Guy

Early 20s // (They/Any) // Spamming reblogs blog // 18+

[mangoguy]

AO3

!!!18+, MDNI!!!

Kyle "Gaz" garrick

50-Word Fic

Swimming Lessons

Spider-Man

John "Soap" MacTavish

Map out the question

Displacement 1 / 2

König

Writer!König x GN!Reader

+ + +

Dividers by @cafekitsune

Please don't repost, translate, or use my writing for AI. The same goes for my artwork!

[stanmarvelous]

Barnes Knows Best ~ Masterlist

Bucky is just a friend; Rebecca’s annoying older brother you’ve known for years. After asking him for help, things suddenly change when he decides he can’t keep watching you go from one bad date to the next.

٠࣪⭑ Characters: 40’s!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader, ft. Rebecca and Winnifred Barnes, and Steve Rogers.

٠࣪⭑ Common Content Warnings: Fluff, mild angst, best friend’s brother trope, banter, friends to lovers. Pre-War, but I imagine Bucky is mid-20’s while reader is early 20’s. Each part will have its own individual warnings!

٠࣪⭑ Inclusivity: Reader has hair and is able-bodied. No use of y/n. Images do not reflect reader’s size or skin tone.

٠࣪⭑ This is not a planned series, so it will be updated whenever inspiration strikes. Entries may include drabbles, scribbles, or ficlets. Asks/requests are open if that’s your thing!

٠࣪⭑ Status: Complete

Main Masterlist || AO3

• Part 1 ⟶ WC: <550

⤷ Blind dates prove to be a disaster every time, so you do the only thing you can think of—ask Bucky Barnes for advice.

• Part 2 ⟶ WC: <3.1K

⤷ After watching you continue to have one bad date after another, Bucky decides he can’t take it anymore.

• Part 3 ⟶ WC: <3.9K

⤷ One date has changed everything. What should be an ordinary summer day at Rockaway with friends becomes the turning point between what was and what could be.

Updated Jul. 24 2026

Join my permanent taglist here, or comment on this post for updates on this series only.

٠࣪⭑ I do not consent to my work being reposted, plagiarized, or put into an AI of any kind. Let’s keep humanity in creative spaces, please.

[stanmarvelous]

Barnes Knows Best {3}

<- Part 2 || Series Masterlist || AO3

Characters: 40’s!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader, ft. Rebecca Barnes and Steve Rogers

Word Count: <3.9K

Summary: One date has changed everything. What should be an ordinary summer day at Rockaway with friends becomes the turning point between what was and what could be.

Prompt(s): "Do you trust me?" / "Do you have any idea how fun it is to watch you try to keep your composure?" / 🌌 “So… what happens after this?”

Content Warning: Fluff, best friend’s brother, reader is falling but Bucky’s already down bad, gun usage (skill game), creative liberty when it comes to photo development in the early 40s (it’s for the plot, sue me), love confession, first kiss (everyone cheer!).

A/N: Apparently I can’t write this series without making each entry part of a writing event. And this is a three-for-one. Oops. Going out with a bang. Thanks to @castielscaplan for the Disney Celebration challenge, to @star-and-shield-monthly for July’s challenge prompts, and to @juniebjonesin for setting up the amazing picnic blanket prompts. And a quick thank you to @phoenix-in-writing for your gun knowledge! Felt silly asking, but you’re a supportive queen and ily. Gif credit.

Main Masterlist

Sleep doesn't come easily.

You try to tell yourself it's the faint honking from passing vehicles three blocks over, the distant crash of a steel trash can on a curb, or it being a warm summer night. But the only thing warm is your cheek, the feeling of Bucky's lips lingering for far too long and making your skin tingle.

Every time you roll over and smack the pillow in an attempt to find a more comfortable position, your mind replays memories of the night like images flashing across the silver screen. The crooked, excited smile on his face. His hand tugging yours to the dance floor. The gentle way he held you when the music slowed, his arm wrapping more securely around you. The look in his eyes when he pecked your cheek, like he wanted more but wasn't going to take it.

Your heart stutters.

Bucky wanted more.

The man who is—was?—like a brother to you, who listened to you complain about the way men treat you like you're something to claim, who never actually gave the advice you asked for and offered reassurance instead. He wanted more. But he didn't take it. He didn't even ask for it.

Because despite all the stories people have told about him since his freshman year of high school, despite all the women who have chased him, James Buchanan Barnes is, first and foremost, a gentleman.

Your gaze flicks to the vase your mother set near your windowsill. The flowers he brought specifically for you stand proudly under the soft glow of the streetlights outside, each petal a delicate display of something dangerously close to affection. Knowing he somehow knew exactly what flowers you prefer has something warm settling in your chest.

Years of being around the Barnes siblings, of being Rebecca's best friend. Years of looking at him like he's just Bucky. Now? The world has shifted, tilted on its axis before you could even think to brace yourself for the flood of realizations and subsequent emotions that can only mean one thing: you have feelings for him.

The thought makes your heart race and cheeks burn like a nervous schoolgirl.

Flipping your pillow over for the cool side, you shove your face into it hoping if it doesn't help you fall asleep, maybe it'll smother the thoughts running rampant in your brain.

Because Bucky Barnes is suddenly no longer just anyone.

And Rebecca is going to kill you.

The sun is just beginning to light the sky when sleep finally claims you, only waking at the incessant ring of the telephone down the hall. You're already pulling yourself out of bed and rubbing sleep from your eyes when the warm sound of your mother's voice answers the call. She smiles when you poke your head out the door.

"Phone's for you, dear." She holds out the receiver.

Mind still foggy with sleep and remnants of a dream you can barely recall, you head to the phone.

"Hello—"

"Come over, we're going to Rockaway," Becca's voice comes over the receiver, quick and impatient.

"No greeting?" you tease, leaning against the wall and fighting back a yawn. The house smells of lemon and sugar, making your stomach growl.

She sighs and you swear you hear her eyes rolling. "Hi, hope you're well. Bucky and Steve both have the afternoon off and if we leave soon we might still see daylight. Get over here."

— — —

The door to the Barnes residence swings open almost as soon as your knuckles touch it. A wild-eyed Becca beams the second her eyes land on you, the scent of Winnifred's fresh baked bread wafting out into the street.

"It's about time! That train is going to take us forever," Becca turns, calling to who you can only assume is Steve and Bucky in the living room. "She's here! Let's go!"

Steve's the first to come around the corner, a couple strands of his blond hair falling to the middle of his forehead. He offers a polite smile and a nod in greeting before Bucky rounds the corner, tossing an arm around his best friend's shoulders and meeting your gaze.

He looks unfairly handsome today; dark hair perfectly mussed, a grease smudge lingering near his temple from working at the garage this morning. The easy smile forming on his lips makes your stomach flip.

"Nice of you to finally show up," he says coolly. His gaze trails over your face, like he's searching for something. Or maybe he sees right through you.

Before you can even think to stop yourself, your mouth opens. "Miss me that bad?"

Bucky's eyebrows lift almost imperceptibly, his eyes flashing with something too quick to interpret.

"Maybe I did."

Becca, who is pretending not to watch the interaction and failing miserably, smirks and clears her throat. "Hey, Romeo, can we go now?"

Your eyes widen. Steve bites back a laugh while silently mouthing "Romeo?" and Bucky chuckles, already stepping forward and dragging Steve along with him out the door. Becca grins, clearly proud of herself, the loose curls of her hair bouncing as she falls into step beside you.

The day is bright and warm, bordering on uncomfortably hot as the mid-afternoon sun beats down on the sidewalks of Brooklyn. By the time you step off the train in Rockaway, mild relief comes in the form of a salty ocean breeze as the group walks down the boardwalk.

People sprawl out in all directions along the beach and across the street to Rockaways' Playland, earning a displeased grumble from Becca before leading the way through the crowd. She slips through easily, Steve following quickly behind her. Bucky falls in step behind you. Despite all the people, you can't help but be aware of exactly where he is, the sound of his shoes on the pavement, the low "excuse me" as he brushes past someone to keep up with you.

The crowd inside the park is only slightly less crowded as the beach itself. A line for the park's specialty wooden coaster snakes around in a neat line before ending near the carousel. The scent of fried funnel cakes and popcorn mixes with the salty air. It brings back memories of all the times this same group went to Coney Island growing up, when everything felt effortless for four kids in Brooklyn.

Your gaze lands on Bucky. He's laughing with Steve as they approach the line for the ticket booth ahead, carefree and happy as the afternoon sun highlights his sharp features.

Becca catches you looking and hooks her arm in yours. She leans over and whispers conspiritorially, "How was the date last night?"

Your eyes snap to hers, heart racing. Bucky glances over across the midway.

"Date?" you ask a little too quickly. As if Rebecca Barnes hasn't been able to read you like a book for most of your lives. You hadn't told her yet. You hadn't mentioned any Friday night plans to her, let alone that said plans had involved her older brother.

She gives you a look, all but rolling her eyes as the corners of her lips pull into a knowing smile.

"With my idiot brother, obviously."

Years of friendship, of shared laughter, tears, secrets and jokes have made you as close as any two people can possibly be. Things have changed overnight. You know it. She knows it. Yet she doesn't seem angry. If anything, she sounds relieved, like she's been waiting for the day Bucky finally stepped up.

"You're not mad?"

"Of course not," she scoffs before pressing further, giving you a little shake. "Details, girl, come on."

You swallow and huff a nervous laugh, suddenly finding a nearby pigeon incredibly interesting. "It was fine." Understatement of the century.

"Just fine?" she asks, leaning closer, voice raising in utter disbelief. "He came home practically floating on cloud nine last night. I've seen him go on a lot of dates over the last ten years, but there's only one person I've seen make him smile like—"

"Atom Smasher, ladies, let's go!" Bucky calls, his voice booming louder than necessary and pointing to the coaster rumbling by. People nearby glance at him sideways. Someone spills popcorn. He's staring at Becca with the look of an older brother knowing exactly what's about to be said and silently begging her not to continue.

She looks at you but doesn't finish her statement, turning on her heel and leaving you standing near a hot dog cart processing her words. You follow slowly, stomach flipping from more than just the thought of the roller coaster.

The afternoon moves in a blur of laughter, adrenaline, and too much sunlight for anyone's own good. Bucky attempts to play ring toss, insisting his aim is perfect, before wildly missing two of the three shots.

"What was that?" Becca snorts, doubling over in laughter and wiping non-existent tears from her eyes.

"Distracted, Buck?" Steve asks. His lips twitch with a knowing smile.

"What? No," he says quickly. The tips of his ears turn pink. "My arm's tired from the shop, shut up."

You bite back a smile from the sudden realization that James Barnes isn't always as suave as he appears and is, in fact, human—nerves and all.

He catches your eye before he rubs the back of his neck and clears his throat. "Anyone up for the shooting gallery? A quarter says I can hit the bullseye on the first try."

Steve and Becca glance at each other sideways.

The gallery sits toward the middle of the park, tucked between concessions and skill games against the roller coaster, with scooter cars across the midway. Lights flicker on, the sun beginning to set and casting an orange glow across the various structures. Bucky doesn't hesitate the moment the gallery comes into view. He rushes over and hands a dime to the attendant, wearing a grin that is far more confident than it probably should be.

The moment the gun touches his hand, his demeanor changes. He lifts it with all the seriousness in the world—intense focus and smooth movements that speak of a man who's done this more times than he can count. He pulls back the forend and fires a shot before you even blink. A bulb flashes immediately.

"Bullseye!" The attendant calls, grabbing the photo that just printed and setting it on the counter next to Bucky.

"Lucky shot," Steve scoffs.

"Jealous, Rogers?" he asks, lowering the gun.

"How—" you start.

Bucky glances over at you, his grin back. He grabs the picture and shoves it in his pocket unceremoniously. He shrugs, but the look on his face betrays just how confident he is. "Easier than it looks."

"Liar," Steve and Becca mumble simultaneously.

Bucky ignores them, his focus solely on you. "I'll prove it. Give it a try." He gestures with his head for you to come closer, the gun securely in his hands.

As you step towards him, interest piqued yet moving slower than strictly necessary, you barely register Steve clear his throat. "We're gonna go find something to drink," he announces before dragging Rebecca off somewhere.

"I'm going to embarrass myself," you mutter when you finally reach him.

Bucky's lips curl into a smirk that would be almost infuriating if it didn't make your pulse spike. "Not a chance, I'll help you. Do you trust me?"

"After ring toss? No."

He blinks, looking offended for a moment before a smile spreads across his face. "Oh come on, did I not just prove myself right here?" he laughs. "I'm better with a gun, I promise."

"Fine." With a resigned sigh and a roll of your eyes, you take the gun from him and step up to the counter. It's heavier than expected, the metal cool against the summer air, the wood polished just enough to be smooth in your palms.

Bucky waits for you to nod before he steps behind you. His hands are warm and careful as they guide your form; firm grip on the forend, butt plate braced against your shoulder, elbow just so.

His hands move to your shoulders, fingers squeezing gently. "Relax. Too stiff in the shoulders and you'll definitely feel it tomorrow."

"Easier said than done," you mutter, all too aware of how close he's standing and how heat is radiating from him.

He doesn't respond right away. Instead, he just watches, waiting. Your eyes are locked on the center of the target, finger on the trigger guard, breath coming out a little too quick.

You can feel the weight of his eyes on you, making your heart beat quicken. Then he leans down slightly.

"Do you have any idea how fun it is to watch you try to keep your composure?" His breath is hot against your ear. You shiver. You don't even have to look at him to know his lips are curved into that familiar Barnes grin that means trouble.

"Shut up," you huff, the gun still aimed at the target. Heat warms your cheeks, and the way your heart beats against your chest makes it hard to focus on the target in front of you.

He chuckles and takes a half step back, giving you space to focus.

"Rest your cheek against the wood. Line up both sights and take a breath. You can do it."

You take a deep breath, grateful for the space. The coaster roars by, rattling the ground beneath your feet. Then, with relaxed shoulders and a slow release of breath, you pump the forend and squeeze the trigger.

A bulb flashes.

"Bullseye!"

You stare at the target in disbelief. A beat passes. Two. A low whistle sounds from behind you.

"Would you look at that," Bucky murmurs, tone full of pride. "Careful. With a shot like that, they might send you to Camp McCoy."

A laugh slips from your lips and you shake your head, lowering the gun and handing it back to the attendant who hands you the souvenir photo.

You glance at the picture in your hands and everything stops.

Centered in the image is you, hair slightly ruffled from the afternoon's activities, face focused. Behind you is Bucky. Standing just beneath the Shoot-A-Photo sign, he stands tall. Proud. His eyes aren't on the target; they're on you, with a look on his face you've never noticed before—a soft smile, softer eyes. It makes your breath catch.

Bucky peeks over your shoulder at the picture, your silence making him curious. His gaze lingers on the photo for a moment before flicking up to your face, watching your expression.

"You're overthinking again," Bucky teases softly, pulling you from your thoughts. He nudges you with his elbow for good measure, chuckling when you attempt to swat him away.

"I'm not."

"Your eyebrows say otherwise."

You huff and turn to look at him. He grins before you speak again. "I'm just…trying to make sense of some things."

"Yeah," he sighs, his expression softening with an understanding nod. "I know the feeling."

His gaze drifts down the midway, finding Steve and Becca near the carousel. Steve suddenly finds something interesting in the sky, but Becca doesn't back down from watching the scene unfold.

"Walk with me?" Bucky asks, his eyes finding yours again.

You hesitate for a moment before nodding, the grip on the photo in your hands tightening slightly.

As the two of you walk through the park, each step slow, Bucky lets the silence stretch, allowing the amusement park's general chaos and tinny music fill the space instead. It's comfortable in a way you hadn't expected. Years of friendship now teetering on the edge between possibilities that could make or break everything you've ever known.

Bucky breaks the silence first, his hands shoved in his pockets. His shoulders are tense. "Remember how we used to spend essentially entire summers at Coney Island?"

The reminder makes you smile. "We spent far too much time there. Too much sun."

Bucky laughs. "And too much cotton candy. Becca used to badger me to not eat so much sugar."

"You never did listen. Those poor employees."

"Hey,"—he throws his hands up in surrender—"it's not my fault they offer pure sugar for so cheap and then have the best coaster in Brooklyn directly opposite the stand. It's like they encouraged it."

You both laugh, the nostalgia a welcome distraction for a moment before your thoughts comes crawling back. Bucky gives you a moment before speaking again, his voice low.

"Anything I can help you make sense of?"

You shake your head, unsure where to even begin or how honest to be. Your mind replays the past twenty-four hours and Rebecca's words. The photograph in your hand is physical proof that you aren't crazy.

"I don't even know how to explain it."

"Try."

"I'll sound ridiculous."

"Impossible."

You sigh, shoulders raising with a deep breath to brace yourself. "I thought you asked me out because you pitied me."

He stops in his tracks. His brows pinch in confusion as he looks at you.

"Pity?" The word leaves him like he's not sure he heard right. He says your name with a short huff of disbelief. "Why on earth would you think that?"

You shrug, not quite meeting his gaze. "Because my love life is hopeless. Because you're Rebecca's brother. Because I've watched women throw themselves at you for years. Take your pick."

His mouth opens and closes a couple times, processing your words. When he doesn't answer right away, you finally look at him, and for a moment, he looks torn between being honest or making a joke to ease the tension thickening the air. He picks the former.

"Last night was the furthest thing from pity. That was me finally doing something I should've done several years ago."

That admission hits hard, making your heart skip. "What?"

Bucky hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. He takes a deep breath, voice low and steady.

"Every smile aimed in my direction makes me feel like I can take on the world. Every time you laugh at one of my stupid jokes…" he chuckles and shakes his head, his gaze falling to the concrete where the toe of his shoe scuffs the concrete. "Then you came over after another bad date asking me for advice with men that don't deserve you, and I had no idea what to say. Because to me, those men are just too blind to see how incredible you are."

The silence stretches between you, your mind and heart racing. His eyes lift to find yours again.

"Every time I look at you, I have to fight not to reach for you, to hold you. I took you out last night because I wanted you to know how I'd treat you if you gave me the chance."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" you whisper, voice barely audible among the noise.

He sighs. "I was scared—I still am. The last thing I want is to ruin what we have. You mean a lot to me."

The air stills.

"You really mean that?" Your feet move a half step closer.

Bucky looks at you, hoping flickering in his eyes. The tension in his shoulders ease.

"Every word," he murmurs. His hand lifts, his fingers brushing against your cheek. The touch is soft, barely there and different than last night—tentative and full of silent questions.

You find yourself leaning into his touch, warm and familiar in the best way. His eyes glance at your lips before searching your face for any signs of hesitation. His thumb brushes your cheekbone.

Then, slowly, he leans in.

The kiss is short but sweet. A simple press of lips, uncertain, yet enough to forget the noise and people around you as his hand moves to fully cup your cheek.

It ends too soon.

Bucky pulls away just enough to rest his forehead on yours. Opening your eyes, you find his still closed, lips parted with breaths that fan across your face in light puffs, brows drawn together just enough to cause a crease between them. He slowly pulls back again. A muscle in his jaw twitches when he finally opens his eyes, immediately flicking to your lips like he's committing how they feel to memory.

You smile before you can stop yourself, feeling lighter than you have in a long time. He licks his lip and grins back, a soft laugh escaping him.

"That was…" he starts.

"Terrible?" you offer. Bucky laughs again, his free hand lightly touching your waist like he wants to pull you closer.

"Better than I'd hoped, actually."

The admission is soft and makes your heart flutter.

"So…what happens after this?" you ask.

He nods thoughtfully, taking a half step back like he just remembered you're in public, Rockaways' Playland hardly being a place for privacy. His touch lingers for a moment before dropping back to his side.

"I'd like to give us a real chance. If you're open to it."

You don't let him finish before your answer comes tumbling out. "I'd like that, too."

Bucky's blue eyes sparkle under the midway lights. He doesn't say a word as he reaches for the hand not holding the photograph, fingers intertwining with yours like it's second nature.

"Perfect," he says softly. "Come on, I think fireworks are starting soon."

The walk back down the midway feels shorter than it did before. Maybe it's the weight of everything now lifted off your shoulders, or maybe it's the feeling of his hand in yours. Maybe it's the lingering memory of his kiss—an answer to the million questions you asked yourself over the last day. Whatever it is, the crowds heading towards the beach barely register.

Steve spots you first, smiling to himself at the sight of your joined hands before gently nudging Becca's side. Her eyes go wide. Her grin goes wider. No one says a word as the four of you follow the crowd to the beach across the street.

The sand is still warm from the day when you sit down, placing the picture on your lap. Bucky doesn't let go of your hand, his shoulder brushing yours as he joins you, his long legs stretching in front of him.

It's a short wait before the first firework bursts, red lighting the sky and reflecting across the water. Golds and blues join quickly and fill the air with a dazzling display.

You glance at Bucky. He's not looking at the fireworks. He's watching you, lips curving into a soft smile when your eyes meet.

His fingers tighten around yours, and you scoot a little closer, resting your head on his shoulder. He lets out a quiet sigh and gently leans his cheek against your head before finally looking at the fireworks overhead.

A/N: If you’ve made it this far, I just want to extend a massive thank you for reading and supporting this story. It’s been almost a year in the making, which blows my mind when it wasn’t meant to go this far. You’ve also seen me grow significantly as a writer and it genuinely makes me emotional. Anywho…as of now, I’m tentatively calling this the end—but you never know what inspiration might hit me and maybe there will be a sequel someday. Lots of love 💜

⤷ Everything S. Stan: @steelandvibranium @/phoenix-in-writing @syd-vixious @sebastians-love @overwintering-soldier @wintersgirllost @wint3rbarnes @miraclediviner @barnes-babydoll @buckytakethewheel @bucksbby @sheriff-bodecker @wherewinterblooms @dei-dreamz @ladymiseryy @ornateglass @galactict3a @take-u-2-an0ther-w0r1d @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog @blue-eyes-in-august @/juniebjonesin @erina00

⤷ Bucky Barnes only: @phantom-wolf-girl @bartonsparrow25 @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @highhopes1008 @hagridshaircare @jamesbbcrnes

⤷ Everything Taglist: @sunday-bug @tw1sters @/castielscaplan

⤷ Barnes Knows Best Taglist: @lost-girly-014 @dreamiierose

Interested in more? Join my taglist here.

[stanmarvelous]

Barnes Knows Best {2}

<- Part 1 || Series Masterlist || AO3 || Part 3 ->

Characters: 40’s!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader, ft. Rebecca and Winnifred Barnes

Word Count: <3.1K

Summary: After watching you continue to have one bad date after another, Bucky decides he can’t take it anymore.

Prompt: Flowers 🍒 for @/pinksplace and @/wildflowersandvibranium’s Galentine’s Party Collab!

Content Warning: Mild angst, hurt/comfort, fluffy fluff!!!, friends to…?, slow burn, self-doubt? (reader is in quite a bit of denial), reader has hair, images do not reflect reader (vibes only!), brief Bucky POV

A/N: This has been on my mind since Flufftober. Probably not a requirement to read the first part, but it might hit a bit harder if you do? Idk, do what you want, I guess. Written and edited on my phone; any and all mistakes are my own.

Main Masterlist

"Should I just give up?"

The muffled sound of your voice, pained and tired, floats through the thin walls of the Barnes residence. Rebecca's voice comes next, the tone calm and reassuring, though he couldn't quite make out the words.

He isn't trying to listen. He really isn't. But it's been two long, grueling months since you asked him for advice and nothing had improved. In fact, it's gotten arguably worse.

Another date over—or rather, another night ruined—meant you arrived at their door the next day, eyes swollen from tears you shed over yet another man that couldn't see what a catch you are.

It's making Bucky sick.

Watching you put yourself out there over and over again, set up by friends that either have the worst taste in the world or don't actually care about you, has him pacing the living room.

"You'll burn a hole in the rug, dear, can you stop?"

He comes to an abrupt halt, eyes glued to the rug and fists clenching at his side. "Sorry, Ma." He pauses for a moment before turning to face her. "I just—"

Winnifred lifts her hand to stop him, a knowing look in her eye. "You don't have to explain, James. A mother always knows."

"But Rebecca—"

"Understands," she interrupts. Then with a wave of her hand, she returns her attention to the knitting needles between her fingers.

———

"You don't have to be a spinster, you know. There's someone out there that would love to be with you," Rebecca remarks. The soothing circles she's rubbing on your back have the tears slowly subsiding once more.

"Who? Men suck," you exclaim, tossing your hands in the air in frustration. "At this point, the existence of a man that isn't terrible and actually has respect for a woman sounds mythical. Is it too much to ask for small romantic gestures and not expect much at the end of the night?"

A small smirk tugs at Rebecca's lips. Something flashes in her eyes too quickly to pinpoint when she glances at the closed bedroom door, then meets your gaze once more.

"They might be closer than you realize. Just give it some time."

You give a simple nod and a sniffle, feeling far better than when you crawled into bed last night.

By the time you and Rebecca emerge from her room, the day has flown by. Evening sunlight filters through the sheer curtains in the living room where Winnifred and Bucky sit on the worn couch.

"I'm going to head home," you announce with a mildly strained smile.

Bucky's head pops up from behind his book. "I'll walk you." He's already standing and crossing the room before you can protest.

"It's five minutes, Buck, I'll be okay. I don't want to be a bother." Neither of you notice the pointed looks the other two women give each other.

He smiles, opening the front door and gesturing for you to go ahead. "Not a bother."

Your brows furrow somewhat, your brain running through all the times Winnifred had to tell him to ensure you make it home safely, insisting it's the right thing to do. But this…he's almost eager.

You walk out the door, figuring it's not worth any arguments; but it's the walk that makes it worse.

Normally there's banter. Teasing. Bucky making silly comments and nudging you with his shoulder. But today is different. He's quieter, hands shoved in his pockets like he can't trust them not to move of their own accord. His eyes flick between the sidewalk and you, like he thinks you won't notice.

Maybe he just feels bad. The advice he gave was awfully unhelpful, after all. "Be yourself," he had said, as if you weren't already doing that.

You sigh, taking a deep breath of the cool evening air before speaking. "Can I ask you a question?"

A quiet nod.

"What makes you decide a girl is worth your time?"

He stiffens a bit, back straightening, his footsteps faltering momentarily. The silence is almost deafening despite the loud rumble of vehicles passing on the street.

Each second ticking by makes you regret the question. He feels guilty, of course he does. That's why there's the sudden change in his behavior tonight—this must be pity.

Bucky's lips part, his face turning a faint shade of pink. "I just…know, I guess." His voice is quiet; softer than ever before.

"But know how? Is it what she says? Does? Is it purely looks?"

He winces, jaw clenching. And then he's looking at you, blue eyes meeting yours for the first time since leaving his place. "It's a combination of things. Looks are nice, sure, but it's who she is as a person. Her sense of humor. How she treats people. Does she willingly put up with me? Those kinds of things."

You let a few moments pass, your own gaze dropping to your feet and letting the sound of your combined steps fill the silence. You can't help but feel like you're a good person with a great sense of humor. So why are assholes and friends with poor taste leaving you in shambles by the end of the week?

"Men are dumb," Bucky mutters, recalling the previous conversation. His eyes are glued to the ground again. "They can be incredibly blind sometimes and not realize what's right in front of them."

You nod in easy agreement.

As you approach your parent's brownstone, Bucky's pace slows a bit. When you finally make it to the stoop, his hands are no longer in his pockets, but fidgeting with a loose thread on his pant leg instead.

"Thanks for walking me."

He blinks and smiles softly. "Of course."

The two of you stand there for another moment, an odd tension growing as you watch him carefully. His mouth opens and closes like he's fighting to say something that just won't come out.

"Bucky—"

"Can I—"

You both stop, eyes growing wide. Waving your hand, you silently urge him to proceed.

He swallows hard before nodding, glancing at the ground before finally meeting your curious gaze once more.

"Can I take you on a date?"

Air suddenly becomes difficult to breathe, confusion causing your brows to knit together and lips to part.

Bucky? Bucky Barnes? A date, with Bucky Barnes? No, you must have misheard him.

When you don't answer, he continues.

"I would love to take you out. Please. Just one date," he says, beginning to ramble. "Friday night, if you're open. You should be treated right, and I just—"

"Yes."

He stops, jaw slack. "What?"

"Yes, I'll go on a date with you." You're not even sure why you're agreeing. This is Bucky, after all—safe, comfortable, certainly not someone you've thought of in that way before. Maybe this is still pity. Maybe he just wants you to truly understand how a date is supposed to go.

A long few seconds pass as he processes your response. Then, slowly, a crooked grin spreads across his features. "Friday night? Pick you up at six?"

You nod, his smile becoming contagious. "Perfect."

He takes a step back, one foot returning to the sidewalk as he begins a slow retreat home. "Wear something nice," he adds quickly. "It'll be great." And with that, he turns on his heel and begins the walk back home.

———

Friday night arrives sooner than anticipated, and by the time you realize what you agreed to, you're in a bit of a panic.

Bucky is a friend, nothing more. In fact, he's not even really a friend—he's a friend's brother. There's no way Rebecca would agree to let her brother take her best friend out…right?

But when a knock sounds on the front door, your heart leaps traitorously in your chest. You quickly finish doing your hair while the sound of your father opening the door reaches your ears.

"James! How wonderful to see you!"

Bucky greets him politely, already beginning small talk when you round the corner. He's dressed in a nice suit—one he usually reserves for special occasions—and hair combed like his ma is sending him to church.

His eyes find you immediately, his gaze traveling from the simple heels to the dress you pulled from the back of your closet until it lands on your face. A small smile tugs at his lips.

"You look nice," he says quietly. "I'm glad I wore a tie."

Cheeks heating up instantly, a nervous laugh escapes before you can stop it. "Not so bad yourself, Barnes."

Even more surprising than the amount of effort he put in to his appearance, or the fact he's actually standing in the entryway talking to your parents, is a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

He seems to follow your line of sight, his own gaze dropping to the beautiful arrangement before he quickly stands straighter. "Oh!" he says, holding them out to you. "They're you're favorite, right?"

"How…how did you know that?" you question, tentatively taking them from him. No one has ever brought you flowers before, let alone even knew what your favorites were, and the thought makes your heart ache.

Bucky shrugs, ducking his head slightly, but you don't miss the way the tips of his ears turn a light shade of pink. "Lucky guess," he lies.

Your mother bites back a smirk before reaching to take the bouquet. "Let me get this in a vase for you, honey. You two have fun."

The two of you hurriedly say your goodbyes, hustling out the door before your father has a chance to form a threat about a potential late arrival home.

———

Bucky's practically bouncing the moment you step foot inside the dance hall.

You take a deep breath and absentmindedly rub your palms on your dress taking it all in.

People are everywhere, most already spinning and dancing like they were born to do it while a jazz band plays on a stage. Smoke hangs in the air, the lights barely enough to see comfortably. Women glance at Bucky, either oblivious to the fact he isn't alone or simply not caring.

It's almost overwhelming.

"You're overthinking, aren't you?" Bucky suddenly pipes up. You jump, not expecting him to notice anything might be off.

"I'm fine," you reply with a forced smile, meeting his gaze that's trained on you, mild concern written on his features. "It's been a bit since I've danced."

He chuckles, a crooked grin cracking through and quickly growing on his face. "Relax! This will be fun. And if you step on my toes, I'll only cry a little bit."

Your eyes roll hard, lips curling upwards against your will, which only makes him laugh. Before you can even attempt to protest, he reaches for your hand and guides you to the dance floor.

His excitement hasn't faded since your arrival, his eyes bright with barely concealed joy. Bucky is clearly in his element here, enjoying the music, the people, the dancing.

The first few songs are fast; feet flying, skirts swishing, people trying not to bump into one another and occasionally failing.

Bucky's hold on your hands is gentle but firm, slowly guiding you through every movement until you feel confident enough to speed up. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he watches you move, his smile growing impossibly wider.

"Look at you! You're a natural!" he calls over the music, guiding you through a spin before his hands are on yours again. You can't help but laugh. For a moment you forget this is supposed to be a date and not just a night out with your best friend's brother.

Another song comes to an end. The crowd cheers and claps, but as the applause fades, the music shifts into a slow melody. Before you can fully register the change, Bucky offers his hand out to you. "May I?"

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, you slip your hand into his while the other finds home on his shoulder, his free hand finding your waist easily.

After a few quiet moments of swaying to the music, his voice slips out, low and careful. "Is this all okay?"

You look up at him, really look, to find him watching you. His eyes are sparkling in the light. There's more there that you didn't notice before—something soft and unguarded. Has it been there all night?

"Of course it's okay," you reply, offering a reassuring smile that makes his shoulders visibly relax. "I'm having a great time."

He sighs before giving a short nod.

As he continues to guide you through gentle movements leading into a spin, Bucky pulls you back towards him, his arm wrapping more fully around you and bringing you in until you're nearly pressed to his chest.

It's quiet, almost unassuming.

Your breath catches.

There's something different in the way he's holding you now. Before, Bucky's touch was casual, guiding. Now, it feels careful. Protective, like he's afraid you'll slip if he's not there. This doesn't feel like someone who's taking pity on you.

Every nerve in your body is suddenly acutely aware of the proximity, heart pounding against your ribs, and the world seemingly narrows to just the two of you.

His hands, large and warm, are holding you tenderly. His gaze hasn't left yours, his smile only softening in the dim light.

It dawns on you then that you've never truly looked at him before. The way his lips curl in a perpetual smile, always on the verge of laughter. Or the way his blue eyes light up even when it's dark, his happiness never truly hidden. Or the way he's always been there, ready to catch you if you fall.

Suddenly you find yourself not wanting this moment to end.

"You look happy," he murmurs, his hand tightening around yours subtly.

You stay quiet for a moment, unwilling to trust the strength of your voice. The way he's looking at you has your heart skipping a beat as your mind tries to process this new information.

Finally, barely audible over the music, "I am happy."

———

The rest of the night passes in a blur, filled with music and easy laughter. Each step becomes less careful, each touch leaves your skin tingling, each look has your stomach flipping.

By the time the band calls it a night and the crowd thins, the last thing you want is to go home where things are meant to return to normal.

It's like living in a dream, one you have no idea where it came from but hope to recall once you inevitably wake up.

The streets of Brooklyn are a bit quieter now as he falls into step beside you, street lamps lighting the sidewalk. A silence falls between you, comfortable and content.

You don't even notice how close he's walking next to you until his hand brushes your own, sending sparks up your arm and making your head swim.

This is ridiculous. He's still Bucky. Why would anything change just because he was genuinely nice to you for one night?

"You're overthinking again."

Your eyes widen before looking at him frantically. "How do you always know that?"

"You have tells."

"I do not."

"Do too," he smirks. "Your eyebrows pinch together, your lips purse, and you tense up a bit in the shoulders."

A light off a street lamp reflects his features perfectly, illuminating him in a warm glow. How you never noticed how handsome he is before tonight is beyond comprehension.

You huff, shaking your head as you look back at the sidewalk ahead, trying to ignore the butterflies that have thoroughly settled into your gut. "You sure notice a lot."

Bucky chuckles and gives a shrug. "I do when it comes to you."

You don't answer right away, the silence between you creating a static in the air as his words settle deep in your chest and warm your cheeks.

Your steps slow, Bucky following suit almost automatically, and as you round the corner to find your brownstone only a short distance away, a sense of anxiety washes over you.

Realization suddenly hits.

Tonight isn't pity.

Tonight isn't a favor.

Tonight is James Barnes showing that he's choosing you.

The final steps up the stoop are heavy and full of questions neither one of you seem willing to ask. When you finally stop in front of the door and turn to thank him once more, his eyes are already on you, lips curled up in a soft smile—one that's becoming increasingly familiar.

"I had a great time tonight. Thank you." Your voice comes out smaller than intended, hands fidgeting with the fabric of your dress.

Bucky's eyes flick to your lips before meeting your gaze again, making the heat in your cheeks flare once more. "Thank you for allowing me to take you out."

Before you can respond, he leans in; not rushed, but slow enough your heart skips a beat. You could pull away, it'd be easy. But something keeps you rooted to the spot instead.

His hand comes up, knuckles brushing the underside of your chin just as his lips make contact with your cheek. Warm. Soft. Sure.

Your eyes flutter closed, entirely focused on the feeling of him against your skin. It's new, comfortable yet exciting. The simple act of a kiss on the cheek has your knees nearly buckling beneath you.

When he pulls back, it's just enough to take a steadying breath before murmuring, "Will I see you tomorrow?"

Unwilling to trust your voice, you nod, opening your eyes once more to find his blue eyes shining brightly. He grins, stepping away completely, hand slipping into his pocket and one foot already on the top step of the stoop.

"Great," he says, his grin widening as he starts backing down the steps. "Try not to miss me too much."

He turns and heads into the darkness, throwing one last glance over his shoulder before disappearing from sight.

You stand there for a few moments, trying to wrap your mind around the whole night as your fingers absentmindedly find the lingering warmth of his kiss.

A/N: The level of yearning I went through while writing this was insane. I’m not well. Send help. Or gifs of 40’s Bucky. TIA.

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[stanmarvelous]

Barnes Knows Best

Series Masterlist || AO3 || Part 2 ->

Characters: Platonic!40’s!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Word Count: <550 (short and sweet!)

Summary: Blind dates prove to be a disaster every time, so you do the only thing you can think of—ask Bucky Barnes for advice.

Prompt: Day 10: Set Up By Friends + Alternate #6: First Date (Make It Platonic!)

Content Warning: Sibling-like relationship, brief physical violence (not serious).

A/N: Banner and divider by me. Event and prompts by @flufftober. Written and edited on my phone; any and all mistakes are my own.

Main Masterlist || Flufftober 2025 Masterlist || Previous || Next

James Barnes is like a brother to you.

No, really.

You’ve been best friends with his younger sister, Rebecca, for as long as you can remember, and during that time, he’s done nothing but be an annoying bother like he’s your own flesh and blood.

And yet, you went to him anyway.

Your friends set you up on yet another a blind date—probably the fifth in as many months—and past experiences have always been terrible. Either it seemingly goes well and you never hear from him again, or he wrongly assumes he’ll be coming inside…and you never hear from him again.

There’s no way you’re the problem, you refuse to believe it.

Meanwhile, Bucky has a reputation, one that you’ve witnessed first hand to be accurate—a gigantic flirt and quite the way with the ladies. But when he finds someone he really likes, he’s sweet and charming, ever the doting boyfriend.

So you did the only thing you could think of and asked him for advice.

“Me?” he asks incredulously. “Why do you want my advice?” You found him in the kitchen of the Barnes household, rummaging through the cabinets for something to eat.

A sigh escapes your lips as you lean against the counter, arms crossed over your chest as your foot taps impatiently. “First dates are apparently not my forte, and blind dates make them even worse.”

Bucky munches on a small stack of stale crackers he found, looking at you for a moment as though he’s thinking about it seriously.

“Have you tried loosening up?”

“Bucky!” You punch him in the arm.

“Ouch!” he exclaims, rubbing where you hit him. “I didn’t mean it like that, damn.”

“I’m not the problem. I’m fun.”

Bucky quirks an eyebrow at you like he doesn’t believe you, which just makes you huff in annoyance.

“Okay, first—you being ‘fun’,” he says with air quotes, “is not going to solve everything. You have to loosen up a little. Relax. Flirt. Be yourself—“

“I am myself,” you say, cutting him off.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Men are simple minded creatures,” he continues. “You may not be to blame, but they do tend to have only one thing on their minds.” He shrugs, as though that solved all your problems.

You look at him for a moment, frowning slightly.

“That doesn’t help,” you mutter, gaze dropping to the floor.

“Look. You’re a great girl,” Bucky says, voice low as he places a hand on your shoulder. Your eyes slowly raise to meet his again. “Men are dumb. If they can’t see how amazing, smart, beautiful, and funny you are, that’s their loss. You’ll find someone someday who will appreciate you for who you are. Until then, don’t settle. And if that means going on terrible dates until you find him, then so be it.”

You’re quiet for a moment, absorbing his words. “Thanks, Buck,” you say softly. He pats your shoulder before dropping it back to his side.

“Don’t mention it,” he says before adding, “It might ruin my reputation if people knew I cared.”

You roll your eyes and laugh. “How does Rebecca put up with you?”

He smirks. “She doesn’t.”

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Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist || Part 2 ->

Taglist (WIP): @overwintering-soldier @miraclediviner @wint3rbarnes @sunday-bug @gremlin-girly @barnes-babydoll @buckytakethewheel @sebs-babygirl @star-yawnznn @brnssldr

[fru1t4fr0gs]

Snow and Pine - Part 2

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/The Winter Soldier x Reader

Summary: After the two of you reunite with Steve and Natasha, the Winter Soldier slowly works to become Bucky again. However, when a mission goes wrong and ends with you both back in the clutches of HYDRA, you risk losing more than just Bucky. More than just his progress. You risk losing everything.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Violence, Angst, Mentions of past torture, Trauma, Nightmares, Possessive!Winter Soldier, Tranquilizers, Mind control, Kidnapping, Implied sex (no explicit smut, but it gets pretty close), Jealous!Winter Soldier, Protective!Winter Soldier, Steve is big brother coded in this one, Please let me know if I forgot anything!

Author's Note: The amount of action, angst, and emotion in this one compared to part one is so crazy that I almost don't want to call this part 2! But let it be known that I LOVED writing this one! I hope you guys like it too!

This is part two of Snow and Pine

-

“What’s the plan?”

“Are you going to stop asking me that?”

“No.”

“Fair.” You offer him a smile, and you don’t plan to elaborate until you look up and meet his eyes. He looks worried. You try to push back a twinge of guilt. You fail. “Okay, well I kind of have a plan. Not a good one, and it might end up getting us both killed, but this is Part One.”

He makes a noise, narrows his eyes, and reaches out to you like he might pull you to him and drag you to another safe house. You dart out of the way, and he grunts with something akin to irritation.

You thought things would be awkward. At the very least, that there would be some sort of tension between you. You’re not really one to jump into bed with someone you haven’t known for very long, let alone someone who, less than a week ago, was actively trying to kill you.

And yet, the awkwardness, the feeling of shame or even regret, wasn’t there. You woke to his arms around you, holding you close, and when you opened your eyes and drifted back into consciousness he was already awake, already pressing surprisingly gentle kisses to your shoulder and cheek in a way that was so strangely intimate, so much like worship that you couldn’t keep yourself from snuggling a little closer, from letting him hold you a little tighter.

And it felt natural. Right, even. There was something there, something between you that had been strengthening over your time in that freezing safehouse. That night, it had solidified into something harder than steel. Something that connected your hearts together like it couldn’t be broken.

It’s a scary feeling, this intense connection, but it’s also…nice. Really nice. You’re nervous, a little thrown off by it, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s there. Whoever he was before, whoever he’s still slowly growing back into, you like him. You really like him. In a way you can feel in your bones. In your veins.

He doesn’t seem to regret anything, either. You still bicker. He’s still too-still and a little grumpy, but he remains close. Clingy, even. Especially in public, surrounded by people and cameras and potential threats, he’s still pulling you to him every chance he gets. His fingers still brush yours any time you get close enough. His eyes never seem to leave you, like he needs to constantly assure himself that you’re alright.

“You know, I think you might be a fedora guy.” You change the subject, plopping another hat on top of his head. He rolls his eyes, removes the hat, and places it back on the cart beside you.

“What’s the plan?” He asks again.

You put a new hat on his head, this one cartoon and felt and shaped like a squid, and his frown deepens. The sight is so ridiculous it almost makes you snort with laughter.

“Okay, cranky. Try this one.” You remove the squid hat, and replace it with a plain baseball cap. The squid was definitely funnier, but you’re pretty sure it will draw attention. Another time, then.

You pay for the hat, and pull him along with you once again.

“Why don’t you have a hat?”

“Don’t need one. Not for this.”

“We’re in public. In the open.”

“Mhm.” As if to prove your point, you look up and wave brightly to a security camera. He tenses, arm tightening around you. When he tries to look up, you reach up to pull his cap down a little lower.

“Not you. Just trust me.”

He tenses even more as time goes on, as you look at other carts and stores and keep making eye contact with cameras. After about thirty minutes, you can feel so much tension radiating off of him that you wonder if he might have a heart attack.

When the hour is up, you lead him down an alley, grinning and tugging on his arm like a lover pulling him away for a hidden rendezvous.

“Get ready to run if this doesn’t work.” You murmur to him, heart constricting in your chest with hope. The risk you just took is high. You’ll be found, yes, but your timing was planned so you’d be found by the right people. If they’re even still alive.

He frowns again, but allows you to lead him into the alley, pressing you back against the wall the moment you’re alone. He’s keeping up with the image, hiding you from anyone who might be walking by, but the proximity still makes your skin tingle.

“What are you planni-“

You hear a whirring near your head, and his metal arm shoots out to catch something.

A shield.

“Wait, shit.” You say, reaching up to try to pull on his shoulder and dislodge him from you. “Get behind me and just-“

You’re too late. He throws the shield back, and you watch it ricochet around the alley until it flies back into the arm of its owner.

A kick connects with his shoulder, knocking him off of you and onto the ground. He’s back up in an instant, but doesn’t fight back yet. Instead, he’s on you again, caging you against the wall like he’s blocking you from a threat as his hand grabs towards the gun hidden beneath your clothing.

You grab his arm. Stop him from aiming it.

“Wait, get off, hang on-“

One of Natasha’s tasers knocks him back to the ground, and suddenly Steve is the one dragging you away.

The soldier is on his feet faster than you would have thought humanly possible, and your own feet fall out from under you as Steve is thrown against the wall of the alley. Natasha is running forward, prepared to punch or kick or-

You scramble up as Bucky is knocked down, and you roll atop him and block him from any oncoming blows with your body. Finally, finally, the two Avengers in the alley freeze like they got the message.

You take the moment of silence to stand, pull the soldier up with you and push him behind you. His arm wraps around your waist, like he’s preparing to spin you back around and use his own body to block you from another oncoming blow.

“Okay, hi.” You say, arms outstretched defensively in both directions. You know the gesture must look a little ridiculous with a six-foot-something brick wall of a man attached to your back, but you don’t exactly have another option right now. “Everyone calm the fuck down.”

Natasha and Steve remain tense. The Winter Soldier doesn’t let you go. You can feel him glaring over your shoulder.

You turn to Natasha. “I was really hoping you’d be the one to find us.”

“It was a really stupid move.” She counters, her gun still aimed at the man holding you.

“I know, but it was kind of our only shot.” You offer with sheepish shrug. “What with everyone dead, evil or in hiding these days.”

Finally, you turn to Steve, who is staring directly at Bucky. At the metal arm wrapped securely around your waist. At whatever face he must be making right now.

“I found Bucky.” You say, a little more quietly than you intended. “…kinda.”

-

“Now, this is a safehouse. See? Not a hole in the wall to be found.”

“We need to talk.” Steve says, the moment the door closes behind you.

“And look, there’s even heating.”

Steve says your name, in that mildly irritating Captain America way he has, and you’re forced to drop your act of nonchalance.

“I know.” You say, shoulders dropping. The relief of seeing Steve and Nat, of not being swept back up by HYDRA, is finally creeping its way into your bones, making you feel absolutely exhausted. You don’t have the energy to argue. To put off this conversation.

Steve’s eyes are on Bucky as he speaks. The other soldier stands right behind you. Close. Protective. “What happened?”

You try to answer, feeling suddenly awkward about the whole thing.

“You know, kidnapping, bullet wounds, sketchy HYDRA medicine. Seriously, these guys need to update their healing techniques because that shot felt like-“

“Don’t.” Steve says, genuine and pained, and turns his eyes to you. “Please don’t do that. Just tell me. Is he…”

You look back to Bucky, who is staring right at Steve. “I…yeah. Yeah, I think so. He doesn’t remember, but I got him out before they could really…” you trail off, make a gesture at your head like you’re scrambling your brain. Bucky remains silent.

Your voice is quiet when you speak again, and yet it sounds very loud in the quiet room. “It was bad, Steve.”

He nods, jaw clenching with pain as he looks over to his friend.

“Do you know me?”

The soldier hesitates. His fingers twitch, like he’s about to reach for you. Like he’s seeking comfort.

He nods.

Steve’s relief is almost palpable. Finally, he smiles. It’s filled with pain and relief and hope, and it makes your very soul ache.

“Okay.” His shoulders drop, and he nods like he’s confirming it to himself. “Okay, we can work with that.”

-

“Huh.” You break the silence, eyes still locked on the picture in front of you. Bucky is at your side, jaw clenched as he reads the description for what must be the fifteenth time. He’s concentrating. Hard. Like he’s trying to force the memories back into his mind. “You were hot.”

He blinks, turning to you with an incredulous expression.

“What?” You ask, tilting your head and blinking innocently up at him.

“Were?”

“Oh, come on.” You roll your eyes, lightly bumping his shoulder. “You still are. I’m just saying, that uniform and haircut looks good on you. Really good.”

He glares at the picture, and you watch him for a moment before it’s your turn to look incredulous.

“Are you…jealous?”

“No.”

“Then why do you look like you want to punch the picture?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps glaring at it.

“Oh my God, Bucky. That’s you. You can’t be jealous of yourself.”

“I don’t remember being him. Not well.”

You laugh, unable to help yourself. “I can’t believe you. You’ll get the memories back. You’re already starting to- dude, stop glaring.”

You laugh harder, and he pulls you to him and silences you with a kiss, paying no mind to the crowded museum around you. He likes doing that, lately. If he weren’t so damn good at it, you might complain.

As always, it works. You relax, eyes falling closed, and pull back right before you know he’ll try to deepen the kiss right there in the middle of the room.

His gloved fingers come up to brush over your cheek, the rims of your baseball caps bumping against each other’s foreheads, and you can’t help but smile again.

“I’m not good at this.” He says, and he sounds almost apologetic.

“I’d say you’re very good at it.”

“You know what I mean.” His hand flexes against your waist, and your cap is pushed up a little more as he leans closer to rest his forehead against yours.

“Well,” you reach up, brush your fingers through the hair at the base of his neck, “you do get jealous a little easily. But I can promise I’m not going to jump through time and leave you for yourself.”

His arm tightens around you, and there’s a glimmer of hope in his blue eyes that makes your heart clench.

“Does that mean you’re…” he hesitates. Seems to look for the right words.

You’ve never had a ‘what are we’ conversation quite like this, but you do think about it for a moment.

“I mean, yeah.” You shrug, as nonchalant as you can be despite the hammering of your heart, and smile at him. You haven’t really thought about it, but you are. Whatever this connection between the two of you is makes it feel less like a decision and more like a fact. Plain and simple. “If you want me to be.”

“I want you to be.” He doesn’t hesitate. Nearly cuts you off with how quickly he confirms it. Still, he frowns. Just a bit. “I’m not him. Not all the way. Not yet.” He tilts his head toward the picture beside you, toward the description of James Buchanan Barnes.

“I think you are. You’re getting there.”

“I might be different when I get my memories back.”

“You haven’t changed yet, and you have been getting them back.” He’s been working with Steve. Poring over old information about himself, and you’ve watched him become more and more of whoever he used to be with each passing day. “I think, whoever you were, I like all the parts about you that are still him.” You lean up, press a gentle kiss to his lips. The gesture seems to relax him a little. “Brainwashing can only change you so much, you know.”

“I’m not gonna cut my hair like that again.”

You snort, and you see the corners of his lips twitch up in a smile. “First of all, you suck at making jokes.” His smile grows, turning from a twitch to an actual expression, and you can’t help but match it. “Second of all, I like it long, too.”

He kisses you again, and this time you forget about the other people in the room. This time, it takes a lot longer for you to pull away.

-

“Do you see this? We really need to keep our safe houses better stocked. Or get moving and do something soon. I feel like we’ve been planning and waiting around for weeks.” You lay on the side of the bed, wiggling your toes, one of which is sticking out of a hole in your sock.

Bucky reaches out for you, dragging you across the bed in one smooth movement and enveloping you in his arms. You try to protest, still emphatically wiggling your toes as he presses a kiss to your forehead.

He huffs what feels like a soft laugh into your hair. “Go to sleep, doll. We’ll find something for you in the morning.”

“It’s an injustice, and I don’t need- wait, what?”

He’s too busy burying his face in your hair to even hear your question at first, calloused fingers finding warmth against the skin beneath your t-shirt. The man cuddles like a cartoon bear. “Hm?”

“Did you just call me ‘doll’?”

You can feel his brow furrow at the realization against the side of your head, fingers stilling on your skin.

“Yes.”

“That’s so…old fashioned.”

“Do you not like it?”

“No, I do. I definitely do. It’s cute. You’ve just never called me anything like that before.”

His hand comes up, smooths over your hair. “I don’t know. It felt right.”

“Are you gonna start handing out hard candies, too?”

You feel him roll his eyes, and he pulls you a little closer to his broad chest like he’s trying to hide a smile. “Keep pushing.” He warns, and the playful growl in his voice makes it impossible not to.

“Feeding the pigeons in the park? Should I buy you a cane?”

He rolls on top of you, pulling back just far enough to look down at you with a very unconvincing frown. You grin back up at him, and he leans down to kiss you. Hard, slow, and with a possessive sort of purpose that makes your toes curl.

“Still wanna call me an old man?” He asks when you’re good and breathless, low and hungry as his lips brush the shell of your ear.

It’s difficult to string a thought together, let alone form a sentence, but you still manage a mischievous grin. “Might wanna slow down soldier, you could break a hip.”

The comment earns you a growl, and he bites hard at the sensitive skin of your throat, making you arch into him as he presses closer to you and slides his hand down to hook beneath your thigh, guiding it over his waist. The new angle, paired with a roll of his hips, pulls an almost embarrassingly high pitched noise from your throat, and he chases the sound with his lips like he’s trying to taste it.

You don’t manage to make a single comment after that.

-

That night, he has a nightmare.

His arms tighten around you with enough force to pull you from sleep, eyes fluttering open to see the cool light of dawn peeking in through the window. You try to wiggle, still half-awake, and you’re pulled to him even more tightly. You feel super-soldier strength force the air from your lungs, and alarm begins to seep into your tired mind.

“Bucky.” You try, and you hear him make a noise of protest against your shoulder. You force yourself to stay calm, try to lift your arms to push against him. “Hey, wake up.”

He doesn’t wake. He’s shaking. You push a little harder, needing him to release you before he cracks a rib. It’s hard to draw breath in. You can’t move.

“Bucky, wake up.” You say, a little louder, fighting down panic and pushing again.

His eyes fly open, and he moves fast. Too fast.

You’re shifted before you even realize it, pressed onto your back with his weight atop you and his metal hand wrapped around your throat.

He’s not there. His eyes are panicked, terrified, looking down at you without recognition.

His hand doesn’t squeeze, but it holds you firm. Fear, not of him but for him, despite your position, rushes through you like a wave of ice cold water.

Despite the instincts screaming at you to grab at the wrist around your throat, you reach up to brush your fingers over his cheek.

“Hey. Look at me. I’m here. You’re okay.”

You watch, frozen, as he blinks the dream away. As he looks down and finally sees you.

He pulls his hand back like he’s been burned, horror flooding his expression. You don’t flinch. You don’t let him pull back. You sit up with him, and you wrap your arms around his neck before he has the chance to flee.

“I’m okay.” You soothe, quietly now, and he hesitates for just a moment before he returns the embrace and pulls you to him like he’s drowning. He’s still shaking. His flesh hand flies up to the back of your head, cradling you against him as the tension slowly leaks from his body.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” He’s murmuring the words, holding you like you’re the air he needs to breathe and like you’re made of glass all at once. “M’sorry, sweetheart. Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to-“

You shush him. Press a gentle kiss to his shoulder. You feel him exhale, still shaky.

You just sit there for a while, fingers tracing over his back in soothing circles, letting him breathe you in and calm himself until he finally stops trembling.

Finally, when you’re able to guide him back down onto the bed and he’s pressing another gentle, apologetic kiss to your forehead, you ask what his dream was about.

He tells you. Soft and quiet. About falling off of a train. About being dragged somewhere. About HYDRA and losing himself for the very first time.

Your heart aches. You listen to every word, and try not to cling to him more tightly as a surge of protectiveness runs through you like fire.

Instead, you lean up to kiss his cheek. Pull back to look him in his lovely blue eyes.

“You have an accent, you know.” You say, offering a little smile.

He looks startled, blinking at you in surprise.

You continue, tracing your thumb over the curve of his jaw. “I noticed it a little last night. Definitely heard it just now. You didn’t have it before, but now you’ve got a Brooklyn accent.”

His eyes soften. So quickly and so deeply that it makes you melt.

“Do I?” He asks, fingers brushing over your back.

You hum in confirmation, pressing another soft kiss to his nose.

“I remember.” He confesses, leaning forward to touch his forehead to yours as his hands continue to trail over your body like every touch is a form of worship. “I remember some things.”

“Mm?” Your eyes fall closed as he guides you onto your back and slides his knee between yours, as his lips begin to trace over your collarbone like he’s painting a picture into your skin.

He hums in confirmation, the nightmare slowly drifting away as the energy in the small room begins to glow with something else. Something soft and warm and lovely. Something laced with desire and an intimacy you’ve never felt before.

“You would have liked me.” His nose skims over your shoulder, warm breath igniting a spark deep within you.

“I like you now.”

His fingers tighten against you, just a little, just enough to let you know he heard the words, before he continues. “I would have taken you out.” His hand slides over your waist, body pressing against yours. “Dancing, maybe.”

You almost laugh, but the feeling of his lips trailing lower is a little too distracting. “As charmingly old fashioned as that sounds, I definitely don’t know how to dance.”

“I would have taught you.”

“You would have broken a few toes, but-“

He moves back up, just to cut you off with a kiss. Deep and slow and with just a little too much hunger to be entirely gentle.

“Shh, doll. M’talking.” He murmurs against your lips, the words honey-sweet, though his voice is a low, craving growl. Whatever comment you were about to make dies on your tongue, and he kisses you again like he’s chasing it with his own. His fingers tangle with yours, warm and grounding, and he pulls back once again to trail his lips back down to your collarbone.

“Would have brought you flowers. Picked you up at the door.” He continues, voice a low rumble against you. “Would have thought about kissing you all night. About other things too, but I would have waited.” He nips at your skin, smiles against it when you gasp. “Or tried to.”

Your free hand tangles in his hair, and you feel his smile widen, eyes dark as he looks up at you from where he has your shirt pushed up to your ribs. His metal hand slides over your thigh, and the movement is so soft you would think it nothing more than an afterthought, until his fingers tighten and he tugs you closer to him.

A part of you is thrilled that he seems to be getting memories back, and not just the terrible ones. The rest of you, however, is unbelievably distracted by the feeling of his stubble scraping against your hip.

This isn’t like before. The other times had felt like chasing instincts, nearly primal with need and a hunger so deep it felt like it was fighting to escape from your very bones. That hunger is still there, you can see it in his eyes, feel it in his touch, but it’s held back by something calculated. Focused and almost playful in a way that makes it impossible to keep your breathing steady.

“What other things?” You manage, fingers tightening in his hair as his smile turns mischievous. He nips lightly at your hipbone.

“I’ll show you.”

And he does.

-

“No.” Bucky’s hand wraps around yours, and the considerable weight of the weapon is quickly removed from your arms.

“Why not?”

“You know why not.”

You roll your eyes, irritation and a little bit of petulance seeping into your tone. “I just think I’m the only person in this room who hasn’t used a grenade launcher yet.”

“This is a stealth mission.” Steve says, and you frown at him.

“Big explosion means no evidence. Technically, that’s stealth.”

You reach out, eyes as big and pleading as you can make them, and you watch Bucky actually begin to cave at your expression.

“Don’t give it to her.” Steve says, exasperated.

You groan as the man pulls it back, looking sheepishly at his friend like he hadn’t even realized what he was doing.

“Fine.” You grumble, reaching for another gun and holstering it at your hip. “No grenade launcher.”

“No grenade launcher.” Steve echoes, firmly confirming.

“But we should bring it just in case we-“

“We’re not going to need a grenade launcher.”

“You guys are so boring. I swear, this whole thing could be over and done so fast if you just let me bring a grenade launcher.”

When you look up, Bucky is smiling. Open and affectionate.

It’s been weeks. Weeks of planning. Weeks of being cooped up in this damn safehouse. Still, you haven’t minded as much as you thought you would. Sure, the space gets a little crowded. Sure, Steve and Nat have come close to soundproofing the walls once or twice, but there’s been something comfortable about it.

And now, though the transition took some time and a lot of help from Steve, a lot of encouragement from you, and a lot of patience all around, Bucky is almost entirely Bucky again.

You liked him before, and you were right when you told him that the parts you like are all Bucky, but something about him being completely himself again has a tendency to make your heart melt.

Bucky Barnes calls you old-fashioned nicknames. Laughs at your jokes in a way that makes you ache with joy. Slides his hand into yours as you talk and lifts it to his mouth to kiss the back of it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Bucky Barnes reminisces with Steve with a smile on his face. Stays up into the early hours with you to talk about everything and nothing. Holds you close and wakes you in the mornings with peppered kisses to your cheeks and nose that make you laugh and swat at him in your attempts to try to sink back into sleep.

The connection you felt with the version of him before, as confusing and strange as it was, makes so much more sense now. Who he is, who he has always been, was always beneath the surface. You don’t necessarily believe in fate, but it’s difficult to find another explanation for this.

He checks over your weapons, hands skimming gently over your body as he tightens the straps on your holsters and buckles weapons into place.

“You gonna be okay?” You ask, and he frowns a bit as he pulls back to look down at you.

“I’ll be fine.” He says, but he doesn’t sound entirely sure. His gloved hand moves up to brush over your cheek, and you try to offer him a smile.

“In and out.” You say, reassuring, and the crease between his brow only deepens. You turn your head and kiss his palm in the way you know always makes him melt. “We’ll be fine.”

-

At first, everything goes well.

Very well, in fact. It’s too easy. Too quick. You take down the guards at the door, cover Nat as she moves to extract the information needed from their computers, stick by Bucky and Steve as you move through the warehouse.

Something feels wrong. You feel it deep down, low in your gut. You think the others do as well, but no one vocalizes it. You all stay locked into the mission, guns ready and muscles tense.

You turn a corner, just out of sight, moving ahead just far enough to clear a hallway.

You hear chaos erupt behind you. The whir and clang of Steve’s shield, guns going off, metal connecting with skin.

You spin, ready to spring forward and jump into the fray.

Something sharp pricks at your neck, and your shout of surprise and fury is cut off by a gloved hand on your mouth.

Your gun is caught before it clatters to the floor, and your boots kick at the concrete below you as you’re dragged away, weakening with every passing moment.

Everything goes black.

-

The lights are too bright. Your head spins.

It takes a few moments for your vision to come back into focus, and you reach up to rub at your eyes only to realize that your hands are tied behind your back. Not cuffed this time. Not something you can pick or wiggle out of. Tied. Tight.

You guess they learned their lesson. Not great news for your current situation, but at least it’s a small boost to your ego.

Your eyes don’t even have the chance to open all the way. You’re dazed, foggy, trying to decipher the words being spoken and the people around you as the ringing in your ears finally begins to fade.

“You’ve caused a lot of problems.” Pierce. Awesome. “You should consider yourself very lucky that you’ve also proven to be the solution to them.”

You blink, gaze finally steadying as you peer up at him through squinted eyes. “My hands are tied,” you start, voice hoarse and broken. Geez, what kind of tranquilizer did they hit you with? “but it’s important to me that you know that I’m flipping you off behind my back.”

He doesn’t flinch. His expression doesn’t even change. “Hit her.” He says, simply. A command given by someone who is confident in his position. His authority. Like you’re nothing more than a bug to be scraped from the bottom of his freshly shined shoes.

The blow knocks you to the ground. Splits your lip. Makes you spit blood onto the floor.

“Do we move her, sir?” The man who hit you says. Not even bothering to pull you back to your knees. The floor is cool beneath your cheek, and-

Oh.

Oh, you know this room. You’ve been in this room.  

“No,” Pierce waves the question off even as your chest constricts. “He’ll be here soon. It won’t be convenient, but we have the leverage now.”

“Steve and Natasha are with him, jackass.” You say, hope fluttering in your chest. The three of them will-

“Rogers and Romanoff are incapacitated, for the time being.” Pierce explains, not even bothering to look at you. “A small distraction. A few potential civilian casualties. Unfortunate, yes, but worth it for the greater purpose.”

The implication sits in the air like a heavy weight. Bucky is coming, and he’s coming alone.

You open your mouth to say something biting, but you’re interrupted by the sound of a heavy metal door flying off it’s hinges.

No. No, no no. You need more time. More time to plan. You can get out of this, and even if you can’t it would be better if they just killed you. He can’t-

Two HYDRA soldiers fly across the room, slamming into the back wall.

“Get her up. Hit her again.” Pierce says, like he’s commanding the controls in a fucking video game. “Make it loud, before I have to replace anyone else.”

You’re yanked up by your hair. Quickly and seamlessly, and you see a fist pull back.

You can’t help it. You want to be brave. You want fight and kick your way out of this one, but the promise of pain blinds you for a moment and you gasp out a quick “wait, wait wait-“

You feel one of your ribs snap. You can’t hold back a scream.

The gunfire. The violence around you. It stops.

The silence is heavy in the room. The click of a gun’s safety echoes through the chamber. You blink up through tears of pain to see Bucky, eyes filled with ice cold fury as he holds a gun aimed perfectly between Pierce’s eyes.

The other man doesn’t cower. Doesn’t try to hide. He doesn’t even make another command before you feel cool metal press against your own temple. Another click.

Bucky doesn’t speak, but his eyes move to you.

The desperation. The apology. The terror. All of the emotions mingling in his gaze hurt you more deeply than any blow they could ever hit you with.

“In the chair, Soldat.” Pierce says, gesturing to that same horrible machine you pulled him from weeks ago.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t tear his gaze from you.

“Don’t.” You say, and the barrel of the gun digs deeper into your temple, making you grit your teeth.

Pierce continues, eyes empty of emotion or empathy or anything that looks even remotely human. You’ve never hated anyone more. “I don’t want to have to discard our leverage too quickly, but you know that I will. So I’ll let you decide.” He gestures to you, and you fantasize briefly about bashing his smug face into the floor. Stomping on it with your boot. “Something to live for,” the gun presses closer. Deep enough into your temple to make you see stars, “or nothing to live for.”

Bucky lowers the gun. Places it on the floor. You feel sick.

They can shoot you. You don’t care. You would rather they kill you right now than do this to him again.

“Don’t.” You say again, but he’s already moving back to the chair. Already allowing the agents nearby to strap him in.

Desperation claws at your lungs. Sucks the air from them and makes tears prickle in the corners of your eyes. “James Buchanan Barnes, don’t you fucking dare let them do this. Don’t you dare-“

They shove a gag in your mouth, cutting off anything you can say. Any plea you might use to get through to them. You can fight. You both can. And if they kill you, who fucking cares? He’ll get out of this, at least. You shout in frustration, and watch as hesitation makes his fingers curl against the armrest. Like he might break out and come to you. Like he might fight for just another moment.

You twist, every ounce of training you’ve ever had making you move as quickly as you possibly can to dislodge the man holding you. The gun fires. Misses you by an inch. You hear a snap nearby. See another body thrown back across the room in your peripheral, and you kick the man holding you with both feet hard enough to send him sprawling as you begin to rise to your feet.

A shoe connects with your stomach. Hard. Sends you back to the floor and makes you wheeze.

That same shoe slams down on your left arm and breaks it.

Pain, white hot and blinding, rips a noise from your throat that doesn’t sound entirely human.

Pierce looks annoyed, like the effort to deal the blow was something beneath him, even as he aims another gun between your eyes.

“There are a lot of bones in the human body. I guarantee you, I can break a lot more before she dies.”

Bucky sits back in the chair. His eyes lock onto yours. There are tears in them.

You can’t think through the pain. Your vision tunnels to focus on him. Only on him. You shake your head, one last time.

He mouths something to you. I’m sorry.

Tears obscure your vision. The machine starts. Locks him into it. And just like that, like it’s nothing at all, they rip away everything. All of him. They erase his mind and his memory and his autonomy as you watch.

For a moment, as pain pulls you into darkness to the sound of his screams, you think you might be screaming too.

-

They heal you. You’re not sure where, or how, or when. You recognize the pain of the shot, like the one Bucky gave you back in that safehouse so long ago.

This time, there are no arms around you. No whispered words into your hair. No soothing lips against your temple and no warm body against yours. It’s you alone in a darkened cell, hands tied behind your back to keep yourself from trying to claw the pain from your bones.

You don’t care. Because this time, whether it be a dream or an echo through the cavernous halls of this horrible place, you can still hear him screaming.

-

You don’t know what drugs they keep you on, or even how long you’re in the cell. All you know is that time blends together. It’s difficult to keep your eyes open. To think.

Eventually, your foggy thoughts are interrupted by metal fingers against your cheek. By a familiar figure crouching in front of you. You hear the soft click of a knife, feel the ropes behind your back come undone in one quick movement.

“Bucky.” You feel like you’re underwater, but you grab at his arm like it might save you from drowning. Look into his eyes with your own hazy ones.

They’re not Bucky’s eyes.

“No, no. You have to come back.” Your voice is hoarse, quieter than you want, but you can still hear the desperation in it. “You can’t leave now. You can’t be this right now, Bucky.”

He just stares at you, brushes that metal thumb over your cheek to catch your falling tears.

They took everything away from him again, but they left you. And the most sickening part is that you know why.

Leverage.

Something to keep the Winter Soldier in check. A prisoner to threaten, to hurt, to ensure that he won’t go rogue again.

You’re going to kill them all. Every last one of them.

The rage, the panic, is muffled by whatever they’ve put in you to keep you too docile to fight back. As he leans closer, that same familiar devotion in his eyes but nothing else, your weak hands fly up to shove him away from you.

“Get off me.” You stand. Your legs feel like they’re made of jelly. Your thoughts are dragging. Still, you shove him again because this is wrong. He’s not Bucky. He’s not even the version of himself he was in that safehouse, confused and lacking memories but still clinging to a part of who he was before. This man before you is an empty shell of the one who cares for you. Who loves you.

He reaches for you. You shove him back. “Get off of me.”

You stumble. He catches you. Familiar arms that are Bucky’s but not Bucky’s wrap around you and pull you close. Possessive. Adoring. Wrong.

He holds you up effortlessly, presses his nose into your hair and murmurs something in a language you don’t understand. Russian, Romanian, doesn’t matter. It’s not him.

“I don’t speak that.” You nearly sob. It’s one of the first things you ever said to him, and even then he was more human than this.

He shushes you. Soothes his hand over your back. Presses a kiss to the side of your head.

“Come back, asshole. Come back now or I swear to God-“

A sharp command from the guards outside makes him go rigid against you. His hand brushes over the back of your head, and he nuzzles his nose into your hair once more like he’s saying goodbye.

“No. No, stop. Stop. Come back, Bucky.” You can’t think enough to be eloquent. To say whatever you could say to drag him out of this. He lifts you, lowers you back to the cot like you’re made of glass, and you struggle to form a fully coherent thought. Your hands don’t push him away anymore. They cling his tactical gear, refusing to release him despite the shakiness of your fingers.

“Don’t.” You say, desperate and angry and so, so tired.

He kisses your forehead. Your nose. Your lips.

You know what they’re sending him out to do. You know that it’s wrong. That when you get him back - and you will, even if it kills you - that he’ll be ripped apart by his own actions.

Another sharp command. Another bout of tension in his shoulders, like he’s being physically pulled away from you by the words.

And then he’s gone. The door shuts behind him, and you’re alone.

You fight, then.

When you rip yourself off of the cot, you stumble and fall, but you still drag yourself back to the door of the cell. You slam your hands against the metal surface until you draw blood. Until it opens.

You kick and struggle, as weak as you are, against the agents that hold you.

A needle plunges into your neck, and you reach up like you’ll rip it out of you.

“I’m going to kill you.” You say, and you’ve never sounded angrier in your life. More sure of a threat. “Every single…”

The world goes dark again.

-

The next time you wake, it’s to a familiar voice.

“Hey, wake up. We’ve got to move.”

Your bleary eyes open. See blue eyes and blond hair. Slide too-slowly down to the corner of the cell. Dropped guards. Open door.

“Steve?” Your voice is hoarse. A large hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, helping you into a sitting position as the world spins.

“I’ve got you.” He says, soothing and kind as always as he looks into your eyes with the firm, calm command of a captain. “Try to focus.”

You do. Your weak fingers grip his arm, curling in the sleeve of his suit.

“I can’t…” you grit your teeth, frustrated.

“I know.” His voice is even, but understanding. “Just stay still. Try not to panic.”

You barely have time to let out a weak “what?” before you feel the prick of another fucking needle in your arm.

Adrenaline shocks your system like a bucket of icy water.

You bolt upright, nearly leaping off the bed and only held back by Steve’s arm. Clarity comes to you fast. Too fast, even. The previously blurry room is suddenly in complete focus. The memories of what happened before this are sharp enough to cut.

“Holy shit.” Your entire body hums. You leap off of the bed, suddenly needing to move. “Holy shit, what is that?!”

“Natasha gave it to me. It’s counteracting-“

“Where’s Bucky?” Your voice is loud. Maybe too loud. You start moving towards the door.

Steve catches you. Holds you back. You squirm.

“Bucky. Where’s-“

“You need to breathe.” His voice is solid and sure. Your heart is hammering so hard in your chest you feel like it might bust out of you. “You just took three hits of adrenaline.”

You shake. You try to wiggle out of his grip.

“I’m sorry.” He’s still holding you firm.

“Nope. Don’t say that. Take me to Bucky. Now.” You’re talking too fast, but at least you can form words.

“I will. Just hang on.”

It takes a minute, though it feels like an hour. You twitch, try to control your breathing, and fight off the urge to attempt to rip out of his grasp and run. Finally, an eternity later, he releases you.

Everything is still very clear. Very focused. But now you don’t want to jump out of your skin. Now you can at least draw breath.

Hands fall on your shoulders, and your friend’s blue eyes look into yours like a captain assessing a fellow soldier. Still, there’s an almost brotherly concern behind his eyes.

“Are you okay?”

You nod. Throat dry and body humming. “No more needles. Ever. I mean ever. I’m not even getting a tetanus shot after this.” You breathe, still feeling the tremble in your hands. “Let’s go.”

He nods, and you run.

-

The fight that ensues, the explosion of battle bursting out between agents of HYDRA and agents of SHIELD, separates you from Steve.

It separates you long enough to miss the aircraft taking off. To earn yourself new bruises and potential battle scars as you do your best to take down anyone that comes near you. The adrenaline from the shot is wearing off too quickly, but it’s replaced with the natural surge that comes with battle. With fighting for your life.

You make it to Sam right before he takes off.

“Get me up there.” You’re breathless, blood on your face and bullets empty from your gun. You toss it to the side like the useless, empty brick of a thing it’s become, eyes wild as you look up at the craft a hundred feet above you.

He tries to protest, and in your desperation you might even have aimed your gun at him if it wasn’t already skating off the side of the building.

“Sam.” You snap his name harshly enough that he doesn’t protest, just grabs you to him and takes off. You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling wind whip through your hair at the rapid ascent, and wonder how the fuck he does this without passing out.

You shout your plan to him over the wind, distracting yourself with logistics and doing everything you can to keep from looking down. He leaves you at a door near the bottom of the craft before he moves to the fight at the top, and you nearly rip the door off of its hinges as you jolt inside.

You don’t have comms. You don’t have anything but instinct and panic guiding you.

You’ll get Bucky back, but you need to keep him from killing people first.

So you run. Your lungs burn. Your body aches. But you make it to the center of the craft just as you hear the commotion behind you.

You grab the key. Disable the weapon before it can be fired and wait until it can be rerouted. The little rectangle can’t weigh more than an ounce, but it feels like it’s dragging you to the floor.

You have a second to catch your breath. Just a second.

And then you’re crushed back against a solid chest hard enough to knock the wind from you.

You can’t see the Winter Soldier’s face, but you can feel his surprise at your sudden appearance in the way his arms lock around you. Tight.

“Let go.” You demand, uselessly, as he begins to pull you back. He doesn’t hit you, doesn’t even come close to hurting you, but he holds you firm as his hand begins to reach into your pocket. To grab the device hidden there.

You twist to face him, look him right in those empty eyes, and yank him down to crush your lips to his in a desperate movement. A distraction. If, by some miracle, it works, you decide that you’ll feel guilty about it later.

And it does work. For just a second. He freezes, hand pausing it’s descent into your pocket just long enough to return the kiss like he can’t help it. Like he needs to.

You grab the little rectangle in your pocket, and throw it at Steve.

His lips stop moving against yours. He turns, and you expect him to start moving again. To run to the device and grab it from the other man’s hands.

Instead, you’re pulled to him again, and you’re moving.

“What are you doing?” You ask, pushing at him and trying in vain to break his hold. “Bucky, what the fuck are you- no. Oh my God, no.”

He grabs your arm and cuffs it to a pole at the main panel.

“You son of a bitch.” You tug against the cuff, trying to kick at him. Trying to grab him back to you. He stands, turns back to Steve like he’s confident that you’re locked down and not going anywhere until he can come back for you.

“Get the fuck back here you brainwashed King Kong motherfucker!”

Your furious words fall on deaf ears, and you kick uselessly at nothing in pure frustration as the fight continues. You twist, reach into your pocket to find something to pick the stupid lock with, and hear the clash of metal on metal explode through the ship.

“When I get you out of this,” you growl, knowing he’s too far away by now to even hear you, already working at the lock as the ship rocks with the force of supersoldiers throwing each other into the walls. “I am going to make you sleep on the couch for a fucking month.”

-

He’s killing him.

Steve is on the ground. The weapons are disabled and the ship is about to crash into the water, and The Winter Soldier is killing Steve Rogers.

You try to pull him off, and you’re pushed back. Surprisingly, not hard enough to hurt. But hard enough that all of your efforts are for nothing.

Steve won’t fight back.

And, for one moment, between the last punch and watching Steve fall into to the water, you see it.

You see Bucky.

He watches him fall. Steve hits the river and doesn’t resurface.

The Winter Soldier turns to you. Begins moving towards you with what you can only imagine is an intent to grab and protect. To find some way to escape the craft that allows Captain America to drown and ends with both of you back in HYDRA’s clutches.

But you saw Bucky. For a moment, he was back. For a moment, the spell broke.

“Fuck.” You say, voice drowned out by the sound of metal scraping against metal. Of explosions. Of inevitable doom. You know what you’re about to do, and it is going to suck.

He seems to sense your thought before you even have it. He moves faster, sprinting towards you now, and you don’t let yourself think.

You jump.

You hear his shout over the chaos above you, and the moment you fall feels like a fucking eternity. This had better work. The impact better not break your legs or shatter your spine. Steve better be alive down there.

The silence when you hit the water feels more like whiplash than anything else you’ve experienced today.

You don’t let yourself think. You didn’t make sure to inhale before you plunged past the surface. You search for a moment, and thank everything above and below and in between when you spot a body floating down into the depths of the river. Far, but not too far.

You kick with the last of your strength, manage to grab the front of his uniform and begin to drag him to the surface just as your lungs begin to burn. You come to the surface gasping for air, throwing Steve’s weight - is he even heavier in water? What the fuck is in that serum?- onto the nearest floating piece of debris and begin to grab for it yourself before some impossibly large part of the craft lands beside you and sends you spiralling back under.

You lose track of where you are. Of what direction is up. Your vision begins to blacken.

And, as it finally goes dark, you see a glint of metal fingers above you.

-

The ground is firm against your back. Something pushes rhythmically against your chest. Hard. Uncomfortable. Forcing the water out of your lungs and making you seize.

A mouth covers your own. Air blows into your lungs. The pushing continues. Someone is speaking, a low voice you recognize, but you’re still just a little too far gone to register it completely.

And then, with one last push, you shoot back into your own body. Roll to your side and hack up what feels like half of the fucking river.

When your vision clears, you see Steve beside you. Unconscious and bloody, but breathing.

You have less than a moment of relief before you’re pulled into someone’s arms, and when you look up this time, it’s Bucky. Panicked and horrified, but Bucky all the same.

“Look at me, doll. C’mon. Look at me. You’re okay. M’sorry. I’m so fucking sorry-“

“Hi.” You say, exhaustion running bone deep through you, and his relief is a palpable and beautiful thing. He kisses your wet hair. Your forehead. Your cheeks. He rocks you against him and pulls you impossibly closer like he’s still trying to rip you back from the dead.

You let your eyes close for a moment, lean against his chest and reach out with numb fingers to take one of his hands in yours. “Knew you’d come back.” You say, lungs still burning and body still aching. “Wish there had been an easier way to do it, though. Ow.”

He laughs, but it’s a broken and pained noise.

For a while, you sit there together, exhausted and hurting in more ways than physical. Eventually, he helps to guide you to your feet, still holding you close as he presses his lips to your forehead.

“We have to go.” He murmurs, and you nod.

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

You’ll go anywhere with him. And you have to. Steve will be okay, but HYDRA is going to want both of you back, and there’s no way to protect yourselves unless you go off the grid. At least for a while.

You rest your forehead against his shoulder. He trails his fingers through your wet hair. You ground each other, matching your breathing and confirming to yourselves that you’re both alive. Both here. Both as safe as you can be, for now.

And then, you leave. Together.

[vitavenio]

Every Chance I Get

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/You

Warnings: Straight Fluff, Ya'll.

Word Count: 746

Chapters: 1/1

Summary: "So, you really read The Hobbit in 1937?"

Bucky was on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, his metal arm curved around your waist as you sprawled half on top of him. The vibranium was warm from his body heat, the plates smooth under your palm where your hand rested against his side. 

You’d been quiet for a while, tracing idle patterns over the dark blue of his henley. The fabric was soft from too many washes, slightly stretched at the seams where his shoulders tested it. 

You tilted your head, resting your chin against his chest so you could see his face. His eyes were half-lidded, the blue of them softer than usual in the low light.

“So, you really read The Hobbit in 1937?”

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “I did.”

“Mm.” Your fingers walked up his sternum. “Twenty years old and you just happened to be first in line at the bookstore the day it hit the shelves? ‘One brand-new Tolkien, please, and make it snappy, I’ve got a whole depression-era future to get back to.’”

“My mother gave it to me. It had a dragon on the cover. I thought it might have illustrations.”

Snorting with laughter, you shifted higher, bracing your forearm against the mattress so you could look at him properly. Your hair slipped over one shoulder, brushing his collarbone. “And then what? You just… kept reading? Through everything that came after?”

“Tried to.” His metal hand found the small of your back again, the cool plates shifting in a low hum as his thumb stroked your skin in slow circles. “Some books stayed with me longer than people did. Easier that way. You could close a cover. People didn’t always give you that choice.”

You studied him for a long moment before your smile returned, softer this time, but still wicked around the edges.

“Okay. So you’ve read The Hobbit. What about the rest? Fellowship? Two Towers? Don’t tell me you stopped at the party scene and decided the rest was too long?”

His eyes narrowed in mock suspicion, though the warmth never left them. “You’re fishing.”

“Obviously.” You leaned in until your noses brushed, the quiet exhale of his breath against your lips. “Come on, Bucky. Spill. What else did the great James Buchanan Barnes smuggle into his life between odd jobs and looking after Steve?”

He pretended to think about it, gaze drifting to the ceiling. You could almost see the memories surface. You waited patiently for an answer because you knew he would give them to you if you asked the right way.

“Pride and Prejudice,” he admitted. “1942. Steve found it first in some abandoned house outside of Lyon. Wouldn’t stop talking about Darcy. I read it to shut him up but I liked it more than I expected.”

Your grin was pure triumph. “Elizabeth Bennet. Of course you liked her.”

“She had a spine.” His metal hand slid up your back, fingers weaving carefully into your hair, cradling the base of your skull with a gentleness that still surprised you sometimes. “Reminds me of someone.”

“Flatterer.”

“Truth.” He tugged you closer until your mouth was a breath from his, until the space between you felt charged and deliberate. “Your turn. What are you reading that I haven’t? Or are you going to keep collecting my secrets without offering any of your own?”

You pretended to consider it, lips brushing his with every careful word. The contact was feather-light, the kind of almost-kiss that made his breath catch just enough for you to notice. “I’ll tell you… if you admit you cried at the end of Return of the King.”

Bucky’s laugh vibrated through both of you. In one smooth motion he rolled, taking you with him, the world tilting until your back met the mattress and his weight settled carefully over you. His flesh arm braced on one side of your head, the metal one on the other, caging you in without trapping you.

“Maybe I did,” he murmured against your mouth. “The part where they say goodbye at the Grey Havens gets me every time. You gonna tease me about that too?”

Your answer was a soft kiss, and you threaded your fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck, holding him there, letting the moment stretch. When you finally pulled back, your voice was barely more than a whisper against his lips.

“Every chance I get, my love,” you promised.

His eyes searched yours, and satisfied by what he found, he kissed you again.

[big-poppa23]

Midgardian Mercy

loki odinson imagine - “midgardian mercy”

synapse: after falling from the shattered bifrost, a wounded loki awakens in the home of an ordinary midgardian whose simple act of kindness begins to challenge everything he believes about trust, honesty, and humanity

pairing: loki odinson x female reader

contains: hurt, comfort, post-thor (2011), injury treatment

a/n: saw my man in the doomsday trailer and had to write for him

. . .

By eleven-thirty, Y/N had wiped down every table in the diner twice.

The chairs were flipped upside down over the booths and tables, the coffee machines had been cleaned, and the neon OPEN sign in the front window had been switched off nearly an hour ago. Outside, the empty highway stretched through the desert in both directions, illuminated only by the occasional passing headlights and the pale glow of the moon.

It was the kind of road people used to get somewhere else.

Few ever stopped unless they needed gas, coffee, or a bathroom.

Y/N had been working at the diner long enough to recognize the different types of travelers who came through: exhausted truck drivers, families with screaming children, couples who had clearly been arguing for the past fifty miles and college students attempting road trips in cars that looked one pothole away from collapsing.

Tonight had been unusually quiet.

Her manager had left shortly after closing, trusting Y/N to finish counting the register and lock up. The cook had disappeared through the back door ten minutes after that, leaving behind a cloud of cigarette smoke and a reminder not to forget the lights over the grill.

Now the diner belonged entirely to her.

She had claimed the booth nearest the counter, one leg tucked beneath her as she stared at the open laptop in front of her. A half-finished cup of coffee sat beside it, cold enough that the thin layer of creamer on top had begun to separate.

Three paragraphs remained between her and freedom.

Technically, five pages remained between her and freedom, but she had decided not to think about that.

Y/N leaned closer to the screen, squinting at the sentence she had rewritten four separate times.

The significance of—

She deleted it.

The historical importance of—

Delete.

“This is stupid,” she muttered.

Her professor had given the class two weeks to complete the assignment. Naturally, Y/N had spent thirteen days thinking about starting it and was now attempting to finish the entire thing during closing shifts at the diner.

The cursor blinked mockingly at her.

Y/N reached for her coffee, took one sip, and immediately grimaced.

“Disgusting.”

She drank it again anyway.

A faint rumble rolled somewhere in the distance.

At first, she assumed it was thunder.

The monsoon clouds had been gathering along the horizon since sunset, though they had yet to offer anything beyond a few flashes of lightning and enough humidity to make her hair cling to the back of her neck.

Y/N returned her attention to the laptop.

The significance of Norse mythology—

A blinding streak of light flashed past the diner windows.

She barely had time to lift her head before something struck the earth outside with a tremendous crash.

The windows rattled in their frames.

Silverware clattered inside its plastic trays. Her coffee tipped over, spreading across the table and soaking the corner of her notebook.

Y/N jumped from the booth with a sharp cry.

“What the hell?”

The lights flickered once.

Twice.

Then steadied.

Y/N remained frozen beside the booth, staring through the darkened windows.

For several seconds, there was nothing.

No second impact. No explosion. No vehicle skidding across the pavement.

Only silence.

The coffee continued dripping from the edge of the table and onto the floor.

Y/N slowly closed her laptop before the spreading liquid could reach it. Her pulse beat hard against her throat as she stepped away from the booth.

Maybe a transformer had blown.

Except the diner still had power.

Maybe someone had crashed nearby.

That possibility forced her feet into motion.

She hurried behind the counter and crouched, reaching beneath the register until her fingers closed around the wooden baseball bat her manager kept there.

He had claimed it was for protection.

Y/N had always thought it was more likely to get them sued.

Tonight, however, the weight of it in her hands felt reassuring.

She moved toward the front door and stopped with her fingers wrapped around the lock.

Calling the police would be the sensible thing to do.

She pulled her phone from the pocket of her apron.

No Service.

“Of course.”

She raised it over her head as though six additional inches might convince the nearest tower to acknowledge her existence.

Nothing.

The diner sat in one of those inconvenient dead zones where calls only went through if someone stood near the old vending machines outside and held their phone at exactly the right angle.

Y/N considered remaining inside.

Whatever had happened could wait until she found service.

Then she imagined someone trapped inside a wrecked car while she stood ten yards away debating whether it was safe to investigate.

She swore softly and unlocked the door.

Hot desert air rushed inside.

Y/N tightened both hands around the bat as she stepped into the parking lot. Gravel crunched beneath her sneakers. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, attracting moths and small flying insects that threw shifting shadows across the asphalt.

“Hello?”

No answer.

She looked toward the highway.

The road was empty.

There were no headlights, no tire marks and no wreckage scattered across the pavement. Whatever had caused the impact had come from somewhere else.

Y/N’s eyes shifted toward the stretch of desert behind the diner.

A faint haze of dust hung over the ground.

Beyond the last row of parking spaces, something had carved a shallow trench through the sand and scattered rocks in every direction. Sparse bushes had been flattened along its path.

Y/N stared at it.

“Nope.”

She took one step backward.

Then she heard it.

A low, strained sound coming from somewhere beyond the edge of the parking lot.

It might have been a groan.

The bat lowered slightly in her hands.

“Hello?”

Still no response.

Y/N approached the disturbed ground with careful steps. The diner lights grew dimmer behind her as she followed the shallow trench into the darkness.

Her sneakers sank into the loose sand.

At the end of the trail, a dark shape lay crumpled between two desert shrubs.

Y/N stopped.

It was a person.

A man, she realized as she moved closer. He lay facedown in the sand with one arm bent unnaturally beneath him and long black hair obscuring most of his face.

His clothing caught the moonlight in brief flashes of green, black and gold.

Not clothing, exactly.

Armor.

Y/N’s grip tightened around the baseball bat.

For one absurd moment, she wondered whether the nearby Renaissance festival had started early.

Then she saw the blood.

It stained the side of his face and soaked through torn fabric beneath the metal plating around his shoulders. One of his hands was scraped raw, his fingers still curled as though they had been holding something moments before.

The bat slipped lower.

“Oh, shit.”

Y/N hurried the remaining distance and dropped to her knees beside him.

“Hey.”

She placed the bat within reach and cautiously touched two fingers to the side of his neck.

His skin was cold.

Not cool from the night air. Cold enough to make her instinctively pull her hand back.

Panic shot through her.

Then she felt it.

A pulse.

Slow, but present.

Y/N released a breath she had not realized she was holding.

“Okay. You’re alive.”

The stranger did not respond.

She leaned closer, watching for the movement of his back. His breathing was shallow and uneven, but he was breathing.

That was good.

Breathing meant not dead.

She could work with not dead.

Y/N pulled out her phone again and dialed 911 despite the empty bars in the corner of the screen.

The call immediately failed.

She stood and walked several paces away, raising the phone toward the sky.

“Come on. Come on.”

No service.

She tried closer to the diner.

Nothing.

Near the edge of the highway.

Still nothing.

Y/N looked back at the man lying motionless in the dirt.

The nearest hospital was at least forty minutes away. The nearest place she could reliably make a call was probably the gas station fifteen miles down the road.

She could drive there and call for help.

She could also return to find that he had stopped breathing while she was gone.

“Why did you have to land in the one place without a signal?” she demanded.

The unconscious man offered no explanation.

Y/N paced once across the gravel, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes.

She could not lift him.

Even from several feet away, she could tell he was tall. Lean, perhaps, but tall enough that attempting to carry him would end with both of them injured.

Dragging him across the sand would worsen whatever damage he had already suffered.

She stared at him, then at her car parked near the side of the diner.

An idea began to form.

It was not a good idea.

In fact, it was objectively one of the stupidest ideas she had ever entertained.

But it was technically an idea.

Y/N hurried toward her car and yanked open the back door. Fast-food wrappers, textbooks and an emergency sweatshirt occupied the seat. She pushed them aside before opening the trunk.

Her skateboard was buried beneath a reusable grocery bag and a case of bottled water.

She had not used it in months. The scratched deck was covered in faded stickers, and one of the wheels squeaked whenever it turned, but it remained mostly functional.

“Please don’t break,” she whispered, pulling it free.

Y/N carried the skateboard back across the parking lot and into the desert.

The stranger had not moved.

She placed the board beside him and crouched.

“Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen.”

He remained unconscious.

“I’m going to get you into my car, drive until I have service and call an ambulance. You’re not going to wake up and murder me.”

Nothing.

Y/N nodded.

“Great. Glad we agree.”

She rolled him carefully onto his back.

His face turned toward her.

Y/N paused.

Despite the blood streaking his temple and the bruises beginning to darken beneath his pale skin, he was—

Well.

He was unfairly attractive.

His features were sharp and almost elegant, from the high curve of his cheekbones to the severe line of his nose. Dark lashes rested against his skin. His long hair spread across the sand around him.

Y/N stared for one second too long.

Then she caught herself.

“Not relevant.”

His armor was unlike anything she had ever seen up close. The gold pieces were scratched and bent, while the green fabric beneath them had been torn in several places. It did not look like plastic or cheap costume metal.

It looked real.

Heavy, too.

That explained part of the problem.

Y/N slid her hands beneath his shoulders and attempted to lift him.

His upper body rose perhaps two inches before her arms began to shake.

“Oh, come on.”

She lowered him again and repositioned the skateboard closer.

The first attempt ended with one of his arms sliding from the board and dropping limply into the sand.

The second ended when the board rolled away from her.

On the third attempt, Y/N wedged one foot behind a wheel, hooked both hands beneath his arms and pulled with everything she had.

His shoulders landed across the deck.

The rest of him did not.

Y/N dropped onto the sand beside him, breathing heavily.

“Fuck. You could’ve been shorter.”

The stranger remained serenely unhelpful.

She climbed back to her feet, grabbed him beneath the arms again and dragged him another few inches onto the board. His legs extended far beyond the end, boots scraping lines through the sand.

It was not dignified.

It was not medically advisable.

It was, however, progress.

Y/N stepped back and examined her work.

His torso rested across the skateboard while his arms hung over either side and his heels remained on the ground.

She pulled off her apron, threaded it beneath his arms and tied it loosely across his chest to keep him from rolling off.

“There.”

He looked like the world’s most elaborate piece of luggage.

Y/N grabbed the front of the skateboard and began pulling.

The wheels sank immediately into the sand.

She stopped.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

Y/N moved behind the board and pushed instead. It rolled several inches before catching on a rock and nearly throwing the stranger sideways.

She lunged forward and caught his shoulder.

“Absolutely not. I did not do all this just for you to crack your head open again.”

She dragged the board around the rock and continued.

. . . 

Y/N unlocked the apartment with one hand while keeping one foot planted against the skateboard to stop it from rolling backward. Then she dragged him inside, kicked the door shut and leaned against it, breathing heavily.

Her living room was small.

A worn couch occupied one wall, facing a television balanced on a low wooden stand. Books and college papers covered the coffee table. A laundry basket sat abandoned near the hallway, half-filled with clean clothes she had not bothered folding.

It was not the setting in which one expected to receive a mysterious armored man.

It would have to do.

Getting him onto the couch took another ten minutes.

Once he was finally stretched across the cushions, Y/N stood over him with both hands braced against her lower back.

“There.”

He looked uncomfortable.

His legs extended beyond the armrest, and one of the metal pieces at his shoulder pressed awkwardly against his neck.

Y/N frowned.

The armor had to come off.

She hesitated.

Removing someone’s clothing without permission felt wrong. 

Leaving blood-soaked material pressed against open injuries also felt wrong.

She crouched beside him and examined the clasps.

“I’m only doing this because I don’t want you to die. Not to be a pervert.”

The armor did not appear designed for easy removal.

Each piece overlapped another, secured with unfamiliar fastenings and narrow strips of dark leather. Y/N began with the gold shoulder plates, testing every buckle until one finally released.

The metal was colder than it should have been.

She placed each piece carefully on the floor beside the coffee table. Beneath the outer armor, the fabric was torn and damp with blood. A long cut ran beneath his ribs, while smaller abrasions covered his shoulders and arms.

Y/N swallowed.

“Okay.”

She found scissors in the kitchen and cut through the fabric where it had stuck to the wounds. When she reached the fitted leather around his waist, she paused again.

There was no way to clean everything properly without removing the rest.

Y/N looked at his face.

His breathing remained steady.

“You’re unconscious,” she reasoned quietly. “This is medical.”

She pointed at him.

“And you do not get to be weird about this later.”

She worked as quickly and respectfully as she could, keeping her eyes on the injuries rather than the man beneath the clothing.

That became more difficult when she discovered he wore nothing beneath the final layer.

Y/N immediately grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the couch and covered his lower half.

“Great.”

She stared at the ceiling for a moment.

“Of course.”

Once her face stopped burning, she returned to the task.

She cleaned the blood from his skin with warm water and the softest cloth she owned. His body was marked with bruises that had already darkened to deep shades of purple and blue, especially along his ribs and shoulders. None of his bones appeared obviously broken, though Y/N knew that meant very little.

His skin remained unnaturally cold.

She placed the back of her hand against his forehead.

No fever.

The opposite, if anything.

Y/N wrapped the worst cuts with gauze and secured the bandages with medical tape. She put antibiotic ointment on the shallower scrapes, covered the torn skin across his knuckles and cleaned the blood from his hairline.

At one point, his brow furrowed beneath her touch.

Y/N froze.

His eyes did not open.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

She finished the wound near his temple more gently.

Afterward, she washed his armor in the bathtub.

The water turned pink, then red, then gradually clear. Up close, the pieces looked even less like a costume. The metal was dense and beautifully worked, carved with patterns too intricate to have been manufactured cheaply. Even damaged, it seemed valuable enough to pay her rent for years.

Y/N left the armor to dry on towels across the bathroom floor.

The cloth and leather beneath it required more work.

Several seams had torn apart during his fall, and one sleeve had nearly separated from the shoulder. Y/N retrieved the small sewing kit she used to repair buttons and uniform hems, then sat cross-legged on the floor beside the couch.

The material resisted an ordinary needle.

She broke one attempting to push it through the thicker section.

“You are extremely inconvenient,” she told him.

The stranger did not respond.

She eventually found a heavy needle in the back of the kit and used black thread to close the worst tears. Her stitches were not elegant, but they held. Where the fabric had been too badly damaged, she reinforced it from the inside with pieces cut from an old black shirt.

It took nearly two hours.

By the time she finished, her eyes ached and the sky beyond the windows had begun to lighten at the edges.

Y/N placed the repaired clothing with the rest of the armor in the bathroom. Then she returned to the couch.

The stranger had not moved.

The blanket still covered him from the waist down, though one side had slipped low enough to expose his hip.

Y/N quickly pulled it back into place.

“There. Modesty.”

She added a second blanket over his chest, partly because of how cold he felt and partly because she did not want to walk into the living room later and discover that the first one had fallen away entirely.

She left a glass of water on the coffee table and moved the baseball bat within easy reach of the armchair.

Only then did she allow herself to breathe.

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

Y/N checked the lock on the front door, then checked it again.

She did not think she could sleep.

Instead, she went into the kitchen and filled a kettle.

Tea seemed like something a normal person would make after finding an unconscious man in a crater.

Tea was calming.

Tea was harmless.

Tea did not ask why there was alien-looking armor drying in her bathroom.

Y/N leaned against the counter while the kettle heated, rubbing both hands over her face.

What was she going to do when he woke?

Ask his name.

Ask what happened.

Ask whether there was anyone she could call.

Then, depending on his answer, either drive him to the hospital or lock herself in the bathroom and climb out the window.

The kettle began to whistle.

She turned off the burner, poured the water over two tea bags and tried not to notice how badly her hands shook. One mug was for her. The other was for him, in case he woke and wanted something warm.

She had just added honey to the second cup when she heard movement in the living room.

A rustle of fabric.

Then silence.

Y/N went still.

The baseball bat was in the other room.

Excellent planning.

She reached for the largest kitchen knife instead.

A floorboard creaked.

Then another.

Slow footsteps approached the kitchen.

Y/N tightened her fingers around the handle.

A tall figure appeared in the doorway.

She looked up.

Her breath caught.

The stranger was awake.

He stood with one hand braced against the frame, dark hair falling loose around his shoulders. The bandage at his temple remained in place, though the one wrapped around his ribs had shifted slightly with his movement.

His eyes were sharp and startlingly green.

They swept across the kitchen in a single, assessing glance before settling on her.

He looked disoriented.

Not frightened.

Not confused in the helpless way she had expected.

He looked like an animal waking inside a trap and calculating how many people stood between him and the exit.

Y/N lowered the knife slightly.

“Hi.”

His gaze dropped to the blade.

Then returned to her face.

“Where am I?”

His voice was low and rough from disuse, but the words carried a precise, commanding weight that made her stand straighter without meaning to.

“My apartment.”

His expression hardened. “What realm?”

Y/N blinked. “New Mexico.”

His eyes narrowed.

“That was not my question.”

She stared at him. “Uh…Earth?”

A slight shift passed over his features.

“Midgard.”

He spoke the word as though confirming something unpleasant.

Y/N studied him more carefully.

He was pale and unsteady, but there was something unmistakably regal in the way he held himself. Even injured and wrapped in bandages, he looked as though he expected the room to accommodate his presence.

He took one step forward.

The movement drew her attention downward.

Y/N immediately turned toward the counter.

“Oh my God.”

The stranger stopped. “What?”

“You’re naked.”

Silence.

Y/N kept her eyes fixed on the tea.

Completely fixed.

She could still see him at the edge of her vision, which was far more than she wanted to see while attempting to have a conversation with him.

“You’re just—” She made a vague gesture with one hand. “You left the blanket.”

The stranger looked down at himself.

There was a pause.

Not embarrassment.

Merely acknowledgment. “As it would seem.”

Y/N glanced at him by accident.

Her gaze dropped.

She immediately snapped it back to his face and then away again.

“Could you please cover yourself?”

“Why?”

The question sounded genuine.

Y/N looked toward the ceiling.

“Because you’re standing naked in my kitchen.”

“I am aware.”

“You weren’t until I said something.”

His mouth tightened. “I was otherwise occupied.”

“With what?”

“Determining where I have been taken.”

“No one took you anywhere.”

His eyes sharpened. “You expect me to believe that I arrived here of my own will?”

“I found you outside my job.”

He watched her in silence.

“You were unconscious,” she continued. “In the desert. You were bleeding, and I couldn’t get service to call an ambulance, so I brought you here.”

She gestured toward the hallway without looking directly at him.

“Your clothes are in the bathroom.”

“My clothes?”

“The armor or whatever.”

His gaze moved over her face, searching for some indication of deception.

“You removed them.”

Y/N’s cheeks warmed again. “They were covered in blood.”

“You disrobed me while I was insensible.”

“To clean your injuries.”

His expression became unreadable.

Y/N finally looked at his face.

Only his face.

“I covered you with a blanket.”

“Which appears to have been of greater concern to you than to me.”

“Yes, because I’m the one being traumatized right now.”

One of his eyebrows lifted.

The reaction was subtle, but unmistakably offended. “You speak boldly for one who claims not to be my captor.”

Y/N stared at him.

“You are naked, bleeding in my apartment and threatening me while butt-naked. I think we’re past formal introductions.”

The corner of his mouth shifted.

Not quite a smile.

More the distant memory of one.

It vanished before she could be certain.

“Where is the latrine?”

“Bathroom? Down the hall. First door on the left.”

He turned.

Y/N accidentally caught another glimpse of him from behind.

She spun back toward the counter so quickly that tea sloshed over the rim of her mug.

“And take the blanket with you!”

He paused in the doorway.

“What blanket?”

“The one on the floor in the living room.”

“I have no need of it.”

“I do.”

He looked over his shoulder at her.

For a moment, his eyes traveled across her face, taking in the flush in her cheeks and the determined way she refused to look below his shoulders.

Something knowing entered his expression.

“You are embarrassed.”

“I’m trying to be respectful.”

“An unusual concern, considering you have already seen me.”

Y/N’s mouth fell open. “For medical reasons.”

“So you claim.”

“I saved your life.”

“That remains to be determined.”

She turned fully toward him then, irritation momentarily overpowering embarrassment.

“You know what? Fine. Walk around naked. I don’t care.”

His eyes flicked downward briefly, following the line of her gaze before it shot back to his face.

“No,” he said softly. “I can see that.”

Y/N grabbed a dish towel and threw it at him.

His hand rose.

The towel stopped in midair.

Y/N froze.

It hovered between them for one impossible second before floating neatly into his waiting palm.

The kitchen fell silent.

Her grip tightened around the knife.

The stranger glanced at the towel as though nothing remarkable had occurred.

Then he looked at her.

Fear must have shown on her face, because his expression changed.

The amusement disappeared.

His shoulders drew back, despite the pain the movement caused him, and the regal coldness returned all at once.

“You would be wise to lower the blade.”

Y/N swallowed. “…You just stopped that in the air.”

“A minor feat.”

“That is not minor.”

“To you, perhaps.”

He stepped toward her.

Y/N raised the knife again.

He stopped.

For the first time since entering the kitchen, he appeared to truly see her, not merely as part of the strange room in which he had awakened, but as the woman who had found him, tended his wounds and was now plainly frightened of what stood before her.

His gaze moved to the bandage wrapped around his hand.

Then to the repaired cut along his side.

“You treated these.”

“Yes.”

“Without knowing what I am.”

“I still don’t know what you are.”

His expression hardened faintly at the wording.

Y/N noticed.

“Who,” she corrected. “I don’t know who you are.”

He studied her for a long moment.

Then, with visible reluctance, he wrapped the dish towel around his waist.

It covered almost nothing.

Y/N stared at it.

“That is a hand towel.”

“You demanded I cover myself.”

“Not with something the size of a napkin.”

His patience visibly thinned.

“I have survived the void between worlds. I will not be scolded over your household linens.”

“Then go get the blanket.”

His eyes flashed.

Y/N pointed down the hallway.

“Or your clothes.”

There was a tense pause.

Then he turned away with what remained of his dignity and walked toward the bathroom, one hand holding the towel closed at his hip.

Y/N waited until he disappeared from sight before setting the knife down.

Her knees felt weak.

She pressed both palms against the counter.

He had caught a towel without touching it.

He had called Earth Midgard.

He had asked which realm he was in.

Y/N looked toward the hallway.

The bathroom door opened.

Then silence.

A moment later, his voice carried through the apartment.

“What have you done to my garments?”

Y/N closed her eyes.

“I cleaned them.”

“You stitched them.”

“They were ripped.”

“With Midgardian thread.”

“It was that or dental floss.”

Another silence.

Then, colder, “Where are the remaining pieces?”

“On the floor beside the bathtub. I didn’t know how they attached.”

The bathroom door opened again.

He emerged wearing only the lower half of his clothing, the repaired leather sitting low on his hips while he carried the torn tunic in one hand.

Y/N made a concentrated effort to focus on the stitching.

His fingers traced one of the repaired seams.

The work looked crude beneath his touch, especially compared to the original construction.

“I know it isn’t perfect,” she said defensively. “The material broke two of my needles.”

His gaze lifted to hers.

“You repaired it yourself.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Y/N frowned. “Because it was damaged.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

He continued watching her.

There was suspicion in his face, but something else beneath it. Something less certain.

Y/N gestured toward the second mug on the counter.

“I made tea.”

His eyes shifted toward it.

“You prepared it for me.”

“In case you woke up.”

“You did not know whether I would.”

“No.”

“And yet you prepared it.”

Y/N shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable beneath the weight of his attention. “You looked like you needed something warm.”

His expression became distant.

For a fleeting moment, the arrogance slipped.

He looked tired.

Not merely from his injuries, but from something deeper, something that had begun long before he struck the earth outside the diner.

Then the mask returned.

“What is your name?”

“Y/N.”

He repeated it quietly, testing the sound.

She waited.

“And you are?”

His chin lifted.

The change in him was immediate. Even half-dressed and bandaged in a stranger’s kitchen, he gathered himself as though standing before a royal court.

“I am Loki of Asgard.”

Y/N stared at him.

He continued, each title delivered with wounded, practiced pride.

“Son of Odin. Prince of the realm. God of Mischief.”

The kitchen fell silent.

Y/N looked at his repaired clothing.

Then at the unfamiliar armor visible through the open bathroom door.

Then at the man who had stopped a flying towel in midair.

“Oh.”

His eyes narrowed. “That is all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say? I’m processing.”

“You doubt me.”

“I watched you do magic, so I’m trying very hard not to.”

“Magic.” His tone suggested the word was inadequate.

Y/N picked up the second mug and held it out to him. “Tea?”

Loki looked at it as though unsure whether it was an offering or a test.

Then he approached.

He took the mug from her hand, his fingers brushing hers.

His skin remained cold.

Y/N tried not to react.

Loki noticed anyway.

His gaze dropped to their hands.

Then rose slowly to her face.

She withdrew first.

“You should sit down,” she said. “Before you fall down.”

“I do not fall.”

Y/N glanced toward the living room. “You literally fell out of the sky.”

His expression went still.

The remark landed harder than she intended.

His fingers tightened around the mug.

Y/N watched the humor vanish from his face and immediately regretted it.

“I didn’t mean—”

“You know nothing of what occurred.”

His voice had lost its rough amusement. What remained was cold and sharp enough to cut.

“No,” she said carefully. “I don’t.”

He looked away.

For several moments, he said nothing.

The silence felt heavier than anger.

Y/N studied him, noticing the tension in his jaw and the way his eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the kitchen walls.

Whatever had brought him to Earth had not been an accident.

Or, if it had, it was not the part that troubled him most.

She did not ask.

Instead, she nudged the honey closer across the counter.

“It might need more of that.”

Loki glanced down.

His grip on the mug gradually loosened.

“You are a peculiar creature.”

“I get that a lot.”

“You should be afraid of me.”

“I am a little.”

His gaze returned to hers.

The honesty appeared to surprise him.

Y/N folded her arms.

“But you’re hurt, and you haven’t done anything except insult my sewing and refuse to wear a blanket.”

A faint breath escaped him.

Almost a laugh.

“Your sewing is appalling.”

“And yet your clothes aren’t falling apart anymore.”

He examined the repaired seam once more.

“No,” he conceded quietly. “They are not.”

Y/N lifted her own mug.

“Drink your tea, Your Highness.”

Loki’s eyes narrowed at the title, uncertain whether she was mocking him.

She was.

But only a little.

He raised the mug to his lips.

The tea was still hot enough that he paused after the first sip, surprise briefly crossing his face.

Y/N hid a smile behind her own cup.

There, half-dressed in her kitchen with his armor drying beside her bathtub and black thread closing the tears in his princely garments, Loki of Asgard took another cautious drink.

For the first time since waking, he did not look toward the door.

. . .

By the time Loki finished eating, the clock above the stove read 4:57 a.m.

Y/N stared at it for several seconds, as though willing the numbers to rearrange themselves into something less offensive.

They did not.

The remains of his meal sat on the plate in front of him: a smear of egg yolk, one corner of toast and nothing else. For someone who had initially regarded the food as beneath him, Loki had eaten with impressive efficiency.

He had also asked seventeen questions.

Y/N had counted.

Most of them had concerned Midgard, her home, the diner, the glowing box mounted above the stove and why humans stored food in cold cupboards only to heat it again moments later.

Several had concerned her.

Those had been harder to answer.

She gathered the empty dishes from the small table and carried them to the sink.

Behind her, Loki remained seated with his repaired tunic draped around his shoulders but not properly fastened. He looked marginally better than he had an hour earlier. There was more color in his face, and the trembling in his hands had stopped.

He still looked exhausted.

Y/N suspected she looked worse.

She turned on the faucet and rinsed the plate.

“I’m going to bed.”

The chair shifted behind her.

“Now?”

Y/N looked over her shoulder.

“Yes, now.”

His brows drew together faintly.

“You intend to sleep.”

“That’s usually what going to bed means.”

“In my presence.”

She shut off the water. “You can stay on the couch.”

“That was not my concern.”

Y/N dried her hands on a dish towel. “What is your concern?”

Loki studied her as though the answer should have been obvious.

“You know nothing of me.”

“I know.”

“You have admitted that you believe me dangerous.”

“Potentially.”

“I possess abilities you do not understand.”

“Definitely.”

“And still you would render yourself unconscious within the same dwelling.”

Y/N leaned back against the counter.

“I have been awake for almost twenty-four hours.”

“That does not explain your lack of caution.”

“It explains most of it.”

Loki’s expression suggested that it did not.

Y/N rubbed both hands over her face, then pointed vaguely toward the hallway.

“My bedroom is through there. The bathroom is the first door on the left. You already found that. There are extra blankets in the basket by the couch, and the tap water is technically safe, even if it tastes weird.”

“You speak as though I am a guest.”

“You’re not exactly paying rent.”

His gaze sharpened. “Yet you leave me unattended.”

“I’m too tired to supervise a god.”

“You should not require supervision to ensure your own survival.”

Y/N considered that.

“Fair.”

She pushed away from the counter.

“If you do decide to kill me, could you try to do it before my next shift?”

Loki went completely still.

Y/N walked past him toward the living room.

“I have to be back at the diner tomorrow afternoon, and I’d rather not make them find coverage at the last minute.”

His chair scraped sharply against the floor as he stood. “You jest.”

“Mostly.”

“You believe I might murder you, yet your concern is your place of employment?”

“I hate inconveniencing my coworkers.”

“This is absurd.”

“I’ve been told.”

She reached the edge of the living room and bent to retrieve the blanket from the floor, tossing it over the back of the couch.

Loki followed more slowly, one hand briefly bracing against the table before he caught himself.

Y/N pretended not to see.

“I have more questions,” he said.

“I figured.”

“And matters I wish to discuss.”

She looked at him.

There was a strange insistence beneath the words. Not command, exactly. Something closer to reluctance, as though he had only just decided he wanted the conversation to continue and resented time for attempting to end it.

Y/N yawned.

“You seem like a talker.”

His expression tightened.

“I do not talk excessively.”

“You’ve interrogated me about my microwave, my job, college, why people put ice in drinks, and whether the mailman is an official agent of the government.”

“He wears a uniform and enters the grounds of every residence.”

“He delivers coupons.”

“A convenient explanation.”

Y/N smiled tiredly.

“My point stands.”

Loki folded his arms carefully, avoiding the bandage around his ribs.

“You dismiss me.”

“I’m postponing you.”

“You assume I will remain until you wake.”

She stopped.

The apartment fell quiet around them.

The first gray traces of morning had begun to appear through the blinds, striping the carpet and the side of Loki’s face with pale light.

Y/N looked at him for a moment.

There it was again.

That expectation hidden beneath the arrogance.

That everyone eventually left.

Or perhaps that he always did first.

She nodded toward the couch. “You said you can’t leave yet.”

“My circumstances may change.”

“Then they change.”

“And if I am gone?”

“I guess I’ll know you felt better.”

His eyes searched her face.

“You would not pursue me.”

“I don’t even know where Asgard is.”

“That would not prevent some.”

“I also have homework.”

Loki’s mouth flattened, but the answer seemed to settle something in him.

Y/N took another step toward the hallway.

He spoke before she could leave. “You have not answered.”

“Answered what?”

“Whether I may continue my questions.”

“When I’m awake.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“You expect me to wait.”

“I believe in you.”

The words came out so casually that Y/N almost missed the way he reacted.

Loki stared at her.

The guarded amusement vanished from his face.

“What did you say?”

“I said I believe in you.”

“You cannot.”

“Why not?”

“You have known me for only hours.”

“True.”

“You know nothing of my character, my history or my intentions.”

“Also true.”

“Then upon what do you base such belief?”

Y/N blinked at him.

“I believe you can wait until I wake up before asking more questions.”

Silence.

Loki’s face changed with the realization.

Y/N pressed her lips together. “Oh.”

He looked deeply offended. “You were not speaking of me.”

“I was speaking of you. Just in a very specific, low-stakes way.”

“You made it sound—”

“More meaningful?”

“I did not say that.”

“You thought I was giving you an emotional affirmation.”

“I thought no such thing.”

His answer came too quickly.

Y/N smiled despite her exhaustion.

“Sure.”

Loki’s jaw tightened.

She pointed at the couch.

“You can do it. A few hours without interrogating me. I believe in you.”

“You are insufferable.”

“You can tell me all about it when I wake up.”

She turned toward the hallway.

“Y/N.”

She glanced back.

Loki stood in the middle of her living room, half-dressed in damaged royal clothing, black thread visible along the seams she had repaired. The dawn light made him look less like a man who had fallen from the sky and more like something the night had reluctantly surrendered.

He seemed poised to ask another question.

Instead, he said, “How long?”

“How long what?”

“Will you sleep?”

Y/N glanced at the clock again.

“Hopefully until noon.”

His expression suggested that six hours was an unreasonable disappearance.

“You’ll survive.”

“That remains to be seen.”

She smiled. “See? You already understand my sense of humor.”

“I do not.”

“You will.”

Y/N continued toward her room.

At the door, she stopped and looked back one final time.

“Oh, and don’t use the stove.”

Loki lifted his chin. “I am not a child.”

“You stared at the toaster like it was going to challenge you to combat.”

“It made a sound without warning.”

“Exactly. No stove. I can’t afford another home.”

She stepped into her room. “And Loki?”

“What?”

“Thanks for not killing me tonight.”

His expression became unreadable.

“You presume restraint on my part—“

“Good night.”

Y/N closed the door before he could answer.

She did not lock it.

Loki remained where she had left him, staring at the thin wooden barrier between them.

A lock would not have stopped him.

They both knew that.

But she had not even tried.

From the other side of the door came the quiet creak of the mattress, the rustle of blankets and, after only a few minutes, silence.

Loki listened.

No hurried breathing.

No attempt to escape through the window.

No weapon being moved beneath a pillow.

She had simply gone to sleep.

He looked toward the front door.

He could not leave.

Not yet.

That was the only reason he remained.

Loki repeated this to himself as he returned to the couch and lowered himself carefully onto it.

The blanket Y/N had offered lay folded over the back. He regarded it with disdain before pulling it across his legs.

On the coffee table sat the glass of water she had prepared earlier, along with two white tablets and a note written on the back of a diner receipt.

For pain. Human dose, so maybe only take one. Please don’t die. I have work.

Loki read it twice.

Then a third time.

A faint, unwilling smile touched his mouth.

“You believe in me,” he murmured.

From the bedroom, Y/N gave a muffled snore.

Loki’s smile disappeared.

He settled deeper into the couch, prepared to wait until she woke.

He lasted eleven minutes before thinking of another question.

Loki lasted thirty minutes.

For the first ten, he sat upright on the couch with the blanket draped across his legs and his attention fixed on the closed bedroom door.

For the next five, he examined the objects scattered across the coffee table.

A stack of textbooks.

Several pens.

A half-empty package of gum.

The note she had left beside the tablets.

He read it once more, though there was nothing within it he had not already understood.

Crude.

Irreverent.

Strangely considerate.

Loki placed the note precisely where he had found it.

Beneath the coffee table, partly hidden by one of her discarded shoes, he found a small red ball. It was rubber, worn smooth in places and small enough to fit comfortably in his palm.

He leaned back against the couch and tossed it toward the ceiling.

The ball rose, slowed, then dropped neatly into his waiting hand.

Again.

Up.

Down.

Catch.

The rhythm occupied him for perhaps another seven minutes.

Then it became insulting.

Loki sent the ball higher, allowing it to nearly touch the ceiling before catching it without looking.

He had endured diplomatic councils that moved faster than this.

He had waited through Thor’s endless speeches, Odin’s silences and entire feasts during which no one said anything of worth. Yet somehow, waiting for one sleeping Midgardian to awaken felt uniquely unreasonable.

She had said noon.

He looked toward the clock.

Barely half an hour had passed.

Absurd.

Loki tossed the ball again.

Perhaps she was not asleep.

The thought arrived quietly.

He caught the ball.

Perhaps the entire display had been a deception.

She had been too calm. Too willing to leave him unattended. Too quick to accept his presence within her home.

No one behaved so carelessly without reason.

She might have retreated to the bedroom to contact someone through another device. She might be recording him. She might be waiting for armed men to arrive.

Midgard possessed organizations devoted to unusual threats. Loki knew enough of the realm to understand that much.

The woman had claimed her device could not reach anyone from the diner.

That did not mean the same was true here.

He glanced toward the narrow hallway.

The apartment remained silent.

Too silent.

Loki threw the ball once more and caught it with sharper force.

She may have been plotting against him from the moment she found him.

The skateboard could have been part of the indignity.

He placed the ball on the table.

Pain pulled beneath his ribs as he stood, but he ignored it. His strength had begun to return, though far more slowly than he would have preferred. The fall through the void had drained him in a way battle never had.

He crossed the living room without sound.

The bedroom door waited at the end of the hallway, closed but not secured.

No lock.

That, too, could have been deliberate.

An invitation designed to convince him she felt safe.

Or a test.

Loki rested his hand against the handle.

He listened.

Nothing.

No whispering.

No movement across the floor.

Only the faint hum of the air conditioner and a quiet, uneven breath from the other side.

He turned the handle slowly.

The door opened without a creak.

The room beyond was dim, lit only by the pale morning light slipping through the blinds. Clothes had been draped over the back of a chair. More books were piled beside the bed, one lying open facedown across the carpet.

A small lamp remained on.

Y/N was asleep.

Truly asleep.

She lay on her side beneath a tangled comforter, one hand tucked beneath her pillow while the other rested loosely against the mattress. Her hair had spread across the pillow in complete disarray, and the exhaustion that had been visible in her face earlier had softened into something peaceful.

There was no phone in her hand.

No weapon nearby.

No concealed accomplice waiting in the shadows.

She had told him she was going to sleep.

Then she had done exactly that.

Loki remained in the doorway.

The simplicity of it unsettled him more than deception might have.

She had been truthful from the moment he woke.

Painfully so.

She did not soften her answers to preserve his pride. She did not flatter him when he offered his titles. She admitted when she feared him and mocked him in the same breath.

She had not pretended that bringing him home was wise.

She had not claimed some noble destiny compelled her.

She had simply found him injured and decided not to leave him there.

Because she did not want bad karma.

Because she did not wish to be an asshole.

Loki nearly scoffed at the memory.

Nearly.

He stepped farther into the room.

Y/N did not stir.

She had no idea he stood there.

No awareness of how vulnerable she had made herself. One movement of his hand and he could silence her before she ever opened her eyes.

The thought brought no satisfaction.

Instead, Loki found himself noticing the faint crease between her brows, as though even in sleep some small concern followed her. The edge of the blanket had slipped from one shoulder, revealing the worn shirt she had changed into before bed.

There was nothing regal about her.

Nothing practiced.

No carefully arranged hair, jeweled gown or painted smile meant to secure favor.

She was simply herself, even when no one was meant to see.

Beautiful.

The word entered his mind without permission.

Loki’s expression tightened.

He looked away from her face.

That was foolish.

She was mortal. Ordinary. Exhausted from a night spent serving strangers and completing scholarly work in a roadside diner.

And yet—

He looked back.

There was something beautiful in the softness of her sleeping face.

More than that, in the honesty of it.

She had no mask.

No performance.

She had seen him injured, confused and stripped of every visible mark of rank, and she had still spoken to him as though he were neither monster nor king.

Only a man who needed help.

Loki disliked how much that pleased him.

Y/N shifted slightly beneath the covers.

He went still.

Her lips parted around a quiet breath. One hand moved across the mattress, searching absently until her fingers caught the edge of the comforter and pulled it closer.

She did not wake.

Loki released a breath through his nose.

He should leave her to rest.

Not because she had asked.

Certainly not because she had said she believed in him.

He simply had no further reason to remain in the doorway.

That was all.

Loki reached for the handle and began to draw the door closed.

Before it shut, Y/N murmured something into the pillow.

He paused.

The words were indistinct.

Then, more clearly—

“No stove.”

Loki stared at her.

She remained asleep.

His eyes narrowed.

Even unconscious, she apparently considered him incapable of navigating her crude cooking apparatus.

A faint smile threatened at the corner of his mouth.

“Insufferable creature,” he whispered.

He closed the door until only a narrow gap remained, leaving enough space for the light from the hallway to reach the room.

Then he returned to the living room.

The red ball still rested on the table.

Loki lowered himself carefully onto the couch and picked it up again.

This time, when he tossed it toward the ceiling, he did so more slowly.

Up.

Down.

Catch.

The wait remained absurd.

But he would allow her to rest.

[maplesyrizzup]

Lovesick

Summary: Bucky has the biggest crush on you but he can never bring himself to ask you out and he's so done with the teasing everyone else does about it Warnings: it's very fluffy but also angsty because Bucky thinks very lowly of himself. mutual pining. bucky who yearns. bit of jealously, but does it count if it's because his cat? Everyone say thank you Sam. Bucky who is scared of rejection and who thinks you deserve better than him. patient reader, like omg she's so patient. Word Count: 2.8k Present for @buckysdecaflove! Hope you enjoy lovely!

Bucky doesn’t mean for it to happen. It’s just something that sprung up on him the first time he met you. When Steve brought you to Wakanda and introduced you two with this stupid smug grin on his face like he knew exactly what was about to happen. 

You put your hand out and looked at him like he was just Bucky. You smiled at him and told him your name. And Bucky’s brain short circuited for a solid ten seconds. 

He hates that that was your first impression of him. How he immediately felt hot and struggled to say his own name back. And then he did and he knew that was stupid because Steve had told you about him. You already knew his name.

But it isn’t until years later. Years that hadn’t been years to him because they passed in a blink of an eye for him. When quiet had settled within the Avengers Compound and slow days rolled in.

It wasn’t until the afternoons where you’d had a second cup of coffee at the kitchen island with him while he had his first because he didn’t wake until 11 unless he had to be up. Words barely spoken. The days where you’d casually mention a book you’d read and Bucky would find himself writing it down so he could see what you like. The nights where you’d both be in the gym together and he’d keep an eye on you while you lifted something heavy. 

It wasn’t until then did he realize just how fucked he was.

You were the best part of his day without even trying to be and that made it so much worse.

It’s stupid--not you. Him and the way he acts. He’s a grown ass man, not a school boy, his brain shouldn’t just stop working because you smiled or hell even looked at him.

You also deserve better. You don’t deserve rough and bloodied hands. You don’t deserve someone who can barely sleep peacefully through the night. You don’t deserve someone as haunted as him.

What you deserve is the world and he wishes he could give it to you.

~

The smell of coffee brewed earlier this morning lingered in the kitchen and mixed with the faint scent of burnt toast from the bottom of the toaster that no one had gotten around to cleaning out.

Sunlight comes in through just the right - or wrong - angle through the wide windows that make it bounce off the polished floor and shine far too brightly then it has any right to.

There’s stillness in the space, the kind that comes from the quiet, the kind that settles a pounding heart--a kind that makes Nat’s and Yelena’s chatter from the other end of the room nothing more than a buzz that Bucky tunes out easily. 

It’s far too early--earlier than Bucky likes to be up, but Sam had other ideas. He walked into his room like he belonged there and dragged Bucky out of bed. Literally. Sam ignored Bucky’s threats and just yanked his blanket, taking Bucky with it with a harsh thud onto the floor and then into the hall. 

THANK GOD you didn’t see. He had been in just his boxers after all.

But now Bucky was up and his mind had no intention of falling back asleep after training anytime soon so he settled on breakfast and coffee. Strong coffee that kept Bucky from sneering at Sam.

Who wakes up at seven for sparring!? 

Bucky should, at least, be able to push Sam down the stairs.

“Oh, mornin’ Bucky! You’re up early!”

He nearly choked on his cereal at the sound of your angelic voice and nearly got whiplash as his head cranked in your direction, still struggling to get his food down correctly. With his face turning red—it’s just the food, no one can make him admit otherwise.

There’s a smile on your face, it’s sweet and soft, and makes every wall he built crumble immediately. It makes his stomach twist and his heart pound wildly in his ears like a hammer. 

Maybe mornings aren’t so bad after all. Not if he gets to see you.

Bucky swallows, thickly, attempting to force down the logs that suddenly formed in his throat, but the action is in vain. His mouth moves but words struggle to roll off his tongue as his gaze follows you while you move towards the fridge.

“Hey.. Mornin’...” He finally manages to say and instantly curses at himself internally.

You pull out the cake Torres made yesterday that somehow survived to today. “You and Sam heading out?” You ask, helping yourself to the last slice. 

Bucky looked down at himself, then remembered why you were asking; because of the time. “No. He dragged me outta bed to spar.”

You hummed in response and licked a piece of frosting that got on your finger and Bucky’s brain malfunctioned entirely.

“That sounds like him. Y’know he tried to get me to join too, but I already promised Wanda we’d head to the farmer’s market this morning. We brought back a lot, but I got some plum jar for you, it’s in the pantry. I tasted some myself. Had to make sure it was good before I bought it,” you rambled, rambling that Bucky could listen to for hours.

Instead, he blinked. “You got me jam?” he asked slowly.

You nodded like it was no big deal. “You like plums,” you said so simply, voice muffled from the bite you took, and finally turned, leaning against the counter.

Fuck, you were beautiful. Eyes that marveled the heavens. A smile that made his knees weak. And a touch that was ungodly gentle compared to how you treat your enemies.

He realized you had said something else and were looking at him with a furrowed brow. “Buck? You good?”

He nodded quickly. “Yeah, yeah, fine. Just--. Just tired.”

Your face crinkled in the sweetest way, not pity, but still care. You pushed off the counter, plate in one hand, and moved towards him. “I’ll tell Sam he’s gotta let you get enough sleep.” Your hand fell on his shoulder and even through the fabric of his henley it felt like his skin was on fire. You can’t keep looking at him like that. It’s not fair. Not when he could never be more than just this to you. “And then he can mess with you. After the eight hours.”

He couldn’t take his eyes off yours. “I’m afraid that’s easier said than done,” he murmured.

You snorted. A noise so close to your laugh that he adored. “True,” you mused. “We are Avengers. See you later.” and squeezed his shoulder.

He nodded. “See you later,” he mumbled as he watched you walk away, longing shimmering in his steel blue gaze. 

The space is quiet for a solid five seconds after you leave, your footsteps growing dimmer down the hall, and Bucky realized who was still in the room as he turned and saw them.

Nat and Yelena were grinning, eyes swimming with mischief, and it made Bucky’s stomach sink because he knew what was coming.

“Coward,” Natasha muttered in Russian.

And so it had begun.

Bucky sighed, heavily and slumped forward in his seat.

They did this every time.

“Are you going to wipe off your drool from the floor?” Yelena asked.

“Y’know normal people ask out their crushes, not whatever the hell you’re doing,” Nat mused and sipped from her coffee while searching for Bucky’s gaze--something he refused to give either of them.

Bucky wanted to sink into the floor. “Do you have to do this?” he grumbled.

“Talking to a woman isn’t as hard as she makes you.”

Death would be too good of a punishment for Yelena.

The stool squeaked from under Bucky as he prominently stood up, taking his bowl with him.

But Yelena kept going. “It’s literally so easy. It’s ten words. ‘Would you like to go on a date with me?’ Then you eat her out. Every woman wants that. Hey! You always have to let a woman finish before you leave!”

~

It’s game night when someone finds the chance to tease him about you again and it’s Sam this time.

It’s stupid. He shouldn’t even be staring--there shouldn’t be jealous churning in his gut, but there is.

You're sitting on the floor, back brushing against Wanda’s leg, and in your lap is Alpine. You’ve got her face in your hands and you’re giving her soft little pecks as you consistently mutter how Alpine is such a good girl. How Alpine is such a princess.

And Alpine is eating it up. She’s no doubt purring as she just lets it happen. As she just leans into your touch. It’s like Alpine knows Bucky is watching.

He wants that to be his face you’re holding. His face that you’re kissing. But it’s his damn cat.

You’re completely ignoring the chaos around the coffee table. So is he. He isn’t even aware of whose turn it is. He’s just watching you pet Alpine.

It’s strange that Alpine is letting you do this. She hates everyone. She hates Steve for fucks sake. The first time Bucky introduced them after he brought the feline home she tore up Steve’s arm and they had to get the blood stains outta the couch. But for some reason she liked you, basically as much as she liked Bucky.

Bucky never questioned why she liked you. Of course, Alpine has great taste in people. But that still didn’t mean it wasn’t odd to see at first.

“Are you glaring at your own cat?” Sam whispered into his ear as he leaned over.

Bucky’s jaw ticked and he looked away from you. That lasted about five seconds.

“You can’t seriously be jealous.”

He was and it was so stupid.

Alpine was getting to do something Bucky has wanted to do for months. How was that fair?

“You could just go over and talk to her.”

No. Bucky already knows what happens when he tries to do that. He’d much rather become one with the ground than make a foul of himself. Again. 

Sam sighed. “Happiness is not this hard. Dude, you walked into a wall because you were too busy staring at her last week and she noticed. You genuinely can not be anymore obvious.”

No. You had seen the aftermath. If you had noticed the fact that he had been staring at you then he would’ve probably jumped out the window.

“Maybe I should give Joaquin 50 bucks to ask her out,” Sam mused.

Bucky’s chin snapped in Sam’s direction.

Sam snorted. “You’re hopeless,” he said bluntly.

Sam wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t. First off, giving someone money to ask someone out. That was an insult to the recipient. Sam wouldn’t do that to you. Not even to get Bucky to finally man up. Right?

~

Bucky didn’t get a wink of sleep last night.

He stared at the ceiling, unable to get the things that played in his mind to go away.

Joaquin showing up to your room with flowers. Joaquin flashing that flirty grin your way. Joaquin taking you out like Bucky wanted to do. 

You saying yes.

You wouldn’t say yes, would you? You didn’t like Joaquin like that. But you were single. Bucky knew that. And Joaquin was right there. Joaquin was sweet and… not broken. He wasn’t someone who got woken up in the middle of the night by nightmares that left his skin damp with sweat. He wasn’t someone who looked down and saw blood dripping from his hands.

You deserved the world, not someone who was haunted by his past.

“She wouldn’t, right?” He murmured to the furball curled up against his leg.

Alpine’s eyes opened at the sound of his voice.

“It wouldn’t happen,” he insisted.

But…

“She deserves to be happy.” 

His jaw ticked.

“I could make her happy,” he blurted.

He made her smile. He made her laugh. Sometimes so hard she would snort and clutch her stomach. When has Joaquín done that?

But there was so much blood on his hands. So much pain he caused.

“You think I could make her happy?”

Alpine merely only blinked at him before her chin returned to her paws and her tail flicked on top of her pink nose. 

Bucky let out a frustrated breath. “I’m not overthinking this. I’m thinking about this the correct amount.”

Alpine didn’t even grace him with a sigh.

“You rub it in just because you can and I know you do.”

This wouldn’t be the first time he’s talked to Alpine about you and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

“If she says no then we’re moving to a different country, you know that right? I don’t think I could show my face ever again.”

There was a soft thump as he lay back down. “I just need to get over this crush. That’s all.”

~

By eight he’s outside your bedroom, pacing like a madman.

He shouldn’t be out here and he knows he shouldn’t but he is anyway, and every time he turns around to walk away he stops in his tracks and returns to the line he’s been walking back and forth for the past 40 minutes.

Coward.

The word rings in his ears.

He used to be able to do this with ease. He used to crack that smile that always had dames swooning. He used to know what the right thing to say was.

But that was so long ago and you weren’t just anyone. You were his friend. You were someone he trusted. You were someone too good to lose. 

He needed to leave. He needed to return to his room before you showed your face and saw him out here.

But the way you looked at him. The way you always relaxed when he was in the room. The way you always fell asleep on missions so quickly when he was there.

He raised his knuckles but drew it back immediately.

Would you like to go on a date with me? Please?

No. No. That sounded desperate.

He was desperate.

Could I take you out on a date?

I think I’m in love with you.

No. Absolutely not.

He can’t do this.

You’re going to reject him. You’re going to rip out his heart and throw it onto the floor.

He’s going to have to move. Maybe running from those bounty hunters in Madripoor would be a better fate than hearing your rejection. 

The door opened and Bucky froze like a deer in headlights. Heat instantly flooded across his skin and his clothes felt way too tight.

You startled, not expecting anyone to be standing there, and he cursed internally at himself for making you react like that.

Your hair is a mess and your sleep wear wrinkled. 

And the softness that comes with the traces of sleep that lingers erases at the sight of him.

Shit.

You put a hand over your chest. “Oh—Jeez. Don’t—. Hey, Bucky.”

Fuckin’ idiot. 

A sheepish look passes over his heated face. “Hey. Hi.”

Hi???

Her brows furrow and she glances over his shoulder for a moment. “Whatcha doing outside my door?” You asked, lightly.

“Nothing. Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

Fuuuuucccckk

“… it’s not nothing,” he admitted quietly.

And you waited. You always waited. You never rushed him, not with anything that wasn’t life or death. 

“I had a question.”

Still that patience you always held for him stuck to your face.

He swallowed thickly

“… would you… wouldyougoonadatewithme?” He finally blurted and immediately wanted to become one with the floor.

He didn’t wait for your response, he just looked down.

Something soft swam across your face, it came with the way your heart clenched and stomach twisted in knots. 

Your lips ticked up, not amused, just fond. “Could you repeat that?” You asked even though you had heard him.

He took a deep breath as he squeezed his eyes shut and leaned against the doorframe. “Would you go on a date with me?” He asked, forcing the words to roll out slower.

He peered up and realized how flushed you were. How you were looking at him like that. So fondly. 

You smiled. “I was waiting for you to ask.”

He blinked. “You knew?”

You nodded. “I suspected and you aren’t exactly the most subtle man about it,” you admitted. 

Then that softness melted into something shy and your eyes flickered down. “But I just wanted to make sure you wanted this.” You gestured between them. “That you took the time you needed. I didn’t want to rush you,” you said gently.

He searched for your gaze. “I want this,” he blurted firmly. “I want you.”

You gazed up and tried to fight the smile that threatened to come to your lips. “Tonight?”

He nodded eagerly. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“See you then, Bucky.”

His skin buzzed. His heart hammered. And his stomach twisted in a million different ways. “See you then,” he murmured and quickly turned on his heels, hoping you wouldn’t see the smug smile on his lips and hoping you didn’t see the way he punched the air when he thought he was far enough away.

You did.

[artficlly]

── this is (not) okay

── marvel au ✿

bucky x personal assistant!reader personal assistant rules: don’t crush on bucky barnes. definitely don’t misinterpret a flower purchase and spiral into silent heartbreak, and absolutely never ever get stuck alone with him in an elevator.

── tags ✿

18+ content minors dni, smut, oral (f receiving), public (ish) sex?, wall sex (?), okay they fuck in an elevator guys, kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, insecure/self-conscious reader undertones, reader is an overthinker, reader is horny lol, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

word count: 9.1k

── authors note ✿

hi, hopefully this will keep you all fed while i work on part five to lessons in lovemaking. finally getting around to some of these requests in my inbox. this one is based off this request, but i changed it up so the reader is a PA instead of an avenger. lmk your thoughts thanx for reading <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

── main masterlist ⋆˚✿˖°

You’d never pegged Natasha as the type who enjoyed flowers.

No, she struck you more as the encrypted-flash-drive-on-a-park-bench type, the kind of woman who appreciated mysteries with teeth. A custom leather jacket, stitched with the same precision she used to dismantle a glock. One of those sleek, low motorcycles. Not daisies. Not peonies. And definitely not whatever soft, pastel nonsense Bucky was currently handing over cash for.

You stood a few feet away, halfway hidden behind a sidewalk sign advertising oat milk lattes and gluten-free muffins, clutching a cardboard drink tray and a bag full of vegan pastries in a death grip. The barista had spelt ‘Bruce’ as ‘Broose’ again, and under any other circumstance, that would've made you laugh, but now it felt like the most irrelevant thing in the world.

You liked Natasha. You respected her. You just didn’t think she had it in her to giggle over roses like the girls in those sappy rom-coms Clint insisted he hated (right before he would watch three in a row, a beer in each hand). But there Bucky was, brushing pollen off a bouquet of pale pink ranunculus, face soft in a way you’d never seen during mission briefings or sparring sessions.

And suddenly, you were building a list in your head of all the things you were sure Natasha Romanoff would rather receive as a romantic gesture: a knife, balanced perfectly for throwing, an expensive bottle of vodka, a vintage chess set with hand-carved pieces, a bottle of expensive ink and a fountain pen with a sharp nib, cookies—messy ones—overloaded with chocolate chips, or simply just black coffee, straight from the pot, no sugar, no cream. Yet, as Bucky handed it over to the redhead, she smiled. Smiled. And suddenly you felt like you were witnessing a scene you were not welcome to. 

Truthfully, it stung. Maybe it stung a little more than what was appropriate. You’d been harbouring a quiet crush on the dark-haired, sullen supersoldier from the moment he joined the team. Fresh out of Wakanda, new vibranium arm in tow, and god, he was handsome. Not in the polished, television commercial way Steve was, but in a way that made your pulse skip and your thoughts stall mid-sentence. He had the kind of face you didn’t know how to look at for too long, sharpened jaw, stormy-blue eyes, and a mouth that always looked on the verge of saying something he’d regret.

There was something electric about his stillness. Like if you leaned in close enough, you’d hear the hum of danger beneath his skin. He walked like a man who never quite trusted, drifting through the tower like he expected a fight around every corner. He barely spoke, but when he did, his voice was low and gravel-worn, something that settled right in your gut and made its home there.

He never smiled. Not really. But sometimes—sometimes—you’d catch a flicker of it when Sam teased him, or when Steve nudged him just right, and it was devastating.

And yeah, maybe you had a soft spot for broken things trying to heal.

As the Avengers’ personal assistant, it was your job to keep everyone comfortable, informed, and running like clockwork. You were a one-person organisational machine, constantly juggling the chaos that came with managing a tower full of enhanced individuals with the emotional range of a brick wall to a nuclear reactor. Your days were a blur of colour-coded schedules, back-to-back briefings, and the never-ending group chats.

You coordinated mission debriefs, booked international flights with military clearance, and handled press requests that would make most people cry. You endured complaints when Thor overloaded the power grid again, trying to make toast, and even replaced the mugs he shattered before anyone noticed. You wrangled Clint’s kids when they came to visit, sourced obscure snacks from remote parts of the world because Sam liked those protein bars, not the other ones, and Steve wouldn’t touch anything processed. You replaced a record number of coffee machines, hunted down whatever special detergent could get oil out of Tony’s designer shirts. You knew which brand of muscle balm Banner preferred and how to order it without triggering a random Homeland Security check.

And then there was Bucky.

With him, it was always a little extra, whether he noticed or not. His schedule came first in your Monday morning rounds. You made sure the pantry was stocked with the Eastern European tea he liked but never asked for, and remembered the exact setting he preferred on the tower’s training room temperature controls. You adjusted group plans so he’d be paired with Steve or Sam, just in case the crowds and questions became overwhelming. When he disappeared for a few hours, you didn’t ask questions, but you made sure no one came looking. You even swapped out the scratchy tags in his mission gear with soft ones, because he never complained, but you noticed the way he fidgeted with them.

Every day, you’d beam at him like some hopelessly love-struck idiot when you handed over his usual coffee—black, two brown sugars, just the way he liked it—and in return, he’d offer little more than a grunt. A low, barely-there sound that most people wouldn’t even register as a greeting. But you did. Somehow, that grunt became the highlight of your day.

So yeah, maybe seeing him hand over flowers to Natasha broke something in you. Not just a hairline fracture, but a quiet, splintering break that left your chest aching in places you didn’t know could hurt. Still, you understood. Natasha belonged to his world, effortlessly cool, all smoke, shadows and secrets. Yet she was kind. Not cold or unapproachable, just… carved from something rarer than you. The kind of woman who didn’t need to try to be extraordinary, she just was.

And you? You were the sweet, well-meaning assistant who made people laugh in the kitchen, who fetched dry cleaning and remembered everyone’s birthdays. You were the one who labelled tupperware and chased down Clint’s kids with bandaids. You were an afterthought, the background noise in the buzzing hive which was the Avengers Tower. 

So maybe you could justify feeling jealous, but angry? No. Not really. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. And it wasn’t their fault that you’d let yourself hope.

Two weeks later, and you timed it perfectly, like you always did.

Just as the door to Bucky’s apartment clicked open, you rounded the corner—folder in hand, clipboard tucked tight to your side. The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of ventilation and the soft thud of your heels against the carpet. Bucky stepped out, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair tied back, and his hoodie sleeves shoved up just enough to show the gleam of vibranium. Predictable. It was routine, every morning just before six he would meet with Steve in the gym. On Mondays, you’d catch him just as he exited his apartment, unload the details for the week, a freshly printed schedule and all. 

“Morning,” you said lightly, handing him the week’s itinerary. His reply was his usual, a grunt. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just Bucky. That gruff, barely-there sound that once felt like a small victory. The kind of grunt that used to warm your chest when he followed it with a question, even if you knew the answer was printed in the folder you’d triple-checked. You always answered anyway. You liked having his attention, even just for a few seconds.

You used to dress the folders up with care, multicoloured sticky notes marking key tasks (blue for meetings, yellow for reminders, red for anything urgent and green for personal events). You’d highlight sections like traffic lights, add stickers you thought might make him smile, sometimes even scribble little crooked cartoons in the margins with cheesy encouragements—seize the day! 

The folder looked rather sad today, just a plain manila folder packed with stapled papers. No colours. No stickers. No effort. Just the essentials. You didn’t let your fingers dawdle when he took it. Didn’t smile like you used to. Just handed it over and kept your gaze somewhere past his shoulder.

Bucky took it slowly, eyes flicking down at the cover like he was trying to spot something that wasn’t there. His brow pinched, barely, but enough for you to notice. His fingers lingered on the edge of the folder, like he thought maybe he’d missed a note tucked inside.

You nodded and turned to leave, forcing yourself to shift your mind to your next chore mentally, restocking med supplies in the Quinjet, cross-checking Clint’s revised travel forms, hunting down the coffee machine Tony had threatened to ‘repurpose as target practice’. You’d have to order a replacement before the morning debrief. Double-check everyone’s dietary preferences. Update Steve on the tech room schedule. Get maintenance to repaint the lines in the training room because someone (probably Thor) had scuffed them again.

You stayed busy. It helped. Kind of.

But the guilt still trailed you like a shadow.

It was probably obvious how abruptly you changed. The way your voice had lost its warmth. The way your gaze dodged his like it might burn you. You wondered if he noticed, if he thought you'd simply grown tired of him. Maybe he had. That was better than the truth that you couldn’t stand to be near him, not when every glance felt like pressing fingers to a bruise you’d caused yourself. 

You had made your choice, professionalism. The kind of cool, curated detachment you admired in Natasha, only it felt all wrong on you, like an ill-fitting coat. You knew it was for the better, not mixing up work and matters of the heart. You’d already let your little crush spiral too far, thinking maybe—just maybe—if you tried hard enough, you’d earn more than a grunt. That he might see you as something more than the charming assistant with her clipboard and her stupid stickers. But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t. And that was fine. It had to be.

You couldn’t afford to fall apart over a man who had no idea he’d broken your heart.

But it was Bucky’s voice, soft and unsure, that startled you from your thoughts. “Hey.”

You paused mid-step and turned, forcing a tight smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes as your fingers curled against the clipboard. “What’s up?”

He shifted his weight, clearly caught off guard by the fact that you stopped walking at all. He was rather devastating to look at when he grew all shy and unsure, fingers fidgeting against the edge of the folder like he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t quite meet your eye as his weight shifted nervously, like he hadn’t thought before he called out. 

“Uh. Nothin’. Just—” He raised the folder slightly, an awkward gesture. “You usually give me the rundown. Y’know… what everyone’s doing. Who’s where. Who I’m stuck with.”

You swallowed. Of course, he’d noticed. Of course, he’d grown used to your chatter about meetings and mission rosters, about who was off-world and who was due back, like it was the weather. The casual, effortless way you used to tell him what movie was playing, who cheated at Monopoly the night before, or which team member had stolen the last protein bar. You’d always done it to help, keep him grounded, and make him feel like part of the team, like he belonged. 

But after what you’d seen two weeks ago, you were sure he didn’t need that from you anymore. Natasha would look out for him now. She’d keep him balanced, keep him fed, keep him from slipping through the cracks.

“Nothing interesting’s happening,” you shrugged. “Just the usual.”

He didn’t move. “Well… there’s that dinner. On Friday.”

You gave a curt nod, tone clipped. “Yes.”

“Wanda’s dinner,” he added, as if you hadn’t already acknowledged it.

“Correct.”

He hesitated again, brows drawing together in a faint crease of worry. You could see him floundering, stuck in some internal scramble. It made your chest ache because you knew that look. You’d helped talk him down from that look more times than anyone else in the tower probably realised.

You sighed quietly through your nose, against your better judgment, against every wall you’d tried to build in the past week, you caved. He looked five seconds away from spiralling.

“It’s in there,” you offered gently, nodding toward the folder. “On your schedule.”

“Right. It’s just… for me, you usually…” His voice trailed off, frustration and uncertainty knotting in his brow. “Sorry. You’re probably busy—”

That felt like a punch to the gut. 

You shook your head and, before your pride could stop you, your feet were already moving back toward him. His eyes dropped as you reached into your pocket for a pen, scribbling ‘Wanda’s Dinner – Friday’ on a green sticky note. Green for personal events, always. You hesitated, then added a smiley face underneath. You peeled it off and stuck it neatly onto the folder in Bucky’s hands. 

His eyes dropped to it, finger brushing over the paper like he didn’t quite understand why it mattered so much. “Thanks.”

You just nodded, already stepping back, spine straight, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your throat.

“She said…” Bucky cleared his throat, clearly not done with the conversation. “Wanda said she’s going to do curry.”

You paused, unsure what to do with the information. Why was he telling you that? Why was he still talking?

“That’s nice,” you said carefully, not sure what to do with this strange, lingering version of him.

“Are you going?” he asked suddenly, and you frowned.

“I wasn’t invited—” You began, already covering from the invasive thoughts, already working to mask the sting. You didn’t want to imagine them next to each other over curry, leaning close, whispering in the way people did when they thought no one else was watching. It would only make the crack in your chest worse.

“You should go,” Bucky said quickly, cutting across your thoughts. “I’ll tell Wanda you’re coming.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll be busy that night anyway…” You lied through your teeth, heart thumping hard against your breastbone as Bucky’s face crumpled a bit. You cut in before he could argue any further.  “You’re going to be late. For the gym. It’s nearly six.”

“Right, shit, yeah. Sorry, I just…” He trailed off again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. I’ll… I’ll see you around.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, unsure if you were more confused or stunned by his sudden jitters.

Before the whole flowers incident, you made it your unofficial mission to ‘accidentally’ bump into Bucky as many times as humanly possible in a day. Now? It was the opposite. Every hallway was a trap to avoid, every room a potential ambush. Navigating the Tower had turned into something between a tactical stealth op and a personal game of hide-and-seek.

Unfortunately, your strategy for quiet withdrawal hadn’t gone unnoticed.

In fact, Bucky had picked up on your sudden cold shoulder almost immediately. The folder debacle had only been the first of many increasingly awkward run-ins.

There was the time you’d practically sprinted away from the elevator when the doors slid open to reveal him standing inside, a brow raised and coffee in hand. Or when you turned a corner too fast and walked straight into him, muttering a rushed apology before disappearing again like you were being hunted. Then there was the silent, painful breakfast you’d shared at the communal kitchen counter, where you busied yourself with peeling an orange for ten minutes straight while he sat beside you, occasionally glancing over like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to begin.

You’d even pretended to be asleep on the common room couch when he walked in one evening, piles of paperwork scattered, laptop still open, only for him to drape a throw blanket over you before quietly leaving again.

And yet, instead of giving you space like you’d expected and hoped for, he seemed to find any excuse to be around you. He trailed after you like some misplaced puppy whenever he wasn’t buried in a mission or holed up in a meeting.

You’d assumed that the moment you stepped back, he’d naturally gravitate toward spending more time with Natasha. It made sense. Why wouldn’t he want to be around her? They were obviously dating, even if they hadn’t made it official yet. Maybe it was one of those quiet, close things kept just between friends, like Steve and Sam. Who were you to come barreling in and expose their secret entanglement? You expected Bucky to be relieved to no longer be on the receiving end of your babbling, your perfectly-timed coffee deliveries, or the not-so-subtle gifts you littered around. 

But if anything, Bucky seemed determined to figure you out. Like your sudden shift had become his new pet project, and he was personally committed to cracking the case.

You’d taken the back hallway, the long, winding route that steered well clear of the gym on your way to the shared office. High-traffic areas were too risky now—too many chances to run into him. But clearly, Bucky had caught onto your little detours, because as you turned the corner, there he was, headed straight toward you.

You froze for half a second, pulse quickening. Turning around would be too obvious. Suspicious. He’d know exactly what you were doing, and then your carefully-constructed avoidance strategy would unravel entirely. If he suspected anything now, you were one panicked backpedal away from confirming it.

It was a nightmare. And a daydream.

A part of you, some soft, hopelessly romantic piece, ached at the sight of him, at the quiet way he seemed to look for you, worry always etched into his brow like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. But the rational part of your mind, the part that had dragged you into this self-imposed emotional lockdown, screamed that letting him get closer again would only undo all the fragile healing you’d managed to piece together.

So you steeled yourself.

Shoulders squared. Laptop and paperwork clutched like a lifeline. Eyes locked on an imaginary point just past his shoulder. If you kept walking and moved quickly, calmly, maybe he’d let you go. Perhaps he’d pretend not to notice how your pace picked up and your gaze carefully avoided his.

You nearly made it.

But of course, he noticed.

“Hey, wait—”

His voice was hesitant, just enough pressure to pull you to a stop. Your footsteps faded into the hush of the corridor, your spine straightening instinctively as you turned. Bucky stood a few paces behind, one hand lifted halfway between reaching and retreating, like he’d almost grabbed your arm but lost the nerve. 

He looked sheepish. Timid, even. It killed you.

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

He scratched the back of his neck, boots scuffing lightly against the floor. “Did I… forget to grab my coffee this morning? Or… did you not bring it?”

A pause. Too long. You could feel the beat of your pulse behind your sternum as you forced a casual shake of your head.

“No, sorry. That’s on me. Slipped my mind.”

The lie didn’t sit well in your mouth.

It hadn’t slipped your mind, in fact, it was still sitting on the corner of your desk, cooling beside a stack of unfinished paperwork. You’d brewed it, as always. Even used the brown sugar he liked. But then you’d walked away from it, deliberately, like some idiotic breadcrumb trail you hoped he might follow.

God, you were pathetic.

Your stupid fucking brain couldn’t even decide what it wanted anymore. One half of you was charting escape routes through the tower to avoid him, the other was fantasising about him pinning you to the nearest wall. From the way your thighs pressed together now, breath catching as his voice brushed over you, maybe the answer wasn’t distance at all. Perhaps you just wanted to taste him—

He didn’t move. Just stood there, one brow lifted, faint worry creasing the edge of his expression.

“You’re usually down by the gym by nine,” he said, his voice low. “It’s eleven.”

“I’m running a bit behind today.”

“You usually text me if you’re running behind.”

“Well,” you said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, “I didn’t this time.”

He paused, the silence between you laced with something dangerously close to concern. “Is everything alright?”

You forced a small laugh, trying to shake off how his low, worried voice made heat pool in your gut. “Yeah. Why?”

“You seem off.”

There it was. Soft, plain and far too knowing. He said it in that maddeningly sincere way that only he could manage. Like he actually gave a damn. Like this wasn’t unravelling you by the day.

Your shoulders tensed. “Off?”

“Yeah,” he said gently. “Just… I dunno. You’ve been quiet lately.”

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know about the hours you spent spinning in your head like a lunatic, trying to compartmentalise this crush until it shrank into something survivable. About the way you’d stared blankly at Tinder profiles, your phone clutched in your hand, wondering why no one else ever came close, why none of them were him.

Why you couldn’t stop thinking that if you’d just told him—confessed that stupid crush before Natasha did—maybe you wouldn’t be standing here now like some stray mutt, sniffing around for scraps of attention.

Maybe then he’d be yours.

Maybe then you wouldn’t be fantasising about quitting just to put yourself out of your own misery like some lame racehorse.

“I’ve just got a lot on my plate,” you finally mustered, tone strained. “Tony’s soirée. The fittings. Admin crap. Didn’t even have breakfast today.”

His brows furrowed further. “That’s not good.”

“I’ll survive.”

Would you, though?

Would you survive the heat that flared low in your stomach every time he got too close? Would you survive the ache that gnawed behind your ribs every time he glanced over at Natasha like you didn’t exist? Would you survive the constant, desperate craving to be touched by him? To be looked at like she was looked at?

He didn’t speak for a second, and for a moment, you were sure he could smell the reek of desperation on you.

“The oranges in the fridge are gone.”

You blinked. “What?”

“And the tea. The fancy one,” he added. “The one with the dried raspberries in it. You’re the one who always restocks them, aren’t you?”

You looked down, fingers clenching around your folder. “I’ll add it to the list.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, stepping forward a half-inch, enough to make your breath hitch. “I just… I didn’t realise it was you. Doing all of that.”

Of course, he hadn’t because you’d made it invisible. Seamless. That was the kind of care you practised—silent, anticipatory, never asked for, never returned. You had cared for him with a thousand tiny efforts, but he never noticed until you stopped.

You looked up, and the hallway felt suddenly too narrow. His face was open in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. Gentle, confused, like he was trying to work you out and couldn’t quite bear not knowing.

You dropped your gaze. “I said I’ll do it.”

He paused. You could feel him thinking again.

Then, to your disappointment, he slowly nodded. “Okay.”

But he didn’t move. Not right away. He lingered like someone who hadn’t yet decided if leaving was the right call, like he was caught between concern and curiosity. 

“I’ll leave you to it, I guess.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just nodded and turned, walking away quickly before he could see your face fall, before he could catch the naked want in your expression, the way your heart was clawing against your ribs, screaming for you to turn around and ruin everything.

If time travel were an option, you'd gladly launch yourself into a wormhole and strangle your past self for being stupid—no, lovesick—enough to organise this little errand. You deserve it, really. A swift kick to the gut from future-you for being this hopeless.

It had all started a month ago, when you, like a fool, volunteered to collect the tailored suits and dresses for some little soirée Tony Stark had decided to throw. Of course, in true Tony fashion, what was pitched as a ‘casual get-together’ had evolved into a full-blown, black-tie spectacle. The first warning sign? Tony footing the bill for everyone to have custom outfits made to their specifications. Translation…this was going to be a thing.

You’d spent weeks wrangling Avengers into fitting appointments, helping them choose fabrics and cuts, managing last-minute alterations and tracking shipments. It was exhausting but under control…until the catch. The aggravating, absurdly attractive, brooding catch currently sitting across from you in the tailor’s waiting room, his knee bounced like it was transmitting a detailed morse code manifesto on every possible way he planned to ruin your day.

The plan had been simple: grab an Uber, pick up the garments, pressed, stitched, and boxed to perfection and head back to the tower. But then you got the call. The one that told you Bucky Barnes had missed his final fitting, and that his suit needed some last-minute adjustments...

Of course he did.

Of all your perfectly laid plans, it only took one missed appointment to bring it all crashing down. Now here you were, stuck waiting beside the man who occupied far too much of your brain lately, silently praying the tailor would finish quickly so you could escape before your sanity, or your dignity, completely unravelled.

“I really am sorry,” Bucky said for what felt like the fiftieth time.

Between the brooding and the nervous leg tapping, he’d spent the last five minutes watching the side of your face with an expression so guilty it was practically carved into him.

“Like I said, it’s fine.” You replied, though it came out a little too tight, a little too forced, like you were speaking through clenched teeth. Which, maybe you were. Not that it mattered. Not when you could smell his cologne from how damn close he was sitting. God, you wanted to lean over and bury your face in his chest and just inhale—

You straightened abruptly, shoulders stiffening as the tailor entered the room, and mentally reacquainted yourself with the concept of boundaries.

It had been an hour—sixty minutes of waiting while Bucky’s suit got its final adjustments. An hour of you trying to distract yourself with work emails and unanswered texts, pretending the man beside you wasn’t single-handedly causing your emotional stability to nosedive. At least when he’d stepped away to get re-measured, you could breathe without risking spontaneous emotional combustion.

This wasn’t like you. You weren’t usually this wound up. Maybe it was the exhaustion, days of juggling your regular duties with Tony’s ever-growing list of soirée demands. Perhaps it was the heartbreak. Or the missed meals. Or the fact that you genuinely had no idea what day it was anymore.

“Would you like to try it on before we package it up for travel?” the tailor asked, her voice gentle. A measuring tape hung loosely around her neck, her pinned bun fraying slightly at the edges.

Bucky looked at you again, eyes flicking toward yours like he needed permission. You swallowed what was left of your pride and gave him a slight, strained nod.

“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Go on.”

“I’m sorry—again—this is probably eating into your whole afternoon, I know how busy you are—”

“It’s fine. Really. Just go.”

He offered a sheepish smile before disappearing behind the velvet curtain, tugging it closed with a rustle. You pressed your fingers to your temples, let your head drop into your hands, and exhaled through your nose like it might stop your heart from trying to break out of your chest.

Across the counter, the tailor glanced up at you with a sympathetic look as she readied the boxes for the other garments. “Long day?” she asked gently.

You lifted your head, managing a tight smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Only going to get longer.”

You were still nursing the tail end of your sigh when the velvet curtain swished open again.

And then your brain stopped working.

Bucky stepped out in full formal attire, sharp navy suit, tailored within an inch of its life. The cut of it hugged his frame perfectly. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, long legs. A deep navy waistcoat peeked out beneath the jacket, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching the light just enough to look expensive without being flashy. His tie was already perfectly knotted, like he’d done this a hundred times, and the sleeves of his shirt revealed just enough of the polished metal edge of his vibranium arm to make your mouth dry.

He cleared his throat softly, tugging at one cuff. “How’s it look?”

You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it again.

Words? No. Words were gone. Your vocabulary had packed up and left the building.

Bucky shifted his weight, clearly mistaking your slack-jawed silence for disapproval. “It’s weird, right? The waistcoat maybe doesn’t work, I told her I wasn’t sure about it—”

“No,” you said quickly—too quickly. “No, it’s… It’s perfect. You look… great. Seriously.”

His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his face. Relief, maybe? 

“Yeah?” he said, glancing down at himself, tugging slightly at the jacket hem. “I feel better about it now. The sleeves fit properly this time. Thanks for waiting.”

The tailor beamed from behind the counter, clearly proud of her work. “Wonderful. I’ll box it up immediately once you’re out of it.”

Bucky nodded, but the tailor turned to you with a friendly smile before he could disappear again.

“And for you, would you like to try your gown on as well before I pack it away?”

You blinked, suddenly snapped out of your holy-shit-Bucky-hot-hot-hot haze. “My what?”

She gestured toward the row of garment bags. “Mr. Stark sent over your measurements earlier this month. There’s a gown here for you.”

You frowned. “That must be a mistake. I’m just the assistant. None of those are for me.”

The tailor hesitated. “I don’t think so… He was very clear. Your name was attached to the order.”

Before you could argue, Bucky cut in smoothly, like he’d seen this train coming and stepped in to redirect it.

“Tony probably just wanted you to look the part, too,” he said, voice low and casual. “You’ve done all the work, he probably figured you deserved to enjoy the night a little. Might as well try it on, just in case.”

You glanced at him, but he didn’t look smug or teasing. Just… earnest. Calm. Like he meant it. Which made it all the harder to protest.

“Fine.” You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face. “Just to check it fits.”

The tailor clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. It’s a beautiful gown, I promise.”

You gave Bucky one last side-eye before following her toward the changing rooms, the fabric bag already in her hands.

From behind, you could hear him chuckle under his breath.

“Just wait 'til you see her,” the tailor murmured to herself, and you weren’t sure whether to be flattered or deeply, deeply nervous.

The gown was heavier than you expected. Luxurious fabric slipped off the hanger like water, pooling in your arms as she handed it over with the kind of reverence usually reserved for wedding dresses.

“I’ll give you a minute,” she smiled, disappearing to finish boxing up the suits.

Left alone in the changing room, you peeled out of your clothes, letting the gown slide on over your hips, your waist, up past your ribs. It clung like it had been sewn directly onto your body, the bodice snug, the neckline just daring enough to make you blush. 

You twisted to try to reach the zipper at the back, fingers fumbling and straining, but the angle was impossible. You spent the better part of five minutes twisting in the mirror like a lunatic, trying to reach the zipper that refused to budge. Your arms ached. The corset bodice was half-fastened. You were flushed, annoyed, and far too aware of the sliver of bare spine still exposed.

You were about to peek your head out and ask the tailor for help when a low voice cut in behind the curtain.

“Need a hand?”

You flinched, fabric clutched to your chest. “Jesus, Bucky! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was rougher than usual, like he’d just cleared his throat. “Heard you cursing. Tailor said she’d be a minute out back.”

You hesitated, and your voice came out thin. “Yeah. I—I can’t get it up.”

“Okay,” he replied, oddly determined. “Turn around.”

You cracked the curtain open a pinch. He ducked inside, too broad for the narrow space, his frame practically filling it. He was careful not to look at you directly, at least at first.

You turned slowly, presenting your back. “Just the zipper,” you murmured, barely trusting your own voice.

“Sure,”

A single fingertip, cold metal, dragged up from the base of your spine to the dip between your shoulder blades. It barely touched the skin, but you shuddered from the sensation. Bucky wasn’t even fastening yet, just tracing the line the zipper would follow. The sound you made was too soft to catch. 

The zipper came up slowly. Agonisingly. His knuckles brushed your skin every inch of the way, not by accident. No, this was too slow, too precise, to be innocent.

He was savouring it.

His other hand steadied you, palm ghosting just over your hip. His breath fanned warm against your shoulder.

“You’re trembling,” he commented.

You swallowed hard, unable to muster a response. 

When he reached the top, his hand didn’t fall away. Instead, he swept your hair off your shoulder completely, fingertips grazing the line of your throat as he let it fall over one side.

He leaned in. Not touching, but close. Mouth just behind your ear. The heat of his breath against your neck. 

“Should’ve let me help sooner,” he whispered, voice like a purr. “Would’ve had you dressed in seconds.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your lips parted slightly, breath caught somewhere halfway as your lungs deflated in shock. And maybe it was the gown. Or the silence. Or the way your thighs pressed together of their own accord, but you didn’t move. You didn’t step away.

You leaned in.

Only a fraction. Just enough.

He noticed.

You could feel it in the slight shift of his stance. The faint sound of him exhaling a chuckle through his nose. The way his hand brushed ever-so-slightly along the small of your back before falling away.

And then he was gone.

He stepped back like nothing had happened. Like the tension wasn’t choking the air between you. You turned toward the mirror in a daze.

The dress shimmered in the soft light. Deep, elegant, form-fitting. The neckline exposed the curve of your breasts, the slit at your thigh scandalous enough to make you self-conscious.

You caught his reflection in the mirror. He was watching you, but not with the restrained professionalism you were used to. It was only the sudden reentrance of the tailor that made him hesitate in whatever words were forming on his tongue. He stepped aside, finally giving you space to exit. And you did—legs shaky, palms sweating—like a deer walking straight back into the forest fire, pretending it wasn’t about to burn.

Your plan to avoid Bucky after the tailor incident had gone off without a hitch, maybe a little too well. You'd buried yourself in helping Tony pull together the final touches for his ‘soirée’ (which, if you were honest, was less soirée and more ‘black tie circus in a penthouse’).

You'd been so laser-focused on your tasks that you'd almost managed not to think about Bucky in that goddamn changing room. His fingers ghosting up your bare spine like a spark setting fire to dry kindling. You’d folded instantly. Your body betrayed you instantly while your brain screamed to keep it together. Pathetic.

The moral implications of whatever that moment had been were filed away for another day. Were you the other woman? Was Natasha going to slit your throat in your sleep? What was Bucky doing, touching you like that—in a public changing room, no less—when he had a bombshell redhead waiting for him back at the Tower?

No time for that now. Not when Tony’s precious ‘soirée’ was already in full swing upstairs and the caterers had somehow forgotten an entire section of the food. You’d scrambled together an emergency order from some overpriced restaurant Tony swore he was ‘basically family’ with, and by some miracle, they came through in the nick of time.

Now you were in damage control mode, hauling three boxes of overpriced canapés up to the penthouse. Your heels bit into your feet with every step, your dress clung too tightly to bend properly without your tits spilling out, and your patience was hanging on by a single goddamn thread.

You pressed the elevator button with your elbow and exhaled as the doors slid open.

Drop off the food. Grab a free drink. Drown your Bucky-related sorrows. Maybe, just maybe, keep the beast between your legs from waking at the mere sight of him.

The doors began to close. You shifted your weight, careful with the boxes balanced in your arms—

Then someone slipped through at the last second.

Him.

Bucky fucking Barnes.

Tall and devastating as usual in his dark navy suit, his tie loosened just enough to suggest mischief, or maybe carelessness. You weren’t sure which one made you feel worse.

Your breath hitched. Instinctively, your gaze dropped to the floor, feigning sudden, all-consuming interest in the stability of your precarious tower of hors d'oeuvres. But teetering stacks of overpriced finger food or not, Bucky didn’t seem inclined to play along with your avoidance act. Not now. Not when the elevator doors had sealed you in together, finally, and you were without escape.

You winced at the sound of his sharp inhale, the question already pressing past his lips before the elevator even jolted into motion.

“Did I do something to piss you off?”

You didn’t look up. Eyes fixed firmly on the floor, you muttered, “What?”

“I just…” His voice was rough. Tired. “It feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”

Shit.

He stepped forward slightly. Not enough to be invasive. Just enough to make your stomach flip.

“You hardly talk to me anymore,” he continued. “Won’t even look at me unless it’s about work. And even then, it’s like you’re somewhere else. Did I do something to offend you? Hurt you? Just tell me what I did so I can fix it.”

The elevator hummed to life beneath your feet, gliding upward smoothly. You shifted your weight, bracing against the cool metal rail, eyes stubbornly fixed on the buttons, anywhere but his maddeningly perfect face.

“You haven’t done anything,” you said quietly, the words tasting sour the second they left your mouth.

“Then why are you doing it now?” he asked, eyes searching yours. “Why won’t you even look at me?”

“Bucky…”

“Please. Just tell me.”

You hesitated. His hand twitched like he meant to reach for your arm, then faltered, falling back to his side. Your grip tightened on the containers, your fingers slick with sweat. “It’s not you,” you murmured. “It’s me… I just…”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me the truth.”

And that was what did it. The tremor in his voice. The way his brow creased like he couldn’t stand not knowing. Something broke open inside your chest, raw and unhealed. The dam cracked, split, then gave way completely, and the truth came spilling out before you had the chance to swallow it back down. You were exhausted. Wound tight. Running on fumes and nerves and far too many feelings. You’d tell him, you decided. Then drop off the canapés, quit on the spot, and flee the country if necessary. Stark would write you a killer reference. You’d survive.

“Okay,” you said, breath hitching as a nervous laugh bubbled out, half-bitter, half-resigned. “You want the truth? Fine. You’re going to think I’ve completely lost it.”

He stayed quiet, letting you spiral.

“This is so stupid,” you muttered. “I like you, Bucky. There. I said it. I like you. And it was fine—manageable—until it wasn’t. Until I started imagining things. Thinking maybe… maybe you liked me too.”

His eyebrows lifted, surprised but unreadable.

“I’ve had this massive, embarrassing crush on you since the moment I met you. And I know it’s weird, and probably unprofessional because you’re kinda my boss, but not. Technically, Tony’s my boss, but I basically manage everything around here, and—ugh, I’m rambling.” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I like you. And I’ve been avoiding you because it was getting out of hand. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And it felt wrong. Especially since you’re dating Natasha, which just made everything worse—”

“What?” he interrupted, voice sharp. “I’m not dating Natasha.”

Your eyes snapped open. “That’s what you took from all of that?”

“No, I—wait. You think I’m dating Natasha?”

“Yes!” you burst out, cheeks flaming. “I saw you! At the Sunday market about a month ago with the flowers—”

His brow furrowed. “What flowers?”

“The bouquet you gave her.”

“I didn’t give Natasha flowers.”

You let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “I saw you. It was that dumb little market Tony makes me go to for those overpriced vegan pastries Pepper loves—”

Bucky stared at you, confused. And then, slowly, understanding clicked into place. His face contorted like he’d just remembered he’d left his stove on.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “The flowers. Those weren’t for Natasha. They were for Wanda.”

Your heart stuttered. “What?”

“Vision,” Bucky groaned. “It was their anniversary. He was stuck on the phone trying to get a fancy reservation and begged me to pick them up. Natasha tagged along because she was hunting for jewellery for Maria’s birthday. That’s all it was.”

You blinked at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Bucky replied earnestly. “I didn’t know you thought that. I swear, I’m not with Natasha. I never was.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh god.”

“Hey—”

“No. No-no-no.” You squeezed your eyes shut, wanting to sink straight through the floor. “This is mortifying. I literally thought you were in a secret relationship. I’ve been avoiding you like the plague. I’ve been thinking about moving cities. I googled how hard it is to change your name legally.”

He snorted. “You’re not serious.”

You opened your eyes, and the horror must have been plain on your face because Bucky’s expression melted into something far too amused. “Oh, you are.”

“I might never recover from this,” you mumbled. 

“Hey, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”

“I confessed my undying crush and accused you of being in love with someone else in the span of like, sixty seconds.”

His mouth twitched, lips threatening a smile. “You’re kind of adorable when you’re spiralling.”

“I’m going to chuck these hors d'oeuvres at your head.”

As if mocking your attempt at dignity, the elevator gave a slight mechanical whirr, nearly at the top floor. The distant hum of the party pulsed just beyond those sleek doors.

You straightened suddenly, panic creeping into your chest. “Okay, I’m going to deliver these and then I’m leaving. Possibly forever. Please never speak to me again.”

But Bucky, ever faster than you, stepped in.

And before you could react, he pressed the emergency stop button.

The elevator jolted to a halt. The tower of overpriced hors d'oeuvres wobbled dangerously in your arms. “Oh my god,” you gasped, teetering.

Bucky was already moving, steady hands catching the top box before it could topple, plucking the rest from your shaking grasp. He crouched to stack them on the floor carefully, then rose slowly, smirking as you stood frozen, mouth agape in pure horrified disbelief.

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”

“No more running,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

You could barely breathe. “You stopped the elevator?”

“Didn’t want to risk the doors opening and you disappearing into the night,” he said, a little too pleased with himself.

“I hate you,” you whispered, eyes wide.

He leaned in, just close enough for you to feel his breath. “No, you don’t.”

You were going to die right here in a metal box. With your dignity in ruins and the man of your dumb, desperate daydreams giving you that look.

And somehow, somehow, you didn’t even want to stop him.

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t shut down. Please.”

You glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes and immediately wished you hadn’t. They were dark. Hungry. That gaze alone could melt you to the floor.

He stepped closer again. And again. Until his frame caged in you, his arms braced on either side of your head, the heat of his body swallowing you whole.

“I like you too,” he said, low, rough, like it was pulled from deep inside. “Christ, I was so blind. I didn’t see it. It didn’t click until that day at the tailor, until I saw you in this damn dress.”

Your breath hitched.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured. “I’ve been looking for excuses just to be near you. I keep the notes you leave me with the stupid little drawings. I like looking at them. Thinking about you.”

Your heart felt like it might crack your ribs.

“I smelled every shampoo at the store one day,” he confessed, almost sheepish, almost proud. “Hoped I’d find the one you use. Because you smell so fucking good. It’s been driving me crazy.”

“Bucky…”

“I don’t know. You make me feel special. Seen. Like I’m not some monster, like I’m normal. And then one day you were just… gone. I didn’t realise all the little things you did for me that I never noticed.” He groaned, somehow pressing closer. “I missed the sound of your voice… and it made it hurt even more… I lie awake at night, every night, thinking about you and how much I want to kiss you—”

“Bucky.” You interrupted, and he looked back at you with a barely contained hunger. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

And then his mouth was on yours.

Hot. Messy. Desperate.

You gasped into it, and he swallowed it whole, groaning as he pressed harder, deeper, hands sliding down to your thighs as he grabbed one and hitched it up around his waist. You clung to his shoulders, lips parted as he slotted himself between your legs, guiding you up until your ass was perched on the elevator’s handrail bar.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “Tell me that you want this, tell me that you want me.”

Your head fell back against the wall, lips swollen, breath shaking. His mouth travelled to your jaw, your throat, hands digging into your hips.

It was dizzying. Chaotic. Perfect. 

“I want you, Bucky.” You panted.

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered again, but this time it was different, lower. Hungrier.

His hand slid along your thigh, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your dress. You panted as he kissed across your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. His hands settled on your knees, then slowly, deliberately, he spread them apart.

“Bucky—” your voice was barely more than a whisper, a tremble of anticipation and disbelief.

But he didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees.

Right there. In the goddamn elevator.

You almost came on the spot at the sight, lips swollen and slick with saliva, pupils blown, the slight smudge of your lipstick on his chin. His hands slid up the back of your calves, kneading into the flesh like he was savouring the shape of you. Your dress inched upwards, his mouth suddenly pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.

Your breath hitched. Your hands shot to the railing behind you, clutching tight.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice wrecked with want, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with something dangerous. Devotion, desire, something molten and drowning. Then his mouth moved higher.

Another kiss. Inner thigh this time. Then another, and another, slow, lingering, like he was memorising you. He disappeared until the fabric of your skirt, only the back of his head, dark locks messy peaking out from between the slit. 

You moaned, soft and involuntary, your hips twitching at the heat of his breath through the thin fabric of your panties. He nuzzled in close, his nose brushing against you, and his hands pressed firmly to your thighs to keep you spread.

“I’ve thought about how you’d taste,” he muttered, lips grazing the soaked lace. “How you’d sound.”

You whimpered.

And then, he peeled your panties to the side.

The groan that tore from him was obscene.

“Jesus,” he hissed, voice muffled. “You’re fucking perfect.”

And then, his mouth was on you.

Hot. Wet. Relentless. You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in it as his tongue licked into you with precision, with hunger, with something close to worship. He devoured you like he was starving. Slow circles, then quick flicks, his mouth dragging across your clit with maddening rhythm. You writhed against the rail, your leg still wrapped around his shoulder, the other trembling against the elevator wall.

“Oh my god—Bucky—fuck—”

Your words slurred together, breath coming in ragged gasps as he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. One of his arms snaked around your thigh, pinning you in place, as if he thought you might try to escape. As if he’d let you.

His tongue slid down, dipping into you, then back up, his mouth latching onto your clit with a filthy, wet sound that made your spine arch. You were unravelling, fast, dizzy, overwhelmed.

He pulled back just enough to pant. “I could stay here all night.”

His mouth was merciless. His grip was unrelenting on your thighs, mouth working you over like a man possessed—

Bzzzzt.

A shrill, sudden buzz sounded from the elevator’s emergency panel, followed by a crackling voice.

“Hello? This is Tower Maintenance. We’re registering an emergency stop on lift three. Is there an issue?”

You froze. Every muscle in your body went rigid, as if someone had cracked open your spine and poured ice water down it. Dread spread like frost through your veins. Your heart thudded painfully in your throat, threatening to climb up and out entirely.

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

This was it. This was how you died—legs spread, Bucky between them, and Tower Maintenance on the fucking line.

Bucky, in sharp contrast, did not freeze.

He groaned softly with wicked glee, his mouth still very much between your legs. The sound vibrated against the most sinful part of you, and then he doubled down. Mouth and hands working with infuriating, diabolical precision, like he’d just taken the intercom as a challenge.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, the other shaking as you reached blindly for the emergency call button, trying not to sound like you were seconds away from being ruined.

Your voice came out like a panicked squeak. “Hi! Uh—h-hi, yes, sorry! Must’ve been a—a small electrical fault. I’m fine! Everything’s… fine!”

Bucky nipped at your thigh in response.

There was a pause. You could feel the suspicion through the line.

“Ma’am, we’re not showing any electrical inconsistencies in that shaft. Did you press the stop button?”

You shot a wide-eyed glare down at the man currently devouring you.

Another wave of pleasure threatened to knock the air from your lungs. You were barely holding it together, every nerve ending aflame, skin flushed, thighs shaking. The cool metal of the elevator wall against your spine did little to ground you.

You cleared your throat, struggling to piece together something—anything—resembling human speech. “Oh. Oh, that—um, I must’ve bumped it. With my elbow. While holding a tray. It’s, uh—crowded. In here.”

Bucky chose that exact moment to suck hard, and you slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the helpless sound that nearly escaped.

A longer pause. You could practically hear them frowning.

“…Right. Well, we’re releasing the stop now. Please remain calm.”

The line disconnected.

The elevator jolted slightly as it roared back to life.

Bucky gave a dark chuckle. “Crowded, huh?” Then—with zero mercy—he sped up.

“Bucky,” you gasped, head falling back against the wall, “I’m—I’m gonna—”

You shattered.

It hit hard, hot and blinding. You cried out, thighs clamping tight around his head as he groaned against you, mouth not stopping for a second, drawing it out, milking every twitch, every whimper. You barely had time to breathe, let alone moan, your hands flying to steady yourself just as the elevator dinged cheerily and the doors slid open.

Right into the penthouse. Packed full of people, who by some miracle, were utterly oblivious to your predicament. 

You staggered slightly as Bucky stood smoothly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, one arm slipping around your waist to steady you while the other casually reached down and grabbed the stack of forgotten canapés off the floor like he hadn’t just—

“Evening,” he greeted a passing staff member, utterly unbothered.

You were glowing crimson, pupils blown, lips parted, trying hard to fix your face. Bucky guided you forward, his hand warm on your back, keeping you between him and the crowd as your legs trembled. You barely managed to set the tray on the nearest table before someone whistled.

“Well, damn,” came Sam’s voice from the drinks bar. He gave you both a once-over, a wicked grin spreading. “Buck, next time you’re gonna eat face in the elevator, maybe wipe the lipstick off your chin first.”

Bucky only smirked and licked his bottom lip slow, on purpose, you were sure of it.

You nearly combusted on the spot.

“Bathroom?” he murmured into your ear, low and gravelly.

You nodded quickly and wordlessly.

He guided you with all the smugness of a man who had no regrets, his hand just a little too low on your back to be innocent.

hi, if you enjoyed please let me know! drop a comment below, reblog or send me something through my inbox! thank you for reading my work :) if you want to stay up to date with any series updates or new one-shots being posted, follow my sideblog @artficlly-archive and turn on notifications.

[superbassbuck]

until I have you.

pairing: knight!bucky barnes x maidservant!reader

warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, friends with benefits, secret relationships, jealousy, blood and wounds, war, fluff, angst, light banter, mutual pining, slight chef!bob x reader moment, possessive sex, pussy pronouns, breeding kink

wordcount: 12.2k

a/n: based on this request. thank you sm for the suggestion because it helped me out of my slump. ohhh knight!bucky how i yearn for you

main masterlist

synopsis: A maidservant’s only job is to tend to the princess's every whim. But despite the warnings of everyone around you, you can't help but fall for the one person you shouldn't, and that was the kingdom's trustiest knight and the princess’s sole protector—James Barnes.

Being the maidservant of a princess came with both its advantages and disadvantages.

You were constantly on your feet, up before the sun rose and down long after it set. Your body was in a permanent state of ache and strain from lifting heavy baskets of laundry up and down several flights of stairs, and your fingers were often raw from the needle poking through thick fabrics.

Princess Daphne always barked the wildest commands, keeping you and the other maidservants running around the palace to satisfy her every whim and desire.

It was hard, tedious work, but it gave you a roof over your head and a decent enough pay. And in this day and age, with the war against Sokovia, protection was the most important thing.

You could live in a beautiful home, but none of it mattered if Sokovian soldiers could barge past the kingdom gates at any moment with their weapons and horses at the ready.

With knights posted at every corner, the palace became your sanctuary.

There was one knight in particular who always seemed to linger near the maidservants’ chambers on the highest floor. A window sat right outside your room in the hallway, offering a clear view of the grounds where that same knight always stood on guard.

“James,” you greeted him with a sigh, still catching your breath from the long climb up the stairs.

He turned toward you, his usually tense, focused shoulders easing slightly at the sight of you.

A small, rare, and gentle smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“You know—when it’s just me and you, you don’t have to call me James.”

A sheepish flush crept over your face as you approached him.

There was a true sense of family among the palace workers; the bond between the maidservants was like a sisterhood, and you were close with many of the chefs. Late at night, when the palace fell asleep, you and the other servants would gather at the kitchen tables to laugh and drink long past midnight.

The knights hardly ever got the time off or the leisure that you and the other maids enjoyed. But for Bucky, just seeing and talking to you was enough.

He stepped toward you, his heavy armor clinking with every movement. “Long day?”

“Mhm,” you mumbled tiredly.

Finally stripped away from the presence of royalty, you were free to speak as sluggishly and as improperly as you liked.

A soft exhale left Bucky’s nose. His right hand—flesh and human—came up to caress your cheek, while the other, metal and forged by the kingdom’s greatest blacksmith, cradled the other side of your face.

The touch was cold and made you shiver, but nonetheless, it was still Bucky.

Your Bucky.

“Sleepy girl,” he muttered, his thumb tracing your cheek as he stared down at you, strands of long, dark hair falling over his face. “You’ve been working so hard, haven’t you?”

A little whine left your mouth as you stepped closer into his space, letting yourself bask in his touch.

He chuckled softly, pulling you against his chest and pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

“I should let you retreat to your bedchambers,” he spoke quietly. “But I don’t want to let you go. I haven’t seen you all day. Is that selfish of me?”

“Very selfish of you, James.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

You smiled, tilting your head back against his chest to look him in the eye. “Oh—I apologize, Bucky.” You teased.

Bucky grinned, his hand trailing down to your chin and lifting it, presenting your lips to him—the prize he’d been seeking all day.

“That’s my girl,” he mumbled.

Just as he leaned in to find the salvation he’d been starving for, the door to your bedchamber swung open. Your roommate, Yelena, poked her head out and scrunched her nose in disgust.

“Ew,” she dragged out childishly. “Is this what you knights usually do on your time off? Stick your tongue down an unassuming maidservant’s throat?”

Your face burned with embarrassment as Bucky pulled away, glaring daggers in Yelena’s direction.

He clicked his tongue. “Unassuming,” he repeated in a grumble.

He looked back down at you with a soft, disappointed sigh.

“I shall let you rest.” Using his gloved hand, he brought your fingers to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your palm. “Goodnight, maiden.”

Bucky stepped aside as you retreated toward your bedchambers. Yelena held the door open with her body, arms folded tightly across her chest as she continued to glare him down.

“Yelena,” you hissed at her quietly as you slipped inside, “stop.”

After throwing one last look over her shoulder at Bucky, Yelena finally pulled the door closed. Inside, your roommates and fellow maidservants were already settled for the night, snug and comfortable on their cots.

Natasha was brushing out her hair, a knowing, teasing glint in her eyes. “Did you have fun with soldier boy out there?”

You gasped softly at her direct question. “N-Nat—!”

“You know, soldier boy didn’t even spare us a glance when we walked up the stairs,” Wanda added, swinging her feet over the edge of her bed as she stood up. “It’s as if the knight recognizes the sound of your footsteps by heart.”

All eyes were on you, and you wished the floor would simply open up and swallow you whole to save you from the relentless teasing.

“You ladies are unbelievable—”

“Am I the only one who doesn’t find this funny in the slightest?” Yelena barked, a disapproving look on her face. She glared harshly at Nat, then Wanda, and finally you. “If word gets out that a maidservant is having an affair with a knight—no, the Sergeant himself—we’re all ruined!”

You frowned, undoing the ties in your hair as you made your way to your side of the room.

“I wouldn’t call it an affair,” you explained. “We haven’t put a title on…” You swallowed hard, twisting the hair tie between your fingers, “…this arrangement.”

Yelena ran a hand down her face. “That’s even worse!”

“Yelena, calm down,” Natasha cut in, glancing at you from her bed. “But as harsh as she's being, she is right.”

You kept your head down, trying to appear fixated on the hair ties and pins scattered across your dresser. You knew they were right—that being in any kind of relationship with one of the kingdom’s knights was nothing but trouble.

Especially when the knight in question was Sergeant Barnes—the very man entrusted to watch over the princess.

“You are in love,” Wanda pointed out gently from across the room. “We can see that. But you have to believe us—we’re only looking out for you.” She approached you, setting a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Falling in love with a knight will bring nothing but heartache.”

Words were just words until they were spoken by the right person. Yelena and Natasha could doubt you and Bucky all they wanted—but it was Wanda’s voice that truly made the realization sting.

Because Wanda was a maidservant who had fallen for a knight, just like you.

His name was Vision, and he had been felled in a battle against Sokovian soldiers. While they were deep in their secret affair, they had been told the same things over and over.

“You could get us all in trouble.”

“You’re only thinking for yourself.”

But before word could ever get out about Wanda and Vis, he passed away, leaving Wanda to grieve in total isolation.

She couldn’t even attend his funeral, and her name couldn’t be left in his will.

It pained you because, despite the sanctuary and comfort of living in the palace, you still wanted more. You wanted to be with the man who stood just outside your bedchambers.

“I know,” you said quietly, looking up at the other girls and forcing a smile to show them you were okay—that this was okay. “And I understand. I won’t let it come between us.”

It was a promise you had made countless times, but you knew you would always run back to him.

You were kneeling on the floor, adjusting the hem of Princess Daphne’s dress as her blue eyes bored into the large window to her right rather than the full body mirror in front of her.

“Is it just me, or are the roses in the garden unkempt?”

There was no one else in the room, so this was her attempt at a conversation. Most of these ended with her complaining about some minor issue, leaving you to simply nod in agreement.

You glanced over your shoulder, taking in the roses. They didn’t look out of place—maybe a few weeds were overgrown nearby, but nothing unruly.

“The roses do look unkempt these days, Your Royal Highness,” you agreed anyway, bringing your attention back to the skirts.

She hummed. “The gardener has been fruitless lately, has he not?”

“I believe Mister Alexei has been feeling unwell, Your Royal Highness,” you explained politely.

Princess Daphne raised a brow, looking down at you as you fluffed her skirt. “Whatever for?”

You pressed your lips together, glancing up to meet the princess’s eyes. “His wife passed away, Your Royal Highness.”

“I see,” she sighed softly. “That’s a shame.”

You stayed quiet as you continued to fix her dress. You finally rose from the floor, letting out a soft groan as you pulled yourself up. You smiled, admiring your own handiwork on the princess’s back, but her mind seemed preoccupied with something else.

“All finished—”

“I would like for you to tend the gardens today.”

You blinked at the sudden request. “I… the gardens?”

“You fill the vases with the most precious and stunning flowers every morning,” she said with a guileless smile. “So, I am entrusting you to tend the gardens.”

You truly didn’t know what to say.

You had never been ordered to work the grounds before—sure, you might have plucked a stray weed or offered a hand to Alexei when the days in the palace were slow and long, but never like this. That was what a gardener was for.

But knowing Princess Daphne, she couldn’t tell the difference between someone arranging a bouquet and someone maintaining an entire estate.

And you were nothing but a maidservant. How could you refuse, anyway?

“I… yes,” you bowed your head. “It will be done, Your Royal Highness.”

“Wonderful!” Princess Daphne beamed, clasping her gloved hands together as she stepped off the pedestal without your assistance. “I expect the roses to be vibrant and lively once I return from my promenade!”

Once Princess Daphne left her bedroom, you stayed behind to tidy the mess she had left in her wake. When the room was back in order, you made your way down to the gardens.

Outside, the sun was baking the garden soil. Your nostrils were immediately hit with the scent of dirt and blooming jasmines.

You managed to find a pair of old, oversized gardening gloves—likely Alexei’s—in a shed, and after tucking your skirts as best you could, you dropped to your knees before the rosebushes. The work started easy, clearing away small weeds and tossing them into a pile.

But then, a thick rooted weed tucked right at the base of a vibrant red rose was giving you a run for your money.

You gripped it tight, bracing your feet against the stone path, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Come on,” you hissed under your breath, your face heating up from both the sun and the exertion.

With a frustrated huff, you desperately heaved, putting your entire body weight into it. The root finally snapped, but the sudden lack of resistance sent you flying backward. You tumbled through the air like a fool, losing your balance until you landed with a dull thud right in the middle of a freshly turned hydrangea bed.

The Queen’s favorite flower.

You sat there for a moment, stunned, with your legs sprawled out and dirt smeared all over your… toosh.

The heavy clinking of metal hit the stone pavement, stalking closer and closer. Bucky loomed over you, his long hair catching the light from behind as his heavy cape draped over his shoulders. He didn’t offer a hand immediately, wanting to take in the sight of you sprawled out and dirty.

He rested his gloved hand on the hilt of his sword, a slow, devastatingly handsome grin spreading across his smug face.

“Don’t tell me the princess has you working her gardens now.”

You looked around to see if anyone else was near, but it was just him.

“Bucky,” you greeted with a breathless smile. “Don’t tell me the princess has you clearing the garden perimeters.”

Bucky’s grin widened as he extended a hand. When you took it, he lifted you from the dirt with ease.

“If the princess believes there are any threats out here, you can start by eradicating these,” you said, lifting the weed in your hand for emphasis.

He chuckled softly, reaching out to brush away a bit of soil that had caught in your hair.

“No, actually,” he said. “The princess sent for me. She wants me to accompany her on her promenade through town.”

“Oh,” your smile faded slightly. “I see.”

Bucky nodded, standing tall in his armor. All you could think about was how, while the man you loved was out strolling and shopping with the princess, you would be here in the dirt, working far beyond your usual station.

He tilted his head, leaning down slightly to get a better look at your expression. “Is there something troubling you?”

I don’t want you to promenade with the princess, even if it is your job.

I want you to stay here with me instead.

“Nothing,” you lied, forcing a smile as you clutched the weed tighter in your gloved hand. “It’s a lovely day outside for a promenade—I’m sure it’ll be a good change of pace from guarding the palace all day.”

Bucky furrowed his brow, noting the way your shoulders slightly slumped and how your voice had grown quiet. He reached out and caught your hand with his gloved one, running his thumb gently over your knuckles.

“The promenade won’t last forever,” he promised, his eyes searching yours. “And once you’ve finished tucking the Princess into bed, I’ll be posted near the gazebo south of the palace.”

He stepped even closer until his tall frame shadowed yours, the cold metal of his chest piece brushing against your bodice.

“Meet me there,” he whispered, his thumb still tracing slow, gentle circles over your knuckles. “Behind the willow trees. No other knights patrol that far down, and the sound of the water will drown out... everything else.”

Drown out everything else.

You knew exactly what he meant. This wasn’t the first time you two had snuck away past your working hours just to find comfort in each other’s arms.

Bucky’s gaze dropped to your lips for a quick, hungry second before he pulled back just slightly to maintain appearances.

“Tonight, after the moon hits its peak,” he murmured, quiet and low. “Don’t make me wait for you, sweetheart.”

Your heart thumped faster in your chest. Now, the only thing left to do was count the hours until you were in Bucky’s arms again—a thought that made the day drag on far slower, despite the mountains of work piled up before you.

“Tonight,” you repeated with a genuine smile. “I shall be there.”

Bucky smiled softly, satisfied with your answer. “Good—”

“Sergeant Barnes!” the King shouted from across the garden, where he stood by the shade.

Bucky’s body went stiff as a board, his hand instantly dropping from yours as he snapped into a formal salute. You quickly stepped away, desperately brushing the loose soil from your skirts and keeping your head bowed low.

“Your Majesty,” Bucky’s voice lacked the warmth he shared with you just a moment ago.

He moved toward the King, leaving you behind without another glance.

The King didn’t even spare a look at the messy hydrangeas or at you—the dirt smudged maidservant trembling beside them. His eyes were fixed solely on his most trusted knight.

“Sergeant, the Princess is ready for her departure,” the King lectured with authority. “Why are you lingering in the gardens when your charge is waiting at the carriage?”

“My apologies, Sire,” Bucky replied, a mask of stoicism and professionalism taking over him. “I was merely ensuring the perimeter was secure before leaving the grounds. I am headed to the stables now.”

The King gave a curt, stiff nod, though he didn’t look pleased. “See that you are. In these times, the Princess’s safety is paramount. We cannot have our best men distracted by trivialities.”

The King’s gaze flickered momentarily toward you—a cold, passing look that made you feel like nothing more than a piece of garden furniture—before he turned back to Bucky.

“Move along, Sergeant.”

“At once, Your Majesty,” Bucky said.

He turned to leave, but for a split second, while the King’s attention was turned away, Bucky’s gaze broke rank.

Over his shoulder, he stole one last look at you. You were already back on your knees, picking at the weeds, and Bucky’s heart clenched. He wished he could spend his days right next to you.

In his eyes, you shouldn’t be the one picking the flowers, but rather the one receiving them.

But all he could do for now was tear his gaze away and head for the stables.

With the Princess gone and the garden task finally completed, you followed the distant yet familiar sounds of clinking copper and boisterous laughter down into the belly of the palace.

The kitchens were a different world entirely. As soon as you pushed through the heavy doors, the scent of roasting garlic, fresh rosemary, and baking bread enveloped you—a welcome relief, even after being stuck outdoors in the fresh air all morning.

At the center of the room, several maidservants were perched on the edge of the prep tables, their legs swinging as they broke fresh bread and shared it with the kitchen crew.

“Look what the cat dragged in!” Yelena called out, her mouth half full of loaf. She beckoned you over with a sticky hand. “You look like you’ve been rolling in the trenches.”

Natasha looked up from where she was leaning against the counter, a cup of cider in her hand. “And it looks like you didn’t have your knight in shining armor to save you this time.”

“That’s because the Princess is strolling through town today, which means Sergeant Barnes is busy looking after her,” John, one of the cooks, mentioned from across the kitchen, not looking up from his work.

Wanda motioned for you to take the empty seat next to her. “Hours have passed, and the Princess should be returning soon. Eat now, unless you want to wait until midnight.”

Your stomach grumbled as you stepped deeper into the kitchen to claim your spot.

“I’m starving,” you groaned tiredly, sinking into the seat. “What are you all feasting on?” You smiled, taking in the mountain of bread crumbs and various loaves scattered across the table.

Yelena nodded toward the back of the kitchen. “Bob has been locked away by the ovens all morning. He calls it focaccia—” she lifted a piece of the bread, “apparently, it’s all the rage in the southern kingdoms.”

You glanced over to see Bob carefully dimpling the surface of a fresh loaf with his fingers, drizzling it with a generous amount of olive oil and pressing sprigs of rosemary into the dough.

“He’s even made a special companion for it,” John called over his shoulder, “a savory onion and fig jam.”

Wanda slid a small wooden bowl and a thick, airy slice of the bread toward you. The loaf was golden brown and glistening, pockmarked with herbs that smelled divine. The jam was a deep, thick purple that smelled of caramelized sugar.

“Try it,” Wanda encouraged. “It’s much better than the dry biscuits we usually get. He even added a bit of honey to the jam to cut the salt.”

You tore off a piece, dipped it into the jam, and took a bite. It had a satisfying, golden crunch on the outside but remained soft and pillowy on the inside.

“Mmm!” You beamed, eyes widening as you reached for another piece. “Bob—this is delicious! If you’ve been cooking like this all this time, how haven’t I had a taste until now?”

“It’s because you spend most of your free time with Sergeant Barnes rather than us,” Yelena teased, rolling her eyes, which earned her a sharp nudge in the shoulder from Wanda.

Across the kitchen, Bob’s ears turned a shade of pink that you noticed even from your seat.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, keeping his focus fixed on the dough in front of him. “I’ve been trying something new… so I’m glad you like it.”

“Aw, look at that,” Yelena teased, turning her entire body to stare at the baker. “You’ve got Bob all flustered now.”

John snickered, glancing at Bob, whose face only burned a deeper shade of red.

“Careful with that one, Bob,” he warned, pointing his whisk at you. “Getting too close to her will only get the kingdom’s mightiest soldier’s blade pressed against your throat.”

The entire kitchen barked in laughter at John’s comment. You should have been embarrassed by their relentless teasing, but instead, you just felt bad for Bob. The poor man was stammering in the corner, desperately trying to dismiss the attention.

“Hey now,” you called out, focaccia crumbs still clinging to your lips. “Don’t tease the guy. He’s the only one keeping you all fed.”

Laughter still hung in the air, and for a few minutes—away from the pressure of your chores—you were all just a group of friends rather than a squadron of dirty servants.

The enjoyment continued until the melodic tolling of the courtyard bells rang out. In an instant, as if a switch had flipped inside everyone’s head, the boisterous noise died. Everyone scrambled to their feet to collect themselves.

“The promenade is over,” Natasha said, setting her cider down and wiping her hands on her apron. “Back upstairs, girls. Princess Daphne will be expecting us.”

“I didn’t even finish my loaf!” Yelena’s complaints were ignored by everyone else as they hurried toward the doors.

Wanda stood up, giving your arm a gentle squeeze. “The Princess will likely want a bath and a change of clothes immediately. Go on—I’ll change her sheets so they’re ready for her to lie down.”

You swallowed your barely chewed bite in one hard gulp. “Right. I’m going.”

On your way to greet the Princess, you collected a set of freshly pressed towels along with various soaps and aromatic oils for her bath.

You scrambled up several flights of stairs, lungs burning, hoping to reach her chambers before she did.

With your heart beating wildly in your eardrums, you rounded the corner and stopped short.

Princess Daphne was already lingering at the entrance of her bedroom, but she wasn’t alone.

Bucky was standing right beside her.

And against your better judgment, you pressed yourself into the shadows of the wall, gripping the wicker basket tight as you listened in.

“My knightly duties do not require me to escort you all the way to your chambers, Your Royal Highness,” Bucky said, his tone formal and polite.

Princess Daphne giggled, pressing a gloved hand to her mouth as she flushed beneath the knight’s gaze.

“Please, when it is just us, you must call me Daphne,” she sighed, her voice drifting into something dreamlike. “Just as I shall call you Bucky.”

You felt your heart drop.

As far as you knew, you were the only one who called him Bucky. It was a name he had reserved for the people closest to him. You knew he had served the palace long before you arrived, but the reminder of the closeness he shared with her was a sting that never failed to make your heart ache.

“Thank you for accompanying me on my stroll through town, Bucky,” Princess Daphne continued, as you winced from behind the corner.

“Of course,” Bucky nodded politely. “With the rising tensions against the Sokovians, it is my duty to put your safety above all else.”

“You always make the gloomy days brighter and the dangers feel so much smaller,” she smiled.

“I am glad to hear that, Your Royal Highness,” Bucky hummed, his gaze flickering to the door of her bedchambers. “Shall I take my leave, then?”

The Princess frowned, her expression turning pouty. “I told you to call me Daphne.” She looked around with a sigh. “And no need—it seems my maidservant has yet to arrive—”

Your feet moved before you could think, and you rounded the corner, acting as if you had just arrived and hadn’t been eavesdropping the entire time.

“I apologize for the wait, Your Royal Highness,” you said, bowing politely with the basket still in your hands. “I made sure the towels were freshly warmed for your arrival. I can prepare your bath right away, if you’re ready.”

Bucky turned toward you, his eyes widening slightly in surprise.

“Oh,” Princess Daphne was surprised, her hands folding primly at the front of her dress. “I would like that very much.”

You stood there for a moment with a polite, awkward smile, waiting for the Princess to grant you permission to enter, but she didn’t.

So instead, the three of you remained in a tense, silent standoff.

Bucky’s eyes were fixed on you. His posture was stiff, his gloved hands tightening at his sides as if he were fighting the urge to reach out.

Princess Daphne cleared her throat, glancing at Bucky. “You are dismissed, Sergeant Barnes.”

He didn’t reply immediately—not until the Princess called for him once more, her voice sharper this time. “Sergeant?”

“I… my apologies,” Bucky said, finally turning to face her. He bowed low. “Your Royal Highness.”

He glanced at you, offering nothing more than a short, professional nod. For someone of his rank, it wasn’t customary to acknowledge a maidservant, but as he walked past you, you felt the subtle, intentional graze of his glove against your skirt.

The ghost of his touch made the hair on your arms stand up.

“The bath, then?” Princess Daphne spoke up, snapping you back to attention.

“Yes—of course, Your Royal Highness,” you stammered, scrambling to recover your composure.

You pushed into her bedchambers and moved toward the bathing area, immediately drawing the steaming water.

The Princess followed close behind, peeling off her silk gloves. She didn’t wait for you to ask about her day, as she was already glowing with excitement to recount her afternoon.

“He truly is a marvel, isn’t he?” she sighed, watching the water swirl into the marble basin. “The way the villagers part for him—he has such a presence. Or perhaps it was simply because he was standing beside me. And yet, he was so attentive today. He held my parasol the entire time we crossed the market square without me even having to ask.”

You kept your back to her, focusing on the steam radiating off the tub as your jaw clenched at the image.

“He is a man very dedicated to his duties, My Lady,” you managed to say.

“It’s more than duty,” she countered, her voice drifting into a dreamy haze. “When we stopped by the fountain, he told me that my safety was the only thing on his mind.”

Steam continued to fill the room as the tub rose with nearly scorching water.

You knew, deep down, that Bucky only said those things because it was his job—just as your job was to nod and smile at every word the Princess spoke. But a selfish part of you was seething with jealousy at the thought of anyone else walking by his side.

“Do you think he finds me charming?”

Your eyes widened and the vial of bath oil slipped from your hand, splashing more of the aroma into the water than intended. You turned to look at her, the word “I—” dying on your lips.

“It’s so hard to tell with men like him,” she continued, unlacing her bodice with a sigh. “So stoic. So guarded. But I saw the way he looked at me today!”

There was so much you wanted to say, but the words withered at the sight of her.

Having served her for so long, she had grown comfortable being nearly bare in your presence. As she let her hair fall—the silky blonde locks you had pinned so carefully earlier—her slender, graceful frame made your heart ache.

She was so beautiful, and standing in the same room as someone as beautiful as Princess Daphne felt like a cruel insult to your own heart.

But that was okay, because you would see him tonight. Unlike Princess Daphne, you would see the real version of him—the version of Bucky who gave you nothing but his warmth and his heart.

So, until then, you simply bit your tongue and nodded with a hollow smile.

“It is impossible not to find you charming, Your Royal Highness.”

The night crept on, and while the other maidservants were long asleep, you slipped out of the bedchambers. With quiet, tiptoeing steps, you made your way down the stairs and snuck out the back of the palace toward the gazebo where you and Bucky had agreed to meet.

The night air was cold and breezy, the shawl around your shoulders fluttering in the wind as you treaded through the grass.

Bucky was right—no guards were posted on this side of the palace.

As you sat down, your eyes drifted to the left. Tucked away behind the trees and bushes stood the small cabin where the kitchen crew rested. The lights were out, meaning the cooks were likely all in bed.

While you waited, the only things keeping you company were the hooting of owls and the gentle chirping of crickets.

By now, it was well past midnight, and your earlier excitement was slowly fading into exhaustion.

You found yourself yawning every few seconds, your eyelids growing heavier with each passing minute.

Had Bucky been caught up in other duties?

Had he forgotten?

Or worse—was everything Princess Daphne said true?

Had he realized his heart belonged elsewhere?

An hour had passed, and your heart began to ache the longer you sat alone without a trace of him.

You knew you had to be up early for your morning duties, so with a tired sigh, you pushed yourself off the bench and pulled your shawl tight.

As you stepped down from the gazebo, the sound of crunching grass echoed in the distance. Your eyes snapped open, your heart leaping at the possibility of him finally appearing.

But as the figure stepped into the faint, warm light of the gazebo, your shoulders deflated.

“Bob?” you asked, your voice sounding more disappointed than you intended. “What are you doing out here?”

Bob blinked, looking just as confused as you were. “I stayed behind in the kitchen,” he said, hitching a thumb over his shoulder. “I wanted to perfect the focaccia.” He lifted the loaf, which was carefully wrapped in a white cloth.

He stepped closer into the light, his eyes trailing you up and down. He took note of your thin sleeping gown with nothing but a flimsy shawl to cover the rest of you. Your face warmed in embarrassment as you wrapped the shawl tighter around you, though it salvaged nothing.

“What are you doing out here?” Bob returned the question.

“I’m… um—waiting for someone,” you replied meekly.

Bob glanced around, the crickets filling in the already awkward and suffocating silence when he found no one else near.

“… For how long?”

“I haven’t been out here long,” you lied, only finding yourself more embarrassed being caught in this predicament. “I was just starting to head back, actually.”

Bob pressed his lips together as if he wanted to say something. He knew you weren’t telling the truth, and any worker within the palace could piece two and two together.

Instead of leaving you be, he stepped up into the gazebo to meet you and lifted the loaf in his hands, changing the subject for your comfort.

“I think this is the best loaf I’ve made,” he said, unwrapping the cloth and revealing the gold-crusted focaccia with herbs laced at the top. “Want to share it with me?”

You looked back toward the palace. You really should have gone back inside, knowing just how early you’d have to rise in a few hours to tend to the Princess.

But at the thought of returning to your cold, lonely cot with nothing but the empty promise Bucky left behind, the warmth of a friend didn’t sound bad at all.

“Just for a moment,” you whispered, and Bob smiled gently.

You sat back down on the wooden bench, and Bob settled beside you, careful to maintain a respectful distance. He carefully tore the focaccia in half, the crust crackling over the chirping of the crickets.

“Here,” he said softly, handing you the larger piece. “It’s still warm.”

You took the piece in your hands and bit into it—no jam this time, but the taste was even better than the one you had earlier that day in the kitchen.

It was delicious, and you didn’t even need to shower him with compliments. The satisfied look on your face told Bob everything he needed to know. He smiled, his expression warming as he bit into his own piece.

For a moment, you two just sat there in silence. The only sounds were the crunching of bread and the wind rustling the leaves in the trees. Bob didn’t push for answers or smother you with questions like the girls usually did back in your chambers.

You two just sat there, enjoying each other’s company under the stars.

“You’re an incredible cook, Bob,” you said, gazing up at the dark sky. “I wish people outside of the palace could taste this—it’s exquisite.”

Bob wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his shoulders hunched modestly.

“I told myself that when the war is over, I want to open my own bakery one day.” He looked up at the sky with you. “It’s always been my dream.”

You glanced at Bob. He had such a faraway look in his eyes that your heart could only ache for him.

Sokovian soldiers had been sweeping through the streets, stripping people from their families and tearing down local businesses—wreaking havoc everywhere they went. For the lucky few handselected to work in the comfort of the palace, it was like a dream compared to the world outside.

But even though many workers had aspirations beyond these stone walls, they knew deep down that safety came before all else.

“Well, when you do open up your shop,” you said, nudging him in the shoulder with a reassuring smile, “I’ll be the first one in line.”

Bob smiled at you. “What about you? What do you want to do when the war is over? Will you stay here at the palace?”

“Does anyone actually want to stay at the palace?” you joked, and he chuckled softly.

“No. I want what any other woman would want. I want to get married, have my own family—” Your smile faded slightly at the thought. “Maybe a cottage somewhere deep in the forest, by a river. A place where my husband can go hunting while I stay home with the baby.”

But even if the war ended tomorrow, you knew that future was a ghost.

Even if everything went exactly as planned, the only person you could imagine sharing that life with was Bucky—and he was the Sergeant of the Howling Commandos. They were the elite, the knights specifically curated to guard and protect the royal family at all costs.

He could never leave his post, even if he wanted to.

Bob knew it, too. It was why he didn’t press you with more questions. He simply rested a hand on your shoulder, offering a silent sympathy.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

You forced a smile. “It’s okay.”

Another silence settled between you, the crickets filling the space before Bob sucked in a breath to continue.

“I know you hear this plenty of times,” he started gently, “but you deserve so much better than—”

“Hey!”

A rough voice shouted from across the yard, followed by the sound of heavy boots thumping frantically against the grass. Both of you snapped your heads up, and your breath hitched at the sight of Bucky.

He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days.

He looked angry, his entire body tense, and his left hand—the cold metal of his prosthetic—rested firmly over the hilt of his sword.

Bob scrambled to his feet, hands raised in surrender to show he meant no harm. You quickly stood up beside him.

“James—”

“What the hell are you doing past your post at this hour?” Bucky seethed. He didn’t even look at you—his icy glare was focused entirely on Bob and Bob only.

“I—I was just about to head to bed, sir,” Bob stammered, his hands still raised. “I was just finishing up some work in the kitchen and—”

“Bullshit,” Bucky spat, stepping into the faint light of the gazebo. “All I see is a mere cook who has forgotten his place—a foolish boy who thinks he’s entitled to roam the grounds after dark. You’re a cook, Reynolds. Your duty begins and ends at the stove.”

You winced at his cruelty. You knew Bucky could be rough—it was how he had earned his rank, but Bob didn’t deserve this.

“James, calm down—”

“You will not tell me to calm down, for you are interloping on palace grounds as well,” Bucky snapped, cutting you off so harshly that you flinched.

“I meant no disrespect, sir,” Bob whispered, his voice trembling.

“Then get out of my sight before I decide your presence here is a threat,” Bucky threatened, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. “Back to your hole, baker. Now.”

“Y-yes, sir!”

Bob scrambled down the steps of the gazebo, sparing one last, sympathetic glance over his shoulder before retreating toward the dark cabins. Bucky watched him with a tense jaw, his face twisted in disdain until Bob reached the door and shut it behind him.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Bucky had never spoken to you like that.

Usually, your meetings were filled with the hushed, gentle tones he shared with no one else. But tonight, he spoke to you as if you were just another servant—and that hurt more than his shouting. Instead of running to him for a hug as you usually did, you stayed rooted to the floor of the gazebo, your body tense, unsure of what he would do next.

Bucky slowly turned back to you, his eyes piercing, cold, and completely unwelcoming.

He stepped fully into the gazebo, his gaze trailing down your thin nightgown before landing on the white cloth Bob had left behind on the bench. He picked it up slowly, examining it as if it were evidence of a crime.

“You broke bread with the boy?”

You didn’t dare to speak.

“Answer me,” Bucky commanded.

“I waited for you,” you said instead, your voice trembling.

Bucky fell silent, the cloth in his hands lowering at your quiet admission. For a moment, it seemed as though he had been snapped out of his defensive daze, and you took the opportunity to continue.

“I waited for over an hour,” you said, wrapping the shawl tighter around your body defensively. “I have to rise in merely four hours—you know that. And yet...” Your voice started to shake, your face scrunching as you tried to will away tears. “You stood me up.”

Bucky parted his lips to speak, but you breezed right through him.

“Not only that—but you treated Bob with such blatant disrespect! He’s my friend, and he did nothing but keep me company and feed me!”

Bucky’s eyebrow twitched at that, his voice coming out pettier than he intended. “I didn’t realize that kid was of such importance to you.”

You blinked, your face scrunching at his words. “Don’t tell me,” you scoffed lightly in disbelief. “Are you jealous?”

He made a face. He could deny it all he wanted, but the way his jaw set told you the truth.

“I am many things,” he said stiffly. “But jealous? I am not.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, shaking your head. “Oh, I’m sure.”

“And even if I was,” Bucky stepped closer, invading your space until he was looking down at you. You made no effort to move, standing your ground despite the height difference. “Is that so wrong?”

Your brows furrowed. “Funny for you to say. I heard you had an excellent time being out with the Princess today.”

Bucky’s face became a mask of confusion. “What?”

“About how charming you were,” you said with bitterness. “She said you held her parasol and that you looked at her… differently.”

Bucky let out a dry, humorless rasp of a laugh, running his gloved right hand through his hair.

“Looking at her differently? That’s unbelievable,” he scoffed. “And you know it is my job to do as I am told.” He took another step, his shadow completely looming over you. “And charming, is it? What do you think? Am I charming?”

He was taunting you now, but you refused to let him distract you from the fact that he had stood you up.

“You’re ridiculous, James,” you spat. Your hands tightened on your shawl as you tried to push past him, but he grabbed your arm firmly enough to hold you in place.

“Wait—” he sighed, his shoulders finally easing as the defensive walls came down. “I’m sorry. It was never my intention to stand you up—I swear it.”

He squeezed your arm gently—a silent plea for you to hear him out.

“I was with the General,” he spoke, his voice getting quieter. “The meeting… it went on for hours. There were maps, ledgers, reports from the front. It’s Sokovia. The news is bad, and the King is panicked.”

He met your eyes, and you could finally see the raw regret and exhaustion behind them. “The Sokovian line is breaking through the southern pass. It’s getting worse, and the General is scrambled. He spent three hours arguing over troop placements and supply routes—I… I couldn’t just walk out.”

Bucky tugged on your arm gently, guiding you to face him. His left hand moved to your chin, his thumb stroking your cheek to keep your focus on him as he explained.

“I was supposed to leave tonight. Right after the meeting adjourned, I was ordered on a scouting mission to the front lines. I wouldn’t have even had time to find you to say goodbye.”

Bucky was leaving?

You sucked in a sharp breath, a wave of regret washing over you for being so quick with your accusations.

“But… you’re still here,” you whispered, your eyes searching his.

“I am,” he nodded, tilting his head down to stay in your line of sight. “Rogers and Wilson… they volunteered to take the mission in my stead. They’re out there right now, just so I could be here—with you.”

Bucky’s hands trailed from your face down to your arms, eventually finding your hands and cradling them in his larger palms. He brought your hands up to his face and leaned down, pressing soft, gentle kisses to your knuckles.

“There is never a moment where I’m not thinking of you, and God—the thought of you waiting for me this entire time… I can’t even fathom it,” his voice broke as he pressed another kiss to your skin, looking up at you through his lashes. “I swear to you—I would never leave you alone.”

He stood tall again, releasing one of your hands while his other crept up to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck. He tilted your head back slightly, holding your gaze under the dim gazebo light.

“And as for that outburst earlier…” He exhaled, the sharp edges of his pride finally softening into embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I’ve been on edge, is all. I never meant to take it out on you, my dear.”

Bucky didn’t wait for verbal forgiveness—he took it from the silence and the way you gazed up at him, your eyes softening in the moonlight.

He leaned in, his breath warm against your chilled skin before his lips finally met yours. It was a soft, yet desperate press, a low groan escaping him at the feeling of your warmth against his own.

When he pulled back, it was only to pepper kisses across your forehead, his eyes closed tight as if he were memorizing every inch of you.

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” he murmured against your skin, his voice a gravelly, broken thing.

He kissed your temple, then the tip of your nose, his hands sliding from your hair down to the small of your back to pull you flush against his chest, you shivered from the cold armor. “A beautiful, beautiful sight.”

You sighed softly, your body unable to help but crave his touch—to crave him.

And all Bucky wanted to do was make love to you.

He stepped back, his eyes never leaving yours as he began to remove his armor pieces one by one. You moved to take your shawl off, setting it on the bench behind you as you reached for the straps of your dress.

“No,” Bucky cut you off coldly. “Keep it on. I want to tear through it myself.”

You swallowed hard, your face warming as you obeyed. You stood there, watching him as he watched you with hungry eyes. As he stripped away the layers of leather and steel, his breathing grew heavier. When he reached his belt, his fingers fumbled clumsily for a moment before he stepped back into your space.

He closed the distance again, his lips trailing down the line of your jaw to the sensitive skin of your neck. You let out a shaky breath, your head tilting back to give him better access as his mouth explored you.

“I’ve missed you,” he mumbled, the words muffled against your throat. He began to suckle gently, marking you between words. “God, I’ve missed you so much it hurts.”

“I’ve missed you so much too, Bucky,” you moaned softly. “So much.”

Bucky groaned against your skin, satisfied by your confession as his touches grew needier. His metal hand trembled slightly as it gripped your waist, pulling you so close there wasn’t any space left between you.

He whispered sweet nothings into the crook of your neck, each sentence making you writhe beneath him. “You smell so good.” “You’re so soft.” “So pretty.”

Bucky’s hands were everywhere all at once, a contrast of heat and cold as he explored the curves he had spent all day dreaming about. His flesh hand groped at your hip while his metal fingers seared through the thin fabric of your nightgown, mapping out the expanse of your lower back.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped against your ear. “I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting, my dear. I’m going to make it up to you. I promise.”

Your heart raced as his lips found yours again. His tongue pushed past, sweeping against yours as he kissed you hungrily.

Now stripped of his armor, Bucky pressed his hips forward, and you gasped softly at the feel of him—his cock, thick and hard, straining against his pants as it poked against your lower belly.

Your body already felt so empty without him. There was a building ache between your legs that only he could remedy.

“Bucky,” you sighed softly against his mouth. “I need you.”

“I know, my dear,” Bucky groaned, rolling his hips against your stomach once more, letting you feel just how hard he was for you. “You don’t know how badly I needed you today.”

His hands wandered down to grope your bottom through your dress, bunching the fabric in his fists as he lifted it up past the curve of your ass to squeeze you more.

“Missed your legs wrapped tight around me,” he breathed. “Missed you moaning my name.”

Bucky couldn’t wait any longer.

His strong arms wrapped tight around your body, picking you up and laying you gently on the floor of the gazebo. He spread your legs, nestling himself between them. With a rough hand, he found the hem of your skirt and lifted it past your thighs, exposing your undergarments. He impatiently found the waistband, tugging them down roughly past your legs to expose you to the cool night air and his hungry gaze.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his tongue darting out to wet his lips at the sight of your glistening cunt—already puffy and begging for him, and he hadn’t even put it in yet.

“She missed me, hasn’t she?” he hummed, staring at your pussy as he began palming himself over his pants. He felt pre-cum trickle at the tip, staining the front of his trousers. “Bet I can just slide in so easily. She wouldn’t even put up a fight.”

You watched, breathless, as Bucky pulled himself out of his pants. His cock sprang forth, so thick and so heavy, as pre-cum dripped from the tip and onto the floor.

“Christ,” you said, voicing your thoughts out loud.

Bucky grinned, his flesh hand gripping the shaft as he pumped himself slow and steady. “When was the last time we fucked, sweetheart?”

You swallowed hard, trying to mask your embarrassment at his vulgar words. “I… I don’t know. Nine… ten days ago?”

Bucky hummed. “Haven’t fucked you for a little over a week and you’re already seeking attention from other men, aren’t you?”

Your eyes widened at his words, and you couldn’t help a small, huffing laugh. He really was jealous—and that jealousy only seemed to spur him on, because his cock twitched in his hand as he stroked himself.

“Gotta claim you again,” he mumbled so quietly, it was like he was speaking to himself. “Gotta remind you who you belong to.”

With his metal hand bracing his weight over you, he rubbed his cock up and down your cunt, soaking himself in your juices. Your back arched off the floor, your hips wiggling for more of him, but Bucky only clicked his tongue.

“What an eager little thing,” he taunted.

“Bucky,” you whined, wiggling your hips until your entrance caught his tip. “Pl-please...”

Bucky groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt your warm, wet opening catch around his sensitive tip.

He was so hard it was nearly painful. He had planned to take his time and savor this moment—but with the war in the back of his mind, he felt a desperate, driving need to fuck you as hard and as much as he could while he was still alive.

With a low growl, his hand found the back of your thigh, hiking it up and spreading you wide. With half of his tip already inside, he adjusted himself so he could sink even deeper.

“Goddamn,” he breathed, his muscles straining with the effort it took not to fuck you into the floor right then and there. “Just as I thought—so fucking wet… can just… slide right in.”

You hissed, your hands finding Bucky’s broad, bare back and clawing at the muscle as his thick cock stretched you out with each passing thrust. You could feel him throbbing deep inside you—searingly hot as your cunt welcomed him.

“Mine,” Bucky gritted through clenched teeth as you bottomed out against his pelvis, sheathing him completely.

To him, the feeling of your pussy was like a much needed, warm, tight hug after a long, stressful day.

“Ten days,” he breathed against your ear. “Ten fucking days—don’t think I’m gonna last long inside you, baby.”

“Don’t care,” you mumbled, wrapping your legs tight around his waist. “I just want to feel you, Bucky. Every inch of you.”

Bucky groaned, his flesh hand sliding up to your neck and applying pressure. He held your gaze, his eyes dark and blown out with lust, as he began rocking his hips back and forth. He moved slowly and sensually, forcing you to feel every swollen pulsing ridge and vein.

The sound of your pussy squelching around him filled the quiet gazebo. The mating press position made you feel utterly helpless—completely and devastingly stuffed.

“Oh my—Buck, too… too much.”

“Too much?” he repeated raspily, staring deep into your eyes as he continued to fuck you slow. “But sweetheart, this is me taking my time with you. You’ve taken harder.”

“I know,” you winced, your legs squeezing him tighter. “It’s just been… ten days—”

“Ten days and you’ve already gotten so tight for me again,” he murmured, his pace increasing. “Means you haven't been fucking anyone else.”

Your face burned as you stammered, “Of course not—”

The words that left your lips made Bucky’s heart soar and his cock pulse.

With a sharp exhale, he increased the pace. His thrusts slapped harder and deeper, making you bounce against the floor as you clung to him. The wet, vulgar sound of his skin hitting yours echoed under the gazebo roof, a testament to his hunger for you.

Bucky looked down at you, taking in the sight of your dress hiked up and ruined, your hair fanned out across the floor. You looked so beautifully destroyed, and something in him only wanted to ruin you more.

“Jesus,” he muttered, his blue eyes trailing down to where your bare hips tilted to meet him. He watched in awe as his cock disappeared in and out of you, his shaft slick.

“You look so good like this,” he rasped, his metal hand digging into your thigh to spread you even wider. “Sprawled out for me. Mine. Just mine.”

Bucky leaned in, his teeth grazing your exposed shoulder as his movements became sloppier and uneven.

“Seeing you like this always makes it so damn hard to leave,” he rasped against you, his balls growing heavier with each thrust. “Makes me want to do things to make sure you stay.”

You were a babbling mess beneath him, your voice reduced to broken sobs and incoherent pleas. You couldn’t even form words anymore, just soft, high pitched whimpers that only made Bucky’s grip on you tighten.

“I want to breed you,” Bucky confessed shamelessly. “Wanna give you a piece of me—so when I’m out there fighting, or when you’re away from me, you’ll still have me. I want to pump you so full that you’ll always be carrying a part of me.”

You body clenched at the implication of his words. He groaned at your tightness, gritting his teeth as he continued.

“Need to…” Bucky thrust deep, “pump you full…” He felt his balls growing tighter, felt himself getting closer. “Going to have to make you my girl for good.”

Your eyes rolled back as Bucky used your body for his pleasure. He was so much bigger than you, so much stronger, and all you could do was be the woman he needed as he fucked himself into you. You moaned, your body getting wetter and tighter as you felt yourself getting close.

The gazebo and the starlit sky above started to blur as tears prickled your eyes from the overwhelming sensation of being fucked.

“You like that?” Bucky breathed warmly against your skin. “You like the idea of being full of me? Of my own seed... dripping down your pretty legs?”

Your head was spinning as you nodded frantically.

“Yes!” you cried out. “Yes, Bucky—please! I’m yours… all yours—I want to be full of you!”

“Fuck,” Bucky moaned. With your hands still tight around his shoulders, he circled both his arms around your waist, lifting you from the ground and pulling you flush against his chest.

He repositioned you until you were straddling his lap, held aloft by his strength alone. Bucky’s arms wrapped tight around your body—the scent of sweat and sex mingling as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

“Bounce on it, baby,” he muttered roughly. “Fuck—bounce on me ‘til I cum.”

Your fingers laced through his long, dark hair, giving it a tug as you fucked yourself down onto his cock.

Bucky groaned, his head pressing into your shoulder as his hands moved from your waist to your hips, his thumbs digging into your skin to help guide your rhythm. Every time you moved down, he met you with a hard thrust upward that sent sparks through your body.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he rasped, his eyes fluttering shut as you began to quiver and squeeze around him. “Just like that.”

“Bucky… I’m—I’m going to—”

“I know, baby,” he rasped, holding you tighter against his chest. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

I’m not going anywhere.

“D-don’t go,” you whimpered against him, your body tightening as you clenched around his cock, letting yourself unravel all over him.

Bucky growled, low and deep in his throat, as his arms pinned you tight against his chest. With one last rough thrust deep into your cunt, he finally broke.

Thick spurts of cum surged from him as he began pumping you full. He slowly rocked his hips in gentle motions, letting his seed settle and mix inside the heat of your body.

“Good girl,” he praised with a gravelly rasp. “My sweet, precious girl.”

You let yourself melt into his touch as you two fought to catch your breaths.

Still perched on his lap, you felt him nuzzle his face into your chest, his hands roaming your back gently, mapping every inch of you as he came down from his high.

“So perfect,” he mumbled.

You looked down at him through your lashes, and the sight of him made your heart ache. You wanted to stay like this forever—with Bucky always by your side, holding you and making sweet love to you while he praised you with gentle words you wouldn’t want to hear from anyone else.

He told you he wasn’t going anywhere in the heat of the moment, but even you knew he could only mean so much.

“I don’t want you to go,” you said, your voice broken as you were reminded of his duties after tonight. “Please, just stay with me.”

Bucky let out a long, heavy sigh, his grip on you softening tenderly. He pulled back slightly to look at you, his thumb gently brushing away the sweaty strands of hair that clung to your face.

He didn’t pull out, he stayed joined to you, his cock still half hard and soft inside, wanting to keep that connection for as long as the world would allow.

“I know, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I know.”

He began to press soft kisses all over your face— your damp forehead, your cheeks, and your lips.

The reality was that after tonight, Bucky would have to be posted at the front lines along with his comrades, Steve and Sam. He would have to ready his blade, preparing for war at any given moment to lay his life down for a royal family instead of living on for the woman he loves.

But instead of letting that feeling take over, he gently pushed your hair back, looking deep into your eyes.

“Right now, let’s just enjoy the moment,” Bucky murmured gently, caressing your cheeks. “Me and you—we’re together now, and that’s all we can ask for, right?”

He spoke so soft, but you knew deep down he was feeling that hurt just as much as you were. You nodded, forcing a shaky smile despite the tears that threatened to escape.

“Right,” you whimpered.

“Don’t cry,” Bucky sighed softly, his thumb coming up to wipe the tear that spilled anyway, before leaning in to press another kiss to your lips. “I’m right here, baby. Right here.”

The sounds of crickets, soft breathing, and the gentle rustle of leaves filled the gazebo as you two held each other. His hands trailed down to your waist, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over the fabric of your crinkled nightgown.

“When the war is over,” you brought up carefully and quietly. “Do you think we’ll have a chance to be together?”

Bucky went still for a moment before a small, hopeful smile tugged at his lips—he didn’t have high hopes at all, but the smile you returned meant it was enough to reassure you.

“In a perfect world, where there is no war and no duties to bind us separately, I’ll always choose you.”

The sun that rose the next morning was the brightest it had ever been that month.

You found yourself in a happier mood, and everyone around you could tell.

“What’s she smiling about over there?” Wanda asked as she folded freshly washed white cloth.

“What do you think?” Natasha grinned, watching out of the corner of her eye as you hummed to yourself, handwashing towels.

“She’d usually be complaining about her back by now,” Yelena chimed in. “But she’s just singing to herself like some mentally deranged—”

“I can hear you all, you know,” you said over your shoulder without looking back. You pushed off your seat with a groan, stretching before you lifted the bucket of dirty water in your hands.

“I’m going to dump this outside,” you announced to the rest of the group. “Maybe bask in the sun for a bit—who knows. It’s a pretty day.”

“Okay, but don’t be long,” Natasha called out as she pushed the tower of folded clothes to the side to work on the next batch. “We have a lot to do today.”

“I won’t,” you reassured as you pushed the door open with your back, heading out of the cleaning chambers and into the warm sunlight.

As you dumped the water out onto the grass, birds chirped and the trees rustled gently in the spring breeze. Bucky was out there, somewhere, huddled in formation with the other knights as they scouted south of the kingdom.

After last night, Bucky had told you how he and the others had a mission that required them to be on their horses before sunrise. But later that night, he would meet you at the gazebo again.

He was the kingdom’s strongest soldier, and you knew he was more than capable of taking care of himself. But every time Bucky was out on a mission, you couldn’t help but pray for his safety.

You always hoped that he would return home without a scratch, falling back into your arms once again.

You gathered the empty, damp bucket and reached for the door, but you stopped short at the sound of horns blaring from the top of the guard posts.

Your head snapped up immediately at the unexpected sound.

Was this a drill?

The kingdom hadn’t made any announcements for a drill today—unless you had missed it?

As you raised your hand to shield your eyes, squinting past the sun, you saw the frantic movement of the soldiers at the top of the towers. The distant shouting was getting louder, and you watched in confusion as they began to ready their crossbows.

“Sokovian flags on the horizon!”

“Soldiers are pushing back from the southern bridge!”

“Alert the town! Citizens to the shelters! Get down!”

Your ears rang as everyone around you scattered in a frantic, panicked hurry. The horns continued to blare, crying out a symphony of war and ruin. Palace workers ran around, bumping into you as they retreated toward the safety of the cleaning rooms you had just stepped out of.

You knew you should run. You should follow them into the dark, stone safety of the cellars.

But the only thing you can think of was the southern bridge.

That was exactly where Bucky was stationed.

A hand clamped onto your arm, making you wince and snapping you out of your haze.

“Are you trying to get killed?” she hissed over the bustle of the crowd. Natasha yanked you backward, dragging you into the sanctuary of the cleaning chambers.

Inside, the room was unrecognizable. The neat stacks of folded white linens had been toppled and trampled underfoot. Buckets were overturned, soapy water slicking the floor as servants and workers scrambled toward the trapdoor leading to the deep cellars.

“Oh my god,” you breathed. “How—”

“They’re saying they’ve already made it inside,” Natasha yelled over the noise. “Sokovian spies were already within the kingdom just yesterday—soldiers are barging right into the palace as we speak.”

You felt your blood run cold.

Sokovian soldiers were already threatening to tear down the palace, and the kingdom’s strongest soldier wasn’t there to protect it.

“Where are the others? Yelena? Wanda? Bob—”

Natasha led you toward the trap door, cutting you off. “They’re already inside—”

The doors of the cleaning chamber shattered inward before she could even finish.

Sokovian soldiers stomped through, their armor dark and their weapons already leveled. “Clear the room!” one of them shouted, and before you knew it, the sharp crack of muskets and the whistle of crossbow bolts filled the air, splintering the wooden tables around you as the others screamed.

“Down!” Natasha screamed, shoving you to the floor as a projectile embedded itself in the wall where your head had been seconds before.

“To the back doors,” you hissed at her, pointing behind her. “Quick!”

She nodded, ducking behind you as you both scrambled for the exit. You burst out into the rear garden, the air already suffocating with smoke from gunshots and the sounds of people shouting over one another.

“The grapevines,” you shouted, pointing to the heavy wooden trellis that led to the outer wall. “We can climb over and reach the forest. The trees are thick enough to give us cover—”

Natasha didn’t let you finish before she grabbed your arm, already running in the direction you had pointed. “Let’s go, then!”

As you ran, a sharp crack sounded from your right. Natasha let out a choked gasp, her body crumpling as her leg buckled and blood blossomed through her skirt.

“Nat!”

You turned back, reaching out to grab her arm, but the world suddenly turned into a blinding flash of white.

A cannonball screamed through the air, striking the stone archway just above you. The impact was nearly enough to deafen you—a force strong enough to throw you backward.

You hit the ground hard, the air driven from your lungs.

Everything went silent, replaced by a high pitched ringing in your ears that drowned out the war. Dust and debris rained down, coating your tongue in grit and stinging your eyes. Through the haze of gray smoke and broken stone, you tried to move, but your limbs felt heavy.

You felt yourself deteriorating, the sounds fading in and out as your vision began to blur.

A concussion set in, your head aching and your body going numb while the world around you began to crumple and fall apart.

“Get the Princess to safety!” the kingdom’s soldiers shouted over the noise. “Go, Sergeant!”

Your head throbbed with an ache as you craned your neck, struggling to see the what was unraveling in front of you.

Through the thick dust, a familiar silhouette broke through the haze.

It was Bucky—his armor and silver blade flashing through the smoke. Following close behind him, a figure huddled low — the Princess, disguised under a dirty, oversized cowl to conceal her identity.

Ah, there he was.

Your heart thumped weakly in your chest as a strange, hollow peace settled over you.

Bucky was alive. Your Bucky.

He was alive, and he was protecting the princess.

You smiled faintly, and though your heart ached to reach for him, you knew it was futile. You couldn’t even feel your legs anymore, pinned beneath the heavy stone debris. The blood pooling around you was enough to tell you that the end was near.

But at the very least, in this moment as the war claimed you, you knew the person you loved was still standing.

And that was all that mattered.

In the chaos, amidst the smoke and the screaming, Bucky caught sight of you out of the corner of his eye.

His entire body froze. The soldier who never hesitated, the very man who served as the kingdom’s ultimate sword and shield, went completely still.

His blue eyes widened, locking onto your broken form, taking in the blood, the dust, and the way you struggled to even lift your head.

Any other soldier would have seen your body and deemed it a lost cause, a life not worth the delay. But for Bucky, every duty was forgotten as his feet began to move—away from the Princess, and toward you.

“Sergeant Barnes! What the hell are you doing? Get back in formation!”

“Barnes! Get over here! Protect the Princess!”

“The Princess is exposed! Cover!”

“Barnes!”

Several commanding voices roared after him, but Bucky didn’t look back. He didn’t care about the crown or the certain court martial that awaited him, or even the noose.

All he cared about was you.

Heavy footsteps thundered near your head, and for a moment, you feared it was a Sokovian guard coming to finish the job. They dropped to their knees beside you, and trembling hands cradled your neck to lift you up.

“No, no, no,” it was Bucky who rasped, his voice frantic as he wiped the dirt from your face. “Hey… hey, look at me. Open your eyes, sweetheart. It’s me—stay with me. Come on, stay with me.”

You tried to speak, but all that emerged was a soft, wet cough.

His thumb brushed the dust from your cheek, leaving streaks in its wake, while his blue eyes searched yours for any sign that you were still there.

“Bucky…” you whispered, the sound barely audible over the roar of the nearby fire.

“I’ve got you,” he choked out, leaning his forehead against yours. He ignored the shouting soldiers and the Sokovian arrows whistling overhead. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere—you have to stay. You have to stay awake for me.”

He began to pull at the debris with a desperate strength, refusing to let the world take the only thing he cared about.

“I can’t—I can’t move my legs,” you choked out, your body feeling useless as he tried to lift you.

“It’s okay,” Bucky cooed, his voice breaking. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

He was finally able to pull you free and cradle you in his arms, lifting you bridal style as he ran. You didn’t know where he was going, nor did you care. All that mattered was being here, held by the person you loved most.

“Just stay awake, okay? Promise me you’ll stay awake.”

“Bucky—”

“We’ll get you somewhere safe—I swear it—”

“Bucky,” you tried again, your voice a soft, fragile thread.

As he ran, Bucky tilted his head down to glance at you, his eyes searching yours to make sure you were still there.

“I love you,” you whispered suddenly.

Bucky’s stride faltered for just a moment as a choked, broken sound escaped his throat.

For a second, the face of the stoic soldier crumbled, and his eyes grew glossy with tears that threatened to spill over. But he forced his jaw to tighten—forced himself to get back into that same resolve that kept him alive til now.

“No,” he rasped, his voice hardening from vulnerability to a command. “Don’t say that. Not yet. You don’t get to say goodbye.”

He pushed himself faster, his boots skidding over the blood slicked stone of the courtyard as he dodged the falling debris of the palace.

“You save that,” he muttered, his breath hitching as he ducked behind a crumbling stone pillar to avoid a spray of Sokovian arrows. “You save those words for when we’re back at the gazebo—you save them for when the sun is up and there isn’t a drop of blood on this grass. Do you hear me?”

He looked down at you again, anticipating a response—anything to show that you were still alive—but your breathing was growing labored in his grip.

“I’m not letting you go,” he promised. “You hold on to me, and don’t you dare close those eyes.”

Bucky continued to run, and the world around you was nothing but a darkened blur.

The sounds started to grow distant, and in this moment, even on the verge of death, at least you were held by Bucky once more.

Bucky kept his promise—and more.

Even in a world that wasn’t perfect, bound by duties that often kept you both far apart, in the end, he would always choose you.

thank you to the anon for that lovely request and for entrusting me to write it. if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!

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[cherryysunshine]

Heat Signature

Pairing: Steve Rogers/F!Reader

Word Count: 9.9k

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: explicit sexual content, aphrodisiac, sex pollen, dubious consent due to aphrodisiac, established relationship, blood/injury, rough sex, multiple rounds, overstimulation, size kink, strength kink, manhandling, prone bone, possessive sex, feral Steve Rogers, gentle Steve Rogers, protective Steve Rogers, praise kink, breeding kink, creampie, unprotected sex, aftercare, emotional hurt/comfort

Summary: Steve Rogers has always been gentle with you. 

When a mission exposes you both to an aphrodisiac, quarantine forces him to confront the difference between protecting you and holding himself back. 

Author’s Note: steve rogers sex pollen fic for everyone who has ever looked at that man and thought “okay but what if he actually used the super soldier strength”

Steve knew how to be careful with you.

Most of the time, that was one of the things you loved most about him. He remembered which old injuries needed gentler hands, which silences meant comfort, and which meant space. Steve was good at care.

He was simply worse at understanding that care and gentleness were not the same thing.

You had tried to tell him that carefully, then less carefully. You had asked him to hold you down harder. You had asked him not to pull back so quickly when his fingers tightened on your hips. You had told him more than once that you liked feeling how strong he was.

He listened every time, and he tried because that was who Steve was. Then, inevitably, you would feel the moment he remembered himself. His hands would ease. His body would shift, giving you room you had not asked for. His mouth would soften against yours as if tenderness could cover the shape of what you wanted.

You loved him for that, too, which made the frustration even more complicated. Steve had spent too much of his life being turned into an object, a weapon, a symbol, a body that belonged to everyone except himself. You understood why he treated his strength as something that needed rules.

You just wished he would believe you when you told him that you were not asking him to forget the rules.

You were asking him to trust you with them.

The HYDRA lab was colder than it should have been.

That was the first thing you noticed when the mission turned bad, not the broken glass or the blood on your glove or the technician crawling toward the console with one shaking hand. The cold came from the ventilation system overhead, pouring through the room in steady white streams that disturbed the pale gold vapor spilling from the ruptured canister at the center of the floor.

You had already inhaled by the time Steve shouted your name.

It had happened too fast. You had thrown yourself into the technician before he could reach the alarm override, and your shoulder had struck his ribs hard enough to knock the air out of both of you. He went down. You went with him. Something cracked under your elbow.

The canister hit the floor.

For half a second, the room looked almost beautiful. Gold mist rose through the emergency lights, turning the lab red and amber at once, and you thought absurdly of sunlight in dust.

Then your throat burned.

You coughed, rolling away from the technician, and Steve crossed the room in three strides.

“Don’t breathe,” he ordered.

You looked up at him through watering eyes. “Little late for that.”

He did not smile.

That scared you more than the chemical.

Steve’s hand closed around your arm, steady and warm through the sleeve of your suit. His grip was firm enough to anchor you, but even then, even in the middle of a contaminated HYDRA lab with alarms beginning to shriek overhead, you felt the restraint in it. He was holding you like something injured. He was holding you like something he could accidentally hurt.

The thought should not have made heat curl through your stomach.

It did.

Natasha’s voice cut through the comm. “Status?”

“Exposure,” Steve said. His voice was controlled. Too controlled. “Unknown agent. Canister breached. We both caught it.”

There was a pause.

You hated the pause.

“Symptoms?” Bruce asked.

You opened your mouth to answer and nearly embarrassed yourself.

Because there was pain. There was heat. There was dizziness and a strange, liquid weakness in your knees. But underneath it all was something else, something low and humiliating and far too recognizable to deny. It moved through you with the same terrible certainty as fever.

Your fingers tightened in Steve’s suit.

You did not mean to do it. One second, your hand was braced against his chest because standing had become more complicated than it should have been, and the next, your fist was curled into the dark tactical fabric over the star.

Steve went still without pulling away, which somehow made it worse. His body changed before his face did, the breath he took too careful, the muscles beneath your hand locking as if he had turned himself into a wall through discipline alone. When you looked up, his pupils were blown wide, his jaw clenched so tightly that a muscle jumped near his cheek.

“Steve,” you said.

His eyes dropped to your mouth.

It lasted less than a second.

Then he stepped back.

The loss of him hit you with embarrassing force. It was not just emotional. Your body noticed the absence of his heat like it had been denied something necessary, and frustration flashed through you so sharply that you almost reached for him again.

Almost.

“Don’t do that,” you said.

His eyes lifted. “Do what?”

“Act like I’m the hazard.”

His expression shifted, pained and stubborn in equal measure. “You’re not.”

“You just moved like I was.”

“You’re contaminated,” Clint said over the comm, which was unhelpful even by his standards. “Technically, he’s right.”

“Clint,” Natasha warned.

“What? I’m just saying, this feels like a situation where nobody should touch anybody.”

You closed your eyes. “I hate all of you.”

“You say that when you’re scared,” Steve said quietly.

You hated him a little for knowing that. You loved him more for saying it softly enough that only you could hear, even with the comms open.

“I’m not scared,” you lied.

Steve’s gaze moved over your face. You wondered what he saw. The flushed cheeks, probably. The sweat beginning at your hairline despite the cold air. The way you were breathing too quickly. The way your hand had curled into a fist at your side because you did not trust yourself not to reach for him again.

His own color was high. It was subtle, because Steve’s body did not betray him easily, but you knew him better than most people alive. You knew the signs. The tightness around his eyes. The careful set of his shoulders. The way he kept his hands loose when he wanted to clench them.

Bruce’s voice came back, low and focused. “Extraction in two minutes. Masks on. Don’t touch the canister, don’t touch any exposed surfaces, and try not to touch each other.”

You laughed once under your breath. “Great.”

Steve looked like someone had put him in front of a firing squad and asked him to stand still.

Natasha reached you first.

She came through the lab doors in a sealed respirator with emergency masks in hand, her eyes sharp above the clear visor. She took one look at you, one look at Steve, and understood too much.

That was the problem with Natasha. She was never unobservant when you needed mercy.

“Mask,” she said.

You took it. Your fingers did not work properly on the strap.

Steve moved.

Then stopped.

You saw the exact moment he caught himself, and something inside you twisted.

Natasha saw it too. She stepped between you both without comment and fastened the mask for you, her gloved hands efficient and careful. You stared past her shoulder at Steve. He stared back, miserable and fever-bright, and did not cross the three feet between you.

The ride back to the compound on the Quinjet was worse.

Bruce sealed the rear med bay, which meant you and Steve were isolated from the rest of the team but not from each other. You sat on opposite sides of the compartment, trying not to watch the width of his shoulders, the tension in his hands, the way he kept himself perfectly still because motion had become dangerous.

“You need to stop looking at me like that,” he said.

Your gaze snapped to his face.

His eyes were closed.

“I’m not looking at you like anything.”

“You are.”

“You have your eyes closed.”

“I can still tell.”

It should have been funny. Instead, the heat in your blood sharpened.

“You’re doing it too,” you said.

Steve’s eyes opened.

He looked wrecked.

“I’m trying not to,” he said.

That was worse.

Your fingers curled against your thigh. “Steve.”

“No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you.”

The words landed too softly to be an accusation. You looked away first because your eyes had started to sting, and you did not know whether that was the chemical, frustration, or the awful tenderness of being known by someone who was still trying to deny you what you wanted.

“I know you too,” you said.

Steve did not answer.

When the Quinjet landed, medical was waiting.

Bruce met you in full protective gear beside Dr. Cho and two nurses you recognized, all of them moving with the efficient calm of people who were worried and trying not to make it worse. Tony hovered behind the quarantine barrier, tablet in one hand, expression caught somewhere between fear and a joke he knew better than to say.

Mostly.

“So,” Tony said as you and Steve were ushered into adjoining decontamination stalls, “good news, bad news, horrifyingly awkward news.”

“Tony,” Bruce said.

“I’m just setting expectations.”

You peeled off your gloves with more aggression than necessary. “If you say anything about HR, I’m coughing on you.”

Tony took a step back. “Noted.”

The decontamination process was necessary and humiliating in the way medical procedures often were. Your suit was sealed away. Your skin was scrubbed clean. Your temperature was taken three times. Blood was drawn. Your pulse was monitored until the sound of it began to feel accusatory.

Steve was on the other side of the frosted partition.

You could hear him.

That was the worst part. His voice was low and steady as he answered Bruce’s questions. Yes, elevated heart rate. Yes, increased body temperature. Yes, heightened sensory response. No, no loss of consciousness. No, no hallucinations.

Then Bruce asked something too quietly for you to hear.

Steve did not answer right away.

Your entire body went alert.

“I’m managing it,” he said at last.

Managing it.

You pressed your eyes shut.

The phrase felt like him. Like all the disciplined, self-punishing restraint that made him both wonderful and impossible. Steve managed pain. Steve managed fear. Steve managed his anger, his grief, his strength, his desire. He managed himself so carefully that sometimes you wondered whether he understood there was supposed to be a difference between control and loneliness.

A nurse handed you a loose medical shirt and soft pants through the decontamination slot. You changed behind the privacy shield with hands that shook more than you wanted to admit.

By the time they moved you into quarantine, your skin felt too small.

The containment suite had been stripped down to a bed, a couch, a bathroom, a table with water and medical supplies, cameras in the corners, and a glass wall with privacy film currently turned opaque.

And Steve.

He entered a few seconds after you, wearing gray medical sweats that did absolutely nothing to make him less distracting. The shirt clung to his shoulders. The pants hung low on his hips. His hair was damp from decontamination, darker at the roots, and when he looked at you, you saw the same hunger he had been trying to hide since the lab.

Only now there was nowhere for either of you to go.

The door sealed behind him.

A red light blinked once above it.

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

Steve’s brows drew together. “What?”

“This is absurd.”

His mouth softened, almost. “Yeah.”

“We have fought aliens.”

“I remember.”

“You punched a robot through a wall last week.”

“It was trying to kill Sam.”

“And now we’re trapped in horny jail because HYDRA made perfume for war criminals.”

For one blessed second, Steve looked like he might actually laugh.

Then your breath hitched.

It was small. Barely anything. A minor betrayal of your body as another wave of heat rolled through you, stronger than the last. But Steve heard it. Of course he heard it. His expression changed immediately, humor gone, concern rushing in to take its place.

He stepped toward you.

Then stopped again.

Your patience, already thin, tore.

“Steve.”

His hands flexed at his sides. “I’m trying to do this right.”

“I know.”

“I need you to understand that.”

“I do.”

“No.” His voice roughened, and the sound went through you like touch. “You don’t. This isn’t just—” He stopped and looked toward the opaque glass as though Bruce could somehow help him find the words. “This isn’t normal.”

You almost laughed again, but it would have come out wrong. “I’m aware.”

“It’s affecting judgment.”

“Yes.”

“It’s affecting inhibition.”

“Also, yes.”

“It’s pushing your body toward something you might not choose if you were clear-headed.”

That hurt. Not because it was unfair. Because it was almost fair, and almost fair was where Steve did his most damage without meaning to.

You crossed your arms, partly to hold yourself together and partly because the loose shirt brushed your skin in a way that made it difficult to concentrate. “You think I wouldn’t choose you?”

His face tightened. “That’s not what I said.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

“You’re dosed too.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“No,” you agreed. “It makes it complicated. But don’t stand there and talk like this is something happening to me that has nothing to do with us.”

Steve looked away.

The room hummed around you. Air filtration. Medical monitors. The low electronic pulse of containment systems doing their job. Beyond the glass, someone was probably watching your vitals spike in real time.

You stepped closer.

Steve noticed immediately. His eyes snapped back to yours, warning and want tangled so tightly that you could barely tell which was winning.

“Don’t,” he said.

You stopped. Not because you wanted to, but because his voice mattered. Even now. Especially now.

“I’m not going to touch you if you tell me not to,” you said.

His throat worked.

“But you don’t get to decide what I want by being afraid of it.”

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then Bruce’s voice came through the speaker.

“I’m sorry to interrupt.”

You looked up at the ceiling. “No, you’re not.”

“I’m really not,” Tony added, farther from the microphone. “But Banner is.”

Bruce ignored him. “We have preliminary results. The compound appears to be a synthetic neurochemical stimulant. It’s targeting adrenaline, dopamine, oxytocin pathways, and likely other endocrine responses. The simplest explanation is that it was designed to heighten arousal and attachment under stress.”

Steve’s expression went blank in the terrifying way that meant he was angry.

“HYDRA was using it for compliance,” he said.

“Likely,” Bruce said.

Your stomach turned.

For a second, the heat receded beneath disgust. HYDRA had always been good at finding new ways to make bodies into battlefields. You looked down at your hands, flexed your fingers, and wished you had broken the technician’s jaw instead of his ribs.

Steve moved before he remembered not to.

He crossed two steps toward you, then caught himself halfway.

This time, the aborted comfort hurt less. You could see the anger in him now, the protective instinct that belonged to you and to every person HYDRA had ever tried to use. He wanted to touch you because he was worried. Because he loved you. Because the idea of that chemical in your blood made him look like he wanted to tear the whole lab apart brick by brick.

“Treatment?” Steve asked.

Bruce hesitated.

Tony made a faint sound in the background. “Here comes the awkward news.”

“Supportive care,” Bruce said carefully. “Hydration, monitoring, temperature management. Sedation is an option, but your vitals are already volatile, and with Steve’s serum involved, I can’t guarantee a predictable response.”

You looked at Steve.

Steve was staring at the speaker.

“What else?” he asked.

Bruce was silent for long enough that your face went hot for a reason that had nothing to do with the drug.

“The compound appears to metabolize fastest after peak hormonal release,” Bruce said finally, with the pained professionalism of a man who had attended too many universities to deserve this conversation. “In plain terms, sexual release would likely shorten the active period. Possibly significantly.”

Tony, because he was Tony, said, “Or, as absolutely no doctor should put it—”

“Do not,” Bruce snapped.

Tony lowered his voice and said it anyway. “Fuck it out.”

You covered your face with both hands.

Steve looked like he might commit a felony.

“I’m muting him,” Natasha said from somewhere beyond the speaker.

“Hey—”

Tony cut off abruptly.

“Thank you,” Steve said tightly.

Bruce sighed. “To be clear, no one is instructing you to do anything. The door remains sealed until we’re certain you’re not contagious and your vitals are stable. What happens inside quarantine is up to you, within safety limits. If either of you wants sedation, we’ll discuss it. If either of you wants privacy, we can disable visual monitoring and keep vitals only.”

Your heart was beating so hard you could feel it in your teeth.

Steve said, “How long if we wait it out?”

“Based on your current levels? For her, maybe eight to ten hours if we wait it out.” Bruce hesitated. “For you, Steve, your system is burning through it faster, but the serum is making the spikes worse. Shorter duration, higher peaks.”

Another wave hit as if summoned.

Your knees softened. You caught the edge of the table, breath leaving you in an unsteady rush, and Steve was there before you could tell him not to be. His hand closed around your waist instead of your arm or elbow, and the difference was immediate enough to steal the air from your lungs.

The pressure was firm, instinctive, and devastating.

You made a sound.

Steve froze.

So did you.

It was not loud. It was barely more than a breath broken around his name. But Steve heard it, and you felt his grip tighten once before he forced it loose.

He tried to step back.

You caught his wrist. “Don’t.”

His eyes found yours.

“I can’t be objective right now,” he said.

“Neither can I.”

“That’s the point.”

“No, Steve. The point is that we know what’s happening. We know it’s chemical, and awful, and not how either of us would have chosen to spend our Friday night.” His mouth twitched despite himself. “But you also know this isn’t coming from nowhere.”

The almost-smile disappeared.

“You know I want you,” you said. “You know I wanted you this morning. You know I’ll want you tomorrow when this is out of our systems.”

His voice was low. “That doesn’t mean—”

“It means you don’t get to pretend the drug invented it.”

The words landed.

“I’ve asked you before,” you said, quieter now. “I’ve asked you to stop being so careful. I’m not saying that to pressure you. I’m saying it because I need you to stop acting like wanting you like this means I’m not myself.”

Steve closed his eyes.

“You want rougher,” he said.

“Yes.”

“You’ve wanted that for a while.”

“Yes.”

“And I keep pulling back.”

You nodded.

“I know my strength,” he said. “You don’t always know what it feels like from my side. You ask me to hold you down, and I want to give you what you want. But then I feel how easy it is to move you, and all I can think about is what happens if I misjudge it.”

Your anger softened so abruptly that it almost hurt.

You let go of his wrist and covered the hand he had resting on your waist.

“You’re allowed to trust yourself,” you said.

His laugh was silent and humorless.

“You trust me in combat.”

His expression shifted.

You pressed his hand more firmly against your waist. “Trust me here.”

Steve looked toward the glass wall.

“Bruce,” he said.

The speaker crackled. “I’m here.”

“Visual monitoring off.”

A pause.

Then Natasha’s voice, gentler than before. “Done.”

The opaque privacy film deepened until the glass became a flat gray mirror. You could still see your reflections in it, blurred and strange. You looked flushed, unsteady, your hand over Steve’s. He looked like a man trying to stand at the edge of a cliff without looking down.

“Vitals remain monitored,” Bruce said. “Audio?”

Steve looked at you.

It was a question.

Even now, it was a question.

Your throat tightened. “Off unless we call you.”

The speaker clicked.

Silence settled over the room.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then Steve said, “I need you to say it again.”

Your pulse jumped. “Which part?”

His eyes were darker than you had ever seen them. “That you want me.”

You stepped closer. His hand slid more fully around your waist, not pulling yet, but ready.

“I want you,” you said.

His breath left him slowly.

“I want you when I’m sober,” you said. “I want you when I’m clear-headed. I want you sweet. I want you careful. I want you in all the ways you already know.”

His fingers tightened.

You felt it through the thin cotton of the medical shirt.

“And I want you rougher than you let yourself be.”

Steve’s expression changed.

It was not the chemical alone. You knew that. The drug was there in the fever-bright heat of his eyes, in the tremor that moved through his hand, in the way his control looked painfully thin. But underneath it was recognition. Not surprise. He knew. He had always known.

He had just never fully believed he was allowed to answer.

“You say red, I stop,” he said.

“Yes.”

“And if anything feels wrong, you tell me.”

“I will.”

“I can’t promise I’ll be as gentle as I usually am.”

The words moved through you like a match struck in the dark.

“I’m not asking you to be.”

His hand went still at your waist.

Then, very carefully, Steve pulled you to him.

It was not rough. Not yet. It was barely more than a closing of distance, his body meeting yours with enough restraint that you could feel the shape of what he was holding back. But after hours of aborted touches and careful avoidance, the contact hit hard enough to make your knees weaken.

Steve caught you.

This time, he did not let go.

His arms came around you properly, one at your waist and the other across your back, his hand spreading wide between your shoulder blades. He bent his head until his forehead rested against yours. You could feel him shaking.

Not from weakness.

From refusal.

From the effort of not taking too much too fast.

“Steve,” you whispered.

His eyes closed. “I’m trying.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know if that helps.”

“It does.”

Your hands rose to his chest. His heart was racing under your palm, strong and fast and alive. For a second, you forgot the chemical. You forgot HYDRA, quarantine, cameras, and medical monitors. There was only Steve in front of you, still trying to be good in a situation designed to make goodness difficult.

You kissed him first.

Or you meant to.

You pushed onto your toes, and Steve met you halfway, his mouth catching yours with a sound that was almost relief. The kiss was hot, clumsy by Steve’s standards, a little too hard at first before he corrected himself.

Then you bit his lower lip.

Not hard.

Enough.

Steve made a sound against your mouth that you had never heard before.

Everything changed.

His hand tightened at your back, pulling you in so suddenly that your breath broke. The kiss deepened, lost its careful shape, and became something hungrier and less practiced. You felt the couch strike the back of your legs and realized he had moved you there without asking your feet to cooperate.

Your heart kicked.

Steve felt you tense and stopped instantly.

His mouth lifted from yours. “Tell me.”

“No,” you said quickly, almost offended by how fast he had pulled himself back. “No, I’m not scared.”

His eyes searched your face.

You reached for his hand, put it at your hip, and held it there.

“I liked that.”

Steve stared at you.

The realization came slowly. You watched it unfold across his face, not as shock but as reluctant understanding. The movement had not frightened you. The suddenness had not hurt. His strength had not been a mistake to apologize for.

You liked it.

His gaze dropped to where his hand covered your hip.

“Oh,” he said, very softly.

Your breath caught.

Because that was the moment.

Not the exposure, not Bruce’s terrible explanation, not the locked door or the privacy film or the heat crawling under your skin. This was the moment something between you tilted. Steve looked at your body under his hand and understood, maybe for the first time without softening the knowledge into something safer, that you were not merely allowing him to be stronger with you.

You wanted it.

His thumb moved once over your hip.

Then his hand tightened.

Your eyes fluttered.

Steve saw that too.

The look on his face changed again, and for one dizzy second you thought: Oh.

The realization startled you with its simplicity. Steve had not been waiting for permission to become someone else, and the aphrodisiac had not uncovered some secret cruelty buried beneath all that gentleness. He was still Steve, which was the part that made your chest ache around the heat.

But he liked this.

He liked your trust. He liked the way you responded when he stopped treating his strength as something shameful. He liked being asked for the power he spent so much time containing, and maybe the roughness itself was not the fantasy he would have chosen alone, but your wanting transformed it in his hands.

Steve Rogers did not secretly want to ruin you.

Steve Rogers wanted to give you what you asked for and had just realized that giving it to you did not make him a danger.

It made him yours.

“Tell me again,” he said.

His voice was lower.

You swallowed. “What?”

“What you want.”

You did.

Not all at once. Not crudely, though there would have been room for that in another version of the night, one without poison in your blood and medical staff outside the door. You told him where you wanted his hands. You told him you wanted his weight. You told him that when he moved you, when he held you still, when he stopped asking your body to pretend it did not know exactly how strong he was, it made you feel trusted too.

Steve listened.

He always listened.

Only this time, he did not translate every word into a warning.

The next wave of heat took both of you under.

It started with his mouth on yours, slower than you expected and rougher than he usually allowed himself to be. He kissed you like he was still giving you time to change your mind, but his hands had stopped pretending they did not know what they wanted. One stayed locked around your waist while the other slid up your back, spreading wide between your shoulder blades and pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies.

You made a small sound into his mouth, and Steve went still for half a second.

“Still with me?” he asked, breathless.

“Yes,” you said immediately. You caught his jaw in your hand and made him look at you. “Still with you.”

Something in him broke open at that.

He kissed you again, and this time he let you feel him. Not carelessly. Never carelessly. But fully. His grip tightened at your waist, and then he lifted you as if it cost him nothing at all. Your legs wrapped around him on instinct, a sharp breath leaving you when his hands caught under your thighs and held you there, suspended against his body.

“I like it,” you whispered before he could ask. “I like when you move me like that.”

His jaw flexed.

Then he carried you to the bed.

He lowered you onto the mattress with maddening control, following you down until his body covered yours and his weight pressed you into the sheets. It was not enough to trap you. It was enough to make your thoughts blur at the edges, enough to make your hands fist in his shirt while relief moved through you so sharply it was almost pain.

“There,” you breathed.

Steve’s face changed. “There?”

You nodded, pulling at him until he understood. “Stay there.”

For once, he did.

His body settled over yours, heavy and warm and solid, and the sound that left you was embarrassing in its honesty. Steve’s eyes dropped to your mouth. His hand slid to your hip, fingers firm through the thin cotton of your pants.

“You really do want this,” he said, like the truth had finally reached a place in him deeper than fear.

“I’ve been telling you.”

“I know.” His voice went rough. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize right now.”

His mouth twitched, but the heat in his eyes did not soften. “Bossy.”

“You like it.”

His hand tightened at your hip. “Yeah,” he said, low enough to make your stomach pull tight. “I do.”

Then he kissed his way down your throat.

Steve had always been careful with his mouth. Gentle presses, patient attention, the kind of tenderness that made you feel cherished and occasionally made you want to scream. This was different. His lips dragged over your skin. His teeth grazed beneath your jaw, then closed lightly at the side of your neck, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to make you arch under him.

His hand caught your waist and held you down.

You froze, but not from fear.

Steve felt the change and lifted his head immediately. “Tell me.”

You swallowed, heat rushing into your face. “That was good.”

He looked at his hand where it held you against the bed.

Then he did it again.

Not harder. More deliberately.

His palm spread over your waist, his fingers pressing into the soft give of you, and he held you in place while his mouth returned to your neck. Your body reacted before your pride could stop it. Your knees shifted around his hips, your back trying to arch even though his hand kept you exactly where he wanted you.

Steve made a sound against your skin.

It was not gentle.

It was hungry.

The noise went through you so intensely that you nearly forgot how to breathe. You pulled at his shirt, impatient now, and Steve let you drag it up only so far before he took over. He sat back long enough to pull it over his head, flushed and broad-shouldered and breathing hard, his eyes fixed on you like he was done pretending looking was enough.

You reached for him.

He caught both your wrists in one hand and pinned them carefully above your head.

Your breath stopped.

So did his.

For one suspended moment, neither of you moved. Steve’s grip was firm, but not painful. His fingers circled your wrists with terrifying ease, holding you in place while his free hand braced beside your shoulder. He looked down at you, and you watched the exact second he understood what the expression on your face meant.

Not fear.

Want.

“Okay?” he asked, his voice low.

You tested his hold, just enough to feel that you could not break it unless he let you. Your pulse kicked hard, your body going hot and liquid beneath him.

“Very okay,” you said.

Steve’s eyes closed for half a second.

When they opened, something steadier had settled there. Still fevered. Still affected. But listening.

Always listening.

He lowered his mouth to yours again, kissing you while he kept your wrists above your head. His other hand moved down your body, slow enough to give you time and firm enough to make the touch impossible to ignore. He found the hem of your shirt and dragged it up, his knuckles brushing your ribs, his palm flattening briefly over your stomach as if he needed to feel you breathe.

“I’ve got you,” he said against your mouth.

“I know.” You lifted your head as much as his hold allowed. “That’s why I want it.”

The words hit him hard. You felt it in the shudder that moved through his body, in the way his grip tightened for one second before he made himself loosen it again.

“Steve,” you said softly. “You can hold me tighter than that.”

His eyes went dark.

Then he did.

His hand closed more securely around your wrists, still careful of the bones, still perfectly aware of his own strength, but no longer treating you like you might disappear beneath it. The pressure pinned you to the mattress. His body covered yours again, and this time when you arched against him, he did not pull back.

The kiss that followed was messy and deep, full of heat and teeth and his breath catching when you rolled your hips up against his.

After that, patience failed both of you.

Clothes came off in pieces, interrupted by kisses and Steve stopping only when he needed to look at your face. By the time there was nothing between you, his hands had learned a new kind of certainty. He touched you slowly at first, watching what made your eyes flutter and your breath break. Then he touched you with more confidence, his fingers firm on your thighs, spreading you open beneath him while his mouth moved lower.

You grabbed at his hair.

Steve looked up immediately.

“Don’t stop,” you said.

His mouth curved, barely.

Then he lowered his head again, and the room slipped sideways.

You lost track of time under his mouth. You knew only heat, his hands on your hips, the rough scrape of his jaw against your inner thigh, the obscene tenderness of how closely he watched you while he took you apart. Every time your body tried to twist away from the intensity, his arm came across your hips and held you there, keeping you open for him until your hands fisted in the sheets.

“Steve,” you gasped.

He lifted his head just enough to answer. “Too much?”

“Not too much. Don’t stop.”

His gaze held yours for another second, making sure.

Then he gave you exactly what you asked for.

When you came, it was with his name broken in your mouth and his hands holding you through it. He stayed there until the last tremor passed, pressing kisses to your skin as if gentleness had not disappeared at all. It had only changed shape.

By the time he crawled back over you, you were shaking.

Steve kissed your cheek, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth. “Still with me?”

You laughed weakly. “Unfortunately for your ego, yes.”

His smile flickered. “My ego?”

“You look smug.”

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

He kissed you before you could say anything else, and you felt him hard against your thigh, hot and heavy and barely restrained. The contact made both of you go still.

Steve’s forehead dropped to yours.

“You’re sure?” he asked.

The question was quiet, but there was nothing casual in it. Not after everything. Not with both of you still fevered, still shaking, still aware that wanting was not enough unless it stayed a choice.

You touched his face. “I’m sure.”

His eyes searched yours.

You held him there. “I want you inside me. I want you to hold me down. I want to feel you tomorrow.”

Steve’s breath left him in a shudder.

He reached between you, and even with everything your body wanted, the first press of him made you inhale sharply. Steve stopped at once, his arm trembling beside your head.

“Okay?” he asked.

“Yes. Just slow.”

He kissed you, soft now, almost unbearably sweet. “Slow,” he promised.

He gave you slow. He gave you patient. He gave you every inch with his jaw clenched and his body shaking from the effort of not rushing, even as the chemical burned through both of you and made restraint feel like cruelty. Your hands slid over his shoulders, down his back, nails pressing into muscle as he filled you.

When he was finally seated deep, he went still.

You could feel his heart pounding.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The weight of him pinned you down, his chest against yours, his breath hot at your cheek. You had wanted his strength, but this was more than that. This was trust made physical. This was Steve giving you the part of himself he feared most and keeping it careful because you had asked him not to hide it.

You turned your head and kissed his jaw.

“Move,” you whispered.

Steve did.

The first thrust was measured, deep and controlled, and it drew a sound out of you that made his rhythm falter. His hand slid beneath your knee, lifting your leg higher around his hip, changing the angle until the next thrust made your eyes squeeze shut.

“There?” he asked, voice strained.

“Yes. There.”

His control thinned.

You felt it in the way his hips drove forward, still precise but harder now, each thrust pushing you deeper into the mattress. His hand found your waist and held you still, not letting you slip away from the force of him. The bed creaked beneath you. Your breath came in broken pieces. Steve’s mouth moved against your throat, your shoulder, anywhere he could reach.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, rough and low.

“It’s not.”

His grip tightened.

A helpless sound escaped you.

Steve groaned. “You like feeling me hold you down.”

“Yes.”

His hips snapped forward harder, and pleasure flashed through you so brightly that you grabbed at his arm. Steve stopped immediately, body locked above yours.

You shook your head before he could ask. “Don’t stop. I just—Steve, it felt good.”

For a second, he only stared at you.

Then he laughed once, breathless and disbelieving, and buried his face in your neck. “You’re going to kill me.”

“You’ll live.”

“I’m not sure.”

You smiled against his skin. “Steve.”

He lifted his head.

You wrapped your legs tighter around him. “Harder.”

The word changed him.

Not into someone else. Never that. His hand came to your face first, thumb brushing your cheek with aching tenderness. His eyes held yours, giving you one more chance, one more breath, one more place to stop.

You did not take it.

Steve kissed you, and then he stopped holding back.

He fucked you like he trusted you to know what you wanted. Like he trusted himself to listen. His body drove yours into the mattress, strong and relentless, one hand gripping your hip while the other braced beside your head. You felt surrounded by him, overwhelmed by him, held down by him, and the pleasure of it was so sharp that tears burned at the corners of your eyes.

Steve saw them.

His rhythm broke. “Sweetheart—”

“Good,” you gasped, pulling him back down. “It’s good. Please.”

His face twisted, desperate and tender all at once.

Then his mouth was on yours again, swallowing the next sound you made as his hand slid between your bodies. You came hard enough to lose the shape of the room. For a few seconds there was only Steve, his weight, his voice saying your name, his hand firm at your hip as he held you through every shaking second of it.

He followed soon after, burying his face in your shoulder with a broken sound as his body went rigid over yours. Even then, even at the edge of himself, he was careful. His hand cradled the back of your head. His weight shifted just enough not to crush you. His mouth pressed against your skin, trembling and reverent.

For a long time afterward, neither of you spoke.

Steve stayed inside you, breathing hard, his body still covering yours. You could feel him everywhere: in the ache of your thighs, the heat between your legs, the solid pressure of his chest against yours. His hand moved slowly over your hair, almost dazed.

“Too much?” he asked finally, voice wrecked.

You turned your face into his palm. “No.”

He exhaled.

“Intense,” you admitted. “But not too much.”

His eyes closed like the distinction mattered more than anything else you could have said.

You touched his cheek. “Come here.”

“I’m already here.”

“Closer.”

A faint, exhausted smile crossed his face. “That might be a medical impossibility.”

“Try.”

He lowered himself carefully, giving you more of his weight again, and you sighed with the comfort of it. His arms came around you. This time, when he held you, he did not loosen his grip before you asked.

You smiled against his shoulder.

“There,” you whispered.

Steve kissed your temple. “There.”

The serum made the whole thing absurd.

You knew Steve’s stamina. You had been dating him long enough to understand that ordinary human limits were, for him, more like polite suggestions. But the aphrodisiac took everything the serum already made unfair and pushed it into something almost ridiculous. Each time your body went loose and heavy with relief, his pulse would begin to slow for maybe a minute before another spike hit him, heat coming back into his eyes with an apology already forming on his mouth.

The third time it happened, you started laughing.

Steve looked stricken. “What?”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

His ears went red.

Actually red.

Even fevered, overwhelmed, and visibly fighting the urge to pull you back under him, Steve Rogers blushed because you had implied his recovery time was inconvenient.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You laughed harder, then winced because your body was beginning to feel like you had survived both sex pollen and a full Avengers training circuit. “Don’t apologize. Just bring me the blue drink.”

He brought you the blue electrolyte drink. He opened it. He held it for you even though you were capable of holding it yourself, and when you gave him a look, he gave one right back.

“Hydrate,” he said.

“You’re such a romantic.”

His mouth curved, tired and fond and still hungry in a way that made your exhausted body consider mutiny.

“You love me,” he said.

“I do. Unfortunately.”

His smile faded into something softer.

The drug did not take that from him. It sharpened want, stripped patience, twisted need into something urgent and physical, but it could not manufacture the way Steve looked at you when he forgot to be afraid. That was yours. That had always been yours.

You reached for him.

He came.

The hours passed in heat and fragments. The bed. The couch. The cold bathroom tile against your feet when he helped you drink water between waves because even compromised by HYDRA’s poison and his own impossible stamina, Steve Rogers still cared about hydration. The first time his control slipped enough that his body covered yours fully, his weight pressing you down into the mattress in a way that made your mind go bright and empty with relief. When you told him harder, he believed you. When you told him wait, he waited. When you told him yes, he stopped making yes prove itself over and over before he accepted it.

At some point, Bruce’s voice came carefully through the speaker after a long warning chime, asking for a verbal status check. Steve had wrapped you in a blanket by then, one hand braced on the mattress beside your hip, his body angled between you and the rest of the room as if the sound system itself might threaten your modesty.

“We’re alive,” you called, because Steve looked like he might combust if forced to answer.

Bruce paused. “Vitals are improving.”

“Great,” you said.

“They’re still elevated.”

“No kidding.”

Steve put his face in his hands.

Bruce, clearly fighting for professionalism, said, “Do either of you require medical assistance?”

You looked at Steve. Steve looked at you.

His hair was a mess. His mouth was swollen. There was a red mark on his shoulder you were fairly sure you had put there with your teeth at some point, which meant Captain America was going to leave quarantine with visible evidence that his girlfriend had briefly lost her mind.

You felt a little proud.

Steve saw your expression and narrowed his eyes.

You smiled at the ceiling. “We need more water.”

“Sending it through the transfer drawer.”

“And maybe food.”

“Also sending food.”

“And if Tony is anywhere near the observation room, tell him I can still kill him from quarantine.”

A faint sound came through the speaker that might have been Natasha laughing.

Tony’s voice, farther away, protested, “I have been nothing but respectful during this medical crisis.”

“You told us to fuck it out,” Steve said.

“I said what the science implied!”

Natasha said, “Muted again.”

The speaker clicked off.

You closed your eyes and let your head fall back against the pillow. “I’m moving to Canada.”

Steve sat beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. “Why Canada?”

“I don’t know. It was the first place that came to mind.”

“You hate being cold.”

“I’ll adapt.”

His hand settled over your ankle beneath the blanket, warm and heavy and careful again.

The care made your chest hurt.

You opened your eyes.

Steve was looking at his hand on your ankle, thumb resting lightly against the bone as if he were cataloging every possible bruise before it appeared.

There it was.

The crash.

“Steve.”

“I’m okay,” he said.

“You are a terrible liar.”

His mouth tightened.

You pushed yourself up carefully. Every muscle objected. Steve moved to help you, then hesitated, his hand hovering near your elbow.

You stared at it.

He started to pull away.

“Oh, don’t you dare.”

His eyes jumped to yours.

“You don’t get to spend hours proving you can listen to me and then go right back to treating me like spun glass.”

The words were sharper than you intended, but you did not take them back. You were tired and sore and still flushed with the chemical’s fading heat, and you could not bear the thought of waking up tomorrow with Steve further away from you than he had been before.

His hand closed carefully around your elbow.

He helped you sit.

Then he let go.

You sighed. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

He looked down.

The room was cooler now, or maybe your skin was finally returning to itself. The sheets were tangled around you, towels abandoned near the edge of the bed, and Steve had arranged water and protein bars on the table with the grim practicality of a soldier preparing supplies during a siege.

You touched his hand.

He went still, but he did not pull away.

“I remember,” you said.

His gaze lifted.

“I know you’re going to worry it was all fever and chemicals and that I’ll wake up horrified. So I’m telling you now. I remember asking. I remember you listening. I remember you stopping when I said wait. I remember you giving me water like the world’s most overqualified nurse.”

That got the smallest breath of amusement from him.

“And I remember liking it,” you said.

His expression closed.

You squeezed his hand before he could leave you from six inches away. “Steve.”

His voice was quiet. “There will be bruises.”

“Probably.”

“I was too rough.”

“You were rougher.”

His eyes met yours.

The distinction mattered. You could see him hearing it.

“You were not too rough,” you said. “If you had been, I would have told you.”

“You were drugged.”

“So were you.”

“That doesn’t cancel it out.”

“No. It means we talk about it like adults who were put in an awful situation by people who wanted to use our bodies against us.” Your throat tightened, but you kept going. “HYDRA did that. Not you.”

Steve looked away.

You shifted closer, giving him time to stop you.

He did not.

“The worst part,” you said softly, “is that I’m afraid you’re going to use this as proof that you were right to hold back.”

He did not answer.

That was answer enough.

“I don’t know how not to think about what could have happened,” he said. “I don’t know how to look at marks on you and not wonder if I misjudged. I don’t know how to be that with you without worrying I’ll become something I can’t take back.”

You cupped his face.

He went still.

“Listen to me,” you said. “I do not need you drugged. I do not need you out of control. I do not need you to become someone else. I need you listening. That’s all I’ve ever been asking for.”

His eyes closed.

You leaned forward and pressed your forehead to his.

“Sometimes I want sweet. Sometimes I want slow. Sometimes I want the way you touch me when you’re trying to remind me I’m safe.”

Steve’s hand rose to your waist, hesitant but there.

“And sometimes,” you continued, “I want to feel your strength because I already know I’m safe with you.”

His fingers tightened, not by much, but enough for you to notice.

You smiled.

His eyes opened, and this time he saw you clearly. You were tired and sore, sober enough to know what you were saying, and still leaning into his hand.

A long breath left him.

“I don’t know if I can promise to get it right every time,” he said.

“You don’t have to.”

His thumb moved once at your waist. “I can promise to keep listening.”

Your chest softened. “That’s the whole thing, Rogers.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh.

Then he kissed you.

It was gentle.

You let it be.

Gentle was not the enemy. Careful was not the enemy. You loved this part of him, the sweetness that survived war and serum and ice and every person who had tried to make him into something less human than he was.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours again.

“I love you,” he said.

“I know.”

His eyes narrowed.

You smiled. “I love you too.”

“Better.”

“You’re needy after sex pollen.”

His face went pink.

You laughed, and this time it did not hurt as much.

The speaker chimed before Bruce’s voice came through again, cautious but relieved. “Your levels are dropping. Steve’s are still elevated, but trending down.”

You patted Steve’s cheek. “Negative refractory period and slow toxin clearance. Tragic.”

Bruce coughed.

Steve closed his eyes. “Please don’t say that where he can hear you.”

Bruce, sounding like he regretted medical school, said, “You’re both past the worst of it.”

Past the worst of it.

You leaned into Steve and felt his arm come around you. Still careful. Always careful. But when you tucked yourself closer, he did not loosen his hold to give you space you had not requested.

He kept you there.

That felt like victory.

Several hours later, the door unsealed.

By then, you had showered, changed into clean clothes from the transfer drawer, eaten two protein bars, half a sandwich, and something Tony claimed was a recovery smoothie but looked like melted radioactive mint chip. Steve had refused to let you drink it until Bruce confirmed it was safe. You had refused to let Steve throw it away until you got to take a picture.

For blackmail, obviously.

The chemical had faded to an afterglow of exhaustion and tenderness by the time Dr. Cho cleared you both for release. She examined you first, clinically calm, making notes on your vitals and checking the places where bruises had begun to rise along your hips and thighs. Steve stood on the other side of the room pretending not to watch while absolutely watching.

Dr. Cho glanced between you once and said, “Any pain beyond expected muscle soreness?”

“No.”

Steve’s jaw tightened.

You shot him a look.

Dr. Cho’s mouth curved faintly. “Any dizziness? Nausea? Confusion?”

“No.”

“Do you feel safe leaving quarantine with Captain Rogers?”

Steve looked as if the question had physically struck him.

You answered without hesitation. “Yes.”

Dr. Cho nodded as if she had expected nothing else, then turned to Steve. “Do you?”

That surprised him.

It surprised you, too.

Steve blinked. “Do I what?”

“Feel safe leaving quarantine with her.”

For a second, he looked almost offended on your behalf. Then the question settled, and something complicated moved through his face.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

Dr. Cho made another note. “Good.”

When she left, Steve stared after her.

You bumped his arm with your shoulder. “Told you. Smart woman.”

He looked down at you. “You planned that?”

“No. I’m just choosing to take credit.”

His smile was small but real.

The hallway outside quarantine was empty except for Natasha, who leaned against the far wall with a paper bag in one hand and the expression of someone prepared to murder Tony Stark if necessary. She took in both of you with one sweep of her eyes, pausing only briefly on the marks high on Steve’s neck that his shirt did not fully cover.

Her brows rose.

Steve’s ears went red again.

You took the bag from her. “Please tell me that’s food.”

“Your actual clothes,” Natasha said. “And food.”

“I’ve never loved you more.”

“I know.”

Steve cleared his throat. “Where’s Tony?”

“Banned from this floor,” Natasha said. “Possibly forever, depending on whether he makes the T-shirt.”

You stared at her. “What T-shirt?”

“The one he absolutely should not make.”

Steve looked up at the ceiling like he was asking God for strength, and despite everything, you started laughing.

He looked at you like you were the sunrise and a headache at the same time.

Natasha’s expression softened by a fraction. “Go home. Sleep. Hydrate. Don’t let him brood too much.”

“I don’t brood,” Steve said.

Natasha and you looked at him.

He frowned. “I don’t brood that much.”

“That’s progress,” Natasha said, and walked away.

The elevator ride to Steve’s floor was quiet without being uncomfortable. Your body was exhausted in a deep, humming way, and Steve kept his hand around yours as if he had decided, finally, that touching you after quarantine was allowed.

“You’re thinking,” you said.

“I do that.”

“Dangerous habit.”

His mouth curved, then faded.

When the elevator doors opened, he did not move right away.

“I don’t want that to be the only time,” he said.

Your heart tripped.

Steve looked straight ahead into the empty hallway, jaw set as if he were bracing himself for enemy fire. “Not like that. Not because of the drug. I don’t want that again.”

“Me neither.”

“But what you asked for.” He glanced at you then, uncertain but honest. “I don’t want to go back to pretending I don’t hear you.”

The tenderness that moved through you was almost worse than the heat had been.

“Okay,” you said.

His brows drew together slightly. “Okay?”

“We don’t go back.”

Some of the tension eased from his shoulders.

“We talk,” you said. “When we’re rested. When there’s no toxin, no quarantine, no Tony making commentary from behind glass. We figure out what we both want. What’s okay. What isn’t. Where you need reassurance. Where I need you to stop deciding for me.”

Steve absorbed that.

Then he nodded. “I can do that.”

“I know.”

His eyes softened. “You sound very sure.”

“I am.”

“About me?”

You squeezed his hand. “Always.”

That one hit him. Steve could take praise in public if it were about Captain America, but give Steve Rogers certainty in private, and he looked like you had handed him something fragile enough to frighten him.

You loved him so much that it made you ache.

“Come on,” you said softly. “Take me to bed.”

His eyes darkened before he could stop them.

You pointed at him. “To sleep.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought it very loudly.”

“I have never thought loudly in my life.”

“You are a patriotic foghorn.”

He laughed then, a real laugh, tired and warm in the empty hallway. It followed you into his apartment, into the quiet space that smelled like laundry detergent and coffee and the faint cedar soap he liked. You changed into one of his shirts because your clean clothes were in Natasha’s bag and Steve’s were closer. He pretended not to watch you do it.

The bed felt impossibly soft.

Steve climbed in after you with unusual caution, lying on his back at first as though he did not want to presume. You let him suffer for approximately three seconds before rolling into his side.

His arm came around you.

Careful.

Then, after a pause, firmer.

You smiled against his chest.

“There,” you murmured.

Steve’s chin brushed the top of your head. “There?”

“That’s better.”

His hand spread against your back.

The weight of it was warm and solid and exactly enough.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. His heartbeat slowed beneath your ear. Yours followed. The city beyond the windows moved on without you, full of noise and light and people who had no idea that the world had narrowed for a few hours to a locked room, a terrible chemical, and the difference between fear and trust.

You were almost asleep when Steve said your name.

“Hm?”

“I was scared,” he said quietly. “Not of you. Not really of the drug either. I was scared I’d find out there was a part of me I couldn’t control.”

You lifted your head.

“And then I was scared because I could control it enough to listen,” he said. “Which meant all the times before, when you asked and I pulled back, it wasn’t because I couldn’t do it safely. It was because I didn’t trust myself.”

Your throat tightened. “It frustrated me. Sometimes it hurt my feelings. Not because you wouldn’t do exactly what I wanted, but because it felt like you trusted your fear more than you trusted me.”

His face softened with pain.

“But I understand why,” you said. “That doesn’t erase it. It gives us somewhere to go.”

His hand covered yours.

“I don’t need perfect,” you said. “I need honest. And I need you to stop looking at my bruises like they’re evidence in a murder investigation.”

A startled laugh broke out of him.

You grinned. “Some of those are mine emotionally.”

He shook his head, but the guilt in his eyes eased. “You’re impossible.”

“You love me.”

“I do.”

“Unfortunately?”

His smile softened. “Never.”

That was unfair. You were too tired to be expected to survive Steve Rogers saying things like that while looking at you like you were the only place he had ever wanted to come home to.

You settled back against him, hiding your face in his shirt.

“Go to sleep,” he murmured.

“You first.”

“I can do this all night.”

“Negative refractory period and no sleep requirements. Tragic.”

“Please stop calling it that.”

“No.”

He sighed, but his arm tightened around you, and this time there was no fear in it.

Only warmth.

Only weight.

Only Steve, careful with you because he loved you.

And finally, finally, strong enough to understand that careful did not always mean letting go.

credit to @uzmacchiato for the cherry divider and @saradika-graphics for the Captain America divider

[ktficworld]

The Game Of Perceptions 1

Pairing: dark alpha! Steve Rogers x omega!reader

Masterlist

Warnings: non-con/dub-con, power imbalance, misogyny, 18+, politics. Read at your own risk.

Summary: Being an omega is hard in this cruel world but what happens when you catch the eye of someone forbidden? Is it a boon or a curse?

A/n: Yes, I'm starting another series even tho I have two unfinished one but this is the only idea that made me write so I'm going to self-indulgent. I hope you guys like it and please do comment and reblog, it gives me motivation ❤️.

Your eyes blinked open a second before the alarm went off. You swiped it off as Tina groaned at the disturbance. The sky was still shrouded in darkness at 5 a.m as you glanced down from your small window.

You briefly looked over at your roommate and colleague as she slept soundly across from you. You admired how she could wake up 5 minutes before the shift and still be on time.

You tip toed out of the tiny room and towards the bathroom. The mundane routine of showering, taking and checking your suppressants, getting ready and cooking breakfast for both of you etched into your muscles like a scar. Everyday, every moment blended together for you, but it was better than being on the streets.

"Good morning! Is the breakfast ready?" Tina asked, already hurrying through her routine.

"Yes." You replied dully and clipped your name tag on your burgundy uniform.

"You are the best!" She blew you a kiss and dissappeared into the bathroom. Coming back in her own uniform and damp hair as she jumped straight for the eggs and coffee.

"How do I look?" She asked after sipping her coffee.

"Like usual." You replied, finishing your meal before sipping on your coffee.

"Do I look pretty?" She continued with a huff.

"Yes, that's our entire job as hostesses." To look pretty and pleasing to the powerful alphas visiting The Primordium hotel. The hotel prided itself for being one of the best at catering to the powerful alphas. You were little more than a show piece, a pretty doll but it paid decent and they provided free housing, albeit compact.

But it was way better than working minimum wage jobs at local restaurants as an omega. It was a dangerous and cruel world for omegas. Sometimes even Primordium felt ready to bite you but again, it was better.

Tina scrunched her nose at you and gulped down her coffee. "Don't be like that. I was hoping to get some generous tips since I heard some very important people are coming today." She explained with a smirk.

You sighed. "Tina, just don't. Keep your head down and work. These are not some normal customers at a restaurant. These are powerful people you don't wanna mess with." You warned her for the umpteenth time. You just know she was going to land herself in trouble with her fantasy of jumping the social ladder.

"Umm! Don't be so uptight babe." She finished the last bits of her breakfast and stood up. "And let's go before we get late." She fluttered around the kitchen and took your plates to dump them into the sink.

"And who's fault that would be, huh?"

🛎

"Ladies, today is a very important day and there's no room for mistakes." Harris, your manager hollered as the hostesses stood in a line in their maroon uniform and neat buns as the room fizzled with anticipation.

"But first, why don't you fix your uniforms?" He implied with a grin. Your jaw ticked as you pushed down your dress to reveal more of your chest.

"Perfect, pretty omegas," Harris purred and clapped his hands together. "So the elections are coming up and because of that the Rogers brothers are staying at our hotel while they champaign in the city." The tension shifted from anticipation to anxiety in an instant as the news fell on everyone like a bomb.

Of course, the Rogers brothers were coming to stay in this hotel, they owned it after all. The family riddled with power, secrets and sandals. But Steve and Andrew Rogers were quite charming and because of that, people ignored the scandals and swooned over them like teenage fangirls. Especially how Andrew claimed his wife, poor girl. They have been in the 1% in the 1950s and operated several businesses, this hotel was one of them. So it was but obvious that they would dip their toes in politics eventually and the elder brother, Andrew finally did it.

You flinched as harris called your and Tina's name. You both stepped forward as harris apprised you. "I have seen you both work fairly well together so you two will cater to Andrew and Steve Rogers, understood?" He implored with a tilt of his brow.

"Yes, sir." You said in unison.

"Good, now go and wait in the reception, they will arrive anytime now." He dismissed you and you began walking towards the reception.

You gripped your hands together tightly as your stomach swirled with uneasy. Your intuition was in distress but without any clear reason. Oh well, maybe you were just nervous.

You glanced towards Tina as she walked beside you, a slight flare in her steps and a twinkle in her eyes that made you even more anxious. Something very wrong was brewing inside her head.

🛎

"You should tend to Andrew Rogers." You suggested to Tina, standing by the reception counter.

She blinked and furiously shook her head. "No, no. What if I make a mistake? He's a Presidential candidate," She said, fear flashing in her eyes. "You cater to him."

You sighed. "It's not like I can't make a mistake."

"You are less likely too." She insisted as she fixed her bun.

You opened your mouth to argue but the words died on your lips as a black suv, surround by security stopped at the entrance. You let out a shuddering breath to calm your nerves before reaching the front gate.

Andrew and Steve Rogers exited the car, their presence similar and opposing at the same time. Andrew wore a classic black suit paried with a charming smile, hair black and fluffy, making him look approachable when he was far from that.

Steve, having no such obligation, had an unreadable yet calm expression on his face. He was also wearing a black suit but his shirt was of teal blue color, making his blue eyes more striking, his blonde hair swept back.

Tina and you greeted them, your eyes flickering towards Steve beneath your lashes. He was so tall... and so was Andrew.

"Thank you ladies, we appreciate the effort." Andrew's said, his words coming out like a symphony practiced to perfection as he flashed an endearing smile. His scent, sandalwood and musk hitting your senses.

His words broke through your reverie as you swiftly moved towards Steve before Tina could reach him. Your eyes met for a second before you dropped your gaze and took off his coat. Steve gave a polite nod as you did so.

That was when it hit you. Petrichor, his scent. The earthly fragrance made your pulse quicken and your mouth water involuntarily but you kept your mask of professionalism intact.

"Let’s check in." Steve said to his brother, his deep voice almost making you flinch.

You gulped. "Please, this way." You said evenly.

His brow flicked up before he gestured forward. You turned to walk inside as you caught the stiff posture of Tina as she narrowed her eyes at you. She was definitely pissed but it was better than whatever stupid dreams she had in her head.

Your heels clicked on the marble floor as you led him to the reception of this opposing building. The hotel was enveloped in the shades of black and gold, large glass doors, with a statue of Achilles situated at the centre of the reception, cut from a single stone. The air was crisp, devoid of any scent due to the scent ventilation and strict suppressants usage by the staff.

You stood a few feet away from Steve and Andrew as they checked into the hotel.

"Why did you go for Steve?" Tina hissed in your ears and you side eyed her.

"Because he was closest to me." You replied

"Liar." She responded with a glare.

"Don't even think about it, Tina." You gritted out.

"I can and I will. Watch me." She moved closer to Steve as you just closed your eyes and sighed tiredly.

He turned around and she glanced at him. "Let me show you to your suite, sir." Tina said in a honeyed voice, fluttering her lashes.

He let her finish before his eyes landed on you. "It's ok, she can do that for me." He replied, tilting his brow.

"Yes, of course. Please come." You said with practiced warmth as Tina's jaw twitched but she said nothing, diverting her attention towards Andrew.

You went to the elevator, he walked inside first and you followed him inside. You pressed the button to 34th floor and waited.

You could feel his gaze, burning a hole through your skin but you ignored it as it was usual for alphas to stare, at least he wasn't touching...

You sighed when the elevator dinged, reaching its destination. You quickly left, gliding to the grand suite with adjacent rooms. You showed him the suite. It had the same black and gold color scheme. The living area had a mini bar, marble desk and leather couches and floor to ceiling windows.

Every room had scent sealers, which blocked any pheromones during rut or heat to leak into the meeting area. While the living area had the same crisp, ozone scent of the ventilators.

"This is your room, sir. You can let me know if you need anything." You said, showing him the room. It accompanied everything an alpha of his stature would require. Everything that you can only touch as a servant.

"Where's my luggage?" He asked.

"I got everything organized from your luggage before you arrived." You explained simply but your blood turned ice when he just stared at you.

You always did that, had the luggage of the guests organized so that they wouldn't have to worry about it after a tiring journey. But his blank stare made you feel like a criminal. "I apologise if i overstepped sir-"

"No, I like that. You made my job easy." He said, a small smile tugging on his lips.

You dipped your head and smiled. "Do you need anything?"

"No, you may leave." He dismissed you and sat on the cushioned chair, near the mini bar.

"Alright. If you need anything just press that intercom and we'll attend to you." You replied, gesturing towards the button at the corner of the marble desk and on his nightstand.

"...Will it be you?" He asked nonchalantly, inspecting the gin bottle.

You paused. "It will be one of us, rest assured."

When he didn't respond, you took it as your cue to leave. You turned on your heels and retrieved, just as your fingers touched the door, his calm yet commanding voice caused you to abruptly halt and look at him.

"When i call someone for assistance. Make sure it's you who arrives."

[softly-potter]

His shoulder could be a pillow

Summary: you fall asleep on Steve’s shoulder

Pairing/WC/Tags; Steve Rogers x friend!reader / 574 / summer fluff, friends to lovers, Steve being adorable flirt, flirting

A/N: for @juniebjonesin picnic blanket prompts. This one is for ‘falling asleep on them’/“i thought you were going to sleep forever."

The first thing you notice is warmth, but not the kind from blankets or a heater, something steadier and with a heart beat. It’s so cozy you consider keeping your eyes shut. You shift slightly, and it clicks.

Steve.

You’re leaning against him on the couch, your head tucked against his shoulder like it somehow belongs there. His arm is draped loosely behind you, as if he’d decided a long time ago he wasn’t moving.

Your eyes snap open a little too fast.

“Oh-no, I-sorry,” you blurt, pushing yourself upright so quickly you nearly overcorrect and fall the other way. Heat rushes straight to your face. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”

Steve barely even reacts to your panic. If anything, he looks like he’s been waiting for you to wake up like this. He stretches his shoulder out slightly like he’s testing it.

“Wow,” he says slowly. “You’ve got a really intense grip for someone unconscious.”

“That’s not funny,” you mutter, mortified, tugging your sleeves down because that’ll somehow fix your embarrassment.

“It’s a little funny,” he corrects, voice easy.

You risk a glance at him. Steve’s already looking at you, completely unbothered. Hair slightly messed up from where you’d been leaning on him, eyes soft in that annoyingly calm way he gets when you’re the one spiraling. There’s something almost fond about the way he’s watching you, like your embarrassment is… cute to him.

That makes it worse. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep, you’d just been so tired from the summer heat and his shoulder had been as good as a pillow.

“I’m serious,” you say, quieter now. “I didn’t mean to- just fall asleep.”

“I know,” he says simply.

That doesn’t help either. You shift again, sitting properly now, trying to reclaim some dignity that left the moment your face hit his shoulder. “I can’t believe I did that.”

Steve hums like he’s considering it, then he tilts his head slightly, studying you.

“You know,” he says, “I thought you were going to sleep forever.”

Your eyes bounce to his face, and he’s smiling. Your face goes fully warm again, immediate and traitorous. “Steve.”

“What?” he asks innocently, like he didn’t just weaponize charm against your nervous system.

You hide your face in your hands for half a second, then peek at him through your fingers. He’s still smiling, still watching you as if this is the best thing that’s happened to his couch tonight.

“I fell asleep on you,” you repeat.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning back like he’s settling in for the long haul. “And honestly? Not the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Your hands drop slowly. Steve’s expression softens just a fraction when he sees you actually look at him again.

“Next time,” he adds, “you don’t have to apologize for it.”

You swallow, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands, your thoughts, your very obvious feelings. “I’ll try not to pass out on you again.”

He shrugs. “No promises?”

That gets a small laugh out of you, quiet, but a true one. Steve’s grin widens.

He bumps his shoulder lightly against yours, and even though you’re nervously holding your breath, you don’t move away. You stay still, letting his shoulder press to yours and allow yourself to get comfortable again. He seems to sense this, like he senses everything else, and his smile doesn’t leave his face the rest of the day.

X

Divider @pxrce-lain

Steve rogers blurbs

[buckysouvenir]

the out ⌇ "I'm giving you an out, Bucky. Take it." ⤷ longer version of not enough

After another date, you and Bucky found yourselves glued to each other as you made your way into your room.

You locked the door as his mouth left little kisses along your neck.

"You know, um..." you close your eyes and bite back a smile. "There's this new coffee place a block from here. We could go get breakfast there tomorrow before you head home."

He immediately stops, and you feel his body freeze behind you.

You open your eyes and turn around slowly. "What's wrong?" you ask, and start kissing him slowly.

"I don't know if that's a good idea."

"What isn't? Breakfast?" you laugh lightly, but stop when he doesn't react the same way. Your hands rise to his shoulders. "What's wrong?"

He takes a deep breath. "I guess we need to talk again."

"About what?"

"About... us."

"What about us?" you say, leaving little kisses all over his face and neck.

"It's just... I know you want things. I'm not going to give you those things." His hands are now gripping your waist.

"I don't want other things."

"Yes, you do," he says, taking your hands off his shoulders.

You groan and start pacing.

"You know, I don't understand men. When we want something more, you're all so quick to try to make us forget about it, but when we want something we know we'll never get, so we just accept whatever it is you're willing to give, apparently that's still not good enough," you sigh, crossing your arms and leaning against the wall. "Neither of us is in the mood anymore, so you should go."

You start walking toward your bed and feel his hand catch your wrist.

"Please..." he says, almost a whisper.

"I'm giving you an out, Bucky. Take it," you say, lifting his hand off your wrist and placing it on his shoulder as you press a kiss to his cheek. "Goodnight." You give him a small smile and go sit on your bed, pretending to busy yourself with the clasp of your heels.

He walks toward the door and pauses for a second as his hand reaches the handle. Soon enough, he walks out of the room and closes the door behind him.

As soon as you hear it click shut, you throw yourself onto your bed. Your eyes close as you feel a tear rising.

If this were a book or a movie, he would turn around, press his lips to yours, and tell you he'd never need an out, that he only needed you. But this isn't one of the many fantasies in your head, and he warned you about that. Hell, you knew it before he ever said a word, you thought.

But it's just easier to pretend to forget something until you actually do, and fall for it anyway.

And it had been so easy, falling for him.

The next morning came slow and grey, the kind of morning that seemed to match exactly how you felt.

You didn't cry the whole night, not really. You'd stopped yourself somewhere around midnight, telling yourself you were being dramatic over a man who had never once promised you forever. He warned you. He always warned you. That was supposed to make it hurt less, somehow, knowing it was coming. It didn't.

You went through your day like you always did. Coffee first, though not at the new place down the block, because that felt like a joke you weren't ready to laugh at yet. Then training, because Natasha didn't care about broken hearts when there was a schedule to keep, and honestly, you were grateful for that. It gave you somewhere to put all the frustration sitting heavy in your chest.

"You're hitting harder than usual," Natasha said, catching your wrist mid swing before you drove your fist straight into the mat where her head had just been. "Something happen?"

"Nothing happened," you said, stepping back and shaking out your hand. "That's kind of the problem."

She raised an eyebrow but didn't push. That was one of the things you liked about her. She knew when to let something sit.

Bucky wasn't at breakfast. He wasn't at lunch either. You told yourself you weren't looking for him, even as your eyes kept drifting toward the door every time it opened.

Steve found you in the kitchen around dinner time, leaning against the counter with a mug of tea you weren't really drinking.

"He's been in the gym since six this morning," Steve said, not quite looking at you, like he wasn't sure if he was supposed to bring it up at all.

"Good for him," you said, and even you could hear how flat it sounded.

Steve sighed and sat down across from you. "He told me a little. Not much. You know how he is."

"Yeah, I know how he is." You wrapped both hands around your mug. "He's the guy who kisses me like I'm the only thing keeping him steady, and then reminds me he can't give me anything more the second I mention breakfast."

"That's not fair," Steve said gently. "Not to him."

"I'm not trying to be fair, Steve. I'm trying to survive a Tuesday."

He gave you a small, sad smile at that. "For what it's worth, he's not doing much better than you are. He's just better at hiding it behind a punching bag."

You didn't say anything to that. You didn't know what there was to say.

Three days passed like that. Careful hallway nods. Empty seats at the same long table. A silence between you that felt louder than anything either of you had ever said out loud.

On the fourth night, you couldn't sleep. You found yourself on the common floor balcony, the city lights spread out below you, the air cool enough to make you wrap your arms around yourself. You didn't hear him come out until his voice broke the quiet.

"Can't sleep either?"

You turned, and there he was, hands in his pockets, hair a little messy like he'd been running his fingers through it all night. He looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with missions.

"Guess not," you said, turning back to the view so you wouldn't have to look at him too long.

He walked over and stood beside you, close but not touching, like he wasn't sure he had the right to be close anymore.

"I've been thinking," he said finally.

"That's dangerous," you said, and it came out softer than you meant it to, almost fond despite yourself.

He huffed out something close to a laugh. "Yeah. Probably."

Silence again, but different this time. Not empty. Waiting.

"I told you I couldn't give you certain things," he said, staring straight ahead at the skyline. "And I meant it, when I said it. I've spent so long telling myself I don't get to have the normal stuff. Breakfast dates. Someone waiting for me. A life that looks like anything other than surviving. I told myself that was gone for me a long time ago, and I got real good at believing it."

You stayed quiet, letting him get there in his own time.

"But I've been sitting with that punching bag for three days telling myself I did the right thing, and it still feels like the worst decision I've ever made. And I've made some genuinely terrible decisions in my life, so that's saying something."

That pulled a small, surprised laugh out of you, one you didn't quite mean to let go of.

He finally turned to look at you. "I'm not scared of not being enough for you. I think I'm scared of finding out I could be, and losing it anyway. It felt safer to walk away first."

"Bucky."

"I know it's not fair to you. I know I don't get to almost lose you and then show up on a balcony asking for another chance like it's that simple."

"So why are you here?"

He stepped closer, close enough now that you had to tilt your head up to look at him. "Because you said something about a coffee place a block from here. And I have spent three days thinking about breakfast with you more than I've thought about anything in the last several years combined."

Your chest tightened, that same fragile hope from the other night creeping back in despite every warning you'd given yourself.

"I don't need an out," he said quietly, echoing the words you'd handed him days ago, like he'd carried them around this whole time. "I never did. I think I just needed to remember that I'm allowed to want something good. And I want you. All of it. Breakfast, and mornings, and whatever else comes after that."

For a second you just stood there, searching his face for any trace of doubt, and finding none.

"You're sure?" you asked, quiet, careful, because you'd learned the hard way not to hand your heart over without asking first.

"I've never been more sure of anything," he said, and then he was reaching for you, one hand coming up to cup your face the way he did when he wanted you to know he meant every word.

He pressed his lips to yours, slow and certain, nothing like the rushed, heated kisses from the other night. This one felt like an apology and a promise all at once.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing a little unsteady.

"For the record," you whispered, a smile finally breaking through, "that coffee place opens at eight."

He laughed, the real kind, the kind that reached his eyes. "Then I guess I better not be late."

And for once, the fantasy in your head and the moment in front of you looked exactly the same.

[buckyscaptain]

public enemy number one | girl dad bucky x fem reader

authors notes: this came entirely from a tiktok that i saw and thought yeah that's kinda bucky coded! i'm always so unoriginal when it comes to naming his kids, so oops. i swear this is so silly, i was just waffling for half of it.

warnings: sam's a menance, bucky threatens to kill him (lovingly), a whole load of fluff! and i think that's it?

word count: 1.2k

summary:

being a dad is all fun and games until she learns how to slap bucky— or so he thinks until you change his point of view on it all.

masterlist!

if you had to pick which was harder, between saving the world (twice) and being a mom for the first time, you'd have to pick being a mom. at least saving the world came with a little more sleep and some vague resemblance of a schedule. being a first time mom felt like you were free falling without a parachute.

and bucky?

bucky had been so good through all of it that sometimes he made you want to cry without even trying—the weeks of sleepless nights had been for nothing, he'd taken to it like a duck to water. and in all of that, he let you sleep in as often as he could, holding the fort down. today had been one of those days where you'd woken up to the light filtering through the crack in the curtains instead of tiny little cries from the nursery.

you yawned softly as you padded into the kitchen, completely unfazed by the fact sam was already in your house. if it wasn't him, it was steve, if it wasn't steve then it was nat—and if it was none of them? something was probably wrong somewhere. but this felt different, like everything was charged in some way that you didn't get yet.

"now why does it feel like i'm walking into something?"

"you're not."

"you so are." sam snorted from behind his coffee mug, which earned him a death glare from bucky. "you have no idea what you're walking into. "you're raising one hell of a baby, you know that? at this rate, we're gonna have to get her a little avengers onesie and some wings."

"you're not getting my girl wings, birdbrain." bucky grumbled, holding becca at arms length like she was ticking time bomb instead of his little girl. you raised an eyebrow as you watched him, held tilting slightly as you tried to figure it out as her arms waved wildly. "she slaps him." sam said with way too much enthusiasm for this time of the morning, or ever, really. "every time he speaks, she slaps him on the cheek. first time is a coincidence, right? but we're sat here, talkin' about the mission report, and boom! she keeps at it."

bucky looked like he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole. he loved her with everything he had, and she was more interested in smacking him—and she didn't even have that much dexterity yet. it didn't even mark, but it made a dent in his ego, a big one. "she doesn't slap me. i don't even think—hey!" she managed to wiggle herself forward enough to reach him, her palm slapping against his cheek. the worst part—at least for him—was the fact she looked over the moon with herself each time, giggling and babbling like it was the best thing she'd ever discovered. you just blinked at him as you held back a laugh, trying your hardest to keep a straight face. because it wasn't funny.

except it was, it really really was.

"oh." you breathed softly, lips twitching as you failed to keep it under control any longer. "that's—yeah. okay, that's a thing. uh huh. a new development" you nodded as you sat down on the couch next to him as you reached over, scooping becca out of his arms. "hey, pretty girlie. yeah, hi." you cooed as she settled in your arms, head resting against your shoulder. "i dunno, she seems fine to me." bucky rolled his eyes, grumbling something under his breath that you couldn't make out. "yeah, because she's not trying to assault you. i did everything right, all of it. changed her, fed her on time. and she's still acting like i'm public enemy number one." he was pouting now—bottom lip fully sticking out like a petulant schoolkid instead of a fully grown super soldier turned dad.

"first of all, she isn't assaulting you. she's less than ten pounds, her brain isn't even developed enough to know what the word means." you murmured as you dipped your head enough to press a kiss to the top of her head. "i think you're looking at it all wrong. thanks." you smiled as sam set you a cup of coffee down on the table in front of you.

"i think she's just excited to listen to you, and she's just redirecting it all wrong. because unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on how you look at it—she inherited the gene from me that means she'd listen to you read the back of the cereal box from me. didn't you, baby? yeah, you did." you cooed, bouncing her slightly as she started to babble again. "she's only got little arms, your cheek is the closest thing she can reach. here, try again." you passed her back over before you picked your mug up and took that first sweet, sweet, sip of caffeinated goodness. "she's just gonna do it again." he huffed as she watched her eyes light up as he lifted her up in the air, arms getting ready to flail around in his direction.

"you're a traitor, baby girl. i thought we had something going, y'know?a bond, but this is how you repay me, huh?" you curled your legs underneath yourself as you tried to get comfy, holding your breath for a second as you watched her wave her arm around. bucky lifted her up, blowing a raspberry as she giggled away. instead of hitting his cheek, this time she opted for his forehead—similar to the way the two of you petted alpine, who was probably hiding in your office somewhere from all the noise—as the pieces started to fall into place.

"oh, so now she's pettin' you." sam grinned, folding his arms across his chest as he watched on. this was probably the most fun he'd had in a very long time, there was something hilarious about a six foot wall of muscle being petted like a house cat. "at least it's an improvement."

bucky glared at him before he lowered her into his lap and covered her ears so he could continue. "i'm gonna kill you one day. real slow, and i'm gonna enjoy it." he uncovered her ears once the threat was out of the way—because he was determined that she'd never know violence, even in the form of an empty threat. "she's showing you that she loves you. think about it—she watches us do this with alps all the time. i think she's been watching." you couldn't prove it officially, but you were starting to think that she was smarter than most babies her age, she seemed to grasp things well beyond her. "she's trying to love you."

that cracked something wide open in his chest, letting that warm fuzzy feeling back in. the same one he got every time she yawned, or moved, or just blinked. despite the gruff exterior, she was slowly melting him from the inside out. "she loves me." he murmured like it was some kind of groundbreaking fact and not something he'd known subconsciously since the first time he'd held her in his arms. sam was absolutely recording the whole thing to pull back up later down the line when bucky tried to protest the fact that he wasn't soft, but right now, all bucky could focus on was the babbling baby in his lap who'd just petted him. "yeah, you love me."

there was a hundred times in his life where he thought he'd never get this—stability, a family, love, and now it consumed every minute of his life, and it wasn't something he'd swap for anything in the world.

[charitywriters]

Fanfiction Gifts for Donations to Indigenous Communities in Canada

For those of you who don't know, Canada is on fire, and Indigenous communities are being disproportionately affected by the overwhelming damage.

A few Call of Duty fanfic writers here on tumblr are coming together to write fics for those who show proof of donation to charities such as:

Anishinabek Nation 7th Generation Charity

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Red Cross

True North Aid

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Any others with an appeal that appears on an official First Nation, Tribal Council or registered charity channel

At the moment, we have 30 slots open! If you are interested in receiving a fanfiction as a gift for your donation, more information is below the cut! (Even if you're not interested, we ask that you please reblog!)

Rules:

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We require a 10$ (or your local currency equivalent) minimum donation. Donating more than 10$ will not get you anything more, but if you have the means to donate more, we encourage it!

Each fic will be around 1,000 words

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We are doing character x reader fics only!

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fauxcest/incest murder/violence/death/abuse underage or age play nonconsensual sexual content kidnapping bestiality, etc.

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Prompts will go into a pool for writers to choose from. You do not get to choose/request who writes your gift. Our group of writers includes:

@anneofgreengabagool @warmfrequency @dragonnarrative-writes @saintquincy @girl-lostconnection @ghouljams @oceantornadoo @robin-feldt @ilium-ilia

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Character x reader date night on the beach with some fluff/smut

Childhood best friends meeting again at a coffee shop for the first time after being away from each other for years

Meet cute at (location) 

“Tags” like ‘hurt/comfort’ ‘there was only one bed’ etc helps loads!

Submission Template:

When you submit into our ask box, we ask that you please use this template to make things easier for our writers!

Attach your proof of donation! What character do you want written?:  Do you want smut in your fic?: (y/n) Do you want angst or fluff?: What blog, if any, would you like to be tagged when the fic is finished?: Finally, put your prompt here! Feel free to get as creative as you want, just adhere to the rules and make sure it can reasonably be written in 1,000 words!

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