gum, before pulling away abruptly, leaving him panting.
He stares at you like you’ve just handed him the meaning of life on a silver platter. Like he might genuinely explode if you touch him again.
“You can’t tell anyone,” you murmur, voice low and firm.
He nods so fast it’s pathetic.
“Answer me,” you demand, eyes narrowing.
“I-I won’t tell anyone,” he blurts out, voice breaking at the edges.
“You promise?” Your hand slides up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing over the faint stubble there, almost tender.
His eyes flutter half-shut, lips parting like he’s about to say something worshipful. But he hesitates. “Well–”
You fist your fingers into his hair and yank, hard enough to make him gasp, his head tipping back, mouth falling open in a silent moan. “Promise me,” you repeat, your voice like steel.
He’s breathing heavy now, chest rising and falling fast, but a shaky smile curls at the edge of his lips. “Yes, ma’am,” he breathes out, half joking, half ruined already.
You don’t remember how his mouth ended up on yours, chasing it like you would vanish into thin air. How his fingers found their way under your sweater, rough and trembling against the bare skin of your waist. How you climbed onto his lap, straddling him without thinking, knees digging into the ratty loveseat cushions on either side of his thighs.
His hands clutched at your hips like he was scared you’d slip away. His touch was desperate – not tender, not considerate – just greedy, fingers digging in so tight you knew you’d bruise. You felt his cock straining against his sweats beneath you already, pathetic, hard just from a couple of kisses.
“Fuck…” he whimpered into your mouth, his voice breaking pathetically as his tongue licked at your bottom lip, sloppy and uncoordinated. “Fuck, fuck… you’re… you’re so fucking hot, oh my god…”
You pulled back slightly, just enough to watch his face. His eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon. Sweat beaded along his hairline despite the chill in the lounge.
He looked… kind of beautiful, in a filthy, trembling way. Like something that shouldn’t exist, and yet there it was, all yours.
You remember his little noises – those quiet, broken whimpers into your mouth – and the way he said your name like it was the only word he knew.
“You’re a fucking dick,” You muttered softly, but your hips rolled down against him anyway, feeling the way he twitched beneath you, how his breath hitched in his throat.
His hands slid up under your hoodie, rough palms skating over your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra. He looked like he might start crying from how overwhelmed he was, lips pink and swollen, gloss smeared across his mouth and chin.
“I’ve dreamt about this,” he whispered, his voice wrecked. “You can call me whatever you want. Just… please… please keep going.”
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.
You leaned in again, your mouth ghosting over his ear. “You’re such a fucking loser, Josh,” you whispered, your tongue darting out to lick the shell of his ear.
He shivered violently beneath you, hips jerking up against yours involuntarily. “Yeah…” he breathed out, his hands sliding down to grip your ass, squeezing like he was trying to memorise the shape of it. “I don’t care… don’t fucking care…”
You kissed him again, harder this time, biting down on his bottom lip until he let out a strangled groan into your mouth. His hips were grinding up into you now, desperate little thrusts that made your stomach twist with disgust and reluctant heat.
Because at least he wanted you. At least he was obsessed.
At least when his eyes rolled back and his hands shook against your skin, it was because of you. Only you.
God, you’re pathetic.
His hands slip out from under your shirt, fumbling down to grab at your ass, squeezing rough and greedy as you kiss him harder.
You move his hand lower, guiding it yourself until his fingertips brush the waistband of your sleep shorts. He lets out a ragged little gasp at the contact, the sound muffled by your mouth, and you can feel him twitch beneath you, pathetic.
You drag his hand under the thin cotton, down into your panties. He hesitates for half a second, almost like he’s overwhelmed, before his fingers slip lower and finally swipe through your folds.
You break the kiss with a shaky inhale, your forehead dropping to rest against his as you feel him touch your core, wet and hot against his trembling fingers. His breath hitches, chest rising sharply under yours, and his eyes flutter between your flushed face and the sight of his hand buried under your shorts.
“Fuck… you’re…” he starts, voice hoarse with disbelief as he feels just how wet you are.
“Shut up,” you mutter quickly, cheeks burning with embarrassment.
He just nods, swallowing hard, but his mouth won’t stay shut for long. “I’ve… I’ve thought about this for so fucking long, you know,” he rambles, his voice cracking at the edges with desperation. “I… fuck, I can’t believe this is real…”
You’re about to tell him to stop talking again, but then his thumb brushes your clit, light and tentative. Your hips jolt forward involuntarily, a moan slipping from your parted lips. His eyes flick back to your face, pupils blown wide, drinking in the way you scrunch your eyes shut and bite down on your bottom lip.
His thumb starts circling your clit, slow at first, as his fingers dip lower, teasing at your entrance but never pushing in.
“I jack off to you all the time,” he breathes out, his voice low and trembling. “In the shower. In bed. Fuckin’— even in the bathroom at work sometimes… You’re like… you’re a fucking dream, you know that?”
You let out a shaky exhale, pressing your face into his shoulder to muffle your noises when he finally sinks a finger inside you, crooking it experimentally. It’s rough and clumsy, nothing like how you touch yourself, but his fingers are thicker, reaching deeper, the stretch making your thighs quiver around his hips.
He chuckles low in his chest, dark and filthy. “I’ve thought… fuck… thought about putting you in so many different positions,” he murmurs, curling his finger inside you just right, making your breath stutter. “Thought about your mouth around my dick. Thought about what kind of noises you’d make when I fuck you. Bet you sound so pretty, don’t you?”
He thrusts the single finger slowly, and it’s not enough. Not even close. You reach back, grabbing his wrist, guiding his movements. “Lower,” you pant out, voice strained, “and… another.”
His eyes roll back at your words, a guttural little whine escaping his throat as he obeys immediately, pressing a second finger in beside the first. You let out a choked moan, your back arching as he scissors them open, finding the spot that makes your thighs shake.
“Fuck… fuck, look at you…” he whispers, voice shaking with reverence as he pumps his fingers deeper, thumb rubbing fast, messy circles over your clit. “So good for me… riding my fingers like that…”
You move against him, grinding down desperately, chasing the feeling, your breath hitching with each thrust. His fingers fill you perfectly, curling just right, thumb flicking your clit faster. Your vision blurs at the edges. “Right there, right there…” You mumble.
“I’ve thought about tying you up,” he mutters, ignoring your praise, his voice wrecked, eyes glued to your flushed face and parted lips. “Would you… would you let me do that? Hm? Tie you up, spread you open… fuck, I’d ruin you.”
You let out a shaky breath, pretending like you’re ignoring his words, but the flush that spreads down your chest gives you away. You can’t even speak, can only nod weakly, your hips rolling faster, thighs trembling around him.
“Fuck… fuck, that’s so hot,” he groans quietly, his fingers thrusting deeper, thumb relentless over your clit. “God… you’re gonna come for me, aren’t you? Gonna come all over my fingers… fuck, please… please, baby…”
“Shit, that’s so hot,” He exclaims quietly, watching as you ride on his fingers.
Your stomach coils tighter, heat building fast, his filthy words spurring you closer and closer as you ride his hand, desperate little whimpers muffled against his neck. His thumb is relentless over your clit, circles sloppy and fast, his two fingers thrusting deep inside you, curling up just right, stretching you open around him.
“That’s it,” he breathes out shakily, his lips brushing your ear as his voice drops low, dark, possessive. “So good for me… making those pretty little noises… can’t let anyone hear, can you?”
You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut as the coil in your stomach snaps tight. Your body clenches around his fingers, a broken sob tearing out of your throat despite how you bite down on his shoulder to muffle it.
The orgasm rips through you, hot and fast, your thighs trembling violently around his hips as you cum hard on his fingers, grinding down desperately as if you could drag out every last wave.
“That’s it… good fucking girl,” he whispers raggedly, his breath shaking against your cheek as he keeps thrusting his fingers, slower now, helping you ride it out.
You pant into his neck, your forehead pressed to the sweaty skin there, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Your whole body feels loose, trembling with aftershocks, but you’re hyper-aware of the way his cock is straining hard against his sweatpants beneath you, pressed snug between your soaked core and his stomach.
Even through the fabric you can feel how hot and hard he is, twitching with every tiny shift of your hips. He lets out a strangled little whine when your hips shift involuntarily, rutting up against you with desperate need.
His hands grip at your ass, holding you tight against him, grinding up into your clothed crotch shamelessly as he pants into your hair.
“Please…” he whimpers, his voice wrecked, needy and pathetic. “Please… need you so bad… please let me…”
His forehead drops to your shoulder, lips parted against your skin as he ruts up against you again, cock throbbing hard under his sweats, leaving a wet patch where precum soaks through. His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s scared you’ll pull away.
You can feel his chest heaving against yours, his whole body trembling with restraint as he keeps himself from flipping you over and taking what he wants.
Because he knows – he knows he has to wait for you to give it to him.
And maybe that’s what makes this feel so fucking good. Knowing how desperate he is. How completely and utterly at your mercy he is right now, shaking beneath you like a dog begging for scraps.
Without warning, you spit quickly onto your palm, the wet heat slicking your skin. Your hand slides between you both, bold and unhesitating, slipping beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, then under his boxers, curling around the length of his cock.
His mouth falls open, a ragged breath catching in his throat before it bursts into a long, desperate groan—too loud, too raw. You clamp your other hand swiftly over his mouth, fingers pressing firmly against his cheek.
“Be quiet,” you hiss, voice low and sharp. “Or I’ll fucking leave you here.”
You see the flicker of genuine horror cross his face at the thought, eyes wide and glassy. His body tenses, trembling under your touch. He nods quickly, swallowing hard behind your hand.
Still, the soft, pitiful whimpers press against your palm as his lips press and bite lightly, nearly grazing your skin. You grip him tighter, thumb stroking up and down, moving slow and deliberate, letting him drown in the feeling while you hold the reins.
Your hand moves carefully, almost possessive—like you’re trying to tame something wild and broken beneath your touch. His body shudders against you, tense but craving, the heat radiating through the thin fabric of his sweats.
He’s barely holding himself together, that desperate, hungry edge never leaving his eyes, even though his lips stay pressed beneath your palm, muffling his ragged breaths and quiet whines.
You can feel the frantic pulse beneath your fingers, the slick heat that speaks of him straining on the edge. You don’t want to drag this out any longer than it has to.
You want one thing and he’s already got you there once, which is already more than you expected.
You just keep moving your hand, slow and steady, fingers tracing the line between pleasure and pain, between control and surrender.
Suddenly, you pull your hands away, leaving him trembling and exposed beneath your touch. His cock presses hard against his stomach, eyes wide and glassy as he watches you, dumbfounded.
Without hesitation, you shimmy down your shorts and panties, the fabric slipping to the floor with a soft thud. His breath hitches, a string of low, shocked curses escaping his lips like he can’t quite believe this is really happening.
His hand rises hesitantly, replacing yours, fingers wrapping around his own aching length, moving in a slow, desperate rhythm as his gaze stays locked on you.
“Can you, um—” He gestures awkwardly toward your hoodie, hesitation thick in his voice.
You freeze, a flicker of doubt flashing through your mind. Stripped bare before him, while he remains warm and clothed, the imbalance of power sharp as ever. But his eyes, burning with that twisted mixture of hunger and awe, drag you forward.
With a reluctant breath, you tug off the hoodie, the cool air prickling your skin as you settle back onto his lap, careful to keep just enough distance to remind him this isn’t softness or tenderness—it’s control.
He watches, hand moving faster now, slick with sweat, as you unclip your bra—revealing curves that have him practically swallowing his own breath.
Your heart hammers loud in the stillness. Anyone could walk in at any moment. You pray the whiskey haze keeps the others oblivious, safe behind closed doors and heavy lids.
“Holy shit,” he rasps, voice thick with disbelief and need.
One hand never leaving his cock, the other tentatively reaching for your bare tits, fingers exploring, squeezing like he’s trying to memorise every inch. You shiver under the weight of his touch—equal parts revulsion and reluctant heat.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whimpers into your neck, voice ragged and wet. “You’re so fucking—god, you’re so warm, please, please let me—”
You barely hear him. Your brain is cotton-wool fuzz, heat coiling tight in your stomach as you grip his hair, forcing him to look at you. His eyes roll back slightly, lids fluttering, mouth falling open in a silent moan as his hips jerk up again, desperate for friction, moving his hands to your waist, holding your back towards him.
“You’re pathetic.” you mutter, your voice flat, empty.
“Yeah,” he breathes, nodding into your grip, his fingers digging bruises into your hips.
You watch him for a second. Watch the way his chest heaves with each ragged breath, sweat dripping down his temples, gloss smeared across his swollen lips. You could almost laugh. This is Josh Washington. Rich kid. The Black Sheep, even in his own friend group. Reduced to a whining, trembling mess beneath you.
You reach between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around his cock again. He sobs at the touch, forehead thunking forward against your collarbone. “Please, please,” he whispers, voice shaking so hard it cracks. “I need it, I need you, I need—”
“Shhh,” you say softly, cutting him off.
Your thumb brushes over the flushed head, smearing the precum down his shaft as his thighs twitch under you. You guide him to your entrance, sinking down slowly. The stretch burns and he’s not even all the way in, but the way he chokes on his moan makes the discomfort worth it.
His hands fly to your waist, gripping hard enough to leave fingerprints. “Fuck, oh fuck, oh my god,” he gasps, eyes wide and shining in the dim firelight. “You feel—fuck—better than I ever imagined.”
You roll your hips experimentally, feeling him twitch inside you. He’s thick, not huge, but big enough to make your eyes flutter shut as he fills you completely.
“God, please,” he whines, thrusting up helplessly. “Let me, let me fuck you, please, I need to—”
You slap your hand over his mouth again, silencing his desperate noises as you start to move. The couch creaks beneath you with every bounce, the springs whining under your combined weight. “Shut up, for fucks sake,” you hiss. “You want everyone to wake up and see what a pathetic little perv you are?” You spit. “Hearing about how you touch yourself to me, how you’re a fucking weirdo, going through my underwear, tellin' me how you wanna see me crying... making all those stupid, stupid jokes?”
He moans against your palm, eyes rolling back, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s holding on for dear life. His hips jerk up into yours in sloppy, uncoordinated thrusts, chasing the tight heat of your cunt like an animal.
Tears are brimming in his eyes now, lashes wet and clumped together as he looks up at you like you’re the fucking messiah.
“Shit. Shit. Fuck. I’m- Gonna cum—” he tries to say against your hand, voice muffled and broken.
“Already?” you mock, leaning in close so your lips brush his ear. “God, you’re fucking useless.”
That does it. His whole body seizes under you, back arching off the loveseat as he cums with a choked, pathetic sob. Hot, wet pulses fill you as his hips keep twitching, his entire body trembling like he might collapse if you let go of him.
You don’t stop moving. You keep grinding down onto him, ignoring his whimpers of overstimulation, using his cock for your own pleasure. His eyes roll back, mouth open in a silent moan as his hips jerk involuntarily. He hits just the right spot, and you quickly move to shove your lips against his, moaning into his mouth to quiet yourself.
“Fuck, fuck,” you mumble, your stomach tightening dangerously. The heat coils low in your gut as you ride him harder, his cock stretching you open, every inch filthy and overwhelming. “Do you have any idea—”
Your words cut off with a sharp whimper when his hands come up to your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples, sending electric shocks down your spine. He looks up at you like you’re god, eyes glazed, mouth falling open before he leans in, kissing across your chest, lips hot and wet as he wraps them around your nipple, sucking hard.
“Any idea how… humiliating this is?” you pant out, voice trembling, breath coming in ragged gasps as you bounce in his lap, the slap of skin on skin echoing faintly over the crackle of the dying fire.
He moans against your chest, tongue flicking over your nipple, drool and spit mixing with his feverish kisses. His eyes flick up to yours, pupils blown wide, glassy with tears from sheer sensory overload. He doesn’t stop. His hands squeeze your breasts tighter, thumbs brushing insistently as his hips buck up, desperate for more.
“Have any idea how… if I was to tell anyone that I fucked—” you gasp, voice rising, heat building faster and faster, “fucking Josh Washington—”
He groans at the sound of his name falling from your lips like that, filthy and ruined.
“They’d think I’m a fucking weirdo,” you spit out, words dissolving into a breathy moan as he sucks your other nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing it just enough to make your hips stutter against him. “Oh—fuck, fuck, right there, fuck.”
He stops for a moment, head falling back against the couch with a low, broken groan as your cunt clenches around him.
“Shit,” he breathes, staring down at where you’re joined, at the slick mess dripping down his cock, at the way you’re swallowing him whole with every desperate thrust.
Your stomach tightens one final time before the coil snaps, pleasure exploding behind your eyes as you come with a shaking, choked moan. You bury your face in his shoulder, teeth sinking into the material of his hoodie, biting down hard enough to feel the sting in your jaw.
He fucks up into you slowly, grinding his cock deep inside, moaning into your hair, his hands trembling against your ribs as he tries to hold himself back. When your orgasm fades, you lift your head slightly, breathing ragged, sweat dripping down your chest. Between your legs is a ruin of slick and cum, his cock twitching still inside you as your walls spasm around him weakly.
Both of you look down at the mess, panting, the obscene sight making your stomach twist in disgust and reluctant satisfaction. “Fuck,” you mutter to yourself, a brief hit of clarity slicing through the haze, shame coiling around your throat like a chokehold.
A few minutes pass in silence, only the sound of the dying fire flickering across the room, painting shadows across his ruined, flushed face. You gently pull yourself off of him, sitting besides him now, bare as ever. You lean over, grabbing your bra and hoodie.
Then, Josh chuckles. Quiet. Low. Almost thoughtful. His eyes stay fixed on yours as a twisted smile curls up at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe you are,” he says softly, voice raw, trembling with exhausted lust.
Your brows furrow, confusion slicing through your afterglow as you reach for your bra, hooking it back around your chest with trembling fingers. “What?”
Josh just grins wider at your confusion, tongue darting out to wet his lips, eyes dark and glossy with exhaustion and something sharper. Something almost triumphant. He tucks his cock away slowly, hissing a little at the sensitivity, before leaning forward to grab your shorts from the floor, holding them out to you.
“Maybe you are a fucking weirdo,” he whispers, voice low and hoarse, “for wanting someone like me.”
You blink, staring at him, feeling your chest tighten with something hot and shameful. He holds your shorts out closer, wiggling them teasingly between his fingers before letting out a quiet, broken laugh.
“But… that’s kinda what makes you so fuckin’ hot, isn’t it?” he murmurs. “You could have any guy here, but… here you are.” He shakes his head, a breathy, disbelieving chuckle leaving his lips. “Here you fuckin’ are.”
You snatch your shorts from his hand, cheeks burning. But you notice immediately—he’s handed them to you without your panties. You glance at the floor, searching, but he just raises his brows innocently, that twitchy smirk returning as he reaches down to his hoodie pocket, shoving the bunched-up cotton inside.
“Don’t worry about those,” he mutters, voice smug, self-satisfied. “Souvenir.”
Your mouth falls open slightly, rage and disgust flashing hot through your veins, but he just leans back against the couch, arms spreading lazily along the backrest, watching you with half-lidded eyes as you pull on your shorts, maybe accepting your fate a little too quickly.
“This is a one-time thing,” you bite out, voice trembling with leftover adrenaline.
Your hands feel clumsy as you tug your hoodie back over your head, trying to ignore the way his gaze devours the sight of you dressing. He tilts his head at that, studying you with a dark curiosity.
“Yeah?” he hums, tongue flicking out again to wet his cracked lips. “You sure about that?”
You glare at him, chest heaving, heart pounding so loud you’re surprised he can’t hear it. “Don’t push it, Josh.”
For a second, something flickers behind his eyes—something almost genuine, raw, stripped of all his usual sleazy bravado. His lips twitch upwards into a broken smile, eyes softening as he watches you adjust your hoodie.
“Hey,” he says softly, voice barely above a whisper. “I… I won’t tell anyone. Ever. You know that, right?”
Your jaw clenches. You don’t answer, refusing to give him even that sliver of reassurance he craves.
You just turn away, stepping over empty beer bottles and discarded blankets as you leave him sitting there, panting quietly in the firelit dark, your panties hidden away in his pocket like a trophy.
And as you step into the silent hallway, your chest tightens with something sickening and warm, something that makes your skin crawl—
Because you know he’s right.
note: woah first fic alert ! this was supposed to be way shorter, but i decided to commit to the smut. first time writing it, have no idea if it's any good. veryyyy welcome to feedback! i just kind of try to write and emulate my own fav writers yk . anyway. hope u like! also pls lmk if the warnings aren't quite accurate or if i forgot something!
Requested by @edencherries / Summary: Nat and Steve try to set you and Bucky up by sending the two of you to be a fake couple on an undercover mission at a fancy gala. Will you two still be pretending by the end of the night?
A/N: okay so I absolutely love how this one turned out. Yes, I used Hunger Games (if you’ve read them, you know) as an inspiration for the whole real or fake thing. Obviously it is fiction and a hair cut/growing a beard isn’t a good disguise for the Winter Soldier, but this is my story and I can write whatever I want. (You’ll understand this after you read it)
@edencherries I hope you enjoy! Thank you for requesting!! xx
Tag list is at the end. Let me know if you want to be added xx
Go follow my fic rec blog! —> @imaginationgonewild0912
**MASTERLIST**
Requests: {OPEN} CLOSED
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********************************************************************************************NOT MY GIF, CREDIT TO OWNERS
“and that’s why we are going to send the two of you in there.” Steve is standing at the end of the table with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Come again, who are the two you are talking about?” You ask, looking around the table. You wanted to make sure you heard him correctly.
“You two, y/l/n.” Nat motions to you and Bucky with her fingers, “It’s time for you to be the undercover couple instead of Steve and I.”
Summary: It's been five years since zombies first started walking the Earth, destroying anything and everything in their wake. Now, in this apocalyptic world, fighting for survival comes as naturally as breathing. The one thing you've learned ever since they arrived, though, is that the living can be so much more dangerous than the undead. When you stumble across two young, scared boys lost in the woods and being chased by walkers, you go against your better judgment and help them to safety. Little did you know that helping them would lead you to Bucky - an angry, grumpy, distrusting member of the camp Shield. Bucky has zero interest in having you enter his life. He's been hurt before and lost too many people to risk experiencing that kind of pain again, and he knows that there are secrets you aren't telling the group. Yet, when push comes to shove, and you're put at risk, he'll stop at nothing to keep you safe.
Series Warnings: AaaaNGST, canon level violence, zombies, blood/gore, broken bones, scars, mentions of torture, lots of unaliving (think TWD lol), BUT...will still somehow have a happy ending because it's me :,)
Series Playlist
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
New chapters will be posted every week or so (I have fallen a little behind lol but am still actively working on this series so it will be finished). There will be a limited tag list, so please let me know if you would like to be added! Otherwise, you can follow my library blog @dreamlanddlibrary and turn on notifications to get updates when I post!
Gif by Malin 💖
Fun Stuff:
Moodboard by the fantastic treatbuckywkisses
Fayth moodboards AMS tag
Summary: Sam’s getting way too suspicious about your secret relationship with Bucky.
Word Count: 1.6k
Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, laundry room shenanigans, sam wilson being done
A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". It doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6 thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)
Sam didn’t sleep well.
It wasn’t the coffee. It wasn’t even the lingering PTSD from a week spent chasing Hydra remnants. No, this was different.
This was gut feeling. Instinct.
He was standing in the kitchen, hair wild, hoodie misaligned, and eyes like a war veteran who’d seen things and couldn’t unsee them. The clock blinked a smug 7:03 a.m. He poured black coffee like a man betrayed by the very concept of sleep.
That’s when he saw it.
Two mugs on the counter.
One had your initials. The other—a vintage WWII fighter plane sticker. It hadn’t been there last night. He knew, because he always did a final kitchen sweep before bed. Counters clean. Dishes put away. Mugs? Accounted for.
His eye twitched.
“…Barnes,” Sam whispered.
He crouched slowly, inspecting the mugs like they might start confessing their crimes.
Then the hallway creaked. Sam turned so fast he sloshed coffee onto his hoodie.
You entered the room, yawning dramatically, hoodie sleeves engulfing your hands.
“Morning,” you mumbled.
Sam squinted. “Is it? Is it really?”
You blinked. “…Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said, with the exact tone of a man who was absolutely not fine. He walked to the table and pulled out a chair like it owed him money. “Sit.”
“Why?”
“Because I have questions.”
“I’m not under interrogation.”
“You are now.”
“…Sam.”
“Tell me what you were doing between 0500 and 0700 hours.”
“Sleeping.”
“Alone?”
You squinted. “What kind of creepy follow-up—?”
Sam narrowed his eyes like a raccoon about to steal a whole rotisserie chicken. “I knew it. There’s a cover-up.”
You grabbed a piece of toast and headed for the hallway. “There’s a cover-up on your brain, Wilson.”
“I’ve seen the signs,” Sam called after you. “The glances! The whispers! The ‘accidental’ brush of hands during mission briefings!”
“Maybe I’m just clumsy!” you yelled.
“And matching mugs?”
“That sticker was mine first!”
Before Sam could yell something, Bucky entered the room, with aexpression criminally smug. He looked like the kind of man who had just done something worth hiding.
“Morning,” Bucky said, voice low and gravelly. He moved to the coffee pot.
Sam’s eyes followed him like a hawk on its sixth espresso.
“You okay?” Bucky asked.
“I’m great,” Sam replied. “Y/N just left.”
“Cool.”
“Came in lookin’ real tired.”
“People get tired.”
“You look real tired.”
Bucky paused, looked Sam dead in the eye. “You implying something?”
Sam sipped his coffee. “I don’t know. You implying something?”
They stared each other down. The air crackled. Somewhere in the distance, a tumbleweed rolled by. A raven cawed.
“You need sleep,” Bucky muttered.
“I’ll sleep when the truth sleeps,” Sam snapped back.
Then Sam dramatically left the room—only to storm back in ten seconds later to grab a banana. He peeled it with authority and left again.
Later that morning, when Sam had finally left for a jog—or more accurately, a neighborhood reconnaissance mission—you found yourself back in the kitchen. You were putting away a dish, humming quietly to yourself, when a pair of warm arms slid around your waist.
You didn’t jump. You never did when it was him.
“Hey,” Bucky murmured against your neck, voice soft now, stripped of the earlier smugness he reserved for sparring with Sam. His lips brushed your skin like a secret.
“Hey yourself,” you whispered, leaning back into his chest. “You’re not worried Sam’s going to install surveillance cameras?”
“He probably already has.” You both laughed.
He rested his chin on your shoulder. “I left my mug out on purpose, you know.”
You turned your head to look at him, brow raised. “Seriously?”
Bucky shrugged, expression boyishly proud. “He’s been circling for weeks. Figured we’d give him a trail to follow. Let the man feel like he cracked the case.”
You chuckled, shaking your head. “You are so chaotic.”
He grinned. “You love it.”
You turned in his arms, resting your hands on his chest. “Yeah… I kinda do.”
He kissed you then. Slow. Sweet. Familiar. The kind of kiss that said, even with a super-spy roommate and questionable mugs, this? This is real.
Later that night you bumped into Sam, sitting on the couch. He was hunched forward, elbows on knees, staring ahead
“Where are you going?” he asked, voice low and suspicious, eyes narrowing like you’d just confessed to treason.
You froze. “Uh. Laundry?”
“Interesting,” he said, voice dripping with suspicion. “You know who else said they had laundry tonight?”
You blinked. “…Literally everyone who owns clothes?”
Sam didn’t smile. He leaned in, voice lowering like he was revealing national security secrets. “Barnes. Same night. Same floor. Same time.”
You paused just long enough to regret getting out of your room.
“It’s a laundry room, Sam,” you said flatly. “That’s how they work. People… use it.”
“Mmmhm,” he replied, writing something cryptic in his notebook. The pen squeaked aggressively against the page.
Just then, the door swung open—and in walked Bucky Barnes, freshly showered, damp hair swept back like a shampoo commercial, whistling something suspiciously upbeat.
“Y/N. Wilson,” he greeted smoothly.
“Barnes,” Sam said, staring like he was trying to burn a hole through his soul with his eyes.
You smiled. Just a regular smile. Harmless. No romantic undertones. Just two coworkers… being cordial.
Totally.
“You know... I was asking Y/N here,” Sam said, still squinting, “about her suspiciously coordinated laundry schedule.”
Bucky didn’t miss a beat. “Must be fate.”
You coughed, choking down a laugh.
Sam slammed his notebook shut with the kind of theatrical flair that screamed “I was born for this drama.”
“Enough. You think I’m not onto you. But I see things.”
Bucky raised a brow. “You seeing ghosts again?”
“I’m seeing clues, Barnes. Don’t play dumb. You two doing laundry together. The mugs. The vanishing act during last Tuesday’s debrief—twenty minutes. Both of you. Gone.”
You opened your mouth, searching for a reasonable explanation, but let’s be honest—this was Sam. There was no “reasonable” left. This man had turned your laundry schedule into a covert op.
You crossed your arms. “We went to get snacks.”
“Snacks,” Sam echoed flatly.
“Yes,” you said, trying to maintain dignity. “You know. Human food. Fuel. Chips. The sacred post-mission ritual.”
“There was a vending machine incident,” Bucky added smoothly, stepping closer, unbothered. “Y/N had a standoff with a bag of peanut M&Ms. It got intense.”
You rolled your eyes as Bucky leaned casually against the doorframe, looking way too smug for someone being accused of laundry-based espionage.
Sam was relentless. “You think this is a game? Because I’ve got spreadsheets. I’ve got charts. I have timestamps.”
“I’m flattered,” Bucky replied, folding his arms. “Didn’t realize I was your top case file.”
“You’re not,” Sam snapped. “You’re just the most suspicious.”
You shook your head, already backing toward the hallway. “Okay, well, I’m gonna go… do the thing. With the clothes. Like a normal human person.”
“Sure you are,” Sam muttered, squinting again like he was two seconds away from installing security cameras.
“Goodnight, Wilson,” Bucky said with a wink. And then—because of course—he followed you out.
“Hey!” Sam called. “This isn’t over!”
You didn’t turn around, but you did hear the sound of him furiously scribbling in that cursed notebook again.
You and Bucky sat side by side on top of the industrial dryer, the hum of the spinning machines filling the quiet room. A single overhead light flickered occasionally, casting a soft glow over the laundry baskets at your feet. The scent of fabric softener lingered in the warm air.
“He’s going to lose his mind,” you murmured, folding a hoodie with unnecessary precision.
“He already has,” Bucky said, smirking. “Tried to stick a tracker in my jacket this morning.”
You laughed, bumping your shoulder into his. “We should start leaving fake clues. Plant a puzzle piece under his pillow. Hang a tie in the garage.”
“I already put a sock in the fridge,” Bucky said casually, reaching over to pull a warm towel from the dryer.
You turned to look at him, mouth open in delight. “You didn’t.”
“I did. Red. Argyle. No explanation.”
You grinned, shaking your head. “I love you.”
Bucky chuckled, leaning in to kiss your temple. “I know.”
You went quiet for a beat, letting the rhythm of the machines and the safe warmth between you fill the space. His knee rested against yours. The scent of his cologne barely clung to the edge of his freshly laundered shirt.
He reached for your hand, twining his fingers through yours beneath the basket of still-warm socks. “He’s getting close, though. We are getting pretty obvious.”
“You wanna stop?” you asked, turning toward him.
He looked at you—really looked. And it was all soft eyes, steady presence, and a patience you hadn’t known you needed until him.
“Not a chance.”
Bucky smiled, warm and easy, and pressed his forehead lightly to yours.
“So,” you whispered, “what are we going to do when Sam actually proves something?”
“We deny everything.”
You laughed. “Even under interrogation?”
“Especially under interrogation.”
One day, he’d prove it.
But not today.
Meanwhile in the living room, Sam was writing in his notebook. On the top of the page:
CASE #110: They’re DEFINITELY Dating.
And beneath it, scrawled in increasingly frantic handwriting:
shared laundry = suspicious
“Coincidentally” always sitting next to each other
Y/N smiled at him like he invented air.
Bucky smiled back.
FRIDAY pinged softly. “Sir, your blood pressure is elevated.”
“Because there’s a LIE in this house, Friday!”
War was still on.
But as long as you had Bucky Barnes looking at you like you were his whole world?
A/N: it's me again, hi. just wanted to say a big thank you for all the comments and feedback i've been getting from all of you. never thought that a one-shot could turn into a series with already SEVEN PARTS. anyway, just thank you all again. i hope you're liking where this is going. see you next chapter <3
|| pairing : james "bucky" barnes x florist!reader
summary : When Clint's birthday comes sooner than Bucky realized, Steve forced him to go buy some gift for Hawkeye. Figuring that flowers were an easy enough gift, he takes a visit to the flower on the corner of the street..
There, he meets a cute florist, someone who seemed to melt his cold heart. How will Bucky navigate this modern world romance? Will he allow himself to fall in love? If so.. How will he keep this from the team? And how will you navigate a friendship - let alone romance - with one of the most closed off Avengers?
college marvel au
frat!jock!bucky x cheerleader!reader
tutoring bucky barnes was already distracting enough, but leaving your diary in his room? that is a whole new problem.
Warnings: fluff, so much fluff, tutoring, first kiss, college au, vague panic from reader, idk it's just kinda fun and cute :), no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything
Word Count: 2.5k
A/N: hi this was for a request! so so cute, i wrote this so fast i didn't even think i would have it ready to post so quickly. idk anything about cheerleading or how college works in america, so forgive me. inspired by that willow song! sorry for any typos - not proof read.
main masterlist
I’ve been tutoring Bucky.
Well, James, technically. But he goes by Bucky. Says it’s a childhood nickname and it just stuck, and honestly? That’s kind of adorable. Like, who clings to a nickname that hard? Even the professors call him that, which should be cringe, but somehow it’s not? It just suits him. I literally don’t think I could call him James even if I tried. ‘Bucky’ feels right. It sounds warm. Familiar. Stupidly charming.
Ugh. Anyway.
He’s in one of those frats I usually stay far away from. The kind that smells like cheap beer and Axe body spray. Always yelling, always playing music way too loud, always shirtless for no reason. I swore I’d never waste my time on a guy like that. I really thought he was gonna be a cocky, arrogant douche when I first got assigned to tutor him.
But he’s not. Like… at all?
He’s actually really nice. Like, unfairly nice. That casual kind of nice that makes you forget you’re supposed to be annoyed. He remembers stuff I say. Not the big stuff, the tiny stuff. Like how I chew my pen when I’m stressed, or how I like lemon Gatorade for cheerleading practice. And yesterday he brought me those sour gummy worms I mentioned ONE time. Just handed them over all casual like, ‘Thought you might want a little sugar after practice.’
Who does that??
Like… stop. That’s not fair.
But of course, he’s like that with everyone. That’s the worst part. He’s charming in this totally effortless way. Looks at you like you’re the most interesting person alive and then turns around and does the exact same thing to someone else. How am I supposed to know what’s real?
And GOD. He’s hot.
Like, it’s actually rude.
He laughs and it does something to me. Like full-on makes my brain stop working. And his ARMS?? Every time he pushes his sleeves up to his elbows I lose one year off my life. For real. It’s like he’s doing it on purpose. (I mean, he’s not, but like… what if he is???) Sometimes I forget what I’m even explaining because he’s just sitting there smiling at me with those eyes and that stupid little smirk and suddenly I’m thinking about kissing him instead of confidence intervals. It’s not okay.
He’s on the football team. Scholarship guy. Big deal. Girls are obsessed with him. I’ve literally heard people talk about him in the locker room like he’s a celebrity. And me? I’m just… I don’t know. I’m me. I cheer and I study and I try not to let my GPA fall apart and I pretend I’m not crushing on someone completely out of my league.
So no. I’m not gonna say anything.
Because maybe I did catch him looking at me the other day when I tied my hair up. Maybe he does stay a little longer when we’re done. Maybe he leans in a little closer than necessary. But maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I want it too bad and I’m just reading into everything. I don’t want to be that girl. I don’t want to get hurt.
So I’m gonna do what I’m supposed to do. Help him pass stats. Smile when he brings me candy. Laugh at his dumb jokes. Pretend like my heart doesn’t skip a beat every time he says my name.
I’m just going to help him pass stats.
That’s all this is.
Right?
God, I’m so dumb.
—
You were fucked.
Well and truly screwed.
You couldn’t even focus during practice. Missed counts, off-beat claps, a completely botched dismount that nearly took you and the poor girl spotting you both out in one go. Natasha pulled you aside with that look—the one that said she was two seconds away from losing it—and muttered something about getting your shit together because the big game was in a week and this wasn’t the time to be spacing out.
But how were you supposed to focus?
Your diary was missing.
Your actual, physical, spiral-bound diary filled with every unfiltered thought you’d been too scared to say out loud. The same one where you’d spent the last four pages gushing about Bucky freaking Barnes like some sad, delusional teenage cliché. You didn’t even want to think about what you wrote last night, something about his arms and the way he smiles and how you swore he looked at you differently when you tied your hair up. It was humiliating.
You never should’ve taken it out of your room. You knew it was a bad idea. But Yelena had been on one of her ‘I’m bored and nosy’ benders, and the last time you left anything out, she’d read your old poetry journal and quoted it back to you at breakfast. You weren’t about to risk that again. So, like a total idiot, you shoved your diary in your bag before heading to class, thinking you’d keep it safe with you.
The entire day had been chaos. You barely managed to scarf down lunch between lectures, and by the time your 3 p.m. class let out, you were already sprinting across campus to make it to Bucky’s place for tutoring. Not that you actually got much tutoring done. You never did, not when he looked at you with that stupid, easy grin, or leaned back in his chair like he owned the air around him. One second you were going over statistical formulas, and the next you were talking about childhood pets and favourite movies, laughing like you hadn’t just been drowning in assignments ten minutes earlier. Time always slipped away around him. You ended up bolting to cheer practice.
It wasn’t until hours later, back in your dorm with your bag dumped upside down on the floor, that you realised your diary was missing. Your diary.
You’d spent a solid hour panicking, then a full thirty minutes rummaging through the lost and found at the campus security office, practically elbow-deep in a box of mismatched gloves and cracked phone cases. The guy behind the desk eventually looked up from his screen, where he was rather obviously playing solitaire, and told you with the energy of someone who very much did not care that maybe it hadn’t been handed in.
You wanted to scream.
Now your most personal, most mortifying thoughts were just out there. Floating around. God only knew where or with who. And sure, maybe whoever found it wouldn’t read it. Maybe they’d be a decent human being and just turn it in without flipping through. But let’s be honest, if you found a diary with someone’s deepest secrets in it, you’d probably peek too.
You were going to be sick. Actually sick. And not because Natasha had you running suicides again like she was training you for the NFL, but because your life might genuinely be over.
Because if he found it? What if you left it in his room?
What if Bucky read even one word of what you wrote?
You didn’t even want to finish that thought.
No, you literally couldn’t even finish that thought because, as Natasha finally called for the end of the session and the team began their warm-down stretches, swapping tired smiles and gulping down water, you saw him.
Bucky.
Standing at the edge of the field in that stupid grey hoodie, sleeves pushed up, all smug and handsome like he hadn’t just shown up to ruin your entire existence. He had that lazy, charming smile on his face, the one that made people trust him too fast, the one that made you trust him too fast, and in his hand?
Glittery blue cover. Spiral binding. Your diary.
You were going to throw up. No, genuinely, you could feel your stomach lurch. This was it. This was how you died. Not in a blaze of glory or during a botched basket toss, but here, sweaty, humiliated, and on the verge of a nervous breakdown in the middle of the goddamn football field.
You didn’t even think. You just stormed over before anyone else could notice, grabbing his arm and dragging him behind the bleachers like it was a crime scene. Which it kind of was. A crime against your dignity.
Bucky didn’t protest. He followed easily, letting you pull him along like it was some sort of game. Of course he did. And of course, he was smiling the whole time, like you hadn’t just gone into cardiac arrest ten feet away.
Your heart was pounding so hard you could barely speak. It rattled in your chest like a warning, like it knew this moment was about to go down in your personal hall of shame.
“Where…how…why do you have that?” you hissed, snatching at the diary, but he held it just out of reach, still annoyingly calm.
He raised a brow, like you’d just asked him what two plus two was. “You left it at my place. After tutoring. You were in a rush, remember?”
No. No, no, no, no, no. Of course, it had been his place. Of course.
“I—I didn’t mean to, I wasn’t thinking, I just—” You were spiralling, words tumbling out too fast, too breathless, and your fingers were twitching like you might just snatch the book and sprint across campus. “Did you…Did you read it?”
A beat. He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you.
And then, God, he smiled. Not the cocky one, not the football-star grin. This one was softer. Slower. Dangerous.
Your stomach dropped.
“I read enough,” he said.
You froze.
Your ears rang. Your mouth went dry. Your body just stopped.
“Enough?” you echoed, voice cracking halfway through. “Enough of what? Enough to—oh my God.”
You turned away instinctively, hand over your mouth like that could somehow keep your soul from escaping your body. Because what did that mean? What was ‘enough?’ Enough to ruin your life? Enough to laugh about it with his frat brothers? Enough to tell every girl on campus that the cheerleader who couldn’t even stick a full-out had a crush on him?
You didn’t even realise you were pacing until Bucky gently caught your wrist.
“Hey. Relax,” he said, and his voice was way too steady for someone holding the social equivalent of a loaded weapon.
You yanked your arm back like his touch burned. “Relax? Bucky, that was private. It’s literally a diary! It’s not for reading, it's for… spiralling in silence!”
He tilted his head a little, watching you carefully, and if he was offended by your panic, he didn’t show it. “You left it on my bed. Open.”
You groaned and covered your face with both hands. “Please. Just kill me. Right here. Hide the body under the bleachers. I’m serious.”
Bucky chuckled—chuckled, like this was some kind of joke—and stepped closer. You could feel his presence even before you lowered your hands again.
“Why didn’t you just say something?” he asked, quiet now. “If you felt that way.”
Your eyes snapped to his. “Because I didn’t know if it meant anything! You’re nice to everyone. You flirt like it’s a reflex. You remember everyone’s drink orders, compliment their outfits, hold doors and say all the right things. I thought I was just another person you were… nice to.”
He didn’t answer your panicked rambling right away. Just looked at you for a long moment.
“Yeah, I’m nice to people. Doesn’t mean I feel the same way I feel about you.”
Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.
“What?” you whispered, hating how small your voice sounded.
He held your gaze, completely serious now.
“Like I wanna kiss you every time you chew that damn pen cap. Like, I think about you even when I’m supposed to be studying. Like I can’t focus when you’re talking ‘cause all I do is stare at your damn lips.” He paused, and something almost like a laugh broke out of him, soft and self-conscious. “Like I’ve been trying to find a not-creepy way to tell you I like you since the second tutoring started, but you were always so focused and cool and out of my league.”
That last part made your head spin.
“Out of your league?” you repeated, eyes wide.
He smirked, stepping just a bit closer, lowering his voice. “Have you seen yourself? You’re smart, you’re so pretty it’s ridiculous, and you’ve got this whole thing where you act like you don’t know you’re the coolest girl on campus. Of course, I was nervous.”
You blinked at him. “Bucky… are you flirting with me behind the bleachers while holding my diary hostage?”
He grinned. “Maybe. Depends. Is it working?”
You tried to snatch the diary out of his hand, but he was faster, effortlessly holding it just out of reach like it weighed nothing.
“God, I hate you,” you muttered through gritted teeth, bouncing up on your toes in a desperate attempt to grab it. All it earned you was the embarrassing realisation that you were now fully pressed against his chest, warm, broad, and stupidly solid.
“You really don’t, at least not according to this—” he said, low and smug.
“Bucky!” you warned, trying to reach again, but he shifted it higher.
“Give. It. Back,” you hissed, practically climbing him at this point.
“I will,” he said, eyes flicking down to your mouth in a way that made your stomach twist and your breath catch. “But only if you let me kiss you first.”
Your brain short-circuited. Completely and entirely. The words took a second to process. His voice had dropped, softer now, more serious, like he wasn’t just messing with you anymore.
You looked up at him, heart thudding so loudly against your ribs you swore he could hear it. His eyes searched yours, and for once, he didn’t look like the effortlessly confident guy everyone knew. He looked… nervous like he was the one waiting to be rejected.
“…Fine,” you whispered, the word barely making it past your lips, but your smile gave you away. It was impossible to hide, giddy and crooked and ridiculous.
And then he kissed you.
He bent his head and closed the gap like he’d been waiting weeks for it—maybe he had. His mouth was warm and sure against yours, one arm still holding the diary hostage, the other dropping to your waist, pulling you in like he couldn’t help himself. You kissed him back without thinking, without doubting, like maybe this was the answer you’d been afraid to ask for all along.
When you finally broke apart, breathless and blinking at each other like idiots, he handed over the diary with a grin.
“Okay,” you whispered, still a little breathless. “That was… good.”
“Just good?” He smirked.
You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning. “Don’t push it.”
He laughed softly, thumb still brushing your cheek. “So… does this mean I get to keep seeing you after stats is over? Or do I have to fail on purpose to keep you around?”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“You’re right. You’d probably kill me.”
“More like definitely.”
There was a beat of silence, the kind that didn’t feel awkward. He looked at you like he already knew what you were thinking. And for once, you didn’t feel like running from it.
college marvel au
frat!jock!bucky x cheerleader!reader
tutoring bucky barnes was already distracting enough, but leaving your diary in his room? that is a whole new problem.
Warnings: fluff, so much fluff, tutoring, first kiss, college au, vague panic from reader, idk it's just kinda fun and cute :), no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything
Word Count: 2.5k
A/N: hi this was for a request! so so cute, i wrote this so fast i didn't even think i would have it ready to post so quickly. idk anything about cheerleading or how college works in america, so forgive me. inspired by that willow song! sorry for any typos - not proof read.
main masterlist
I’ve been tutoring Bucky.
Well, James, technically. But he goes by Bucky. Says it’s a childhood nickname and it just stuck, and honestly? That’s kind of adorable. Like, who clings to a nickname that hard? Even the professors call him that, which should be cringe, but somehow it’s not? It just suits him. I literally don’t think I could call him James even if I tried. ‘Bucky’ feels right. It sounds warm. Familiar. Stupidly charming.
Ugh. Anyway.
He’s in one of those frats I usually stay far away from. The kind that smells like cheap beer and Axe body spray. Always yelling, always playing music way too loud, always shirtless for no reason. I swore I’d never waste my time on a guy like that. I really thought he was gonna be a cocky, arrogant douche when I first got assigned to tutor him.
But he’s not. Like… at all?
He’s actually really nice. Like, unfairly nice. That casual kind of nice that makes you forget you’re supposed to be annoyed. He remembers stuff I say. Not the big stuff, the tiny stuff. Like how I chew my pen when I’m stressed, or how I like lemon Gatorade for cheerleading practice. And yesterday he brought me those sour gummy worms I mentioned ONE time. Just handed them over all casual like, ‘Thought you might want a little sugar after practice.’
Who does that??
Like… stop. That’s not fair.
But of course, he’s like that with everyone. That’s the worst part. He’s charming in this totally effortless way. Looks at you like you’re the most interesting person alive and then turns around and does the exact same thing to someone else. How am I supposed to know what’s real?
And GOD. He’s hot.
Like, it’s actually rude.
He laughs and it does something to me. Like full-on makes my brain stop working. And his ARMS?? Every time he pushes his sleeves up to his elbows I lose one year off my life. For real. It’s like he’s doing it on purpose. (I mean, he’s not, but like… what if he is???) Sometimes I forget what I’m even explaining because he’s just sitting there smiling at me with those eyes and that stupid little smirk and suddenly I’m thinking about kissing him instead of confidence intervals. It’s not okay.
He’s on the football team. Scholarship guy. Big deal. Girls are obsessed with him. I’ve literally heard people talk about him in the locker room like he’s a celebrity. And me? I’m just… I don’t know. I’m me. I cheer and I study and I try not to let my GPA fall apart and I pretend I’m not crushing on someone completely out of my league.
So no. I’m not gonna say anything.
Because maybe I did catch him looking at me the other day when I tied my hair up. Maybe he does stay a little longer when we’re done. Maybe he leans in a little closer than necessary. But maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I want it too bad and I’m just reading into everything. I don’t want to be that girl. I don’t want to get hurt.
So I’m gonna do what I’m supposed to do. Help him pass stats. Smile when he brings me candy. Laugh at his dumb jokes. Pretend like my heart doesn’t skip a beat every time he says my name.
I’m just going to help him pass stats.
That’s all this is.
Right?
God, I’m so dumb.
—
You were fucked.
Well and truly screwed.
You couldn’t even focus during practice. Missed counts, off-beat claps, a completely botched dismount that nearly took you and the poor girl spotting you both out in one go. Natasha pulled you aside with that look—the one that said she was two seconds away from losing it—and muttered something about getting your shit together because the big game was in a week and this wasn’t the time to be spacing out.
But how were you supposed to focus?
Your diary was missing.
Your actual, physical, spiral-bound diary filled with every unfiltered thought you’d been too scared to say out loud. The same one where you’d spent the last four pages gushing about Bucky freaking Barnes like some sad, delusional teenage cliché. You didn’t even want to think about what you wrote last night, something about his arms and the way he smiles and how you swore he looked at you differently when you tied your hair up. It was humiliating.
You never should’ve taken it out of your room. You knew it was a bad idea. But Yelena had been on one of her ‘I’m bored and nosy’ benders, and the last time you left anything out, she’d read your old poetry journal and quoted it back to you at breakfast. You weren’t about to risk that again. So, like a total idiot, you shoved your diary in your bag before heading to class, thinking you’d keep it safe with you.
The entire day had been chaos. You barely managed to scarf down lunch between lectures, and by the time your 3 p.m. class let out, you were already sprinting across campus to make it to Bucky’s place for tutoring. Not that you actually got much tutoring done. You never did, not when he looked at you with that stupid, easy grin, or leaned back in his chair like he owned the air around him. One second you were going over statistical formulas, and the next you were talking about childhood pets and favourite movies, laughing like you hadn’t just been drowning in assignments ten minutes earlier. Time always slipped away around him. You ended up bolting to cheer practice.
It wasn’t until hours later, back in your dorm with your bag dumped upside down on the floor, that you realised your diary was missing. Your diary.
You’d spent a solid hour panicking, then a full thirty minutes rummaging through the lost and found at the campus security office, practically elbow-deep in a box of mismatched gloves and cracked phone cases. The guy behind the desk eventually looked up from his screen, where he was rather obviously playing solitaire, and told you with the energy of someone who very much did not care that maybe it hadn’t been handed in.
You wanted to scream.
Now your most personal, most mortifying thoughts were just out there. Floating around. God only knew where or with who. And sure, maybe whoever found it wouldn’t read it. Maybe they’d be a decent human being and just turn it in without flipping through. But let’s be honest, if you found a diary with someone’s deepest secrets in it, you’d probably peek too.
You were going to be sick. Actually sick. And not because Natasha had you running suicides again like she was training you for the NFL, but because your life might genuinely be over.
Because if he found it? What if you left it in his room?
What if Bucky read even one word of what you wrote?
You didn’t even want to finish that thought.
No, you literally couldn’t even finish that thought because, as Natasha finally called for the end of the session and the team began their warm-down stretches, swapping tired smiles and gulping down water, you saw him.
Bucky.
Standing at the edge of the field in that stupid grey hoodie, sleeves pushed up, all smug and handsome like he hadn’t just shown up to ruin your entire existence. He had that lazy, charming smile on his face, the one that made people trust him too fast, the one that made you trust him too fast, and in his hand?
Glittery blue cover. Spiral binding. Your diary.
You were going to throw up. No, genuinely, you could feel your stomach lurch. This was it. This was how you died. Not in a blaze of glory or during a botched basket toss, but here, sweaty, humiliated, and on the verge of a nervous breakdown in the middle of the goddamn football field.
You didn’t even think. You just stormed over before anyone else could notice, grabbing his arm and dragging him behind the bleachers like it was a crime scene. Which it kind of was. A crime against your dignity.
Bucky didn’t protest. He followed easily, letting you pull him along like it was some sort of game. Of course he did. And of course, he was smiling the whole time, like you hadn’t just gone into cardiac arrest ten feet away.
Your heart was pounding so hard you could barely speak. It rattled in your chest like a warning, like it knew this moment was about to go down in your personal hall of shame.
“Where…how…why do you have that?” you hissed, snatching at the diary, but he held it just out of reach, still annoyingly calm.
He raised a brow, like you’d just asked him what two plus two was. “You left it at my place. After tutoring. You were in a rush, remember?”
No. No, no, no, no, no. Of course, it had been his place. Of course.
“I—I didn’t mean to, I wasn’t thinking, I just—” You were spiralling, words tumbling out too fast, too breathless, and your fingers were twitching like you might just snatch the book and sprint across campus. “Did you…Did you read it?”
A beat. He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you.
And then, God, he smiled. Not the cocky one, not the football-star grin. This one was softer. Slower. Dangerous.
Your stomach dropped.
“I read enough,” he said.
You froze.
Your ears rang. Your mouth went dry. Your body just stopped.
“Enough?” you echoed, voice cracking halfway through. “Enough of what? Enough to—oh my God.”
You turned away instinctively, hand over your mouth like that could somehow keep your soul from escaping your body. Because what did that mean? What was ‘enough?’ Enough to ruin your life? Enough to laugh about it with his frat brothers? Enough to tell every girl on campus that the cheerleader who couldn’t even stick a full-out had a crush on him?
You didn’t even realise you were pacing until Bucky gently caught your wrist.
“Hey. Relax,” he said, and his voice was way too steady for someone holding the social equivalent of a loaded weapon.
You yanked your arm back like his touch burned. “Relax? Bucky, that was private. It’s literally a diary! It’s not for reading, it's for… spiralling in silence!”
He tilted his head a little, watching you carefully, and if he was offended by your panic, he didn’t show it. “You left it on my bed. Open.”
You groaned and covered your face with both hands. “Please. Just kill me. Right here. Hide the body under the bleachers. I’m serious.”
Bucky chuckled—chuckled, like this was some kind of joke—and stepped closer. You could feel his presence even before you lowered your hands again.
“Why didn’t you just say something?” he asked, quiet now. “If you felt that way.”
Your eyes snapped to his. “Because I didn’t know if it meant anything! You’re nice to everyone. You flirt like it’s a reflex. You remember everyone’s drink orders, compliment their outfits, hold doors and say all the right things. I thought I was just another person you were… nice to.”
He didn’t answer your panicked rambling right away. Just looked at you for a long moment.
“Yeah, I’m nice to people. Doesn’t mean I feel the same way I feel about you.”
Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.
“What?” you whispered, hating how small your voice sounded.
He held your gaze, completely serious now.
“Like I wanna kiss you every time you chew that damn pen cap. Like, I think about you even when I’m supposed to be studying. Like I can’t focus when you’re talking ‘cause all I do is stare at your damn lips.” He paused, and something almost like a laugh broke out of him, soft and self-conscious. “Like I’ve been trying to find a not-creepy way to tell you I like you since the second tutoring started, but you were always so focused and cool and out of my league.”
That last part made your head spin.
“Out of your league?” you repeated, eyes wide.
He smirked, stepping just a bit closer, lowering his voice. “Have you seen yourself? You’re smart, you’re so pretty it’s ridiculous, and you’ve got this whole thing where you act like you don’t know you’re the coolest girl on campus. Of course, I was nervous.”
You blinked at him. “Bucky… are you flirting with me behind the bleachers while holding my diary hostage?”
He grinned. “Maybe. Depends. Is it working?”
You tried to snatch the diary out of his hand, but he was faster, effortlessly holding it just out of reach like it weighed nothing.
“God, I hate you,” you muttered through gritted teeth, bouncing up on your toes in a desperate attempt to grab it. All it earned you was the embarrassing realisation that you were now fully pressed against his chest, warm, broad, and stupidly solid.
“You really don’t, at least not according to this—” he said, low and smug.
“Bucky!” you warned, trying to reach again, but he shifted it higher.
“Give. It. Back,” you hissed, practically climbing him at this point.
“I will,” he said, eyes flicking down to your mouth in a way that made your stomach twist and your breath catch. “But only if you let me kiss you first.”
Your brain short-circuited. Completely and entirely. The words took a second to process. His voice had dropped, softer now, more serious, like he wasn’t just messing with you anymore.
You looked up at him, heart thudding so loudly against your ribs you swore he could hear it. His eyes searched yours, and for once, he didn’t look like the effortlessly confident guy everyone knew. He looked… nervous like he was the one waiting to be rejected.
“…Fine,” you whispered, the word barely making it past your lips, but your smile gave you away. It was impossible to hide, giddy and crooked and ridiculous.
And then he kissed you.
He bent his head and closed the gap like he’d been waiting weeks for it—maybe he had. His mouth was warm and sure against yours, one arm still holding the diary hostage, the other dropping to your waist, pulling you in like he couldn’t help himself. You kissed him back without thinking, without doubting, like maybe this was the answer you’d been afraid to ask for all along.
When you finally broke apart, breathless and blinking at each other like idiots, he handed over the diary with a grin.
“Okay,” you whispered, still a little breathless. “That was… good.”
“Just good?” He smirked.
You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning. “Don’t push it.”
He laughed softly, thumb still brushing your cheek. “So… does this mean I get to keep seeing you after stats is over? Or do I have to fail on purpose to keep you around?”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“You’re right. You’d probably kill me.”
“More like definitely.”
There was a beat of silence, the kind that didn’t feel awkward. He looked at you like he already knew what you were thinking. And for once, you didn’t feel like running from it.
Requested by anon / Summary: You and Bucky get in an argument and you go MIA for a couple days.
A/N: I’m a litle iffy about this one. I didn’t care for the beginning but I really liked how the end turned out. I hope you guys enjoy! xx
Tag list is at the end. Let me know if you want to be added xx
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“No, you can’t do this, Bucky!” You follow Bucky into your shared bedroom as he begins packing a bag. He got it into his head that he was more than capable to help Sam out on this new mission. However, it would be against the rules of the pardon the president gave him for being the Winter Soldier.
“Sam needs my help, y/n. I can’t leave him to go alone on this mission.”
“Sam does not need your help. If you go on this mission and get caught, they could take away your pardon and put you in jail. For life!”
A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What" (this is already part 5, so yes, im calling it a series.) It doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4. thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)
The kitchen was warm and quiet, filled with the soft morning light pouring in through the big windows. You were curled up on the counter in one of Bucky’s henleys — technically yours now, since you’d claimed it after “accidentally” falling asleep in it two months ago. He hadn’t asked for it back.
Bucky stood between your legs, his hands resting gently on your thighs as he stole tiny sips from your coffee cup every time you lowered it.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you mumbled, narrowing your eyes at him as he swiped it again.
He smirked, brushing a thumb over your knee. “Can’t help it. Yours always tastes better.”
You rolled your eyes but leaned forward anyway, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. He caught you halfway and turned it into a real kiss — slow, unhurried, the kind that made time feel irrelevant.
You sighed against his lips. “If you keep kissing me like that, we’re never gonna eat.”
“We can skip breakfast,” he murmured, voice low, teasing.
“And deal with Sam’s ‘someone didn’t have their Wheaties’ speech again? No thanks.”
Bucky groaned and stepped back, reluctantly, while you hopped off the counter. You started prepping your coffee again, and he leaned close to watch.
“One scoop…” he counted aloud.
You snuck a glance at him and grinned. “Three.”
“Three?” he fake-gasped. “You planning to vibrate through walls?”
“Says the guy who had four yesterday.”
“Three and a half,” he corrected, deadpan.
You snorted. “Uh-huh. Keep lying to yourself, grandpa.”
He gave you a playful glare but said nothing, instead leaning over to steal one of your toast slices like a thief in the night.
And then — of course — the kitchen door swung open.
“Okay, what the hell is this domestic energy?” Sam’s voice boomed as he walked in. “Am I interrupting a rom-com or—?”
You and Bucky practically jumped apart like teenagers caught red-handed. You reached for the peanut butter like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.
“Morning,” you both said, far too casually, far too in sync.
Sam narrowed his eyes. “Weird. Anyway…”
He turned to Bucky, eyes narrowing as he opened the fridge. “You look grumpier than usual.”
“I always look like this.”
“That’s what worries me,” Sam said, pulling out the orange juice. “You need a little somethin’ in your life. A spark. Some romance.”
You snorted into your coffee. “Wow, subtle.”
Sam shot you a grin. “I’m serious, Bucky. You look miserable and I’m sick of it. Your need to get out there. Meet people. Real people. People who don’t, y’know, punch aliens for a living.”
“I’m not miserable,” Bucky muttered, taking a very aggressive bite of toast.
Sam ignored him. “You need someone to, like, hold your hand and remind you that the world isn’t complete garbage.”
“Y/N does that,” Bucky said before realizing. His eyes flicked to you. Yours widened slightly.
“Uh— I mean…” he coughed. “You could. You’re good at pep talks.”
Smooth. Real smooth.
But Sam was too busy with his phone to notice the weird energy. “Anyway, I’m gonna download Spark for you.”
“Oh no,” you whispered.
“Oh yes.” Sam grinned, typing furiously. “It’s like Tinder but for people who still believe in feelings.”
“Delete it,” Bucky said immediately.
“Too late. Already making your profile. Okay — full name?”
“Absolutely not.”
Sam looked up. “Fine, we’ll just put ‘Bucky B.’ You sound like a retired DJ. Age... one-oh-six... but we’ll round down to thirty-five. Close enough.”
You had to cover your mouth with your hand to stop from laughing. Bucky looked like he was actually malfunctioning.
“Give me your phone. I'm deleting it.”
“Nope.” Sam sidestepped him and kept typing. “Bio time. What do you want it to say? ‘Strong, silent, may or may not have trauma, will kill spiders for you’?”
“Sam.”
“Oh! And profile picture.” Sam’s grin went feral. “I’m gonna use the one from Clint’s barbecue.”
Bucky froze. “No. Not the one where—”
“Yup,” Sam said, turning the phone around dramatically. “The one where you’re smiling. A real smile. The people gotta see the goods, man.”
You wheezed. “That’s actually a really good picture.”
“It is,” Sam agreed, tapping to save the profile. “Now we wait. Trust me, you're gonna get matches faster than Tony blows money.”
Bucky looked physically pained.
And then… the phone buzzed.
“Oh snap — you already got a match! Girl named Olivia.” Sam said, scrolling like a man on a mission. “Look at this—she hikes, she volunteers at animal shelters. Honestly, Buck, she’s like a Hallmark movie in human form. You should totally message her.”
You blinked.
Something inside you twisted — that unwelcome, unmistakable burn of jealousy curling in your chest.
Bucky looked… surprised. And then cautious. “That was fast.”
“She’s cute,” Sam said, scrolling. “She said you have nice eyes. You should message her. Or better yet, go on a date. What’s the worst that could happen?”
You forced a laugh. “Yeah, Buck. You should totally go.”
Bucky turned toward you slowly. His smile had faded into something softer. Thoughtful. He tilted his head, studying your face like it was a puzzle he was halfway through solving.
“…Maybe,” he said carefully, like he was testing the word.
You smiled a little too tightly. “Good for you.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes, like he could see right through you.
You lasted approximately six hours before cracking. Not that you were counting.
You’d spent the day trying not to think about Olivia. Or her "kind eyes". Or the fact that Bucky had apparently matched with her in under a minute. Not that it mattered, obviously. You were cool. Chill. Entirely unaffected.
…Until Bucky found you in the hallway on your way back to your room, grabbed your hand, and wordlessly tugged you into his.
He shut the door behind you, arms crossed. He didn't look mad. Just… knowing.
You tried to play it cool. “If this is about the last cookie, I swear I thought it was mine.”
“It’s not about the cookie.”
You looked up at him, heart thudding. “Then what?”
Bucky’s eyes didn’t waver. “You told me to go. Like it didn’t bother you.”
You scoffed lightly, trying to brush it off. “I was just being cool. Y’know, chill. Unbothered.”
“You were seething, doll.”
You rolled your eyes, but your chest tightened. “Okay, maybe a little. So what?”
Bucky didn’t answer right away. He just watched you for a second, his silence pressing gently around your walls. Not demanding, not accusing — just waiting for you to be honest.
You exhaled and leaned back against the door. “I know I said it didn’t bother me, but the second Sam said you matched with someone, it was like—like my stomach dropped out.”
His brow furrowed, stepping closer.
You continued, voice softer. “I know you love me. I do. But the idea of someone else getting even a piece of you… I hated it. And that scared me. I didn’t want to be the clingy one or the insecure one or the girl who flips out over some dumb dating app.”
Bucky’s face softened completely. “Hey.”
He closed the gap and cupped your face in his hands, his thumb brushing your cheek.
“You are not insecure. You’re not clingy. You’re human. And you love me.” He kissed your forehead gently. “I want you to care.”
Your chest cracked wide open, and you let yourself lean into him.
“I don’t want to share you, Buck,” you whispered. “Not even a little.”
“You never have to,” he murmured. “You’ve got all of me. Always.”
“…So what about Olivia?” you asked, barely above a whisper.
He shrugged. “I unmatched her hours ago. Right after you said good for you like you were trying not to cry.”
You gaped. “You what?”
Bucky smirked. “The only person I want… is you.”
Your heart stuttered, full and aching and impossibly light all at once. “Bucky—”
“You’ve had me from the moment you stole my henley and never gave it back.” His voice was barely a whisper. “You don’t have to be chill. You don’t have to play it cool. You already have all of me.”
Your laugh was shaky, but your smile was real. “Even if I get all weird over fictional matches on dating apps?”
He grinned. “Especially then.”
You leaned into him, your fingers curling around the hem of his shirt. “So you’re not going on a date with Olivia?”
“Nope,” he said, nuzzling your nose with his. “Unless you change your name and start volunteering at animal shelters.”
You snorted. “I would for you.”
Bucky kissed you then — sweet, slow, soft. The kind of kiss that made you forget all the awkward moments of the morning. The kind that made you feel like you were the only two people in the world.
You laughed into the kiss, your fingers curling around his shirt. “You absolute...”
“—Boyfriend material?” Bucky finished, hopeful.
You smiled, lighter than you had all day. “Absolutely.”
Somewhere down the hall, Sam shouted, “I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU DELETED SPARK—!”
You broke apart, laughing breathlessly. “We should probably tell him.”
Bucky sighed into your neck. “Or we fake our deaths and disappear into the Alps.”
Summary : Bucky is obsessed with you. He is insanely, hopelessly, unhealthily obsessed with you.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Grumpy x Sunshine, Wife!reader, sweet!reader, sex references. Love taken to an extreme. A lot of cursing, Congressman!Bucky, threats, obsessive love bordering on stalking, possessive love. Overprotective!Bucky, Jealous! Bucky, dark!Bucky, dark!you, Overprotective!you. You are Sam and Sarah’s childhood best friend, canon-typical violence. I feel like I have to disclose that Bucky does not hurt you at any point in this story. Let me know if I miss anything!
Word count : 8.9k
Note : This is probably my most cursing-heavy story. This is fictional story, so please do not get into an unhealthily obsessive relationship irl. I will also be posting a new part of Super Soldier Support Group tomorrow! Enjoy!
It started with a casual gathering at the Wilson Family home. Nothing fancy, just good food, loud music, and a backyard full of people laughing.
It was warm, the kind of sticky Louisiana heat that made the air feel weirdly refreshing— the perfect day for Sam to throw one of his famous family cookouts.
Bucky hadn’t wanted to go, not that day anyway. He had not been sleeping well that week, and that made him grumpy. Well, grumpier than usual.
He wasn’t sure if he could handle the crowd, or the small talk.
But Sam had insisted, and somehow a sleep-deprived Bucky found himself standing in the corner of the docks, watching from a distance while the party went on without him.
Then he saw you.
And suddenly, everything stopped.
You were laughing, standing next to Sarah and helping with the food. You had this bright energy about you, like sunshine breaking through a dark cloud.
From the very first moment he saw you, something inside Bucky snapped. It wasn’t attraction—it was possession. His brain, his soul, whatever dark, broken part of him that was still capable of love— latched onto you like a parasite. You were too beautiful. Too sweet. Too—fuck, what was he thinking?
“C’mon man,” Sam’s voice snapped him back to reality. “Don’t just stand there looking like you’re planning a murder. I want you to meet someone.”
Bucky frowned but let Sam drag him forward anyway. His stomach twisted when he realised Sam was leading him straight to you.
“This is my childhood best friend,” Sam introduced you, “Be nice to her, Buck.”
You turned from your conversation to face him, and…Jesus Christ.
This was even worse up close. You had such a pretty smile, and the most wonderful eyes. You didn’t even have to try to brighten up the room.
“Hi,” you greeted, offering your hand.
Bucky hesitated. He didn’t like touching strangers—hell, he barely liked touching people he knew—but then you looked at him again, and—fuck.
Before he could talk himself out of it, his flesh fingers wrapped around yours.
You didn’t flinch, didn’t react the way people so often did when they realised who he was.
“It’s nice to meet you, Bucky,” you said softly. “Sam’s told me a lot about you.”
Bucky’s heart felt like it was beating out of his chest. All he could manage was a stiff nod.
Sam, standing beside you, cleared his throat, narrowing his eyes at Bucky. “Be civil, okay?” He was already overthinking this, assuming this could go sideways fast. Sam wanted you two to get along more than anything in the world— he would at least want his childhood best friend and his work best friend to be able to stand in a room together without ripping each other’s head off— but he wasn’t counting on it.
Confused, you scrunched your nose. “Why wouldn’t we?”
Bucky wanted to know the same thing.
“Because,” Sam said, exasperated, “you’re polar opposites. You’re too damn nice for your own good, and Barnes here is all doom and gloom. He hates people. You love people.”
You turned your eyes back to Bucky, considering the former winter soldier before smiling, and subsequently melting Bucky’s heart.
“I don’t know, Sam,” you said. “I think we’ll get along just fine.”
—
Bucky kept his distance throughout the day.
Not because he wanted to, but because he had to.
You were too much. Too sweet, it felt like he was getting a sugar rush just looking at you.
It was overwhelming.
And it wasn’t just that he liked you. It was worse than that.
In the short time he had known you, he had already begun craving you.
But you made it worse.
You sought him out, found excuses to talk to him, tried to make him laugh.
And god help him, but he liked it.
He liked the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled at him. He liked the way you said his name. He liked the way your hand traced his metal arm when you spoke to him.
“Bucky,” you called at one point, while Sam worked the grill, “Try this.”
He glanced down at the spoon you were holding out to him, brows furrowed. “What is it?”
You chuckled like you already knew you had him wrapped around your finger. “Just try it.”
He sighed, and then you pressed a hand to his chest, steadying yourself as you lifted the spoon to his lips.
He froze, and before he could even process what was happening, he was opening his mouth, letting you feed him.
You watched him, waiting for his reaction. “Well?”
Bucky blinked, chewing slowly. It was… good. Really good.
But admitting that felt like surrender, so he just shrugged. “It’s fine.”
You rolled your eyes, nudging him playfully. “Liar.”
Then, you laughed.
He didn’t just want to hear it again—he needed to. It was like a drug, a high he had to chase.
Fuck.
That was it.
That was the moment he was done for.
Because you had no idea what you’d just done. No idea that you had ruined him.
No idea that he had just decided— you were his.
—
Later, after the sun had set and most of the guests had left, Bucky sat at the edge of the porch, elbows on his knees, watching you.
Or, more accurately, he was staring at you.
You were a few feet away, laughing as AJ and Cass ran circles around you, their small hands grabbing at your arms as you playfully tried to catch them.
Bucky couldn’t look away.
He knew you were going to be his downfall, and yet he didn’t even want to fight it.
“What’s up with you, Buck?” Sam asked, sitting beside him.
Bucky didn’t move, he didn’t even respond. He barely even registered that Sam was there at all.
Sam followed his line of sight, and then groaned. “Oh, hell no.”
Still, Bucky said nothing.
Sam snapped his fingers in front of Bucky’s face. “Yo. Terminator.”
Bucky blinked. He only just realised Sam was there. “What?”
“What?” Sam repeated, voice rising. “Don’t what me! What the fuck was that?”
Bucky frowned. “What was what?”
“Don’t play dumb,” Sam chuckled, teasing. “You’ve been staring at her like you’re about to drag her off to a cabin in the middle of nowhere and keep her there forever.”
Bucky’s muscles tensed. The idea did sound appealing.
“She’s nice,” Bucky said flatly.
Sam let out an amused laugh. “Nice? Nice? Barnes, you look like you want to fucking eat my childhood best friend—what the fuck is wrong with you?”
Sam was joking, but he wasn’t wrong.
Bucky did want to devour you. He wanted to claim you, protect you, make sure no one else ever got the chance to touch you the way he wanted to.
It was bad.
Because for the first time in decades, Bucky wanted.
Mine, he thought. Mine, mine, mine.
And god help anyone who tried to get in his way.
—
At first, Sam was just relieved that you and Bucky got along.
And before he knew it, the four of you—you, Bucky, Sam, and Joaquin—started hanging out regularly. When she was available, Sarah was there too, usually when the get-togethers happened at her place. It wasn’t anything official, just casual. You’d grab coffee, go on late-night walks along the docks. Sometimes, the five of you spent lazy afternoons at Sarah’s while Cass and AJ tried to rope you into whatever game they were playing.
On the surface, it was just friends spending time together.
But Bucky was always a little bit too possessive.
No one really noticed.
Like when Joaquin would make a joke and you’d laugh a little too hard, Bucky would step in, resting his arm on the back of your chair. When you and Sarah got into a playful argument, and Bucky would subtly shift between you, his body positioned like a barrier.
Or when someone at a bar got a little too interested in you, and Bucky would just stare at them until they backed the fuck off.
You didn’t seem to notice.
You just smiled at Bucky. You reached for his hand when you were deep in thought, leaned into him when you laughed, gave him hugs without him even having to ask.
And he let you.
Because if he couldn’t have you the way he wanted, then he’d settle for this—for now.
—
One day, you heard a knock on your door late at night.
When you opened it, you found Sam, Joaquin, and Bucky standing there—bruised, bloodied, and looking entirely too pleased with themselves for three men who had clearly just come back from a rough mission.
You sighed. “Come in, boys.”
They filed in, Sam grinning as he collapsed onto your couch. Joaquin gave you a sheepish ‘sorry’ look before following. Bucky just hovered near the door.
“Sit,” you told him, already grabbing your first aid kit.
He hesitated, then dropped onto the chair closest to you. you knelt beside him.
His knuckles were raw, a few cuts marred his face, and there was a forming bruise on his forehead. You worked on him, dabbing antiseptic onto his wounds.
“Hold still,” you whispered when he shifted under your touch. When you finished, without thinking, you pressed a fleeting kiss to the bruise on his forehead. “For good measure,” you said sheepishly.
Bucky’s breath hitched.
But before he could say anything, you moved on to Sam and Joaquin, fussing over them with the same level of care.
He felt his stomach twist in dread.
Bucky knew this was irrational. He knew you were just being a good friend.
And yet, as he sat there, watching your hands tend to them—watching you murmur reassurances, watching Joaquin grin at you and Sam chuckle under his breath— with bated breath.
He shouldn’t be jealous. He shouldn’t. You were also Sam’s friend. You were also Joaquin’s friend.
After all, you had taken care of him first. That had to mean something… right?
—
The bar was alive with noise, filled with laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional thud of a pool ball being sunk into a pocket. It was one of those rare nights when there were no missions to worry about, no need to be on high alert. Even Sarah managed to get a babysitter for the kids.
Sarah and Sam stood near the pool table, casually sipping on their non-alcoholic beers. Bucky nursed his whiskey— not that it would do anything to his enhanced metabolism. You had your mocktail, sweet and bright, just like you.
And then there was Joaquin.
He had spent the last hour or so flirting with the bartender, grinning as she giggled and slid him free drink after free drink. He, of course, took every single one without hesitation.
Now, he was absolutely sloshed.
“Joaquin,” Sam teased, arms crossed as he watched your drunk friend lean against the pool table. “You are so lucky you’re pretty.”
Joaquin shot him finger guns. “Gracias, hermano.”
“No,” Sarah scowled, shaking her head, pointing to the blonde behind the bar. “He’s lucky she thinks he’s pretty.”
“Let’s be honest, everyone thinks I’m pretty,” Joaquin declared, before missing his shot so badly that the cue ball bounced off the table.
Bucky rolled his eyes and let out a small laugh.
You were next, so you stepped up to take your shot. “If anyone fucks up my shot, I am going to scream.”
And then, like a fucking menace, Joaquin swatted your pool cue mid-shot.
You gasped. “You little shit!”
Joaquin cackled.
“That’s it,” you huffed, shaking your head as you set the cue aside. “I’m getting you some water to sober up before you do something actually stupid.”
Sarah took her turn next, and Bucky… felt happy. He was among friends, leaning against the table, watching the game.
Life was good, right?
That bliss lasted all of three minutes before he realised… you were taking too long.
It didn’t take that long to get a glass of water.
He glanced up, scanning the bar for you.
His stomach dropped.
You were leaning against the bar, smiling up at some guy. Some asshole who looked way too interested, who was saying something that made you laugh.
Bucky’s chest burned.
Mine, he thought.
But no. No, no, no. He had no right to feel like this. You weren’t his. He wasn’t your boyfriend. He was just a friend.
Then why the fuck did he want to break that guy’s fucking ankles for being too goddamn close to you?
Bucky knew you were beautiful. But that fucker didn’t get to look at you like that. He didn’t get to act all high and mighty, like he even had a chance—
Bucky’s grip on his pool cue tightened.
CRACK.
The cue snapped clean in half.
Sarah’s head snapped toward him. “Man— what happened?”
Sam raised a brow. “You good?”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. His breathing was all messed up.
“I gotta go,” he said hastily.
Sarah blinked. “You just crushed wood like it was a damn breadstick.”
Bucky didn’t answer. He turned on his heel and left.
—
When he got back to his hotel in the heart of New Orleans, he sat on the edge of his bed, fingers twitching.
Then, he texted you.
Got an emergency. Had to go early.
A few minutes later, his phone buzzed.
Oh okay!!! Hope everything’s alright <3!
You were so fucking sweet. So fucking clueless.
You had no idea that the emergency… was you.
And that if he hadn’t left, he would have smashed that guy’s face in.
—
That night, Bucky couldn’t sleep.
It was driving him insane.
The second he closed his eyes, all he could see was you, laughing at the bar, that asshole touching you, and your body leaned just a little too close—fuck.
The obsession burned in his chest. He needed to know. Needed to be sure.
So, like a fucking lunatic, he found himself outside your Louisiana apartment at four in the morning, perched on your fire escape like a creep.
The window was dark, and there didn’t seem to be any movement inside. Maybe you weren’t even home. Maybe you were— No. No, stop. Fuck.
His metal fingers gripped against the railing. If you had taken that guy home—if that motherfucker was in there, in your bed— he didn’t know what he’d do.
"Whatcha doin’?"
Bucky jumped, damn near slipped right off the fire escape. His heart nearly stopped.
He whirled around, ready to fight, only to see you, standing behind him.
The fuck—?
"Jesus Christ," he rasped, staring at you like you’d just teleported out of thin air. "Why are you on the fire escape?"
You raised an eyebrow. "Why are you on the fire escape?"
Bucky scowled. “I asked you first.”
You shrugged, completely unfazed, and just climbed through the window. "I forgot my keys."
Bucky blinked.
You turned to look at him expectantly. “Well? Are you coming in or what?”
…What the fuck was wrong with you? Why weren’t you scared?
Still, he followed you inside.
—
You made him tea.
He sat on your couch, cradling the mug in his hands while you curled up beside him, watching him with curiosity.
“So,” you started casually, “what was the emergency?”
Bucky cleared his throat. “Nothing much,” he lied. “I fixed it.”
You raised an eyebrow. “And why were you lurking outside my apartment like some weirdo?”
“I wasn’t lurking.”
You hummed, unconvinced, and sipped your tea.
Bucky let out a deep breath, rubbing a hand down his face. “I was just… checking on you.”
Your lips curved up. “Why?”
He hesitated. He couldn’t tell you the truth. Couldn’t tell you that he’d nearly lost his fucking mind at the thought of you with someone else.
But then, as if he could read your mind, you said, “If you were worried about the guy at the bar, don’t be. He’s just an old friend from high school.” You tilted your head reassuringly. “And he’s gay.”
Bucky blinked.
Oh.
Oh, he was a fucking idiot.
Embarrassment flooded his chest in waves, but it did nothing to ease the gnawing possessiveness coiling around his ribs. It didn’t matter that the guy wasn’t a threat. It didn’t change the fact that Bucky had wanted to break him in half for so much as looking at you.
You set your mug down, shifting closer. “Bucky,” you murmured, “what’s wrong?”
He clenched his teeth. “I have to say something.”
You tilted your head, adorably waiting.
“I can’t stop thinking about you.” The words felt dragged out from his throat like he’d been choking on them.
You took a deep breath. “Oh?”
Bucky let out a huff of air, fingers twitching at his sides. “I think—I know—I love you.”
There it was. The confession he could never take back.
Your eyes relaxed as you put your mug down.
That’s it. This was your rejection. Bucky was sure.
But then, without hesitation, you cradled his cheeks gently and pulled him down in a bruising kiss.
Bucky groaned into your mouth, hands fisting in your skirt, pulling you closer.
And when you whispered, “I love you, too,” against his lips—
He was fucking gone.
Love wasn’t supposed to be this… all-consuming. It wasn’t supposed to feel like madness. But that was what his love was.
He was everywhere—his greedy hands, both metal and flesh. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, and Bucky growled, lifting you into his lap like you weighed nothing.
You gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist, grinding against him in a way that sent his brain into overload.
And when you rocked your hips against his again. when you gasped at him, teasing, taunting—
Bucky snapped.
Suddenly, you were beneath him, pinned to the couch, his body trapping you.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he rasped.
You bit your lip, eyes dark. “Then show me.”
And fuck, did he.
—
The next morning, Bucky jolted awake to the ring of your doorbell.
For a second, he was disoriented, his brain sluggish, mind still drunk on you.
You were sprawled half on top of him, face buried against his chest. His metal arm was wrapped around you, fingers splayed across your bare back.
The bell rang impatiently again. And then— knock knock knock.
"Yo, wake up!" Sarah shouted.
His eyes flicked to the clock— 9:42 AM.
Carefully, he untangled himself from you, doing his best not to wake you as he slid out of bed. He barely managed to pull his sweats on before another knock rattled the door.
He opened it.
“Huh,” Sarah grinned.
Bucky’s scowl deepened. “What?”
“Don’t what me.” Sarah gestured, pointing an accusatory finger at Bucky’s chest. “What the fuck is this?”
Bucky’s teeth clenched. “None of your business.”
“Oh, I think it is.” Sarah crossed him her arms and almost cackled.
Bucky just let out a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was still way too tired for this.
Sarah smirked, waggling her eyebrows. “So? How was it? You’re, like, a hundred years old— did your back hold up?”
“Go,” Bucky gritted.
“Relax,” Sarah shook her head, shoving your wallet into his chest. "Your girl left this in my car."
Bucky blinked, but his mind was still buffering on the part when she called you his girl. "Sarah—“
She held up her hand. "Hey, I’m happy for you. Really. But I’ve known her since we were both in diapers, so uh—" she leaned in. "If you hurt her, just know I will kill you."
Bucky huffed. As if. “Yeah, yeah."
"Good talk." She said as she turned to leave.
From the bed, you stirred, mumbling sleepily, “Was that Sarah?”
Bucky climbed back in beside you. “Don’t worry about it.”
You hummed, curling back into his chest. “Mmkay.”
Bucky wrapped his arms around you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
Mine, he thought.
And this time, you knew it too.
—
It had been two years since that night when everything changed.
You had since moved to Brooklyn with Bucky, and had since built a home together.
Two years of waking up with you in his bed.
Two years of you stealing his shirts, dancing around the kitchen in nothing but one of his Henleys and a pair of socks.
Two years of Bucky being so obsessed with you it was a goddamn miracle he let you leave out of his sight at all.
His hand was always on you—on your lower back, your thigh, wrapped around your wrist when you got too distracted in public. His eyes always tracked you whenever you so much as moved.
Bucky knew it probably wasn’t healthy to be this obsessed— but who the fuck cares?
Besides, no one had noticed. Not really.
Sam rolled his eyes when Bucky hovered too close in public. Joaquin just assumed Bucky was overprotective. Sarah thought it was sweet.
None of them knew just how deep it went.
How Bucky watched you when you slept, how he memorised the way your breath hitched when you dreamed. How he could track scent in a crowd, how he could tell the different sounds of your shoes.
How, sometimes, he just stared at you with this feral, carnal need to keep you his forever.
So one night, he did something about it.
It wasn’t a grand proposal. There were no speeches, no flowers, no kneeling at all.
Bucky just slipped a diamond ring onto your finger as you sat curled up beside him on the couch.
"Let’s get married," he said.
It was not a question. It was a statement.
You looked down at your hand and blinked, joy seeping into your chest. You looked back up at him, tilting your head.
“Okay,” you smiled.
Of course you were gonna marry him. Of course.
It was the most obvious thing in the world.
And Buck felt something primal and dark settle inside him.
“Good girl,” he said, grabbing your chin and tilling them up to kiss you.
—
The ceremony was small — just a few close friends and family.
Sam stood at the front, grinning like an idiot, though he was definitely in tears. He tried to deny it, but everyone knew when Sarah dramatically announced she was out of tissues and had to make a store run.
You wore a simple white dress, the sunlight making the lace look holy.
Bucky couldn’t take his eyes off you. He wasn’t sure how he could even breathe. You were so goddamn beautiful, and all he could think was mine.
Mine, mine, mine.
He held your hands tightly, every vow he spoke was drenched in devotion.
When Sam pronounced you husband and wife, Bucky crashed his lips against yours, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you so desperately it was like he thought you'd disappear. Joaquin cheered, Sarah covered AJ and Cass’ eyes, and Sam muttered something about needing another box of tissues.
But Bucky didn’t care. You were his wife.
His.
Later, at the small reception, he barely let you out of his sight. His hand stayed glued to your waist, his lips brushed against your temple every other minute. He religiously watched the way you smiled, the way you laughed, admired the sparkle of your wedding ring — a ring he’d spent months obsessing over.
“Mine,” he whispered against your skin more times than you could count.
—
A year after the wedding, Bucky somehow found himself on the campaign trail. Sam had roped him into it, convinced the world needed someone like him in Capitol Hill— someone with a backbone, a heart, and a no-bullshit attitude. And because Bucky couldn’t say no to his best friend (or to you, when you’d smiled and told him he’d be perfect for it), he ran.
And won.
He was now Congressman James Buchanan Barnes.
But no matter how powerful or important he became, you were still his priority. You were the first person he called after every meeting, the one who made the stuffy suits and long hours bearable.
And fuck, did he spoil you rotten. He got a four-bedroom Brownstone when you both moved to DC. For the kids to grow up in, he had told you, when you were ready, of course. The house was under your name.
He bought you designer dresses, diamond earrings, the kind of perfume that smelled like liquid gold. Anything you so much as look at, Bucky was ordering it before you even thought to ask.
“You don’t have to do all this,” you’d say, laughing as another velvet box showed up at your doorstep.
“I want to,” Bucky would grumble, nuzzling into your neck, his arms wrapped tightly around you. “I’m your husband. I want to make sure you have everything you want.”
And he meant it.
Then one day, you asked for something that actually made him think.
“I want a pretty knife.”
Bucky blinked. “What?”
“For self-defense,” you explained casually. “You know. Just in case.”
Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed. “You?” He asked, still trying to make sense of it. “But Sweetheart, you’re—” He paused, searching for the right word. “You’re so… sweet.”
You smiled at him…. And that fucking smile.
Bucky swore you could’ve asked him for the moon and he would’ve tried to lasso it down for you. But a knife? He wasn’t sure whether you could even use it.
Still, you wanted it. So you got it.
Bucky made a few calls, and soon you had a beautifully crafted knife with a marble handle. He even made you practice holding it, standing behind you with his arms wrapped around yours, guiding your hand in slow movements.
You caught on so quickly. He was so proud.
But despite all the lessons, Bucky wasn’t entirely convinced you’d ever actually use it.
“Baby, if anyone even looks at you the wrong way, I’d handle it,” he insisted one night, watching you twirl the knife in your fingers like a toy. “No one’s gonna touch you.”
You giggled, leaning up to kiss him. “Just in case, okay?”
Bucky nodded, nipping at your collarbone, “Okay.”
—
Sometimes, the world forgot Bucky Barnes had always been a dangerous man.
Sure, to the public, he was a polished congressman— the war hero turned politician, a man who fought for justice and all that. At the state galas, he smiled for the cameras, shook hands with donors, and played the role of the perfect politician. And with your radiant and sweet charm on his arm, everyone ate it up. You were the darling wife of Congressman Barnes, the woman who could make the room hold their breath.
But they didn’t realise how violently obsessed Bucky was with you.
He watched every interaction you had at those events. He eventually had a little notepad where he hastily scribbled the name of every man who looked at you too long, an arrogant politician who thought they could pry you away from him. They thought you were too innocent to be with the former winter soldier— They thought they could whisper something suggestive in your ear or brush their hand along your back without consequence.
But Bucky always noticed.
He’d smile, even laugh sometimes, as if the petty attempts didn’t bother him. But they did. They fucking consumed him. His teeth would grind against each other, his grip on your waist would tighten, and his eyes would darken into a stormy blue— all while the poor bastard standing in front of him had no idea just how badly he’d fucked up.
Bucky had a routine. After the gala, he’d walk you out and hand you to his driver.
He would lean down, whispering softly into your ear.
“Head to the car, baby. I’ve got something to take care of.”
You never questioned it. You’d smile, kiss his cheek, and do as he asked.
And once you were gone, Bucky would… pay them a visit.
The man who let his hand wander a little too low on your back? The one who called you “darling” like he had any fucking right?
Bucky found him in a secluded corner of the marbled building of Washington DC, his steel-blue eyes cold and calculating.
“You think you can touch what’s mine?” Bucky growled.
He had always been clever. He had always chosen a corner with no cameras. No witnesses. Then, he’d whisper a threat, one that left grown men trembling.
But sometimes threats weren’t enough.
One time, he got fed up with a senator’s son who had too much to drink. He’d cornered you by the bar, his hand grabbing your arm and waist, lips curling into a wicked smirk.
You’d laughed politely, excused yourself, and found your way back to Bucky. But the damage had been done
Later that night, Bucky found him.
It wasn’t pretty.
The next morning, the senator’s son was seen with a cast on his wrist, stammering about a “bad fall.”
No one questioned it,
After all, accidents happen.
That sick, satisfied feeling always found its way to his chest. Though the real satisfaction always came when he hopped in the car.
He’d find you taking off your heels, waiting for him in the back seat. You’d smile at him, oblivious to the violence he’d just left in his wake. And when you asked, “Did everything go okay?” Bucky would just smile, lean down, and kiss you.
Because Bucky Barnes was a kind person, a great friend, a wonderful husband, and an honest man. But after decades of isolation, torture, and conditioning, he would never truly be a good man again. But for you, he would pretend to be.
—
Still, like any other job, Bucky had bad weeks. And this week had been hell.
Bucky had come home late every night.
Between his work in Congress and the bills he was trying to push through, the DC police department had asked for his help in identifying some vigilante called Siren.
Now, he barely had time to breathe.
You hated seeing him like this. He was always so strong, so put-together, but lately, stress had carved itself into his shoulders, a permanent tightness in his back muscles.
It didn’t help that Senator Mitchell was being a prick, as usual. The man thrived on opposing Bucky’s every move, shooting down every proposal like it was his life’s mission to make your husband miserable.
And then there was Congressman Davis. From what you’ve heard, he was an arrogant, insufferable bastard who had spent the last few weeks blocking one of Bucky’s most important bills.
So when Bucky had muttered “God, I fucking hate that guy” over breakfast one morning, you’d simply nodded.
The next day, Congressman Davis didn’t show up to work.
Broke both legs in a freak accident, according to the news.
Bucky had stared at the article. “That’s… weird.”
“You think?” you tilted your head.
Bucky dragged a hand down his face. “Honestly, I don’t have time to care. Mitchell is still a pain in my ass, and now the DC police want me to help them identify some masked vigilante tearing through the city.”
That made your stomach flip, but you kept your eyes neutral as he tossed a thick file onto the table.
“Siren?” you asked, watching him flip through the grainy surveillance images. The black-clad figure was barely visible. The only clear detail was the glint of a knife in her hand.
Bucky snorted. “What kind of name is Siren, anyway?”
You shrugged. “I think it’s kinda sexy.”
Bucky shot you an amused look.
You shrugged, leaning on the counter. “What do they want from you?”
“They want me to analyse the footage, see if I recognise any combat techniques,” Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples. “As if I can ID someone from a couple of blurry images.”
You hummed in response, flipping through the file again.
“Maybe she doesn’t wanna be found.” you offered.
“No shit.” Bucky frowned.
—
That night, Bucky sat at his desk, eyes narrowed at the open file in front of him. His fingers tapped against the wood as he studied the images again. Something about her was… familiar.
You watched from the doorway, wrapped in a silk robe.
He needs a distraction, you thought.
You walked across the room, slipping behind him, arms wrapping around his shoulders as you pressed fluttering kisses to his neck.
Bucky sighed, leaning into your touch. “Baby…”
“You’re stressed,” you whispered, biting the lobe of his ear.
“I just— I can’t get a read on her,” he admitted, rolling his shoulders. “On top of that, I have to deal with Mitchell tomorrow.”
You glanced at the photo he was studying—Siren, breaking the arm of an arms dealer. Poetic justice.
You said nothing, pressing a kiss to his jaw.
Your fingers trailed lower, sliding down his chest, nails lightly scraping against his skin through his shirt. “I think you need a break.”
Bucky swallowed hard. “Baby, I—”
When you stepped back, his words died in his throat.
Because you had untied your robe.
And underneath, a lingerie set that he’d picked out for you weeks ago, the one that had him practically drooling when you tried it on.
The chair scraped back so fast it nearly toppled over.
Then, Bucky was lifting you onto the desk, his hands gripping your thighs, sliding up your sides, mapping out every inch of exposed skin as if he hadn’t memorised everything already.
“Fucking hell,” he groaned, lips ghosting over your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re tryin’ to kill me, sweet girl.”
You giggled, threading your fingers through his hair. “I just thought my dear husband needed a break.” You batted your eyes innocently.
Bucky’s lips met yours in a bruising kiss. His hands kneaded your hips, pulling you flush against him, letting you feel exactly how much he wanted you.
“S’not fair,” he muttered against your lips, his lovely Brooklyn drawl slipping out. “I was workin’.”
“Oh?” You smiled innocently, nails raking down his back. “You wanna go back to your case?”
Bucky growled, lifting you effortlessly as your legs wrapped around his waist. “Fuck no.”
And with that, he carried you to your bedroom.
Siren was forgotten, for now.
—
That night, after you stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around your body, you casually said, “I think I’ll go for a walk.”
Bucky frowned immediately, towel-drying his damp hair as he leaned against the doorframe. “Alone?”
You’d done this before, but never this late.
You rolled your eyes. “I can handle myself, honey.”
He crossed his arms, “That’s not the point.”
You sighed, stepping forward to press a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”
He didn’t look convinced, but he let you go—reluctantly. At least you had your knife with you.
—
By the time you got back, you were sweaty, chest rising and falling like you’d just finished a workout.
Bucky, who was sitting on the couch, immediately stood up and walked over to you. He looked at you, studying in the slight flush in your cheeks, the damp strands of hair sticking to your forehead.
He tilted his head. “You said you were going for a walk.”
You wiped at your brow. “Yeah, well… guess I went for a jog instead.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Since when do you jog?”
You shrugged. “Felt like I had some energy to burn.”
His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer, trying to assess the situation, but then you stood on your toes and kissed him.
Suddenly, he wasn’t questioning anything anymore.
—
The next day in Capitol Hill, Senator Mitchell had a black eye.
A nasty one, too. It was swollen and bruised, red against his pale skin.
Mitchell barely spoke all session, and when Bucky had the floor, the senator didn’t interrupt.
He didn’t sneer. Didn’t open his mouth to object.
He just sat there, shifting uncomfortably, trying his hardest not to look at Bucky.
Weird.
—
Before heading home, Bucky had one last piece of business to handle.
An overconfident diplomat from last week’s charity gala had overstayed his welcome in the city, unlucky for him.
He had touched your arm without permission, his fingers lingering just a little too long on your skin. Bucky had been across the room that night, but even distance couldn’t dull his rage.
By the end of the night, the bastard had vanished into the crowd.
That had been frustrating. But patience was something Bucky had in abundance when it came to protecting what was his.
So when he overheard a passing remark today that the diplomat was still in town, he found out where he was staying and simply went to the hotel lobby.
Bucky sat comfortably in a leather armchair, looking like just another guest winding down from a long day. He even smiled when his target stepped through the elevator doors.
Bucky stood and intercepted the man, placing himself just close enough that escape wouldn’t be an option. “Nice to see you again,” Bucky greeted, his voice almost pleasant. The diplomat barely had time to register the danger before Bucky leaned in, that same eerie smile still in place.
“If you so much as look at my wife again, I’ll break your fucking nose so badly, they’ll have to rebuild it from the inside out. And even then, it’ll never sit fucking right ever again.” Bucky said, though his tone was conversational. To anyone else, it would look as if he was commenting on the weather. “And that’ll be the least of your problems.”
The man swallowed hard, his overconfidence crumbling.
Satisfied, Bucky patted his shoulder once, before walking away. On the drive home, he pulled a pen from the glove compartment and calmly crossed the man's name off his list.
When he finally stepped through the door, he smiled to see you finishing up dinner. Bucky told you he could just hire a personal chef, but you insisted that you wanted to make his meals, to be his perfect housewife.
Without a word, he tugged you into his lap, burying his face against your neck, his lips brushing against your skin, “You know you’re mine, right, baby?” he said, his hands tightening around you. “Only mine.”
—
The next morning, you found him in the kitchen, reading over yet another Siren case file.
You pouted, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your face into his back. “Buckyyy.”
He chuckled, placing his hand over yours. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
“I lost my knife,” you mumbled.
Bucky paused. “Lost it?”
No. No, you wouldn’t be so careless.
Did someone take it from you? Did someone touch you?
The mere thought sent Bucky into a violent spiral, his fingers itched for blood.
Because if someone had taken it from you—if someone had dared to lay their filthy hands on what was his—they were going to wish they were never alive.
You nodded against his skin. “I think I dropped it during my morning run.”
He turned, relieved that you were just a bit careless. He lifted your chin with two fingers, thumb brushing your bottom lip as you gave him your best adorable pout.
“My sweet girl,” he said. “You gotta be more careful.”
You blinked up at him, a little upset. “I liked that knife.”
He chuckled before letting out a deep breath. He could never be mad at you. So he just exhaled, brushing his lips against your forehead. “I’ll get you another one, baby. Whatever you want.”
You beamed. “Really?”
“Of course.” His fingers tightened slightly on your chin. “But you tell me next time you go for an early run. Don’t like you out there alone.”
You grinned, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “You worry too much.”
—
Within a week, Bucky gave you a new knife— a replacement for the one you lost. But calling it just a knife would be an insult.
It was stunning.
The handle was custom-made, dark metal inlaid with delicate floral, perfectly molded to fit your grip. The blade was wickedly sharp, and yet, it wasn’t just a weapon. It was art.
You turned it over in your hands, marveling at the craftsmanship. “You spoil me," you said, testing the weight in your palm. It was perfect.
Bucky smiled, satisfied. "Darling, I haven’t even started."
And just when you thought he couldn’t get any worse, he handed you something else— a little holster, custom-made to hold your new knife. The leather was buttery soft, made to fit against your thigh or tuck neatly under your jacket.
“Specially made for you,” he said proudly, brushing his lips over your cheek, then your jaw. “Gotta keep my good girl safe.”
Your stomach flipped.
What you didn’t know was that, because Bucky was a completely unhinged, lovesick lunatic, he had slipped a tiny tracking device into your holster—one discreet enough that you’d never notice. But that wasn’t all. The device also had a built-in listening function, so it was silently transmitting your location and every sound around you straight to a hidden app on his phone.
Not because he didn’t trust you.
But because the thought of you out there, alone without his protection— drove him insane.
So he made sure that, no matter where you went, he’d always be able to find you.
So now, if anyone so much as breathed wrong in your direction, Bucky would hear it.
And he’d handle it.
—
The next morning, Bucky’s phone rang. It was an unlisted number from DC Police.
He sighed, already dreading whatever mess was waiting for him. But before he even thought about leaving, he had to take care of something far more important.
You.
Still hazy from sleep, you barely had time to blink before Bucky was on you, pressing you deeper into the mattress, his lips peppering gentle yet desperate kisses across every inch of exposed skin. Your cheek, your shoulders, the delicate curve of your throat.
"Just reminding you how much I love you before I go to work,” he nuzzled you.
You hummed, tilting your head to grant him better access. He took full advantage, dragging his mouth down your throat, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin there. His teeth grazed your pulse point, just enough to make your breath hitch.
“Be good, baby,” he whispered against your lips, still unwilling to leave.
You smiled, all sweet innocence. “I’m always a good girl.”
Bucky groaned, pressing one last kiss to your lips before reluctantly pulling away.
For now.
—
The moment Bucky stepped into the precinct, conversations halted. Officers froze, whispering behind their hands.
Bucky’s eyes flickered around the room, landing on the open file waiting for him on the table.
“What’s going on?” He asked.
Detective Ramirez, a no-nonsense woman who had been working in DC longer than most high schoolers have been alive, flipping through the folder. “We did a lot of digging last night… and Siren’s been operating a lot longer than we thought.”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed as she laid out the evidence.
“We traced activity back a couple years. Louisiana. Then Brooklyn. And now, D.C.”
Huh. What a weird coincidence. Those are all the places you’ve lived in.
She shook her head. “She’s been at this for a long time.”
The grainy surveillance images showed the same shadowy figure— always disappearing before authorities could get close. But it was clear now. This wasn’t just some local vigilante.
“She started with street-level criminals—gangs, traffickers, arms dealers. But lately?” Ramirez slid a new set of photos across the table.
Congressman Davis. Senator Mitchell.
What?
“Both men had been attacked in the last three months. Different incidents. Different locations. But the same signature,” she explained, shaking her head. They’re terrified,” Ramirez continued. “Refused to talk, barely gave us any details because they’re convinced Siren will come back and… finish the job.”
Bucky stayed silent, his mind racing.
Something wasn’t adding up.
“And then there’s this in the crime scene. We believe it’s hers.” Ramirez reached into an evidence bag, carefully unwrapping something small wrapped in cloth. She placed it on the table and slid it toward him.
Bucky’s stomach dropped.
A knife.
Not just any knife.
Your knife.
The one he had given you.
The one you had lost.
He reached for it, turning it over in his gloved hand. It was unmistakable in its design.
Bucky clenched his teeth, forcing his expression to remain neutral.
Because if he let anything slip—if they saw even the slightest reaction—he wasn’t sure how he was going to explain this.
—
Bucky came home late that night, his mind clouded and fearful.
The evidence was stacked against you, but he refused to believe it. You couldn't be Siren. No—maybe she had stolen your knife. Maybe someone was trying to frame you. Maybe—
Then he saw the note.
"Went for a run. Be back soon <3"
Bullshit.
His gut twisted with the kind of instinctual, primal warning that had kept him alive for decades. Maybe he thought the handwriting was too neat, or maybe just knew when you were lying to him. He always did.
Metal knuckle curling into a ball, he pulled out his phone and tapped into the hidden tracking signal embedded in your holster.
You were nowhere near a park, or a public road for that matter. Instead, you were in a wealthy neighbourhood on the other side of town.
Then he turned on the listening device.
A second later, your voice crackled through the speaker. You sounded eerily calm. “A little birdie told me you were planning to block the new Veteran Act."
Bucky’s breath hitched. He had told you about that bill he had been spearheading. About how Jones—that corrupt prick—was going to block it before it even had a chance.
And now you must be standing in front of him, threatening him.
He heard the unmistakable whisper of a blade slicing through the air.
Jones hesitated. “You’re insane—”
"Approve it,” he heard you sneer, “Or I’ll come back and finish the job."
Bucky’s heart slammed against his ribs. He was torn between wanting to go to you—to drag you away from this, to keep you safe—and just listening.
In hindsight, he should have known.
The "walks." The "runs." The way you had picked up knifework too quickly when he had first put a blade in your hands. The first night he kissed you, he had found you on your fire escape—because you had been doing vigilante shit after the pool bar.
And then you spoke again, this time in a sweet sing-song tone, “If you don’t, I’ll put your head underwater until the bubbles stop."
Jones went silent.
Bucky knew you had taken mixed martial arts as a kid for self-defense, but he had never thought much of it— never imagined you still practiced, still used it.
And then, “O-okay, okay—I will.”
Fuck.
He had to admit it now. You were Siren.
Sweet, innocent you. The woman who pressed sleepy kisses against his collarbone in the morning. The woman who curled up in his lap at night, blinking up at him with wide, trusting eyes.
But that wasn’t all you were.
You were this, too. You were a predator hiding in plain sight.
And instead of being freaked out—instead of feeling betrayed or angry—Bucky was… turned on.
His breaths were uneven, chest rising and falling with arousal.
Because he knew this wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t corrupting you.
You were always like this.
Maybe, you were just waiting for someone who would be just as sick as you are.
And you found him.
—
The second you slipped through the back door, you felt his eyes on you.
You had been careful. So fucking careful.
You had changed in the garden shed. You wiped the sweat and dirt from your skin, slipping into an oversized hoodie, leggings, sneakers that were scuffed just enough to sell the illusion. By the time you stepped inside, you looked like nothing more than a tired, unsuspecting wife coming home from an innocent late-night run.
So you played your part.
You plastered a sleepy smile onto your face. “Hey, honey."
Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t even blink.
He just sat there, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped together.
What’s going on?
"How’s Senator Jones?" He said calmly, too calmly.
Your stomach plummeted.
The room felt like it had shrunk, walls pressing in. Everything was suffocating.
You blinked at him, feigning confusion. “What?"
Bucky tilted his head, the ghost of an amused smile playing at his lips.
"I know you’re Siren."
Your breath stalled.
A million reasons went through your rolodex of excuses, each one weaker than the last. But when you looked at him, at the certainty in his eyes, you knew there was no use denying it.
He knew.
But two could play at that game.
So instead of panic, you kept yourself calm.
“Oh?” You arched a brow, voice smooth as silk. "And how’s that diplomat from that gala? Heard you took care of him."
For the first time since you came back, Bucky faltered.
“Y-You knew?” He stammered.
You saw the moment it hit him, the way his pupils blew wide.
"Of course I knew, baby,” you said sweetly, stepping closer. You could see the tension in his shoulders, "I know about your list, Bucky. I see your murderous rage every time."
Bucky’s muscles tightened. His breath became shallow, heart thrumming against his ribs.
You sighed, walking past him to a compartment under the island kitchen, pulling out a small, battered notebook. You flipped it open, then placed it in his hands.
Bucky’s fingers tightened around it as he scanned the pages.
What was this?
It was his list—mirrored.
The same names. The same faces. The same fucking targets. So you could keep track of who he was after.
But alongside them, you had your own notes. Your observations.
Log entries tracking him— where he had been sighted, what areas he had stalked, what time he usually came home. Notes on when he was distracted. When he was asleep. When you could slip out and do your little crime fighting routine. You had copies of all the numbers in his contacts— classified or otherwise.
You even had pictures of him from the goddamn Capitol Hill security cameras. From his usual coffee shops. From his favourite supermarket.
His hands started shaking, because between the scribbled words, between the ink and the scratched-out sentences, there’s something familiar.
Not just in the thoughts.
But in the way they’re written. They were scrawled in a rush, like they were obsessive.
And then, just beneath one of the messier lines, there’s a word—so small, so easy to miss. ‘Mine.’
Sweet, darling, unassuming you, had a dark side.
You were just like him.
A perfect reflection. A mirror image of his own madness.
His throat felt dry. "You—" He swallowed. "You kept track of me?"
You tilted your head innocently. "Oh, sweetheart."
But if you thought that was something—
Bucky moved, crossing the room and yanked open the bottom drawer of the TV stand. His movements were almost aggressive as he pulled out a thick, leather-bound book.
Not his little notebook.
This was different.
And then he handed it to you.
The second you flipped it open, your heart stopped.
It wasn’t names.
It wasn’t targets.
It was you.
Pages upon pages, filled with cramped, meticulous handwriting.
Your detailed wardrobe, all of your perfumes, observations of what you smelled like after a shower versus after a long day. An analysis of how your voice changed when you were lying. The exact shade your lips turned when you were cold. Your coffee orders in all the cafes you’ve ever been to, your favourite snacks. There was even a paragraph of the way you twirled your fork when you ate pasta. The names and addresses of all of your exes— where they lived, where they work, where they shop.
Your entire existence, laid bare.
A record. A worship. A fucking obsession.
Then, you both realised.
You were just two absolute fucking lunatics, hopelessly, unhealthily obsessed with each other.
The two of you had been circling each other like predators for years— watching, tracking, leaving breadcrumbs of obsession in each other’s worlds without even realising it.
You weren’t just people to each other.
You were religion.
You were scripture.
Two minds running parallel, equally deranged, equally consumed— until you inevitably collided.
You licked your lips slowly, the corner of your mouth curling as you looked up at him through your lashes. You knew what you were doing— of course you did.
With a voice as saccharine as it was wicked, you whispered, "I’m still your good girl."
Bucky fucking shattered.
A wrecked groan tore from his throat. His grip felt like iron chains as he gripped your waist, shoving you against the nearest surface— the kitchen counters. But you barely noticed, too focused on the way his hands clawed at you, like even after all these years, he still needed to mark you, ruin you.
His lips were on you in an instant, first on your lips, then trailing down your throat.
And then he dropped to his knees.
A fucking worshipper at your altar.
A zealot ready to die a martyr.
His hands gripped your thighs, firm enough to bruise, and he tilted his head up to look at you, pupils blown wide, his lips slightly parted.
He was completely undone. Completely yours.
A satisfied smile spread across your face as you threaded your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him whimper.
"But you’re also my good boy,” you teased, “aren’t you?"
His groan was ruinous.
His eyes were wild, desperate, and fucking feral.
"Yeah, baby," he nodded, voice wrecked, hands trailing up, gripping the curve of your hips. "Yours. All yours.”
And then—
He showed you.
Because Bucky Barnes will never be a good man again.
Summary : Sam told Bucky that you, his new tech engineer, was off-limits. But that just makes Bucky want you more.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x engineer!reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Lots and lots of sexual tension, sexual themes, workplace power dynamics, Fluff!!!! Canon-compliant-ish. cursing. Sex is mentioned and described but nothing too graphic. Small mention that Bucky used to smoke.
Word Count : 5.7k
Notes : Hi all! I will post my series soon, but for now, I am focusing on one shots because I am in the process of moving flats! Also, some tag requests has been buried under comments, so please message me/or shoot me an ask if you'd like to be tagged! Enjoy!
You weren’t born into privilege, not handed your brilliance by name or legacy. You were forged by curiosity, tenacity, and a drive so relentless it kept you awake at night designing theoretical blueprints for machines that didn’t exist yet. While other kids were watching cartoons, you were trying to figure out how the animation worked.
You were the kind of brilliant that couldn’t be taught. The kind that made people uncomfortable. The kind that made people notice.
After the blip, Wakanda needed help to rebuild.
You were in your last year of doctoral research when Shuri found you. You'd written a paper on vibranium-adaptive circuitry— not for application, just out of scientific obsession. She read it, tracked you down and showed up in your lab without fanfare.
“You know this theory would work,” she said, scanning your schematics. “You’ve already solved a problem most people can’t even pronounce.”
You blinked, still in awe. “You’re Princess Shuri.”
The next few years were a blur. You worked in Wakanda, helping design and restore crucial systems. You helped lead the research initiative for post-Blip infrastructure. You reverse-engineered Stark-tech, collaborated with Griot before taking a lecturing gig at MIT.
There, you mentored a long list of young brilliant minds, including Riri Williams.
And yet… something felt off.
Despite everything, you felt caged.
Then you realised, ever since Wakanda, theory wasn’t enough for you. You were a hands-on person now. You needed problems to solve. You missed the adrenaline, the mess of a work table.
You missed the smell of soldered wires, the constant whir of active prototypes, the thrill of fixing tech that was actively falling apart.
That’s when the offer came from Sam Wilson and Joaquin Torres.
The new Captain America and his chaos-prone Falcon needed a tech engineer for their field equipment, specifically their state-of-the-art wing packs.
They asked around, and Shuri had personally recommended you.
“Trust me,” she told Sam, “she’ll do more than fix it. She’ll make it better.”
Sam finally reached out, officially.
“The government engineers hate me,” he confessed over the first video call. “You might be our only hope.”
You liked them immediately, and the job was exactly what you’d been missing.
It felt alive, unpredictable, high-stakes, high-tech, and high-risk.
So you packed up your comfortable teaching post at MIT. Said goodbye to pristine labs and overly polite faculty meetings and stepped into a small ops base that felt more like a rich family’s garage than a government facility.
And that’s where you met him.
James Buchanan Barnes.
Bucky to his friends.
You have heard of him before, of course. Shuri called him her second favourite white boy, just behind Everett Ross. In fact, she saw him as a brother more than anything else.
You didn’t know it yet, but he was about to become your favourite problem.
—
You were muttering curses at Redwing when you first met him.
The drone had fried its microthruster mid-flight, and of course, no one bothered to tell you until after Sam crash-landed into a water tower.
So now, it was 10:43 p.m., the base was dead quiet, and you were hunched over your workbench, coffee long cold, hair pulled back like you meant business.
“Alright, you little bastard,” you muttered, soldering iron in hand. “Spark in the wrong fuckin’ direction again and I’m rewriting your personality subroutines to a roomba.”
“That’s one hell of a threat,” a voice behind you drawled.
Unaware of a second person in the room, you jumped slightly in shock, finishing the adjustment with a quick twist of your tool. “Either you’re good at stalking,” you said, glancing over your shoulder, “or terrible at announcing yourself.”
He shrugged. “I’m good at a lot of things.”
You clocked the metal arm— and you knew it was Bucky Barnes. The former Winter Soldier, looking every bit the part with a black shirt and dark hair tucked behind his ears. Sam must’ve called him in for some field work, maybe on-ground support for tomorrow's mission.
“You always lurk in corners?” you teased.
He tilted his head. “Do you always talk dirty to drones?”
That earned a laugh from you as you wiped your hands on a nearby rag. “Only the ones that misbehave.”
His eyes darted to your grease-streaked hands before he saw Redwing flickering online.
“Sam said you were good,” he said, whistling low. “Didn’t say you were this good. Redwing’s been dead for two weeks, and you’ve got him up again in what—a day?”
You shrugged casually. “I like working with things that don’t talk back.”
“That’s gonna be a problem.”
“Why’s that?” You narrowed your eyes.
“Because I do.”
You didn’t look away, lips curving up into a sly smile. “I can handle it.”
That earned you a grin. He stepped closer, just across the workbench now. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel.
His eyes dropped to the drone. “You re-routed the thermal sensors.”
You arched a brow. “This your idea of flirting?”
He looked up, blue eyes gleaming with excitement. “Would it work if it was?”
Your laugh came easy, but your fingers didn’t stop moving. “Depends. You as hands-on as you look?”
He didn’t answer— not right away. He just moved around the workbench until he was behind you.
Then he whispered, “Try me.”
Your heartbeat thumped out of your chest, but your hands stayed steady. Only barely.
“You really shouldn’t sneak up on someone working with high-voltage components,” you let out a small laugh, warning him of more than just the circuitry. “I might shock you.”
Before he could say something even cockier, Sam opened the door and entered the room. “See you’ve met our new tech girl, Buck.”
You flinched slightly, and Bucky moved back.
Technically, Sam was your boss.
So technically, Bucky was your boss’ best friend.
And that was a bad idea, right?
—
It started small.
The flirting was inevitable— of course you were attracted to each other.
He was your type, you were his type. It wasn’t exactly rocket science.
But it wasn’t just… that.
He… actually made the effort to get to know you. You became friends first. He asked about your life: What made you tick. What pissed you off. What you did when no one was watching.
You gave him pieces of yourself.
And he gave you… things. Like a Eurasian Jay trying to mate by giving nuptial gifts.
The first time, it was totally casual. He gave you a protein bar post-mission.
“Figured you skipped lunch,” he said, tossing it onto your desk without meeting your eyes too long.
You were elbows-deep in Sam’s pack diagnostics, but you looked up. You arched your brow.
“Did Sam send you to make sure I didn’t pass out?”
“Nope,” he said, already walking away. “I’m just naturally thoughtful.”
You stared after him.
Thoughtful. Right.
That was the word we were using now.
The next week, he got you coffee, just the way you liked it. Down to the brand and milk-to-caffeine ratio.
You mentioned it off-handedly a couple days ago, and he remembered.
“Just happened to be in the area,” he said, leaning against the doorway like it wasn’t a forty-minute drive from where he lived.
You eyed him over the rim of your cup. “The base is not on the way to anywhere.”
“I took the bike,” he shrugged, “Made good time.”
You tried not to smile, but failed.
The week after that, he gave you a tiny gear charm on a thin, silver chain— clearly handmade, probably by him. It looked crooked, but it was beautiful to you, with teeth like a puzzle piece.
“Reminded me of you,” he said, like it was nothing, all while short-circuiting your entire nervous system.
You held it up between two fingers. “Because I’m small, stubborn, and get jammed in places I don’t belong?” You offered an explanation if he wasn’t brave enough to admit it.
He grinned, not denying it. “You said it, not me.”
You should’ve told him to knock it off. Maybe set some professional boundaries. You really should’ve.
Instead, you let him put the chain around your neck and wore it under your shirt like a dirty little secret.
The next week, he lingered longer and leaned in closer. He watched you work with that look— focused, and if not a little possessive. He had his hands in his pockets, thumb tapping against his belt like he was holding something back.
You glanced at him. “You trying to get something, Bucky?”
He tilted his head, deadpan. “Yeah. You.”
You almost dropped your wrench.
You coughed and laughed at the same time—half-flustered, half-shocked. “Fuck. Just lead with it next time.”
“Oh, I plan to.”
After that, the flirting escalated.
But… neither you nor him would do anything about it. Not while Sam was watching, anyway.
You’d be wrist-deep in tangled circuitry, and he’d pass you a screwdriver, letting his fingers brush yours just a second too long.
He’d stand behind you, “supervising” while you calibrated Joaquin’s flight pack— and he was close enough to feel his breath to ghost your shoulder, close enough that your body went still and hyper-aware of every little movement,
By month three or four, everyone was catching on.
One morning, Joaquin stood in the break room, sipping his coffee, nodding toward the door.
“Why does Bucky come here when we don’t need him on a mission?” he asked under his breath, eyes darting toward the man near your workstation. His arms were folded, eyes glued to you in a fitted tank top that was definitely not regulation.
Sam didn’t even bother to look up from his tablet. “Because he’s trying to get laid.”
Joaquin choked on his coffee. “Dude.”
“Which is why we’re keeping an eye on him,” Sam just sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose like this whole situation was giving him a headache. “Because if we lose her, we’re screwed. You know how hard it is to find someone who can keep up with our gear?”
—
Fifteen minutes later, Sam found Bucky walking in the hallway. “We need to talk.”
Bucky didn’t even slow his pace. “If this is about the vibranium plate I broke—”
“It’s about you trying to rail our tech engineer.”
Bucky blinked. “That’s... direct.”
“I’m serious!” Sam glanced around, lowering his voice but not his tone. “She’s brilliant. Like—Stark-level genius with none of the god complex. Do you have any idea how rare that is?”
“She is impressive,” Bucky admitted, which was code for: she’s been living rent-free in my fantasies for months.
“She’s more than impressive,” Sam snapped. “She’s irreplaceable. And if you screw this up—you’re gonna ruin the best hire I’ve made in years.”
“I know you,” Sam pointed, though he had to mentally compartmentalise to ask how he knew what ghosting was later. “You’re looking at her like she’s the last cigarette on the planet, and I know you haven’t smoked for like, six years.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes. “You really sat with that one, huh?”
“You can’t unfuck someone at work, Barnes. I’ve lived this,” Sam shot back. “Base hookups never end clean. And if it goes sideways, I lose my tech lead and you lose the one person who knows how to recalibrate your arm without needing a manual.”
There was a beat of silence, and Bucky almost looked thoughtful.
“So…” he started, “You’re saying I should commit.”
“I’m saying—” Sam dragged a hand down his face. “Jesus, no. I’m saying do not touch her. She is vital to the team. To our equipment. To my sanity. She’s not just someone you can have a fling with, she’s infrastructure.”
Bucky tilted his head, amused. “You just compared her to a bridge.”
“She is a bridge! Between functioning tech and whatever disaster Joaquin brings back from the field. I swear to fuck, if you make things weird—”
“You’ll what?” Bucky asked, liking the challenge.
“I will get Shuri to reprogram your arm to slap you every time you look at her.”
“You’re really making this sound more appealing,” Bucky mumbled under his breath.
See, Sam had made a big mistake.
Huge.
Because if there was one thing Bucky Barnes couldn’t resist, it was a challenge.
And by making you officially off-limits, he just wanted you more.
He hadn’t even planned on catching feelings —he didn’t even know if he had the capacity for real ones anymore— until you.
Annoyingly smart and stupidly hot. And underneath all that genius and grease-stained sarcasm was someone who actually made him want things.
So, what did he do?
Exactly what he wasn’t supposed to.
—
After the talk, Sam became a human firewall.
Every time you and Bucky were in the same room, Sam was there, supervising like he was running a daycare.
Once, you were just trying to update Redwing’s targeting algorithm.
Bucky was trying to hand you a wrench.
And Sam was standing six feet away, arms crossed, pretending to scroll through something on his tablet.
“Can I help you, Cap?” you asked, eyes flicking up.
“Nope,” Sam said. “Just observing.”
“You know you don’t need to be here right?” You chuckled. You knew he just got back from a mission, and he could use some rest. “You can take a break.”
“Bucky doesn’t need to be here, either.”
You didn’t even look at Bucky, but you felt the smile he was fighting off.
Bucky leaned in anyway, a bit too close for Sam’s liking under the guise of pointing at the display.
“Think this line’s pulling too much voltage,” he said.
You tilted your head, lowering your voice to match his, and so your boss couldn’t hear. “You just want to whisper in my ear.”
He nodded subtly. “And you like it when I do.”
“Barnes.” Sam’s voice cracked like a whip. “Step back. Let her work in peace.”
Bucky backed off with a dramatic sigh.
You… didn't notice.
Or if you did, you didn’t comment then. You just kept being you— and that was enough to do unspeakable things to Bucky's self-control.
He’d pass you a tool with his human hand on your lower back. You’d bite your lip when you were concentrating and not realise he’d stopped listening to the briefing entirely.
But every time Bucky tried to sneak in even a halfway flirtatious line, Sam was right there.
“Hey, you need help with the cooling matrix?” Bucky asked one afternoon, leaning over your shoulder just enough to smell your shampoo. “I’m pretty good with my hands.”
Before you could answer, Sam spoke up. “She’s good. She doesn’t need help. She’s very capable.”
You turned to blink at him. “I didn’t say I wasn’t.”
“Just making sure Tin Can remembers,” Sam muttered, sipping his coffee.
It only got worse from there.
Team debrief? Sam sat between you two.
Lunch break? Sam invited himself to sit directly across from you and stare Bucky down like he was a teenage boy trying to date his daughter.
Mission prep? Sam suddenly needed you for private discussions that lasted just long enough to make Bucky grit his teeth.
Bucky was seconds away from losing it.
It was fucking hard to just not… snap.
Literally and metaphorically.
And now Sam was acting like your personal chaperone. Bucky swore the next time he got in the way, he was going to launch him out the nearest window.
He was tired of being treated like a threat when all he’d done was look at you like you were made of stars.
So later that night, when he found you alone in the garage— legs crossed on the workbench, music playing while you tinkered with Redwing’s sensors— he stood in the doorway a moment too long.
You looked up, smiling without hesitation. “You got past Sam’s force field?”
“He’s out cold after training,” Bucky shrugged. “He tried to go without coffee today.”
You snorted. “That’ll do it.”
He stepped closer and hesitated. “Did you know he’s been keeping us apart?”
You didn’t look up. Not yet. “Figured something was going on.”
“He thinks we’ll mess up,” Bucky said. “Thinks we’ll make it awkward.”
You set your tool down, finally looking at him.
“Let me guess,” You gave him that smile. It was dangerous. “That makes you want me more?”
Bucky let out an incredulous laugh, running a nervous hand through his hair. “You know me so well.”
You hopped down off the bench, walking over until you were standing in front of him, your chest barely brushing his.
“So what now?” Your head tilted just enough to be a question. “You finally gonna make your move while the warden’s asleep?”
His lips tugged into a half-smile. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I’d like a lot of things,” you said, letting the suggestion hang.
Bucky’s eyes darkened.
You tilted your head, chin high. “You didn’t think I noticed?” you asked. “How you always find a reason to be close?”
He didn’t move. He couldn't. Not when you were this close.
“And I kept wondering,” you whispered playfully, eyes on his lips now, “if you were going to keep playing the long game, or finally admit how bad you want it.”
Bucky’s breath caught. His fingers twitched at his sides like he was fighting the urge to reach for you.
You didn’t give him the chance.
You kissed him.
And god, he melted.
It wasn’t soft. At least, not at first.
Both your lips parted, a moan caught in your throat as he gripped your waist and pulled you into him like he’d been holding back for weeks.
His mouth moved with yours like he needed you to survive.
It was the kind of kiss that said this has been driving me crazy and I’m done pretending it hasn’t. His metal hand slid up your neck, fingers tilting your face just right, the human one curling around your lower back.
You pressed in closer, feeling now how tightly he held you, as if he didn’t trust this wasn’t a dream.
When you finally pulled back, you pressed your forehead to his.
His eyes fluttered open.
He looked... dazed.
He looked like he’d been hit with a truck full of hormones.
“You’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he mumbled, and then blinked, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
You grinned, cheeks hot.
“You’re wrecked,” you teased, amused. “I barely kissed you.”
“You call that barely?” he breathed, stunned. “Christ.”
Then, he ran the back of his fingers along your jaw. “I’ve wanted that for so long I forgot what not wanting it felt like.”
You leaned in again, brushing your nose against his. “Then take what you want, Sarge.”
His smile turned dangerous.
This little escapade ended with you pulling Bucky into the nearest supply closet and locking the door behind you.
You didn’t even give him a chance to catch his breath.
“You sure about this?” he asked, the light catching in his eyes like silver and smoke.
You just grabbed the collar of his shirt to yank him down into another kiss.
What happened next wasn’t exactly PG.
There was heat, and hands, and the kind of breathy curses that barely made it past lips pressed together. Bucky’s dog tags clinked against the trinket necklace that he gave you. Something fell off a shelf. You didn’t notice. Bucky didn't care.
At one point, you were both breathless and laughing, pressed chest-to-chest in the cramped space, when you whispered, “This is so unprofessional.”
Bucky whispered back, “Shhhh, I’m busy,” right before he kissed you again, muttering downright filthy praises as he made his way to his knees.
Forty minutes later, the door clicked open and you both reemerged.
Not quite innocent, but decent enough. Bucky’s hair was slightly more tousled than usual, and you’d thrown on a hoodie over your tank top, even though you never wore your hoodie indoors.
But now, you had to. Or else Sam would see the marks Bucky left along your neck.
An hour later, Sam finally stirred from his coffee-deprived coma.
He shuffled into the hangar, muttering about needing espresso and a neck brace.
The first thing he saw was you and Bucky standing near your workstation. Flirting, but overall looking normal.
Almost.
But you were in your hoodie. Inside.
Sam squinted.
“Huh,” he muttered. “That’s new.”
You didn’t even blink. “It’s cold in here.”
Sam shrugged. Best not to think too much of it.
—
Hooking up with Bucky Barnes was never supposed to feel like falling in love.
But it did.
Not in a dramatic, slow-motion, hearts-eyes kind of way.
It happened steadily. Like gravity.
Sam thought the crush had run its course when the flirting died down in public. He figured the spark fizzled, and neither of you wanted to admit it. So he started easing up on the chaperoning.
What he didn’t know was that the tension had stopped boiling over in public because you’d found an outlet to release it in each other’s bed.
But it was never just that.
You started to notice how Bucky watched your face—not your body—when you talked about something that excited you. Like your circuitry project, or the Wakandan energy conversion systems. Or the ridiculous theory you had about quantum-linked processors and how they might someday change the world.
He listened, not out of obligation, but curiosity. He wanted to know how your mind worked, even if the words flew over his head.
He started sleeping over after your late-night hookups. At first it was just practical. After a mission, he'd stumble into your bed, and afterwards, neither of you had the energy to move.
But then it became a comfort.
Then it was something he didn’t want to go without.
One morning, you found him installing blackout curtains in your bedroom.
“You hate waking up early,” he said with a shrug. “Thought this might help.”
And maybe that was the moment you realised it wasn’t casual anymore. Maybe that was the moment you realised you weren’t falling— you’d already fallen.
He took you out, and was a real gentleman about it, too.
He always took you to the coffee shop you loved—the one with awful chairs and strange wall art and croissants that tasted like buttery clouds. He’d sit next to you with his sunglasses on and his hand in yours, like his body didn’t know how not to be near you.
He let you ride on the back of his bike, with your arms wrapped around his waist.
He’d park on quiet hills overlooking the city lights, hand you a drink from a fast-food drive-thru and just… sit.
Sometimes you’d talk.
You talked about Wakanda. About Shuri—how much you missed her. How much he did, too.
You talked about the things you were afraid to want. A future. Stability.
He told you that you made him feel normal. Like a person, not a weapon.
You told him he made you feel seen. Like someone worth noticing, beyond an academic accomplishment.
And when he kissed you, sometimes it felt like it hurt. Sometimes you wondered if it scared him to fall in love.
One night, he even took the leap and whispered I love you.
You said it back, just as gently.
So yeah, technically you were dating.
Not that Sam or Joaquin knew.
—
You still tried to play it casual— at least in public.
Which brings us to one very specific Saturday afternoon.
You and Bucky had been… busy.
The kind of busy that started with you on your kitchen counter, legs wrapped around his waist and ended up with you bent over that same counter, forearms braced against the cool marble, your hoodie bunched up around your waist.
Bucky's hands gripped your hips like he was anchoring himself, hips snapping forward in a rhythm that bordered on sinful.
You moaned, biting your lip just to stay somewhat quiet, but failing miserably.
“Fuck, baby,” he growled against the back of your neck. “You were made for me.”
You tried to let out a breathless, wrecked laugh, but all that came out was a broken sigh.
You were close. So close—
And then the front door opened.
You had accidentally left it unlocked.
At first, you didn’t register it, not over the sound of your own moaning. Not over Bucky’s groans and the slap of skin on skin.
Until—
“Yo, I just came by to grab the upgrades—OH MY GOD.”
Joaquin was standing frozen in your doorway.
His eyes were wide, mouth open, and you could’ve sworn his soul was visibly leaving his body.
You screamed.
Bucky swore.
You yanked your hoodie down, cheeks burning. Bucky stepped in front of you like he could somehow block the mental trauma Joaquin had just suffered and pulled up his sweatpants.
“What the fuck? I can’t unsee that,” he sputtered, spinning around, only to walk directly into the wall.
You slapped your hand over your mouth. “Oh my god– oh my god— Is today Saturday? I told him— ARGHH!—Bucky! DO SOMETHING!”
Bucky just exhaled like a man getting hit with a tax audit and reached for his wallet on the side table.
“Torres,” he called out.
Joaquin peeked over his shoulder like Bucky was Medusa. “If you hand me cash, I swear to—”
“Apple Pay?” Bucky offered, putting down the wallet and reaching for his phone instead.
You blinked.
“…Depends how much.”
“Five hundred,” Bucky said, “You never tell Sam. You never joke about it on base. You never bring it up ever.”
Joaquin squinted. “Make it six.”
You groaned, burying your face in your hands.
“Six-fifty,” Bucky countered, tapping on his phone, “and you run interference next time Sam gets nosy.”
“I’m gonna need therapy,” Joaquin demanded. “And probably bleach. So I need more.”
“Add another fifty,” you piped up from behind Bucky, “and I throw in a custom diagnostic chip for your wings.”
Joaquin considered it. “Deal.”
And that’s how the Falcon walked out of your apartment $700 richer.
—
Two months later, dragging Joaquin into your sexcapades had become standard protocol.
“Distract Sam. Ten minutes,” you hissed into the comms, already breathless, ducking into the back of a supply truck with Bucky right behind you, stripping off his tac vest.
“Again?!” Joaquin whisper-yelled through his ear piece.
“You love us,” you cooed sweetly, right before Bucky yanked your shirt over your head and you were cut off.
So Joaquin did his part.
Sam would be looking for you, when suddenly there was Joaquin, materialising beside him like a caffeine-fueled jackrabbit.
“Yo, Cap, wanna see this new drone maneuver I coded? It does a barrel roll. In reverse.”
Sam gave him a squint. “Aren’t you on aerial patrol?”
“I am! This is, uh, supplemental. For morale. Very therapeutic. Like—watch!”
Meanwhile, four doors down, you were bent over a crate of rations in a supply closet, Bucky’s hand clamped over your mouth as he fucked you like the world might end in twenty minutes and he wanted to die with your name on his lips.
You gasped around his palm. “He’s right there—oh —”
“Then shut up,” Bucky growled.
Sam, on the other hand, was not buying it.
“You good, man?” He asked, genuinely worried, “You’ve been real twitchy lately.”
Joaquin was sweating bullets: “I’m fine. Totally normal. Definitely not thinking about sex.”
Sam blinked.
“I– I mean SUCCESS,” he stammered, stumbling over his words, “Teamwork, and all that stuff!”
Sam didn't buy it, but didn’t have a reason to question it, either.
And from there, it was chaos.
Sam wanted to call you for a debrief?
Joaquin would “accidentally” spill an entire protein shake over the mission map.
Sam headed to the hangar?
Joaquin sprinted to intercept, yelling about “mysterious engine noises” while Bucky slipped out the back with you, shirt half-buttoned and lipstick smudged across his chin.
You, Bucky, and Joaquin became a well-oiled, morally questionable unit.
But in the end, Bucky got laid.
You got your insides rearranged.
Joaquin got trauma and a couple of upgrades.
So it was a win-win for everyone.
—
You were especially reckless one Wednesday.
You remembered because it was leg day— and Bucky had already wrecked you in training so badly, you could barely walk straight.
Sam had assigned him to sharpen your hand-to-hand skills, after all. He took that very literally.
Now you were pressed up against the wall of some dusty, half-forgotten hanger in the compound, your legs shaking for an entirely different reason. His dog tags smacked against your chest, tangling with the little charm you kept around your neck. Your grunts echoed far too loud for anyone trying to keep this a secret.
“Bucky,” you gasped. “Someone could walk in.”
He groaned into your neck, not slowing down at all. “Let them. Let ‘em see what they’ll never get.”
You dug your nails into his back, barely able to think. “Fuck, you’re so full of yourself.”
“You weren’t complaining last night when I—”
“Hey!” you cut him off playfully with a slap to the shoulder. “Focus, Sarge!”
Neither of you noticed the faint mechanical chirp overhead.
Redwing was perched on a maintenance cabinet nearby.
Recording.
Because Sam had programmed it to run 24/7 in order to test the heat sensors.
—
Two days later, Sam was in the control room, analysing flight path data.
Joaquin was lounging beside him, and today, you had a day off.
“Hey,” Sam suddenly said, frowning at his screen. “Why is Redwing’s log showing heat spikes in Hangar C?”
“What?” Joaquin choked on his smoothie. He knew immediately what must’ve fucking happened, and dismissed any accusation right away. “Pfft. Probably a… malfunction.”
Sam clicked a few buttons as a projection flared to life.
“Weird,” he shook his head, leaning in. That’s… body heat. Two sources. Definitely not a test flight…”
Joaquin didn’t move. “I’m not legally required to answer that, am I?”
—
You were curled up on Bucky’s couch, one of his hoodies swallowing you whole, legs tangled with his, a half-eaten bowl of popcorn on your lap. The movie—a classic noir thing he vouched for—was on, but you weren’t really paying attention.
His thumb traced lazy circles on your thigh, under the blanket, and every time he leaned in to whisper a joke, you could feel his scruff brushing against your temple.
Everything felt right.
Then his phone buzzed.
He ignored it.
It buzzed again.
“Someone’s persistent,” you chuckled, not thinking much of it, and not looking away from the screen.
“Probably Torres,” Bucky sighed, reaching for it. “Or spam. Or spam from Torres.”
When he checked the messages, he looked… confused.
“What?” you asked, noticing the change in his posture. He turned the phone toward you.
A video file was labeled: Redwing_Betrayal.MOV
Below it, a message from Sam.
Do NOT fuck this up. Do NOT make this weird. Or I’ll throw you off a plane with no chute.
Bucky squinted. “Didn’t know Redwing could send files this big.”
You sat up slightly, concern creeping in. “Wait—what?”
And because Bucky had the restraint of a gnat, he tapped play without thinking twice.
Grainy thermal footage lit up the screen. Then you heard sounds that suspiciously sounded like your name. Then, the full 4K video synced in, and you saw yourself and Bucky going at it like bunnies.
You almost choked. “OH MY—.”
You lunged for the phone like it was a grenade, but Bucky held it out of reach.
“Oh,” he said, amused. “It’s that day. We looked good.”
“JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES.” You buried your face in his chest, nearly shrieking. Sam—your boss, Bucky’s best friend—knew now. Thank God this job didn’t have HR. “I—I didn’t even know Redwing was recording!”
“I need to step up my game,” he said casually, scrubbing through the clip like he was watching game tape. “See? My hip angle was off in the first minute.”
“Bucky—”
“But damn,” he added, serious. “Look at your arch, though.”
You smacked him with a pillow. “TURN IT OFF.”
He smirked, not budging, and hit save to his private album.
“You’re the worst,” you groaned, though it was playful more than anything, hitting him again with the pillow.
“I’m keeping it for science,” he said innocently. “And maybe for when you’re out of town.”
You smacked his arm, and he kissed your forehead like that made everything better.
It kinda did.
Bucky pulled you back into his chest, still grinning like a menace, and grabbed his phone again, thumb flying over the screen.
You peeked over his shoulder to see.
To: Sam
I am weird. And also look amazing doing it.
Sent.
He snorted as the typing bubble popped up.
A second later, Sam’s response came in, and it was just a line.
Jokes aside, I’m happy for you.
You both stared at it.
“Well…” you said, a little stunned, “that’s… sweet?
“Coming from Sam?” Bucky chuckled. “That’s a miracle.”
So he just leaned back against the couch, pulling you even closer as you both processed Sam’s strange acceptance. Perhaps, after all the years of seeing his friend brood alone in his apartment, Sam finally saw through the professional lens and was glad that someone was able to keep Bucky in check, even if that someone happened to be his tech girl.
With a satisfied grin, he tapped his phone a few more times, and you heard him mutter, “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you still have a job.” He raised an eyebrow at the screen. “And Joaquin’s side hustle? Yeah, that’s done. No more hush money and suit upgrades from him.”
You chuckled, knowing full well Bucky would take care of things, like he always did.
The whole situation might’ve been ridiculous, but with him?
You didn’t have to worry about anything.
Except maybe keeping government tech out of the bedroom.
marvel au
bucky x reader
alpine barely tolerates anyone but bucky, so when she curls up in your lap without a second thought, the team is left reeling—especially when it leads to the not-so-subtle revelation that you and bucky have been sneaking around for months.
Warnings: fluff, so much fluff, alpine is a troublemaker, secret dating, swearing, kissing, alcohol, tony knows all, natasha too, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything
Word Count: 2.2k
A/N: hello! once again a fic no one asked for lol. i'm supposed to be on hiatus buuut i took some time this afternoon to write this because i'm procrastinating a uni assignment. i'm sure this concept has been done before, but i was thinking about that scene in rivals with the dog (iykyk) and yeah! step away from the usual angst and heartbreak i normally provide you all with. sorry for any typos - not proof read.
main masterlist
You were careful.
Or at least, you thought you were careful.
For months, you and Bucky had kept your relationship under wraps. It wasn’t that you wanted to keep secrets from the team, but there was something thrilling about stolen moments and hushed conversations. About Bucky’s hand on the small of your back as he guided you through a crowded room, or the way he’d brush a kiss against your temple before disappearing down the hall.
You figured no one had noticed.
Until today.
It all started with one of many white hairs stuck to your t-shirt.
Natasha plucked it off you mid-conversation one morning in the kitchen while you were praying—desperately—to whatever all-seeing god might finally make the coffee machine work faster. Between the groaning, spluttering sounds and the blinking lights, it felt like the damn thing was possessed. With flawlessly manicured nails, Natasha held the hair up to the morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the compound.
“Is this Alpine’s fur?” she mused aloud, twirling the long, pale strand between her fingers.
“Probably.” you replied absently, more concerned with the coffee machine’s latest refusal to cooperate. You jabbed the buttons harder, ignoring the way Natasha’s eyes flickered with something dangerously close to amusement.
“For all of Tony’s money, you’d think we’d have a coffee machine that actually works,” you grumbled.
“Turn around?” Natasha asked. There was a particular lilt to her voice, that barely concealed intrigue she tried—and failed—to mask whenever she was onto something. It set you on edge instantly, the tone that meant she was clicking a mystery into place, giddy with excitement beneath a thin veil of indifference. You didn’t trust it for a second.
“No, just—” You smacked the machine in frustration. It whined pathetically before the lights blinked off entirely. You let out a long, exasperated groan. “Why won’t this stupid fucking thing ever work—”
“Jesus, you’re covered in it—”
You froze mid-motion as Natasha yanked at your shirt, effectively grooming you like a monkey. Her sharp lips had turned up into a wicked smirk, the type of smirk that made dread pool in your gut.
“Everything is covered in her fur,” you said quickly, still trying for casual. You reached for the plug, praying Natasha would drop it. “She sheds everywhere, especially on the couch.”
“Mm.” Natasha tilted her head, her smirk deepening. “And yet, I thought Tony hired cleaners for that? Especially with Kate always bringing Lucky around?”
You yanked the plug from the socket a little too forcefully. “Honestly, Nat, I don’t know. I just want this damn machine to work.”
Right on cue, a familiar voice rumbled behind you.
“Machine giving you trouble again?”
Your heart stuttered in your chest before resuming its normal rhythm—though maybe a little faster. You turned just as Bucky strolled in, looking frustratingly good despite the early hour. His hair was a little dishevelled, sleep still clinging to him in a way that made him look too soft for someone who could snap a man’s spine in half.
“There’s a trick to it, remember?” He stepped in close beside you, skin brushing yours as he reached for the machine. The scent of his aftershave lingered, warm and familiar. You tried—and failed—not to watch the way the muscles in his forearm tensed, veins shifting beneath his skin as he pressed a series of buttons.
“Barnes, you’ve got cat hair all over you,” Natasha noted, not even bothering to be subtle. You didn’t dare look at her. Instead, you busied yourself wringing your hands, pretending you weren’t hyper-aware of Bucky standing so damn close.
“Huh?” Bucky barely spared a glance at his shirt, where Alpine’s fur was unmistakably clinging to the fabric. “Oh. Yeah, guess I do. She always wants attention in the morning.”
Then, with one final smack, the machine roared to life. The rich aroma of coffee filled the air as liquid finally poured into your mug. You sighed in sheer relief.
“There you go,” Bucky said, looking down at you with a small smile, a few strands of dark hair falling across his forehead.
Your stomach did a stupid little flip. You smiled back, warmth creeping into your face. “Thanks.”
The machine beeped again, snapping you back to reality. You quickly grabbed the mug with both hands, muttered another thanks, and let Natasha tug you away.
“What was that?” She hissed, voice low as she turned to you with narrowed eyes.
“Huh?” You weren’t entirely listening to her words. You found yourself glancing over your shoulder, a ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. You could still see Bucky standing in the kitchen, both hands braced on the counter as he waited for his own coffee. His back was turned, but even through the thin material of his fur-covered t-shirt, you could see the way his muscles shifted beneath it—
Natasha didn’t even humour your innocence. She crossed her arms. “You and Barnes?”
“What about him?” You mumbled, pulling your gaze away as the elevator dinged, doors sliding open.
Her lips twitched, amusement clear. “Are you two—?”
You made a face at her. “What are you on about?”
Natasha didn’t look convinced, but she let it go.
For now.
As the elevator hummed and Bucky was cut from your view as the doors shut, you took a sip of coffee, the liquid a few degrees between too hot and burning. It scalded your tongue, and with the phantom smell of Bucky’s aftershave no longer haunting you, you felt your mind snap back into action.
Right. Focus.
“We’re going to be late for the meeting,” you declared, shaking your head. “And that damn machine is the reason. You know what? Let’s take a detour to Stark’s lab and demand a better one.”
Natasha chuckled, pressing the button for a different floor.
“I like the way you think.”
—
You knew Alpine would be your downfall.
The little white menace was notoriously selective. If you weren’t Bucky, she wanted nothing to do with you. Everyone at the compound had suffered her wrath at least once—Sam even had the scars to prove it. Alpine liked to play dangerous games that usually ended in blood or a yowl of pain. You swore the Avengers bled more dealing with the feline than fighting aliens, wizards, or whatever else tried to obliterate Earth every other week. She was a cunning little creature, lurking around corners, hiding under tables, prowling along bookshelves. And just when you least expected it—bam. Teeth and claws bared, she would pounce, latching on like a tiny, vengeful spectre. This was her idea of fun. The Avengers had learned to tread carefully, tip-toeing around the compound whenever they knew she wasn’t safely curled up in Bucky’s room, where she ruled with an iron paw.
So, when you sat down on the couch one evening, and Alpine immediately hopped onto your lap, you knew you were fucked.
She didn’t hesitate, didn’t so much as sniff at you in consideration before curling right up, purring loud enough to be heard over the football game droning on in the background—which you were only half paying attention to.
You stiffened, caught between awe at the rare privilege and sheer dread at the witnesses currently gaping at you.
Bucky, for his part, had been sitting at the other end of the couch, flirting with danger in his usual way—stolen glances, conveniently placed touches as he shifted in place. Alpine, just as obsessed with him as you were (Bucky had taken to calling you both ‘his girls’ in private, which always managed to make you swoon.), had immediately perched in his lap when he sat down. Only when he carefully pried her off to grab another round of beers did the little white she-beast decide you were a worthy substitute, strutting over with lazy, languid confidence before settling down, blissfully unaware of what she had just unleashed.
The room fell into stunned silence. Several pairs of eyes locked onto you, breath collectively held. They were waiting for the yowl, for the inevitable attack, for you to tense up and leap to your feet in pain. But to your horror, the little sadist simply settled in. Cosy, unbothered, as if this had been the plan all along.
“Okay, what the hell is this?” Sam finally demanded, pointing an accusing finger.
You blinked down at Alpine, then up at Sam, stroking the soft fur like nothing was amiss. “Uh… a cat?”
You were foolish and desperate enough to pretend this was completely normal, to gaslight the others into believing Alpine was a perfectly gentle and affectionate cat. A sweet, loving companion. Not a tiny, vengeful menace who had terrorised them all—and definitely not a creature who had only warmed up to you in recent months because you spent more time in Bucky’s bed than your own.
“The same cat that tried to claw out my eyeball for getting too close? And now she’s just—” He gestured wildly at Alpine, who flicked her tail with the smugness of a queen on her throne. “—cuddling with you like you’re her best buddy?”
“She likes me, I guess.” You blinked innocently, turning back to the TV, hoping he would drop it, but Sam, ever the dramatic, was not satisfied.
“Are you kidding me? That cat has tried to kill me.”
Natasha snorted into her drink.
Alpine smugly licked her paw before resting her head upon your thigh and blinking her wide blue eyes at Sam, who shook his head with an exaggerated shudder. “This is bullshit, and you know it—”
“Maybe she just doesn’t like you, Sam.” You huffed, scratching Alpine behind her ears. “She’s always been fine with me.”
“That is not true!”
“She took a chunk out of my arm once,” Natasha added, ever the instigator.
“Remember when I gave her a treat and she bit me?” Steve piped up.
Bucky returned at that moment, frowning as he saw the conversation unfolding before him. You turned to him with wide, desperate eyes, silently pleading for help. Alpine, the little traitor, merely pressed her pink nose to your hand, rubbing her face against you with a contented sigh.
“She only likes people she’s comfortable with,” Bucky offered, setting the beers down with a clink, but his pitiful attempt to be helpful only added fuel to the fire.
The room exploded into a series of overlapping voices.
“I didn’t realise you spent so much time with Alpine?” Natasha’s sharp gaze flicked between you and Bucky, her smirk primed to taunt you both.
“Buck, doesn’t she spend all her time in your room—?” Steve leaned forward, forearms braced against his thighs, invested now.
Sam jolted upright like he’d just solved a murder case. “Now, hold on a second—”
“You have been covered in cat fur a lot lately,” Natasha mused. “And you two have been suspiciously close—”
As you glanced over at Bucky, you couldn’t tell if his repeated blunders were intentional or borne out of genuine panic. He cleared his throat, his brows raising as he casually popped off the cap of one of the beers with his vibranium thumb in faux nonchalance.
“Coincidence.” He muttered with a shrug, tipping back a mouthful of the brew.
Alpine, completely oblivious (or entirely aware of the chaos she’d caused), didn’t budge as Bucky sat back down beside you, levelling you with a look that screamed we are so screwed.
“You two aren’t even going to try to lie?” Natasha pressed.
“Lie about what?” You feigned innocence, but the act was flimsy at best. The jig was well and truly up.
Bucky, clearly done with this little charade, let out a long-suffering sigh that might’ve sounded exasperated if not for the telltale smirk tugging at his lips. Without another word, he slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you effortlessly against his chest, Alpine still coiled contentedly in your lap. The smug little she-beast didn’t even stir. She just purred loudly—too loudly, like she was taking credit for the entire thing.
“Wait a second!” Sam pointed a dramatic finger between the two of you. “How long has this been happening?”
“How long has what been happening?” Tony strolled into the room, a glass of amber liquid that looked suspiciously like whiskey in hand.
“Her,” Steve announced, gesturing between the both of you. “And Barnes.”
Tony didn’t even blink. “Oh, I already knew that. You didn’t know that?”
Bucky turned so fast you were surprised he didn’t give himself whiplash. “You what?”
“Oh, come on,” Tony drawled, making himself comfortable on the armrest of the couch like this was all just another day at the office. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice her sneaking out of your room at ungodly hours for the past six months? F.R.I.D.A.Y. kept flagging intruders, and, shocker—it was just you two, utterly failing at stealth.”
Sam threw up his hands. “Did you say six months?!”
Bucky rolled his eyes, but instead of answering, he just turned to you and, without hesitation, kissed you.
It was sudden but warm, his lips soft against yours like he’d been waiting for an excuse. The room erupted into even more noise, Sam shouting something unintelligible, Natasha making a sound of smug satisfaction, and Steve groaning like he should’ve known, but it all faded into the background.
You laughed against Bucky’s lips, breathless but entirely unbothered. “This is definitely her fault.”
Alpine, still purring in your lap like the devious little mastermind she was, flicked her tail.
Bucky just hummed, brushing his nose against yours. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Not complaining, though.”
Request: Can I request a Bucky x reader please? Where Bucky met the Avengers and is atracted to the reader and protective over her, and one time he gets into winter soldier mode and everyone is worried he might hurt the reader but he became extremly overprotective and dont let anyone and anything touch her cause is dangerous (like even killed a fly that is too close to her). Hope its make sense, English is not my native language :c Thanks!
A/N: Fem!Reader. This one kind of ran away from me before I could reign it in, so it’s longer than I planned. I almost made it a two parter, but I liked it more this way. Enjoy!
Warnings: Possible use of language, I can’t remember. Reader is temporarily abducted by the bad guy.
Summary : Everyone is horrified that Bucky is flirting with a married woman, but then they realise there's a reason why.
Pairing : Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x florist!reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Secret wife trope. Cursing, Injury. Featuring the Thunderbolts*. Bucky kinda gaslights the entire team. Fluff!!!!
Word count : 3k
Note : The next chapter of spoils of war is almost here, but I just need to go over a couple of paragraphs! In the meantime, enjoy!
The Thunderbolts knew a few undeniable truths about Bucky Barnes.
One: He was grumpy.
Two: He was a private person.
Three: He never, ever let anyone see where he lived.
That last one bothered them the most. They’d pieced together the general area; a quiet neighborhood with old brick buildings, modern cafés, and just enough charm to make it feel… vintage. But no one had ever set foot inside his home, no one had even seen him unlock the door to his sanctuary, since he dodged every casual suggestion to hang out at his place with a variation of “I got plans” or another. And, curiously, every time they stopped for coffee in this part of town, Bucky would mysteriously slip into the tiny flower shop beneath a brick apartment building.
That was odd. No one would’ve guessed that Bucky Barnes even liked flowers.
What was even odder was that this infinitely grumpy, emotionally constipated, “I hate people” supersoldier — would be capable of flirting.
With the florist.
With you.
“Are we seeing this right?” Yelena whispered, elbowing Alexei as they peered through the shop window after Bucky made them wait outside.
They watched as Bucky stood by the counter, leaning in ever so slightly, a charming grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you wrap a bouquet.
“He’s smiling,” Alexei muttered, horrified.
Inside, Bucky reached for the bouquet you were tying up, his gloved fingers brushing against yours. You playfully smacked his hand away, laughing. He laughed, too, and that was enough to send Yelena spiraling into an existential crisis.
Yelena squinted. “He’s flirting.”
Alexei frowned. “Bucky does not flirt.”
“I know. That’s why I’m freaking out.”
They watched as you handed him the bouquet, and in return, Bucky gave you a wink. And then he turned, walking out like he hadn’t just transformed into a different person.
That was when Yelena, utterly horrified Yelena, caught a flash of gold on your ring finger. She squinted her eyes. It was unmistakable. “Wait a second—”
As soon as he got back to them, Alexei folded his arms. “You were flirting.”
Bucky scoffed. “I was not.”
“She’s married!” Yelena accused, pointing dramatically. “She had a ring! You flirted with a married woman!”
Bucky didn’t even blink. He simply shrugged, tucking the bouquet carefully under his arm. “I didn’t see a ring.”
“She was literally wearing it—”
“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky insisted, tugging absentmindedly at the chain around his neck— the one that held his dog tags, hidden under his shirt.
Yelena and Alexei exchanged a deeply disturbed look.
Bucky Barnes was flirting with a married florist.
What was the world coming to?
—
Bucky knew he’d fucked up the second he stepped back into Thunderbolts HQ.
Alexie had just looked confused, while Yelena had been simmering the entire walk back, her arms crossed so tightly over her chest it was a miracle she hadn’t snapped a rib.
She lasted exactly two seconds before she exploded. “You are jackass, Barnes!”
Bucky barely had time to sigh before she stomped closer.
“What’s so wrong with what I did?” he muttered, placing the bouquet of flowers in an empty vase
Yelena let out an incredulous laugh, pacing in front of him like a caged tiger ready to strike. “What’s wrong?” she echoed, her accent thickening with rage. “You flirted with a married woman! I should punch you in the face on principle!”
From the lounge, John Walker looked up from whatever government-issued nonsense he was pretending to read. His brows immediately furrowed, his eyes twisting into the signature disapproving dad look he’d perfected. “Wait, what?”
Ava, who had been drinking tea in the corner, raised an eyebrow. “This is scandalous,” she murmured, eyes brightening with intrigue.
Alexei, who was now plopped on the couch like some washed-up, Soviet-era king, said, “If a man had flirted with my wife like that, I would have hunt him down and mount his head on wall.” He crossed his arms, nodding to himself in approval. “As is tradition.”
Bucky scowled. “I wasn’t flirting.”
“Oh?” Yelena snorted, “So you were just undressing her with your eyes for fun, then?”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “That’s just how I look at people.”
Alexie shook his head. “So you look at us like that?”
Bucky opened his mouth. Then immediately shut it.
Yelena’s hands curled into fists. “Yeah. Thought so.”
John’s arms crossed over his chest in that holier-than-thou stance that he was so famous for. “Look, man, I’m married. And if someone flirted with my wife, we’d have a problem.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys are making a big deal out of nothing.”
“Nothing?” Yelena threw up her hands. “She’s married, Bucky!”
“Okay, even if I was flirting,” Bucky turned to her, exasperated— “I didn’t see a ring.”
Yelena’s hands flew to her head, fingers digging into her scalp like she was resisting the urge to rip out her own hair. “You probably chose to look away!”
John sighed like a disappointed youth pastor. “This is unbelievable.”
“No,” Bucky still insisted, “I didn’t see a ring.”
Yelena’s jaw dropped. “It was a thick gold band, Barnes. How could you not see it?”
Ava, who was clearly enjoying the drama more than anyone, sighed. “That is inappropriate behaviour, Barnes.”
Alexei shook his head again, “You should apologise.”
“I’m not apologising,” Bucky scoffed, “Because I did nothing wrong.”
His fingers toyed absentmindedly with the chain that led to his dog tags, and Yelena immediately locked onto the movement. Every person has a tell, a habit they did when they were nervous. And being a super spy, Yelena knew this was his.
She narrowed her eyes. “You are gaslighting us,” she muttered, pacing again like she was mentally weighing the pros and cons of strangling a super soldier.
“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky repeated, his voice steady.
“You’re lying,” she snapped.
He shrugged, maddeningly casual in all of this chaos. “Guess we’ll never know.”
Ava laughed cynically. “I can’t tell if you’re a complete scumbag or if this is just really fun for you.”
Bucky just popped a beer from the fridge, flicking the cap off with his metal hand. “Why not both?”
He took a long sip of his beer, completely unbothered.
And maybe, he looked a little bit too smug.
—
Three weeks later, Bucky led Yelena and John on a mission to take down a high-scale arms dealer.
And, as always, the mission had gone sideways.
It was too late for any shops to be open, too late for anyone with a shred of common sense to be out on the streets.
Yelena was bleeding, pressing a torn scrap of fabric against a deep gash on her arm. John had a busted lip and a slight limp. Bucky was sporting a few cuts and bruises himself, but nothing he hadn’t shaken off a thousand times before.
“Guys,” Yelena managed a grunt, shifting her grip on her makeshift bandage, “we need to get ourselves patched up before one of us drops dead.”
“We ran out of antiseptics back at HQ,” John reminded them.
Yelena groaned, throwing her head back in despair. “So what are we supposed to do?” She gritted out, “Just bleed out in the street like sad little orphans?”
John scowled. “That’s a little dramatic.”
Yelena turned and glared at him. “Your face is dramatic.”
Bucky let out a deep breath through his nose, running a hand along his damp hair. He glanced around the street, making sure they weren’t being followed before whispering to himself, “Guess we’re doing this now.”
Yelena tilted her head. “Doing what?”
Instead of answering, Bucky turned on his heel and started walking.
John and Yelena gave each other a wary look.
“I don’t like when he does that,” John said.
“No one does,” Yelena agreed, but they both followed anyway.
It didn’t take long for them to recognise the route— It was the neighbourhood where the team usually got coffee.
But Bucky wasn’t heading to the café.
They rounded the corner, and suddenly John stopped dead in his tracks.
It was a closed florist—the very one where Bucky had, allegedly, been trying to charm his way into a married woman’s bed.
To John’s absolute horror, Bucky walked right up to the door and knocked.
“Bucky.” He said, voice strangled. “What the hell is this?”
Yelena blinked. “I don’t think we need to seduce a married florist to get medical supplies.”
Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting this decision. He turned to them, leveling them both with a look. “Alright, listen up,” he said through gritted teeth. "The secret’s out now, so you two gotta keep your mouths shut.”
John’s brows furrowed. “What secret?”
Before Bucky could answer, the door to the flower shop clicked open.
And there you were, standing in the doorway, wrapped in one of Bucky’s hoodies, looking exactly how he’d expected: exasperated but unsurprised. He knew you’d still be up, cataloguing the latest floral shipment for tomorrow’s arrangements.
The second your eyes landed on a bruised and bloodied Bucky, and flanked by two wounded Thunderbolts, no less—you let out a sigh.
“James,” you said knowingly, your voice laced with fond irritation. “What did you do?”
Yelena and John froze in their tracks.
James?
James?
No one called Bucky by his first name. No one. Not unless they had a death wish.
Bucky, unfazed, just stepped inside. “We ran out of antiseptics, honey.”
Yelena and John exchanged a wide-eyed look.
Honey?
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Again?”
Bucky shrugged like this was a perfectly normal Thursday night occurrence.
You muttered under your breath, “I should’ve known this would happen when I married an ex-assassin.”
Oh.
Yelena’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Married.” she repeated
John blinked rapidly. “This is why we can never go to your place?”
Bucky could only shrug. Of course it was— they would have seen the evidence of how much love in his home was carved out for just you.
John let out a wheeze.
Yelena pointed between you and Bucky, motioning erratically. “Wait. WAIT. So—so she’s your wife? She married you?”
Bucky nodded. “Yup.”
“Like—actually married?”
“Mhm.”
Yelena gasped, clutching her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. In a way, she had. “And no one knows?”
Bucky thought for a second. “Sam does.”
“And Joaquin,” you added, trying to be helpful.
Bucky nodded. “Right. Joaquin.”
“Oh, and Isaiah and Elijah Bradley.”
“Yeah, they were at the wedding.”
“A teenager knew about this,” John’s eye twitched, “—and we didn’t?”
Bucky could only nod again.
Yelena rubbed a hand down her face, “You gaslit us,” she accused, jabbing a finger at Bucky. “You let us believe you were a homewrecker for weeks—when you were married the whole time?!”
You snorted, glancing at Bucky, who had the audacity to look smug. “Yeah, that sounds like my husband.”
Yelena let out a string of very creative Russian curses.
John looked like he was about to have a stroke.
“All secrets aside,” you said, welcoming the two disoriented Thunderbolts in and locking the door behind you, “It’s good to finally meet you both.”
John still looked like he was buffering. Yelena, on the other hand, was vibrating with adrenaline, looking like she was trying to solve a conspiracy theory in real time.
“This is—this is insane,” she muttered, pointing aggressively at Bucky, then at you, then back at Bucky. “You’re—you’re so normal.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “I’d like to think so.”
Bucky just hummed. “She’s perfect.”
Yelena actually sputtered like an old car engine.
John made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh. This was all too much.
But there wasn’t time to let them spiral further. Bucky, gently nudged you toward the others. “Take care of them first, darling. They’ve got worse injuries.”
You frowned, wanting to protest—because, really, Bucky should always be your first priority—but your husband was nothing if not stubborn. You knew better than to argue when he had that look in his eyes— you knew that fighting him on this would only drag things out longer, and right now, time was precious.
You turned your attention to Yelena and John, motioning for them to follow you deeper into the shop. The scent of lavender, roses, and freshly cut stems—clung to the air as you led them toward the back, where your little work table stood tucked in the corner.
Years of practice had made you quick. You moved with quiet efficiency, gathering supplies from neat shelves: you cut and split an aloe vera plant for burns, grabbed bandages, and a mix of balms you’d perfected over your time tending to Bucky. It wasn’t the kind of sterile, military-grade first aid they were used to, but it would have to do for now.
You started tending to Yelena’s arm, gently dabbing the wound with fresh aloe. She hissed through her teeth before narrowing her eyes at you.
“So how long has this been a thing?” she demanded. Bucky, now leaning lazily against the counter with his arms crossed, barely spared her a glance. “A while.”
John scoffed, “A while?”
You bit back a grin as you smoothed a bandage over Yelena’s arm, “Three years.”
Yelena’s jaw dropped.
“Three—” She turned to Bucky so fast it was a miracle she didn’t give herself whiplash. “You’ve been married for three years?!”
John let out a long, defeated groan,This was simply too much to process. “Fuck’s sake.”
Yelena shook her head. “I thought you were a loner who hated people."
Bucky only shrugged, unbothered.
You chuckled as you pressed the last piece of medical tape into place on Yelena’s arm. “Alright, you’re done.” Then, glancing at John, you motioned for him to sit. “Your turn.”
John sighed but still plopped down. You took his hand gently, turning it over to examine his bruised knuckles before moving to his busted lip.
Meanwhile, they kept peppering you with questions, barely giving you room to breathe.
“How did you meet?”
“How do you put up with Bucky’s brooding?”
“Does he ever actually smile?”
At that last one, you paused, dabbing at John’s lip carefully. “He smiles all the time.”
John let out a scoff. “No, he doesn’t.”
You glanced over at Bucky, knowing he showed that part of him to you and no one else. “Oh, he does.”
And then, finally, it was Bucky’s turn.
You turned to him, your brows knitting together as you studied the little cuts on his cheek, the dried blood near his brows. He looked a little tired, a little worn around the edges.
Your fingers found his chin, tilting his face toward you as you inspected the damage. Your touch was so featherlight, so incredibly careful. There was no missing the way your thumb brushed over his cheekbone— how incredibly gentle it was.
“You should’ve let me do you first,” you murmured, half-scolding, half-concerned.
Bucky’s lips curved into a small smile, a flicker of mischief lighting his tired blue eyes. “That’s exactly what you said last night, sweetheart.”
John choked.
Yelena groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow from the nearest chair and hurling it at Bucky’s head. “You two are disgusting.”
Bucky caught the pillow effortlessly, giving her a smug grin before setting it aside. When his eyes found yours again, his shit-eating grin turned… lovely. The tension in his brows eased as you dabbed gently at his cut.
For all the blood, for all the bruises, you handled him like he was glass.
And then, without thinking, you leaned in.
It was meant to be a brief kiss— a quick reassurance, a way of saying I’ve got you. But the moment your lips brushed his, you couldn’t help but linger.
Your fingers curled instinctively against his chin. His hand found your waist without hesitation, as if he needed you closer. As if the world shrank down to just the two of you.
John and Yelena exchanged a look, the previous horror of their teammate hiding a secret wife momentarily forgotten because this was… weirdly cute.
You giggled as you pulled away, seeing Bucky looking at you like you hung the moon for him.
“Anywhere else?” you asked, brushing your thumb over his lips.
Bucky hesitated just for a second. Then, a little sheepishly, he said, “Got a cut on my ribs.”
You exhaled, shaking your head. Of course he did. Before he could argue, you reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged.
“Off,” you said simply.
Bucky huffed but didn’t fight you. He lifted his arms, letting you strip the fabric from his skin, and goddamn.
Bucky, half-naked, was unfairly, ridiculously beautiful. Even now, even after all this time, seeing him like this still knocked the breath from your lungs. His body was a roadmap of battles fought and survived, scars carved into the expanse of his chest and ribs that told stories only he could say.
John made a strangled sound, somewhere between “Jesus Christ” and “I need to leave the room,” but you ignored him completely. Yelena let out a dramatic sigh and whispered “they are one second away from sucking each other’s face off,” to herself.
You tuned them both out, fingers dragging carefully over Bucky’s ribs, searching for the wound. When you found a thin jagged cut just below his ribs— you sighed softer this time and reached for the aloe.
“You need to stop getting hurt, my love,” you said, smoothing the cool gel over his skin.
Bucky’s voice came quieter. “Lucky I have someone to take care of me, then.”
And that’s when Yelena finally noticed it.
The thin chain around Bucky’s neck—one she’d always assumed was just for his dog tags—held something else, too.
A ring.
A simple wedding band that matched yours, worn from years of resting against his skin.
She blinked, realisation hitting her like a freight train. Oh.
That’s why he always played with it.
Every time Bucky was nervous, every time he was uncertain, his fingers would move to that chain—not just to fiddle with his tags, but to remind himself of you.
Maybe he wasn’t a complete jackass after all.
-end.
Note: Hope this doesn't bite me in the ass when the movie comes out.
Summary: When a trigger sends Bucky back into the grip of the Winter Soldier, he shadows you with an unyielding protectiveness that leaves the team on edge, though he doesn't harm anyone. After days of tension and careful steps, Bucky finally breaks through the icy barrier, returning to himself in a quiet, tender moment, finding solace in your presence.
You should’ve known something was wrong the moment Bucky went still.
One second, the mission was wrapping up—just another Hydra facility wiped off the map, just another set of goons taken down. The next, something triggered him. A phrase muttered in Russian over a radio, the faintest crackle of a long-dead handler’s voice. You saw the shift in his posture before he even turned around, the telltale tightening of his jaw, the blankness overtaking those usually warm blue eyes.
Bucky Barnes was gone.
The Winter Soldier stood in his place.
And yet—he didn’t hurt you.
Not when he turned to face the team, his body language bristling with danger. Not when Steve hesitated before stepping forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. And certainly not when you cautiously called his name, your voice softer than the others.
Instead, the Soldier moved between you and everyone else.
A shield.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Back at the Tower, you thought the episode would pass. That maybe, after a few hours, after enough familiar sights and sounds, Bucky would shake it off like he always did.
But the Soldier wasn’t leaving. And he had decided you were his mission.
Not to eliminate.
To protect.
At first, it was just hovering. You moved—he followed. You sat—he stood at your back, ever watchful. The others gave him space, exchanging worried glances when they thought you weren’t looking. Steve was tense, obviously trying to figure out how to break through, while Tony was less patient about it.
“This is a problem,” Stark declared after the first few hours, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter. “I mean, I hate to be the one to say it, but we have a fully armed, brainwashed assassin in the Tower again, and we all know how that went last time.”
“He’s not attacking anyone,” Natasha pointed out.
“Yet,” Tony shot back.
You ignored the argument as best you could, focusing instead on cooking something for Bucky—something normal, something familiar, something that might ground him. His eyes tracked you the entire time.
Then you miscalculated the heat on the stove.
The oil in the pan hissed and spat, and a second later, you hissed too as a sharp sting bloomed across your palm. You barely had time to react before there was a sudden blur of motion.
Bucky was on you instantly.
His flesh hand gripped your wrist, his metal one hovering protectively over the stove, as if it had personally attacked you. His face was unreadable, but his grip was firm, his hold gentle as he examined the burn.
“I’m okay,” you assured him, but he wasn’t listening.
Instead, he took the cold pack you hadn’t even reached for yet and pressed it carefully to your palm, his jaw tight, his brows furrowed in focus. You exchanged a look with Steve over Bucky’s shoulder, and the Captain exhaled, something like relief flashing in his eyes.
He was still in there.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The Soldier continued shadowing you for the next two days, much to Tony’s frustration. But as Natasha had pointed out—he wasn’t hurting anyone.
Unless they posed a threat to you.
That was something Steve learned firsthand during a sparring session. You had barely landed a hit before Bucky, watching from the sidelines, had moved. The next thing you knew, Steve was on his ass, blinking up at the ceiling, while Bucky stood between you like a human wall, eyes cold and calculating.
“For the record,” Steve grunted as he sat up, rubbing his ribs, “I was letting her win.”
Bucky wasn’t convinced.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
It wasn’t until you needed a medical checkup that things really came to a head.
“Barnes, I have to actually examine her,” Dr. Cho said patiently, eyeing where Bucky stood between you and the med bay’s equipment.
“No,” he replied flatly.
“Bucky—” you tried.
“The room is secure.”
“That’s not the—”
“She does not require assistance.”
“I do require assistance,” you corrected. “Because I burned my hand and twisted my shoulder thanks to a certain super soldier overreacting in the gym.”
Bucky didn’t move.
You exhaled slowly.
“Okay,” you said, shifting tactics. “Then stay.”
That got his attention.
“If you want to make sure nothing happens to me,” you reasoned, “then you can stay here. But you have to let the doctor check me out.”
His expression was unreadable for a long moment. Then, after what felt like an eternity—
“…Understood.”
Progress.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
When it finally broke, it wasn’t dramatic.
There was no grand trigger, no huge revelation.
Just a moment of quiet.
You had fallen asleep on the couch, exhaustion finally winning after two days of Bucky’s overprotective hovering. When you woke up, it was to warm hands gently brushing over your wrist—both flesh and metal, but softer this time, as if relearning the feeling of touching you.
And then you heard it—his breath hitching.
A tiny, barely-there sound, but one filled with something raw.
You blinked sleepily, looking up.
Bucky was staring at you. Not the Soldier. Bucky.
His face was pale, his jaw tight, his eyes wide—his real eyes.
“…Doll?” His voice cracked over the word, like it had been caught in his throat.
You smiled sleepily, shifting so your fingers curled around his. “Hey, Buck.”
His exhale was shaky. His shoulders sagged. And when you tugged him down to you, he didn’t resist.
He just buried his face in your neck and held on.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
“You scared the hell out of me, you know,” you murmured later, your fingers absentmindedly running through his hair as he rested against you.
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