the man before the king of curses: the fire's life cycle
synopsis: part 3 before the king of curses, there was sukuna, the human who never knew the existence of love nor understood what softness humanity could hold. when he met you, he learned how a person could be his weakness but could forcibly become the sacrifice of leaving humanity behind for the golden age of jujutsu
part 1 part 2 is available
contains: kinda sfw, romance with lotssss of tension, graphic violence, trueform!Sukuna, spoiler alert this is where you die, afab
word count: 12.2k
To love a person was simple, but whatever that came when two people loved each other was at times, complicated. Love changed the marital dynamics of your parents, but to you, their love was irrational. You never understood why your mother stayed in her marriage, why your father laid his bed with different women, why your mother came with marks on her chest after her night shifts for a couple of times, why your father still chased after your mother for her affection. Your father who was supposed to be a provider but oftentimes, struggled. And, your mother accepted that fate, albeit she never wished it upon you.
Entwined in each other’s arms, they reconciled at some point and those marital affairs ceased to exist. You caught them with their lips pressed onto each other at the time, hid away from their plain sight and left because you didn’t want to interrupt.
After everything that your family had been through, all the financial hardships, infidelity, and your harsh lessons to prepare your future; why did they still want to love each other?
Did the pain or damage not mean anything to them?
Why were you born to be caught in the middle?
You recalled your mother’s words as she bathed you in rice milk after scrubbing your body with a plummet stone, “I love your father, truly, but he is truly hell’s suffering and we, of all people, had to endure it. Don’t ever marry for love only, you’re better off marrying someone who is stable. Love can come afterwards.”
“Mama, if you say it like that, why do you even stay with papa?” You heard her sighed, not out of frustration of you questioning her choice, rather out of conforming to the situation. She dunked a whole bucket of water to rinse you off completely, you rasped from the coldness, shuddering.
“It’s not that simple, we met and married younger than your current age, we got thrown to the world on our own because our families believed we were capable for our age. We only had each other but, loving him was… easy, I am his curse and he is my curse. I suppose that is the curse of love.” Remembering the way she embraced you with fatigued arms, eyebags that carried the responsibility of the homemaker and breadwinner, she held you with all her might. “And somehow, we created a blessing. You are my child, pure of kindness, strong and you carry my pride, with that, you will carry a brighter life.”
Your mother’s words echoed while you laid on the grass next to Sukuna, observing the light through the leaves and branches of the weeping willow or the few birds that landed and chirped before their next flight. You and Sukuna, talking about anything and everything, as time passed quicker.
After everything you had endured and as much as you hated the hardship, you loved them nonetheless. It was harder to explain but you did. For every hurt, you were met with love tenfold. Even in the frugality times, your father would bring home your favourite mochi or bring new fancy clothing for your mother. Or, your mother stood proud for every milestone you accomplished since you were a child, flaunting to other mothers, even with the few snarky remarks your mother made towards you. Love was worthy because you were made from it, regardless of being born from struggle.
Your head turned to Sukuna, who had his hand reach out for the bird to land and peck the crushed roasted acorns on his palm, observing carefully then fluttering its wings away. He was relaxed, he had no wrath or anger in his heart, serene at state; people would be utterly unnerved to see the Ryomen bastard who was rageless but to you, you were glad that it was common around you. Especially since that day he revealed that palm of gentle fire.
Being with Sukuna was simple. Being by his side was natural, habitual, and you just couldn’t think of anyone else who you would return to. True that Sukuna was a respected bastard of the Ryomen clan with the most influential warlord as his father, where he had to work for his freedom. His father allowed Sukuna’s body to be marked in tattoos for stealing and slaughter, when he could have protected Sukuna’s status. Who Sukuna was to you was different, who he was by this riverbank was who he was beneath the hard exterior the world built upon him.
Years have passed, the closer of marriage duties would call upon you. There may be a time where your routine with Sukuna would eventually elapse, especially when you will marry another man as arranged by your parents. Or, he too would marry a woman who wasn’t you.
‘Don’t let it arrive, not yet.’
You peered at him, pupils dilating. Fiery eyes turned to you, you hid behind a smile. “Do you remember that I promised to take you to a marriage ceremony when we were kids?”
“That dumb promise?" Sukuna mocked, looking away sharply, his chest tightened that you were reminiscing your old pact to him.
He remembered.
How could he forget that stupid, innocent day by the river when you looked at him like he was someone worth bringing to celebrate a supposedly beautiful ceremony? You still did look at him that way this time.
Of course, he would remember.
"Yeah," he paused, voice rougher than before. "I remember."
He glanced back at you with something unreadable in his eyes. "Still planning to drag me into one?"
You sat back up, elbows on the grass, grinning in excitement. “To sneak us into one! There’s one by the temple and I’ve seen the couple countless times before, their families agreed for them to marry each other. It’s happening at night in five days.”
Sukuna stiffened, masking his skepticism.
"Sneaking into a wedding, huh?" His voice was indifferent. "How cliché."
He couldn't deny the tiny bit of excitement stirring in his chest, sitting up and shoving his hands in his yukata sleeves, trying to sound nonchalant.
"And how exactly are we going to pull off that stupid plan? We're not invited."
Then, you pulled that grin he knew since you both were children, specifically when you were pranking the priest in that small shrine by the hill.
“That’s why we’re sneaking in.”
Glowering, “This is too ridiculous."
At the agreed time, meeting somewhere near the temple where the wedding was held, you had a black kimono and gray hakama tailored perfectly to hide his two arms away in the front. It made him look bigger than he should.
Sukuna grumbled, tugging at the fabric that strained slightly over his two arms, hiding his tattoos. "I look like I’ve only eaten and drank sake without ever stepping a foot in my life.”
To add all the discomfort, he wore a fox mask to conceal his right side and you styled his hair enough to keep him unrecognisable, his messy dusty pink hair now slicked back.
With a very irritated frown, he thought of every opportunity he had before, why did he even agree to entertain this in the first place?
In line with your mother’s medical work, there were bound to be extra fabrics from patients who were dying. Some came from victims who came afar and got struck by tragedy along their travels that was too late to be saved. Some came from wealthy families within the village who believed in burning the belongings of the deceased, including the clothing they wore. Before you were tasked to bring them to the shrine for burning, you would try to snatch a few fabrics away. Just shy enough to make proper formal attire for Sukuna and yourself.
Sukuna’s kimono specifically was difficult to make since you had to conceal his two other arms and your tailoring skills were only amateur level but you tried to make yourselves appear presentable enough.
Glaring at you with flushed cheeks and gritted teeth, "Your plan better be worth this humiliation."
You couldn’t stop giggling, adjusting his obi with a small, satisfied smile.
"Just walk properly and keep quiet," you sneered, getting a head too amused that you got the Ryomen Sukuna to join in this venture. "And for goodness’ sake, don’t scowl so much, we’re going to a wedding! You’ll ruin it!"
Sukuna rolled his eyes, he let the corner of his mouth lift.
Just slightly.
That was enough for you to melt but you laughed even harder.
"Yeah, you do look ridiculous," you teased, gasping for air.
The huge contrast of the boy you knew and the one in front of you was too vast. Not that he appeared out of place, the ridiculous build that the attire had shaped his silhouette into somehow gave the impression of a big fat wealthy man who had the face of a seventeen year old.
He was still oddly charming though, you weren’t used to him being this polished in formal clothing. “You do look rather ravishing for a fat bastard,” you added, firmly patting his cheeks while he cursed the Gods for creating weddings in the first place, stretching your cheeks for ticking him off.
"Stop grumbling like that," you flicked his shoulder. "We're supposed to blend in, remember? Smile."
"Smile? I don't do smiles," he hissed, jerking back.
You adjusted his sleeve once more, smiling at him—gentle, affectionate—and the scowl faltered briefly. His eyes flicked to you in the kimono that you made from stolen scraps and memories, transforming it into a kimono catered to you. He would damn the stars if you didn’t look bright and stunning, as if you weren’t the moon walking beside him.
"Fine," he muttered through clenched teeth. "But if I'm wearing this stupid thing and playing nice, you owe me a feast."
“Granted, Ryomen-sama. Four portions of stewed rabbits and fermented cabbages with rice for your next lunch,” you chirped, everything only mattered that he was here with you.
"...And stop looking at me like that," he added quietly, avoiding your gaze before you saw the heat creeping up his neck. "We're here to sneak in, not become part of the show."
The temple and the area surrounding it was crowded—full of villagers, the couples’ relatives, and some of the local merchants. Everyone wore colorful fancy kimonos and hakamas in all sorts of colors, carrying small bouquets of flowers or holding small gifts. Occasionally, Sukuna tugged your kimono, just so that you wouldn’t stray too much from his side.
Sukuna stuck out like a sore thumb, as expected, big and imposing and clearly not meant to be there. People saw him, eyes lingering at him before they were whispering to each other about a tall wealthy merchant visiting from a different town.
"Damn it," he muttered. "Everyone's staring at me, I look like a fool."
He grumbled quietly, pulling at the fabric that itched relentlessly.
"Remind me, why am I doing this again?" He asked.
You reached up, straightening out the fabric and wrinkles, then tightening the tie. “You still haven’t gone to a marriage ceremony right? Now you’ll see why I do want to marry one day.” There was an excitement in your voice, you were looking forward to fulfilling that childish promise you made with him.
“Trust me ‘Kuna, you look great, like… really great,” you assured him, in awe.
"Great for a fat merchant's son, maybe," he mumbled, still scowling slightly and stiffened. His heart thumped in his chest because…
You were happy. Excited. Lovely.
You kept your promise, you stayed by his side, your hands created clothes even in the face of your scarcity. His discomfort at being around all these people, being in a holy place, your immense efforts to drag him in a sacred ceremony: all felt like his discomfort should be off-limits.
Because all of this couldn’t be done without you.
“You look graceful,” his voice quieter now. “Just stop hovering over me, I’m fine now.”
His chest was tighter now, not from the clothes that restricted his arms, but from your hands that soothed his nerves.
Soft, melodic flutes and strings started playing in the night air, your eyes lit up like stars as you grabbed his hand suddenly, tugging him toward a gap in the crowd near the steps.
“Come on! We can see everything from here!”
Damn it all for the Gods to create weddings that excite you. He let you pull him along without protest.
He needed to see what you saw in marriage.
He wanted to know what made you smile so brightly at the thought of marriage when you were young.
Just for tonight, just one stolen moment beneath the lantern light, he’d play along with your idiotic ideas. He would believe that he did deserve this moment. Two arms or four, monster or not—if you believed he belonged here beside you, he’ll believe it like you did. Your hand tugged his hand after, as you quietly pointed the couple’s direction.
In the distance, there was the married couple and their families walking towards the shrine with lit lanterns in their hands, a commemoration to a union. Watching the bride and groom’s marriage ritual by the shrine, the traditional music that filled the air, the lanterns swayed in the breeze, even the way the night sky sparkled above, dotted with countless tiny stars.
The mask itched. The hakama was still too tight.
None of that mattered.
The bride was beautiful in white wedding kimono, he had never seen two people who were excited to commit themselves to each other, surrounded by jubilant parents and siblings that witnessed a granted wonder to their loved ones.
Sukuna stood there, frozen as he watched the couple. Hands joined, voices steady, eyes locked with something he'd never known: devotion.
"...Huh," he murmured under his breath.
This wasn’t forced upon them.
Nor a duty like his father growling about heirs, power, knowledge, political alliances.
Nor cold or calculated.
It was wanted.
For the first time, Sukuna understood why you dreamed of marriage. It was not for status or escapism, but because you believed in the choice to spend the rest of your life with a person who you intimately cherished.
"I get it now." He mumbled to you.
The bride smiled in cheer, the groom already doting over his newly wedded wife, you felt his large hand tightened to yours too.
“Soon it will be me one day,” you whispered, expressing a bittersweet smile as the priest began the burning ceremony for the new-weds. “I will marry but… I might not marry like this.”
Sukuna tensed up at the mention of your future.
Flashes of the flames reflected the potential despair that you may encounter in your own future, you were preparing for that dreadful day. You will be wedded but not to the one you will love, to the one you marry who will pay for you and your family’s stability.
Marriages were still beautiful in your eyes, you knew you must perform your duty and survive this cruel world as a woman. Marrying for love may not be your reality for you neither for Sukuna, if his father wished to arrange his bastard’s marriage for political power. However, you prayed for the Gods to be forgiving that you could at least love Sukuna at a close distance.
To you, this was enough.
To him, he hated hearing your predestined future.
Hated thinking about the faceless men your parents would sell you off to whoever had the highest bid.
Loath the thought of you, the one who could rival the moon’s beauty, who will wear a grand white wedding kimono to marry someone else.
"Don't talk about that," he muttered, turning away. “Don’t...”
His jaw was clenched so hard it almost hurt. He could never face the idea of you with some other rich bastard who never saw you the way he did. Or anyone else, not even if the Gods created your perfect pair, he would defy it. He would not allow you to marry someone who wasn’t him.
"You’re not marrying some stranger." The words slipped out before he could stop them.
A vow to you, not a threat, he spoke it aloud because he was afraid for that day to come.
You turned to him, eyes slightly widened and curious, listening to him carefully.
"Tch, I know you heard me," he grunted, voice rough as he refused to look at you.
He stared ahead. Anywhere but your eyes, because if he did, who knows how he would spill out more of his stupid truths to you?
"They're not taking you away. Not like that." His other hand curled slightly around the edge of his sleeve, hiding how tight his grip had become, already he was confessing parts of his desire, "You’re too annoying to just let them sell you off."
The threat hung in the air—low, dark, and undeniably real.
He met your stare head-on, eyes narrowed, voice dropping into something almost dangerous.
"...You're not," he repeated, final words declaring to you. He didn’t say it but you read it in his soul, ‘I won’t let it happen.’
That was enough to burn your cheeks as the flames in the temple, you swore that the burning ceremony was nothing compared to the heat Sukuna made you feel. After a loud heartbeat, your lips curved. There was that enchanting stare you had in your eyes, sweeter than any berries that they foraged together.
You didn’t need him to say anything more, yet naturally your hands pulled each other closer, the gap between you was narrowing.
He didn’t pull away. Your fingers interlaced with his because it was natural to hold his hand firmly, engraving this memory of a fulfilled promise for the glutton you met near the creek, the boy you had grown to fall. He couldn’t pull away.
Not when the firelight danced across your face, painting gold on your skin and illuminating warmth in your eyes. It made something inside him crack with a churned stomach, heart beating.
"Stop looking at me like that," he muttered, voice barely above a whisper. "You'll make me do something stupid."
Maybe promise you more than he should.
Or burn every man who dared touch your name.
Or kneel before this shrine, declare before the gods and the flames of life, that you were his.
But instead,
He squeezed your hand once.
Tight enough to say: I mean it.
Soft enough to say: Don’t let go.
Hearts bursting hotter than the sacred fires, intense but intimate that texts or speeches would not be needed to announce what the souls were to each other.
Him to you, that reserved tenderness for you.
Like the groom to his new wife.
The bride peered over to her side to see you, almost bewildered to spot the healer’s daughter at the ceremony with a strange large handsome man beside you, uninvited but she smiled at you gently as a blessing for your presence. You froze and gave an awkward wave, sticking out a toothy grin.
“Eek Sukuna, let’s leave before my mama finds out…”
Sneaking in had been one thing, actually getting caught would be a whole different ordeal.
He dragged you out of the crowd by the hand. "You really gotta do the dumbest things," he grumbled under his breath, entertained by your embarrassment.
He didn’t look at you but his grasp hadn't loosened. "Breaking into weddings? Seriously? And now you're scared?"
Pulling you swiftly behind the temple pillars, shadows swallowing them as they slipped into the trees. The shadows of the trees surrounded them, you grabbed your previous clothes hidden in the bushes as you both ran away from the temple with near trips and muffled laughters. Not that people bothered or even noticed to chase you and Sukuna. The sounds of the ceremony faded to whispers, and the lanterns grew further and further away, finding themselves near their claimed river.
Once they were hidden and safe, he still didn’t release your hand.
Finally, he looked at you.
Even now, in this stolen moment you chortled while gasping for air and enveloping the thick fabrics, you gleamed in the moon's light. Everything about you was too much to handle yet it was never going to be enough for him.
"Idiot," he whispered, bringing you closer. "You just have to be reckless everywhere, huh? Even at weddings."
“Well, it’s your first time witnessing a wedding, maybe the first time wearing formal wedding attire?” You loosened the ties of his obi, “Though you do look handsome, I think I like your true self better than this.”
Your hands were warm against his skin, and he couldn't deny the way his pulse quickened at your touch. It didn’t occur to you what you were doing until Sukuna’s bare chest was revealed, you paused and gulped. “Ah sorry—“
When you finally pulled it open, exposing the scars running along his chest and arms, a muscle in his jaw ticked. Something in him darkened as it grew possessive.
He caught your hand on his own, holding it there.
"Don't apologize," staring down at you, his voice was husked that you felt it in your chest.
"You said you prefer my true self..." he murmured, voice low and dangerous, almost. His fingers curled gently around yours. Not pulling you back, not willing to let you go. "So don't flinch now."
Slowly, his hands moved of their own accord. One rose to catch you by the chin, tilting your face up to meet his. His other hand gripped your waist, pulling you closer until you were all but pressed chest to chest.
“I’ve always preferred you ‘Kuna.”
And you, mindlessly, your hand caressed his right side, his disfigured side. Your touch was as soft as a feather, delicate as you traced the scars and marred skin of his right side.
No one had ever touched him there without flinching or fear.
Even now, he was braced for you to pull away in revulsion. To flinch from the sensation of his skin, watch your face churned into disgust, but your touch was gentle, unafraid like the day you first spoke to him.
“You’re beautiful.” The words slipped out of your mouth, it was almost startling for you to say it aloud but it was your truth. Especially with the moon light beaming on him and the starry night in skies above him, it was a dream that you could reach.
Your eyes didn't break away, not for a single second. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his fingers digging into your waist as you traced the scars. It sent sparks through his system.
People looking away, backing away, turning away, trembling away: that was his normality.
But for you?
You gazed at him, held him like he was everything to you.
He would search even a crevice to believe what you presented to him was never genuine, whether your kindness or feelings did hold to an extent for The Cursed One. Anything to prove that manipulation was at play, you were terrified of him, or from a ridiculous obligation you made when you were young and innocent.
Every single time without fail, all he could see and feel was you drawing into him. No hesitation was made from every action you gave to him and the world, sharing your compassion in the face of resistance from society’s pressures.
"Idiot," he whispered, a crack in his tone slightly. He leaned in close enough that he could see every fleck in your eyes, feeling your breath against his skin. "You shouldn't say things like that."
"But if you keep looking at me like I'm yours..." Clinging onto you, the person who made Ryomen Sukuna believe in humanity, in living and breathing this supposed life full of serenity surrounded by you.
"...I might start believing it."
Brows furrowed and eyes sparkled in hope for a possibility to change your future reality, that having Sukuna remained in it was actually reachable to you.
You whispered to him, “I want to believe it too. Can I keep on hoping?”
His thumb ran lightly over the side of your jaw, the touch as gentle as the summer wind. He muttered, “You're such a fool, you and your goodwill, your empathy, and your selective blindness to it all. Can’t you see that you’re the beautiful one..."
Something flashed in your eyes at those words. His thumb tracing your jawline like a caress.
You bewitched him as you paused and softened, leaning into his touch.
He was a man of control—of discipline and self-restraint, it was getting harder and harder to remember that because of you. This kind, gorgeous, sweet girl with moronic, unwise ideas about marriage, and dumb dreams of a world filled with your humane nature. You were going to take his savagery nature out of him because he was unwavering in accepting your beliefs. You challenged him of the existence of goodness and the perseverance of love.
His fingers trembled slightly as they moved along your jaw, down your neck.
You were too damn close.
Too soft.
Too alluring.
He should let go. He had to or he may do something you would regret, push him away or strayed your eyes away.
And yet, your eyes gaped on his lips, his eyes flicked to your lips. They parted slightly, you were lifting your toes to move in closer, gradually as an invitation.
He clenched his jaw, fighting every instinct telling him to give in and just—
“Sukuna…”
He stopped his string of thought as you tugged his kimono.
You within his arms, willingly pulling into him within your own agency, why did he have to resist the evident blessing that remained only for him?
Hands pushing you against the nearest tree and his lips finally kissed you.
Not gentle or sweet, but a desperate kiss. A kiss forged in years of stolen glances, shared wounds, and unspoken longing. He held you there, pinned between his body and the tree because if he let go, you may vanish into the night or in the trees like a dream he shouldn’t keep. Your lips were petal soft, plush and when you gasped into him, dazed but not pulling away, it nearly broke him.
"S-stupid." He growled against your mouth between breathless presses of his lips to yours. "Don’t ever think you're not mine to begin with."
You pulled him in this time to kiss him back, reciprocating the passion and love that you retained all these years in fear that he may not choose you. Fear that he would rather choose his duties and power because you held none of it. Your fingers sinking deeper into his fabric, mumbling, “I want to be yours, let me be yours, I am yours.”
You should know better that he didn't care about bloodlines or status. He came to you as you are. Destinies were made and he has accepted that you were his to claim. He vowed to burn it down with both hands and laughed in the creation of destruction, if it meant not having you to return back to.
He groaned at your response, mixed with hunger, frustration, and need. It took every ounce of willpower he had not to pin you against that damn tree and devour you whole. Albeit, he was still a man with control and some self-restraint left to respect your decision, what you wished to proceed since he held you to the highest regard above any being.
"You have no idea what torment you have brought me since the first day you came, I cannot avoid you and I don’t ever want to," he closed his eyes as he let his forehead fall against yours.
It was taking all his blasted resolve just to keep his hands off more than he yearned to touch, just keeping his hands on your cheek and waist. He didn't trust them anywhere else, not when they were itching to slide down your sides, feel more than what was seen in his eyes. He took a deep breath, focusing on your desires as you also respired in restraint, keeping the temptations buried. This closeness was far too dangerous and they both knew it.
Cheeks were blushing deeply, biting your lip, “W-wait! Let’s not… It’s late now, mama and papa might be searching for me soon, I-I have to go.”
You wanted to cling onto your integrity, you didn’t want anything escalated further before you knew it.
The words were like a bucket of cold water, snapping him back down to reality. In the excitement, he'd almost forgotten how risky he was acting, almost careless to consider what you wanted under your terms.
He stepped back with a low curse, raking a hand through his hair as he tried to reign in the desire still coursing through his body.
"Go," he commanded finally, softly, but his voice still coarse. "Before someone finds you here with me."
You glanced at Sukuna before you hovered over to give one more quick kiss, “I’ll see you again as usual?”
He caught your wrist before you could pull away completely. His red eyes burned into yours under the moonlight, fierce and unrelenting.
"Of course you will," he growled, low and certain. "I'm not letting you disappear after that."
A pause. Then, softer:
"Come back to the river like usual, like we always do."
Smittened, you replied, “Of course, where else would it be if it means to come to you?”
In the new age of adulthood, it meant growing numb to the hardships and risks of death, and the expectations of society or family.
The ambition of Ryomen Saburou had strengthened now that his bastard became an exceptional cause for the era of sorcery. New knowledge, new information on techniques, new discoveries of domains; sorcerers of different regions came and requested for battles or training under Ryomen Saburou’s reign. With that, he had bountiful sorcerers who trained Sukuna rigorously to the point that Sukuna had to kill them for defeat. Beforehand when Sukuna entered his pubescent years, it initially started small where each opponent or trainer he faced, Sukuna had to gain something or there would be heavy consequences. Such as if Sukuna could inflict a deep slash on his opponent’s chest, there would be dinner for him by the table in the servants quarters or Sukuna wouldn’t eat for two nights.
Then, it grew to if Sukuna could hunt down a deer, two squirrels and the two prisoners his father released into the woods by the evening, Sukuna would have a dinner feast with his family. Or Sukuna will be hunted down by five sorcerers at night.
To the point, he would be battling for his life often because now, his life was precious now that he had you to live for. The more he killed or brutalised his opponents, the higher respect his father gained from sorcerers, and the more his father respected him. He didn’t care if his father would consider him as a legitimate child for every win he had against his opponent, as long as it exchanged him with independence. Anything to keep seeing you every week, every risk was worthy if it meant seeing you again.
He will honed himself into a weapon: strong, cold, emotionless.
Returning to you was all that mattered, to live in more shared memories with you, hence he will keep fighting his rights. Battles, tactics, he had done it all and would do it all, anything to lay down on the grass by your side, back to the weakest person who stood equal to him.
At the same time, you became very well known in the community for your beauty, grace and intelligence as the healer’s daughter, even under the taintness from your father’s reputation. Due to your mother’s strict regime in creating a perfect wife and letting you assist her along for medical aid, it brought so much exposure to potential suitors and proposals. Your flawed father did pull his weight up, improving the economic status of your family to keep you afloat. And, he worked himself to the bone when your mother unfortunately became pregnant again. Business journeys with neighbouring villages meant he had to be distant, he pledged to his wife he would make everything up for all the neglect and wrongdoings.
Money was flowing in, it no longer became an issue to survive harsh times but it did not cover half of the debts. His promises felt empty and hopeless, especially when the strongest woman you had known struggled to feed herself.
She grew frail now that she carried a child in her belly, you had to carry on the heavier responsibility of the household and a medic replacement when your mother couldn’t work at all. You could see her struggles, clinging to her dear life each day, and barely having emotional support from her husband. Your mother fought to live to her best ability because she knew that if she was gone, you would have been sold off to anyone who would pay the remaining accumulated debts.
The weight of it all pressed down on you like a storm with no end.
Yet you never broke, never in front of him.
You rose before dawn, tending to your mother, preparing herbs, patching wounds for villagers who couldn’t afford the typical healers. Your hands, once soft from childhood days by the river, were now marked with blisters and scars.
Yet still, you smiled. Still, you came to Sukuna as you were, loving and adoring.
When night fell and the world quieted, you ran to him as he was your salvation. He was all you yearned to keep yourself at peace.
Sprinting barefoot sometimes, breathless, exhaustion building within your veins, but still glowing to him in the moonlight like you were made of starlight itself.
Sukuna saw the exhaustion in your eyes with sunken eyebags, the new lines of strain across your face, and something inside him snapped.
One evening near the creek, you sat by the weeping willow with Sukuna’s head on your lap, speaking of your days that danced around the truth. Your fingers played with his locks before he grabbed your wrist too hard and growled:
"Stop."
Your eyes widened—confused at first, peering at him as he lifted his head up.
"You’re killing yourself," he said through clenched teeth. "For her. For your useless father who doesn’t even deserve to breathe."
He moved closer until there was barely space between you, the firelight flickering behind his back casting shadows over him, over his rage.
"You don’t need to keep living like this," he muttered harshly. "You don’t need anyone but me. We go as far as we can, run away and live on our own. Nothing is stopping us from survival, I am strong, we can hunt and gather, you can cook."
And then softer, so quiet only the wind might have heard:
"Let me take you away one day, even if I have to burn every bridge between us. We can just go… Say yes and we’ll do it together.”
You didn’t respond for a moment, your lips gaped, quivered but you bit your lip. “No, I can’t.”
The sounds of the creek and trees were muted, he gripped on your wrist lightly even though his other hand clawed on his skin.
“I-I will not. I just can’t leave my family behind. My mama is too dear to me…” There was too much guilt, you couldn’t bear to have your mother potentially raising another child. And you did not wish to leave society pressures onto your mother. Your mother was strong but you did not wish to burden her. “I love you but I will not leave behind my duty and honour, let my mother face more cruelty than she deserves.”
“I am a daughter, I am the healer’s daughter, the people of this village rely on her and eventually me. Their eyes have laid heavy on me because I had been poor, that I am now a useful asset to this village and to someone’s household.” Your brows furrowed, his declaration nearly broke you because you would let your legs run into the hills with Sukuna but the societal responsibility tied you down. “I leave her and she will be shunned, I….”
Your palm weakly pushing against his chest, “... What else is there for me to help, when all that is left for me is marriage? And if I marry a stranger?”
Sukuna's fingers tightened around you, not in anger but something deeper, raw in his emotions in front of his beloved.
"I said what I said that day, you won't marry a stranger," he said, voice low and edged like a blade. "Marry me."
The words hung in the air—wild, impossible to announce as a bastard, but he meant it.
He shifted forward until his forehead touched yours, red eyes burning into your soul.
"I don’t care about your father’s debts. I don’t care about bloodlines or status or shrines and ceremonies." His thumb brushed your cheekbone. "I’ll kill anyone who tries to take you, I’ll burn every hand that reaches for you. If you’re asking for marriage and honour, I will do it for you."
A pause. He spoke quieter:
"I’m not asking because you’re beautiful... though you are."
His voice dipped, gently.
"I'm asking because when I fight, it’s your face that keeps me breathing. When I bleed, it’s your name that keeps me standing. It’s you who I always come back to."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, intensely, and for once, there was no arrogance, no mockeries, only his truth.
"So if you don’t want to run now, then wait for me so that I will fulfill your duty. Because one day, I won’t be the bastard son but I will be Ryomen Sukuna, the legitimate son of Ryomen Saburou. I’ll be strong enough to take what’s mine, I’ll be who I need to be for you to be mine. I vow to grant you the highest honour."
He held your wrist, close to his heart, "You are mine."
His heated chest, heart pumping loud and fast. "So say it too and mean it. Marry me because you are mine as I am yours."
Just like that, he took your heart away in one breath, your tears were dwelling in happiness from his declaration to you. A proposal to marry the love of your life, you didn’t think he would say it out loud and proud, or command you because he would not think of any option in living without you in it. “Sukuna…”
A sudden strengthful force came over when you wrapped your arms around his broad shoulder, laughing as he tumbled to the ground, “I’ll marry you! Of course, I’ll wait to marry you, ‘Kuna! Yes, yes, yes, with all my life and every lifetime!”
He got too caught off guard from your embrace, how easily you made him stumble over and kept him speechless. Then, he let out a breath, low, shaky. And for the first time, he held you tightly, closer. Arms wrapping around your waist, face buried in the crook of your neck, breathing in the scent of the river water, your sweet ricemilk scent and you.
"Tch," he muttered into your skin but there was no bite to it. "You're so loud, someone might hear you."
He didn’t let go of your grasp, he couldn't. Not when you approved of his proposal, when you declared to him that you were his.
His grip tightened just a little more as if he held on long enough, fate itself would have no choice but to obey him and write it in the trees.
He whispered at last, "Don't you dare forget it."
Marriage wasn’t about sacred ceremonies, lit lanterns or priestly blessings. It was forged in the life of fire, the warmth it brings within their blood. It was two souls clinging to each other in a world that wanted them dead or apart. He would burn the Gods and their heavens if the fire meant an eternity with you.
Time lapsed, and all praise to the Gods for your mother had beaten her odds for she had miraculously survived in giving birth to a healthy son. Long awaited prayers were granted that your family’s prosperity was flourishing, your father’s debts were almost completely being paid.
Your father was away again, another business journey to secure a trade. After rocking his newborn lovingly, he left you to care for your mother and your new baby brother, in pursuit of better wealth. At least he had courtesy to leave after prayers. That evening, you had invited Sukuna to the ceremony to celebrate the birth of your baby brother at your home, albeit he had to watch you and your mother in the distance since you did not want to catch unwarranted attention, especially from your stern mother. Though you did want to show him the burning ritual for her baby brother, honouring the Gods for their blessings to your family.
The night air was cool as the small fire flickered in the courtyard, smoke curling into the star-dotted sky. You stood near your mother, exhausted but radiant, with a tiny bundle wrapped in cloth, held gently in her arms. Your mother chanted softly, casting a few herbs into the flames as a prayer for protection, for an abundance in the present life and afterlife. Your arms around your sleeping baby brother, praying and manifesting for the Gods to be forgiving in his life.
Sukuna watched from the shadows between two tall trees. He didn’t belong to the small house. This was a family, surrounded by love and resilience.
And he? He was the blood and ruin to many, a tool for war and the rising image of sorcery. Love never had been reserved for him, just terror and respect gardened from fear.
But you turned your head, just slightly, and found him in the dark. Your eyes softened, eyes calling out to him that looked within the shadows. You didn’t smile but he could see the way your fingers slightly twitched, the gentle peaceful gaze.
A look that said everything in silence, ‘You’re part of this too.’
He clenched his jaw as emotion, not something he often felt unless he was with you. It clawed at his chest.
With a brother in your hands, would that mean more responsibility on your shoulders? More chains dragging you down?
Or, was it the hope for the new birth?
His fingers brushed against a small wooden charm tucked under his sleeve—one carved crude but carefully over restless nights: two entwined figures beneath twin stars.
Not for gods or spirits to bless it, no shrine needed to hold its truth.
It would be him who vowing them safety.
Him, who will bare his hands to build a place from the ground where you wouldn't have to burn offerings hoping someone would care, praying for fortune or food by the table. Be the constant unit, instead of prayers they called for the Gods to survive again.
Still, he could not grasp at how you could fondle your baby brother with immense tender loving and care. Having another mouth to feed would mean you will eat less. Yet, he saw how similar the baby was to you. A flash in his eyes, a brief wonder to his future.
Would there be a chance that you would give birth to a child?
Your child.
His child.
‘Our child.’
You cradled your baby brother, glimpsing over to Sukuna’s hiding spot from time to time, grinning wide. And he saw what could be his future.
The thought hit him like a blade to the ribs—sharp, sudden, unbearable. ‘Fuck.’
A child that was yours and his.
His blood and yours. A tiny thing with your jubilant smile and his stubborn fiery eyes, a child that would laugh by that same river where they once skipped stones and stole moments. Something deep inside him cracked wide open.
You weren’t only a desire anymore. You were his future and hope, the realisation that this love could be reserved for him too. A complete different outlook to a life with children that were cherished regardless of how nature or society crafted them to be. You, who rebelled against his supposed nature and destiny.
His fingers curled against the tree bark, voice barely more than a whisper lost in the wind. The Cursed One had prayed.
For the first time in his life, Ryomen Sukuna didn’t think about destruction or pessimism. He silently prayed about the new home with you; a home no one could touch, a name no one would dare speak without fear, a family that never knew hatred or pain.
He didn’t wave back to you, nor smile. He lingered in the shadows longer than he should’ve as he observed you, your beloved mother and baby brother. Letting himself believe that the Gods were forgiving; your family could survive this world.
Sukuna remained after the couple of guests left the premises. Once the fire crackled down, its flames gradually grew smaller, your mother went outside despite your protests to urge her rest.
“Call the boy over please. I know that he is here, I feel it, his cursed energy is strong.” Your mother said aloud, calm and firm.
“Mama, please. You haven’t slept enough—“
“Come out now, I can sense your presence, I am not afraid.”
Sukuna froze, eyes narrowing.
He wasn’t a coward. Hell, he was rarely ever cautious, let alone caught off guard. Something in that woman’s voice made his instincts go on edge. It was frail but fierce.
He had to admire it as not many would dare call out a supposed sorcerer in daylight, let alone in the dark. Her eyes were sharp, droopy eyes glaring straight at him.
Swallowing, he finally stepped out from between the trees into the fading light. Sukuna stepped out from the shadows—slow, deliberate, like a predator testing the water. He stood there beneath the moonlight, eyes locked with your mother, who had raised you and carried strength even in her frailty.
"You're bold," he said. "Calling out a sorcerer like that."
You rushed between them, panicking. "Mother, he’s not—"
"Quiet." Your mother replied gently but cutthroat, reaching past you to study Sukuna fully.
“Finally facing the boy I’ve heard from my patients, Ryomen’s boy,” she pointed out.
Her mother’s gaze was steady, sharp, piercing like the cool fire.
Sukuna met it unflinchingly, even as you rushed in-between them, panicked.
He stared down at your mother. There was something about the way she was still filled with steel, dauntless in the face of him. Ryomen Sukuna, the perpetrator behind the brutalised sorcerers that came to your mother for healing.
He’d seen the elders of his clan.
He'd faced warriors in battle who made grown men tremble.
Yet, he felt the first stirrings of respect for this woman. It was odd, he knew he could crush her with his four palms.
“Speak. What business do you have for my daughter? Since you’re the one who takes her away often in the forest.” Your mother calmly demanded, even in the face of the danger that her patients claimed him to be the strongest sorcerer in the present age.
Sukuna didn't flinch.
He met the woman's gaze—steady, unbroken—like he was staring down a blade with no fear of bleeding.
"I'm not here for business," he said, voice rough as stone dragged through fire. "I'm here for her."
You stiffened, eyes wide. Your mother didn’t move.
Each word he spoke, deliberate, like carving truth into bone. "I’ve taken her to the river because she deserves moonlight instead of torches. I’ve stolen moments because this world tries to bury her alive beneath debts and duty."
His red eyes flicked to you, soft just for a second before returning to her.
"And if you're strong enough to carry a child after all you've suffered, then I’ll be strong enough to carry both of you."
He reached into his sleeve and pulled out the crude wooden charm: two figures entwined beneath twin stars. Knelt down, placed the charm on the ground at her feet.
"I come to you not as a servant. Not as some beggar at your door."
His voice answered to her, a tone meant only for those who dared challenge fate:
"I come to you for your blessing, as your son-in-law."
Silence fell like snow over flame. Your mother exhaled slowly. Almost in resignation but not in anger, not in fear but in recognition. After a long moment, she gave the faintest nod, one that held weight beyond words.
"In all these years you’ve taken her, not a single scratch or taint on her. You are decent and you have honour." She said quietly with finality, "You will take care of my daughter. Vow that you will or die trying."
Sukuna smirked, a single flash of fang in moonlight, as he stood and turned away without another word. His footsteps were lighter than before and you let out a low breath you held longer than you anticipated.
Sukuna's steps paused, a moment passed to say his words aloud to you and your mother. "...I’ll make her happy." Then, he melted into the trees not as the monster your mother heard him to be but the man who he truly was.
Your mother didn't turn, the tension in her shoulders seemed to soften.
Love truly was a curse.
She turned back to you, a motherly gaze, the true matriarch. Your mother approved, although her heart ached heavily.
“You have an odd taste in men, a line of suitors and this is the man you chose?” She pointed out, words jabbing and striking to your chest. Sighing, “Oh well, I can’t argue with you anyways since I’m stuck with your disastrous father.”
“Sukuna is a good man, mama.” You chuckled. Awestruck and your heart thumped as you watched him walk away.
She gave a heavy judgemental look but the soft smile on her face betrayed her. "Good man?" she repeated, shaking her head ruefully. "I thought he was about to tear me apart right there."
You laughed softly. "No, he's just… intense."
She raised an eyebrow, eyes narrowed almost teasingly. "And you like that?"
“I got used to it.”
"Got used to it? You got used to… that man?" She echoed, snorting softly despite herself. Eyes drifting to where Sukuna had vanished. "His cursed energy is beyond what I’ve seen, I’ve treated dozens of sorcerers he had battled and I know he’s dangerous."
A pause.
"But not to you. I felt it in his wild energy, yes… but when he looked at you?" Her voice dropped, almost wistful. "There was only one thing holding that storm together, and that’s you who made him that way. He must truly love you."
“Mama..."
She laughed again—a sound that felt rare, precious. "You're blushing, girl."
"I am not!"
"You are."
"Over a boy. Of all people, a Ryomen too. Have you not learnt anything?"
The teasing glint in her eyes fading to something quiet, knowing. "You love him, don't you?"
You didn't hesitate in answering, "With all my soul."
A momentary silence, worries caught up to your mother.
“I can only hope his father would allow this marriage then…” the older woman mumbled, understanding what could happen to you. “I’m sure Sukuna is strong enough but I still fear for you. You hold a heavy responsibility over him, a heavier power than you think.”
“Mama, I’m sure—“
“My child, this is the Ryomen clan, the warlord leader’s clan is who we are talking about. I may be on good terms with Ryomen-sama but I can only hope he doesn’t care enough that his bastard marries you. I hope he only cares that his bastard acts as his weapon, nothing more.”
A ripple of tension ran through you because it was true, Ryomen Saburou was a force to be reckoned with. A man of power, tradition, and calculated cruelty. A clan that had a history of violence, of blood and ambition with followers who respected, feared and loyal to him.
And you, a simple, ordinary girl.
A drop in a sea of monsters, how can you be a threat to Ryomen Saburou?
Swallowing a knot in your throat, you whispered, "Sukuna won't let anything happen to me. I know he won't and I’m not going to oppose Ryomen-sama’s ambition."
“I know you won’t.” Your mother didn’t want to speak further, she didn’t want her worries to manifest in the air. She could only pray for the best.
“Come on child, it’s time to sleep and your baby brother can’t be left for too long,” she gestured to you to return to the bedroom, as she slept beside the infant.
You followed along with a whirlwind of worries and hopes tangled together. As you nestled by your baby brother, trying to get some rest, your heart felt torn—part praying for a miracle, part bracing for the worst.
Deep down, a small, fierce flame burned with faith.
Sukuna would keep his promise. Of that, you were certain.
He'd find a way, traditions be damned if it meant for you to be his. Whatever the outcome, you would be the fool who loved and will wait for his vow.
Sukuna knelt before his father, head bowed in respect, in the meeting chambers where plots of wars and occupation regimes began, negotiations between political parties, and discussions of alliances through trade and marriages. In the same room Sukuna had spilled blood on the tatami mats, blood of those who betrayed against Ryomen Saburou. Sukuna remembered when his hands twisted muscles and cracked bones of a kin, killing his father’s blood brother in cold blood for conspiring, as his father watched every move without remorse.
"My son," he rumbled, low and cold. The man sitting on the platform, across from him, the shadows of the meeting chamber darkening his face. "You requested a private audience, state your business."
Sukuna took a deep breath, trying to hide the tension coiling in his chest. "I have an important matter to discuss, father."
The man raised an eyebrow, "Go on, then."
Sukuna swallowed, the words sticking like jagged stones in his throat. He'd thought countless times about this moment, about what he’d say. With the man himself before him—the same man who had raised him into a tool—he felt like a child caught in a storm once again.
However, he was no longer the shy boy he once was.
He raised his gaze, meeting his father's with a fierce determination he'd equipped through years of blood, wit and perception.
"I wish to take a wife."
The older man let out a deep exhale, sharp stares onto his son as Sukuna matched him.
The older Ryomen took a pen and ink, grabbed a scroll nearby to write, pleasantly pleased that his son wanted to approach him for marriage, unlike Sukuna's older forcefully married half-brothers. His father’s voice lightened and thundered through the room, “I suppose marriage shall be good for you. You have come of age, you are powerful in sorcery and good political alliances need to be made. You have become my son, it is time you influence a new generation and bear strong children.”
Sukuna's heart beat hard and fast, every word his father spoke feeling like a step closer to a precipice in every brush stroke. “You have come on a pleasant time, there has been a discussion of potential prospects and a clan with flames has been our interest.”
"Father." His voice was steady, a quiet fire burning beneath his words. "I have already chosen a bride."
The room went unnaturally still.
Even the air seemed to hold its breath, the ink gradually dripped one drop.
His father's head snapped up, eyes narrowing and face stiffened. "You what?"
Sukuna met his gaze, unblinking. He knew he was pushing boundaries. He was done living under his own father, playing the role he was expected for his campaign.
"I have chosen a bride," he repeated, every word filled with unwavering resolve.
Sukuna didn’t flinch or blink, loud and clear as he spoke of your name and status for who he seeked to marry.
That name hung in the air—soft, fragile compared to the storm brewing in that room. His father’s face subtly twisted like he’d been struck, his lip lifted to the side and scoffed.
"The healer’s daughter?" A cold pause. He didn’t need to raise his voice, his tongue dripping venomous: "You would shame this clan for a common girl?"
The scroll closed and the pen quietly set on the table, he stood up, towering over him like wrath given form in long silence.
"I’ve allowed you your freedom because you’ve proven useful, and strong for you are my son." His voice cracked through the air as if a jester appeared in his eyes, no laughter came however. "But this? You seek to marry a poor man’s daughter, with no power and status, not even sorcery. For love isn’t it?"
Sukuna rose from the floor, stood tall, his spine stayed straight as steel, unshaken. “I have obliged your command, moulded as your soldier and weapon, advanced the knowledge of curses better than every sorcerer that existed in this age. You are where you stand because I chose to follow your command. And I can choose whether you can stand, father.”
Glares were exchanged between the two. Although Sukuna’s body was bigger, taller, stronger than his own father, the older Ryomen remained the bigger presence in the room.
“You are where you stand in this room because I allowed it, boy.”
He could do it, murder his father and have hundreds of sorcerers come after him. Or Ryomen Saburou could order his men in seconds, hunt after his own son and youl. A low laugh broke the tension, dark and mocking.
"So be it." The older man turned away slowly, cloak swirling behind him like smoke from dying embers. "Prove she is worthy by completing my missions. Win me ten battles and conquest."
A pause. "If you seek to marry her, I shall entertain it with a price.”
The challenge was set but Sukuna only lowered his head slightly more, smiled beneath shadowed eyes. That was nothing at all, it ignited the fire in Sukuna’s chest and roared back to life.
"Ten battles?" His voice was too calm, almost amused. "You're giving me a limit?"
His father turned slightly, one eye catching the dim candlelight.
Sukuna smirked—a flash of fang, a glint of pure danger.
"You should've asked for a hundred."
“In seven days, win ten battles and overtake three villages, all of my choosing and I shall bless your marriage.” The older man's eyes had disdain but he was a man who never backed down from his word. Without another word, he turned and walked toward the door. “You have my word.”
As Ryomen Saburou stepped out into the night, he heard a chuckle.
"I'll bring you their blood on my feet."
The door slid shut behind him with finality.
A cunning man like his father should never be trusted. Sukuna should know better that his father’s motivation was building the strength of the clan and the era of cursed users. He also knew that he was a man that didn’t take back his word. Sukuna had seen it all.
He walked out of the meeting chamber into the cold night air, a quiet fury seething within him.
His father's words echoed through his mind—not a blessing of his choice, but a challenge.
Ten battles. Dominate villages under the name of the Ryomen clan.
And a time limit?
It was a test, a way to weaken him and make him realize the futility of defying the Ryomen clan. However, Sukuna will not back down for he had been built to fulfill his father’s cause.
It was almost a recreation of the night of the wedding you snuck out that night. You, his bride dressed in white, a majestic dove that he laid his eyes on. Him, a man who fulfilled his vow to you.
When Sukuna presented ten cursed talismans at his father’s feet, one for each foe was defeated. Each marked with the sigil of a fallen sorcerer, their energy still faintly pulsing like dying embers. Village leaders came to the Ryomen clan, falling under his occupation and supporting his creed.
As a result, Ryomen Saburou fulfilled his word to his son.
Your father returned with riches too from ventures beyond, no longer holding debts and coughed up your dowry. Impressive enough for Ryomen Saburo to accept the exchange.
Miracles were happening but you and Sukuna had seen the signs that something sinister was looming over.
“I will never leave your side, I will protect you because I am the strongest man there is.” Thumbs caressing your hands, his two hands brushing your locks, easing your worries.
“I just… I can’t believe this is happening, we get to marry. I get to marry my love,” he remembered the way your eyes sparked in glee, how close you were to cry. Foreheads touching, lips that were a breath distance, hearts in content.
The lead up to the marriage was smooth, your mother stood close and was particularly involved. You were bathed, pampered and your mother kept herself alert at all times even when innocent servants were fond of handling you. Sukuna would be close by the next room, cautious as ever, anything could happen at this point.
Yet nothing.
Marriages were sacred, religious temples forbade bloodshed within grounds and to commit such crimes was heinous. His father would never commit such treason, Sukuna knew his father enough that he would never act on violence. Your mother knew that too, in all her years living in the village. As cruel as he was, he had respected sanctions and marriages. That would mean Sukuna had to prepare what would come after the night wedding.
As the priest blessed the wedding, your family members, the village leaders Sukuna had conquered, and important guests were sitting as they observed the communion. Your mother sat behind your father and Ryomen Saburou, examining every detail until she saw a crimson thread around the neck of a girl who sat next to her, the sigil of the talisman worn, hidden behind her kimono. The sigil of the pyromaniac clan, one that she had heard from whispers of the Ryomen clan’s supposed alliances.
Her eyes struck onto the same thread around Saburou’s neck. The warlord and her husband, as if they have caught on, her eyes met with a lion’s den and the prey. Her face twisted in repulsion, your mother stood and harshly smacked your father’s face as she yelled your name out loud, while your father rigidly held her back in pleas.
The world had to stop time for Sukuna because he barely moved in a fraction of a second. In the midst of the burning ceremony, you were engulfed in flames, your baby brother snatched away swiftly as a wind, then your parents burned along with you.
You were too beautiful, too precious in those final moments, your eyes were desperate with hope. The image of you as his bride imprinted in his mind from a moment ago as you laid burning.
He could only think of those gentle touches, your laugh, the way your scent meant fuller stomachs and fuller hearts after a long summer day. A person he fondly smiles at because he knew what true joy was.
His mind went blank.
Something in his chest twisted like knotted steel. His body reacted immediately as his hands reached out, grabbing you, wrenching you from the flames; to hold you, keeping you safe even in the dying body. Uncaring how the sorcerer’s fire scorched him too as he became numb to it all.
Screeches of guests as they ran while Ryomen Saburou sat still and watched under another sorcerer’s barrier, as the temple combusted into flames. As Sukuna was frozen, rooted to the ground, watching the girl he loved burn to nothing right in front of him.
He couldn't move.
He couldn't breathe.
Something in him snapped.
All while his blood boiled him.
He should have known better that his father would keep his tainted hands clean. The same man who conquered and created warfare with ink and words, commemorated his principles but by allowing others to move in his own place. Starting from the moment Sukuna had rejected his own marriage arrangement, Ryomen Saburou plotted for his son’s utter defeat and bare survival.
Like father like son, the warlord underestimated his son too.
Cursed energy bled immensely, the raging blaze that blinded Sukuna transported his surroundings, all beings within the perimeters of the temple were trapped. This was an undocumented ability. Domains were mainly rumours but what was displayed to the sorcerers eclipsed their expectations that their hearts sunk down to their core and their bodies paralysed. A shrine formed from flesh and large malformed mouths with teeth, Sukuna stood in its middle while he held onto you. Instinctively, his two fingers pressed against the other and infinite slashes were projecting, cutting through muscles and bone. Each body that fell became skulls that built the foundation of the shrine, horns burst out of the ground, blood painted in its courtyard. A reincarnation of hell exhibited in front of Ryomen Saburou, he had understood what true horror and divine punishment was. Out of all this, the only opponent that barely survived was the older Ryomen, that was intentional.
His father wanted a new golden era of power with sorcerers. So be it, Sukuna will show his father what his cause meant.
In that moment, under the burning gaze of Sukuna's eyes, Ryomen Saburou realized two things with perfect clarity.
That beneath all the strength and ruthlessness, beneath the bloodthirst and ambition; his son was in love, the Cursed One was in love. Witnessing that love shattered, the world quaked as trees shook, storms of leaves tearing free. The ground groaned, the very earth itself was afraid as Sukuna moved.
Sukuna didn’t speak or roar, he moved as every step forward was a promise to wreak suffering. You, who bind his humanity and innocence, and recognised for everything he was, including all that was good and evil. Gone.
No one to hold him, no one who felt him. All that had been good had left him and the fate of his creation, what was intended in the very beginning of his birth and how the world crafted him to be.
A storm rose around him, the air split with the sound of snapping bone, returning to the wrecked temple and bodies on the ground like broken dolls. Sukuna, skin charred and flesh burnt but breathing,
The burning wooden compound cracked, Sukuna strode on toward his father.
Every step was slow.
Every step was deliberate.
Every step was inevitable.
The warlord’s feet were heavy and bloodstained, an arm left to push his battered body backward while one leg was missing and the other had been snapped. Sukuna burned even brighter through the pain with the fire of his rage as he pushed on through the wreckage.
There was only one thing that mattered now.
“Is this what you visioned father? Have I fulfilled your life mission for the new era?”
Red eyes glared onto his father, the warlord attempted to beg for mercy in coughs of blood clot.
He felt you—his love, his lifeless wife.
"I understand what I was born to be, I shall fulfill this destiny and I will be the face for all curses. I will live with what I desire, I will live to curse." His voice was dull, raw with the weight of a grief and pain that had burned long enough to infect his soul.
He stepped forward, each footstep thundering across the stones.
“Your name shall never be passed on for I will share no heirs nor bastards to continue your bloodline.” Sukuna proclaimed to the winds, the forests, and the remaining Gods of the temple. "The Ryomen clan ends here, there could only be one Ryomen standing in this generation."
A silence heavier than death fell over the ruins.
Sukuna stood amidst the wreckage of the sacred temple and bloodbath. A seeping inferno crept on the limbs of his father, blood drooled and the heinous warlord whimpered incoherent words as it grew into shrieks. Sukuna watched until his father’s screams were long gone, his body broken, soon his legacy reduced to ash and memory.
"No descendants, no songs sung in my father’s name. They will only know mine," he whispered into the wind, voice hollow but final. This vile Ryomen blood tainted with violence, pride, and ruin would be contained in him to either infect or die with him.
In his arms, still cradled close like a prayer, he held you. Blackened, silent, gone, he refused to let go. Refused to believe that love that was fierce and undefying could be erased by fire and cruelty.
He looked down at your face one last time. Beneath the char was the girl who had smiled at shadows, who had chosen him when the world told you not to and something inside him shattered completely. "I will bear no heirs because I cannot."
"If you were here," His thumb brushed over what remained of your hand. "We would’ve had our own children who existed because of love."
The wind howled through the remnants and ashes of the sacred ground—one last echo of what was holy communion that became an unwarranted tragic burial.
As dawn broke over, Ryomen Sukuna walked away as a man carrying love too great for this world, and grief too heavy for any soul to survive unbroken. He never looked back, letting his feet lead him to where he should return for a final time.
It was a clear morning, the water still and calm as if the creek was holding its breath. He walked along the riverside, memories rewinded back to the day he first met you at the river. The way you’d reached out and heard his heart under the tree, not knowing who he was, not knowing what he would become.
There was only one thing left he could do.
He laid your body underneath the weeping willow, on a bed of flowers and plants he remembered too well—the very spot where they’d once whispered promises, shared stolen glances, and dreamed of a future now turned to ash.
The final act to perform the proper burning ceremony; not for the wedding, for the funeral of the newlywedded wife.
He arranged you carefully on a wooden pile; placing wildflowers you picked before your hands, surrounding you with the sweet berries you both picked when you were young, and herbs that he recalled memorising.
His fingers trembled. Ryomen Sukuna did not cry for anyone but he broke into pieces while he arranged every foraged memory onto your body. A single tear cut through the soot on his deformed cheek as he lit the pyre with steady hands and a heart that had stopped beating long before.
The fire rose softly, warm and golden like the sunrises they’d watched together.
As the smoke curled into the sky, carrying what remained of his love, nature read the unspoken words of what once was a man:
“Maybe in another life, I’ll see you again. In another world, if this world wasn’t cruel and when the Gods will bless us.”
He stayed until the last char died.
He stood and walked into the wind, a ghost clad in blood and sorrow, finally free from love and humanity you had restrained him in, but completely alone to survive.
From the ashes of the temple, a myth was born. The world would not remember Sukuna Ryomen as the son of an evil warlord but as the King of Curses—a title carved in blood and grief, whispered in fear by sorcerers and cursed alike.
Where once there was love beneath cherry blossoms, there were ruins beneath silent skies onwards. The world trembled at his name.
No longer bound by bloodline or duty, Sukuna became a legend. He ruled not from a throne, but from the shadows between curses. In the fire he saw the joy in the end of his humanity for destruction was his pleasure that filled his endless lust.
He forged a new era, one where strength was law, chaos cultivated and sentiment had almost no place.
Only, there would be a brief occurrence when the wind carried petals to the riverbank, the King of Curses would vanish. One fleeting moment that he wasn’t feared, furious or immune to violence.
A window of time where he was simply once a man, kneeling beneath a tree, whispering to ghosts. You may hear the faint echo of two voices laughing; one sharp and mocking, the other soft and warm, forever meeting again in dreams the King never wakes up from.
a/n: finally the last chapter to this series! this took a long time to make because i was figuring out what direction i should take. honestly, i’m proud of how this turned out. it feels so great to finally write fanfics. life is worth livinggggg
pairing: bucky barnes x female 1940’s bombshell! reader
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summary: bucky left his heart in 1945 with you, the only girl he ever really loved. a letter you left has him believing you’re dead, but the reality?
you were captured by hydra and made into a super soldier that never went to war—kept frozen for a future era of terror. years after hydra fell, valentina discovered you in her research to creating a new superhero.
in a last ditch effort, valentina’s team of scientists used your blood to make a new serum on bob, their latest subject. but, when it seemed that bob didn’t withstand the experiment, she left you and him in the vault to burn with the rest of the evidence.
you woke up disoriented in a completely different world, saved by a team of antiheroes with no idea that the love of your life was still alive.
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genre: fluff, angst (implied smut) 18+ mdni
word count: 8,542
highlights: jealous! bucky, howard stark having the fattest crush on reader, peggy and reader girl friendship :)
AUTHOR'S NOTE: this can be a stand alone but I am not normal and wrote so much that this ended up being a Bucky series (look forward to the other parts!)
…this is the first ever Bucky fic I’ve made! I know I mainly write for avatar (new chapters coming!) but I really had to make this fic cause I got a surge of an idea.
so sorry for any typos as well! I was just writing and writing and got so excited
Circa. 1943
You had escaped your stuffy life in the upper east side of Manhattan to join the efforts against Germany and actually go make a difference in the world.
But the only way that you could find a way to fight was to become one of Captain America's backup dancers during his morale shows. You had performed in a couple of those shows before you snuck away when no one was looking, disguising yourself in uniform and posing as a soldier for as long as you could.
When it finally came out that you were a woman, it sure as hell wasn’t enough that you were on the same team as Captain America, especially to Colonel Philips. It was under his call that you were asked to leave until Howard Stark stepped in. He compromised with Philips by giving you a position in his office with Peggy, confident that you would help the war effort. Truthfully though, he was just taken by you and he would have simply despaired sending a woman as beautiful as you back to New York.
You had become good friends with Peggy, Stark, and Steve, but you had become closest to Steve. He had reminded you of your brother that you had at home— the same kindness in his heart and the same fighting spirit. You were protective of him, despite the fact that the super serum made him tower over you.
So, naturally on the day that Steve was going on a rogue rescue mission to save his friend, you insisted on coming, promising Steve you would stay with Peggy in the plane.
"Miss Y/n Y/l/n, if it's not too much trouble, I thought we could stop off in Lucerne for a late-night fondue." Stark flirted from the cockpit.
You looked over at Peggy and Steve, their eyes expectant as they waited for your response. Clearing your throat, you lied with a smile, "Yeah, that sounds great."
"It's a date, then!" He replied, satisfied as he smirked to himself.
You didn't say anything, scrunching your nose as you looked to the side. Only Peggy seemed to notice, chuckling with an amused expression. Steve, though, was clueless, his thoughts surface-level as he let out a sigh of relief that Howard was flirting with you and not Peggy.
She turned her attention over to Steve, describing how to use the transponder so he could activate it when he was ready. You listened carefully before bullets began to ricochet off the plane's exterior, multiple gun blasts sounding in your ears making you stand up immediately with your ears covered.
Steve stood up too, his sense of urgency heightened as he quickly opened the hatch.
"Get back here! We're taking you all the way in!" Peggy yelled out against the winds and gunfire.
"As soon as I'm clear, you turn this thing around and get the hell out of here!" Steve commanded at her, her eyebrows raising.
"Hey, Stark!" You put your hands around your mouth to project, and even as he dodged the bullets, he was still able to respond to you.
"Yes, beautiful?”
You looked down at Steve who was getting ready to jump and without warning you grabbed onto the strap on his back as you replied, "I'll have to take a raincheck on that fondue!"
Peggy attempted to grab you but Steve jumped before he realized you were attached to him, the two of you falling toward the ground at incredible speed. Once you finally hit the ground, Steve broke your fall and you got up from the ground with him scolding at you in a whispered tone, "What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm your backup! Now, hurry up. We have people to save." You said to him confidently, running toward the hydra base already.
Sneaking past the armed guards, you and Steve had no problem getting inside. You were in horrified awe looking at everything, the technology unlike anything you had ever seen before—weapons and artillery that glowed a bright blue color. You put a few of the small canisters in your pocket, figuring Stark would know what they were with his brilliance before moving on toward the prison cell blocks.
Disarming more guards, you startled the soldiers below who looked at you in shock, their faces all riddled with same expression as one of them asked, "Who are you?" as Steve stood over their cells.
"I'm Captain America."
Steve threw down the keys that were in the guard's pockets and you caught them, unlocking each of the cell doors and letting them all out.
You were so caught up in the mission, you hadn't realized how baffling your presence was to the men as they stared at you in awe, one of them commenting, "You're a...woman."
"Right, a woman that just saved your ass." You said snarkily.
“Language.” Steve scolded you, his eyes frantic as he looked for his friend.
You rolled your eyes at him, ignoring what he said as you instructed, "Go look for him, Steve. I'll make sure you have a clear way out of here!"
Steve shook his head at you, putting his hands on your shoulders, refusing instantly, "No, you go with them and you run like hell."
There was no point in arguing with him, conceding as you saluted, "Yes, Cap. You got it."
With your confirmation, Steve ran the other way, and you went with the others, starting off running with everyone, but turning back toward the corridor Steve had went into.
The explosions began when you got closer to where you had left Steve, the entire bottom of the base going up in flames. You were running as fast as you could, only catching up to Steve when you saw him duck into one of the rooms.
You meant to follow him inside, but the shadow of a figure caught your eye, the short man wearing a trench coat, a briefcase, and a hat. You fixated on that briefcase, whatever unholy hydra plans in there possibly helpful in defeating hydra once and for all. Running as fast as you could, you shot at the man as you ran, making him move quicker in haste across the long hallway.
When he finally stopped you had a clear shot, until another man stepped out from an elevator, his face sinister as he turned to let the man you were chasing into the elevator, gun in his hand as he said to you simply, "Consider this a mercy."
Pointing it at you, you had no time to react as he shot you, only barely missing your heart as you managed to dodge it just enough for it to land in the flesh between your collarbone and your shoulder.
The impact sent you down to the ground, pain seeping through the wound as blood spilled out. Cursing, you took off your outer coat, ripping up your shirt underneath and tying the wound as tight as you could and as quickly as possible. Getting up, you held onto your coat, the material bunched up in your hands as you ran to the elevator.
Pressing the button underneath the highest one, you figured it would give you a good vantage point to call out to Steve since the entire base was burning from the ground up.
Breathing heavily, you were collecting your strength as you leaned against the wall of the elevator and once the doors finally opened, you trudged out, eyes searching everywhere as you yelled, "Steve!"
You saw movement two stories down, and even from that far, you saw disappointment and worry on his face as he yelled out, "I told you to get the hell out of here!"
"You really think I'd leave you here? Hurry up! You can use this beam to get across!" They followed the gesture of your hands, quickly running up the stairs.
Leaning against the railing, you gulped, watching the world around you burning, the heat rising and rising, sweat dripping from your forehead.
Up ahead, you watched as Steve's friend went first, balancing carefully on the beam that rocked slightly with every step. When the end of the beam on your side began to drop lower with his weight, your eyes widened and instantly you reached out, "Take my hand!"
He almost lost his balance, blinking at you, his eyes adjusting to take in your appearance. It didn't matter that your hair was all over the place, that sweat ws beading around your forehead or that you had blood and dirt smeared on your shirt. For that split second, his breath hitched at the sight of you, simply enamored, before he ran forward, hand extended as he jumped up from the beam just in time before it fell.
Despite the pain in your shoulder, you used all your strength to help pull him up and over the railing. When he was over, he fell onto you and you caught him, your arms around his back as you stabilized your feet. Time felt as if it slowed when you pulled your face back, your eyes locked on each other in that moment. You were asking if he was alright as you trailed your hands around him, his hunched position when he first started walking on the beam concerning you. But with every fleeting touch of yours, you were unknowingly stamping yourself on him, the feel of you creating a longing inside of Bucky that he never knew was possible.
Once he nodded, speechless, you were back at the railing and looking at Steve across the beam, "Just wait right there. We'll find a way to get you across." You watched as Steve looked down, doom looming over him as he shook his head.
"Go guys! Get out of here!" Steve urged, but right beside you, his friend countered him.
His friend was right beside you now, smacking on the railing, he was angry, determined as he yelled out, "No! Not without you!"
"Come on, Captain America! Get a running start and jump!" You weren't sure if it would work or if it was even a good idea, but it was the only thing you could think of.
Bending the railing, Steve heeded your order, stepping back and with a big breath he sprinted forward, jumping into the air, fire and flame all around him.
You couldn't peel your eyes away as you watched him leap, but at the last minute, you turned away, not wanting to watch your fear unravel in front of you.
The clunk of metal though made you face forward again, Steve's body wobbling forward and you let out a sigh of relief as you draped an arm around him, and even included his friend into your embrace, "We're home free now."
Walking back to the home base, you had argued with Steve for over five minutes about how you were fine to walk and that you didn't need to be in the tank with the rest of the injured men.
He didn't win the argument in the end, conceding to you as you walked proudly next to him. But, he did take away the gun that you were carrying so you could wear a sling.
His friend matched your pace, remaining close to you, his eyes both patrolling his surroundings, but also somehow always finding their way back to you. It wasn't hard for you to notice and you smiled to yourself, the grin that he kept on his face endearing to you.
"Do you have a name or are you just gonna keep staring?" You asked him, tilting your head slightly as you looked at him from the side.
"Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes," His tone uplifted at your question, eyes glinted with excitement at your boldness, "And your name is...?"
"Y/n Y/l/n. Just y/n is fine. No need for any titles." You introduced yourself, the warmth of your voice radiating through the air.
"Just y/n, huh? The people I'm close with call me Bucky." He added.
"Ah, is that your aim then, Sergeant? To get close to me?" You teased, grinning.
"No need for any titles." He repeated, chuckling at your answer,but his eyes were determined and seductive, passion enthralled in his response, "I mean you've already offered your hand to me, so I think it's only right."
You hated to admit how he was getting under your skin with his charm, the way he was talking setting a fire deep within you, making your heart pump faster than usual.
Reaching up, you put your hand up to his face, lightly tapping it as you cheekily replied, "You better watch it. You really shouldn't bite off more than you can chew there, Barnes."
Turning to the side, you gazed up at Steve, who was pretending that he wasn't eavesdropping on your conversation. Placing a hand on his shoulder, you spoke, "I'm going to check in with everyone, see if they need anything."
Bucky watched you leave, even the sight of you walking away was breathtaking to him. And when you were finally out of sight, he put an arm around Steve, elation blooming in the way he beamed over you, "She's an actual angel that came down from heaven. Where did you find her, Steve? And what's she doing hanging with you?"
Steve shrugged, used to Bucky's jokes and his usual gushing about women, "She snuck into the infantry, if you really have to know. She's a good woman, Buck and I think she's spoken for."
"She is spoken for...by me, pal. I'm marrying that girl." Bucky said, unbothered.
"You say that about every girl." Shaking his head, Steve laughed, "She's a real tough cookie to crack, Buck. I don't know if you can handle it."
"Come on, have you met me?" Bucky scoffed, confidence oozing out, "I'm telling you, I'm marrying her."
-
Once you arrived at camp, you were greeted with a surprisingly warm welcome by Colonel Philips, his shock and awe by Steve's rescue mission finally giving credibility to the idea of Captain America being more than just a symbol.
Peggy kept her composure looking at Steve, her eyes once concerned washing over with relief at seeing him in one piece. She extended that concern to you as she took your hand, her face dropping when she saw you in a sling.
She escorted you to the medic tent, the others who were injured following after you. Bucky's eyes only left you when he shouted out "Let's hear it for Captain America!" for Steve, the gesture touching your heart.
Peggy was calling your name, but you didn't hear her at all, staring a little longer than you thought, hanging onto Bucky's every move as he patted his friend's back enthusiastically.
Only when she tapped your shoulder did you finally grant her your eye contact and her lips pursed as she playfully taunted, "Never have I seen you be so enamored with a man this entire time I've known you. And, we are always surrounded by them."
"You can't tell me he isn't handsome." You shrugged your shoulders, wincing slightly as you held onto your wound, forgetting about it for the moment.
Your carelessness made her chuckle as she motioned for you to keep following her, "He's not really my type of man."
You took an opportunity to tease her back, smiling to yourself from behind her, "Oh right, you like the blonde ones. I forgot." She sent you quick glare, and satisfied you only gave her an innocent expression.
-
The next night, celebration was in order for all the men in the infantry, all of them filing out of their barracks in their proper uniforms toward the pub on the other side of camp.
It was you who had convinced Peggy to wear her red dress to the pub because although she only planned to be there for a second to talk to Steve, you knew how much she really liked him, and you were certain of her effect on him too.
You had your own evening gown to put on too, an unexpected gift from Howard Stark, which you would have kindly refused if he didn't so adamantly insist that he wouldn't take it back. You were even deadset on wearing a uniform just like the rest of the soldiers, but Peggy begged you to dress up, saying that Stark's gift would be wasted. When you finally agreed, she helped you get ready, pinning up your hair and finished your makeup before the two of you walked over to the pub.
The night air was chilly, but it didn't bother you as you walked, one foot in front of the other with careful precision, just like you were taught in your debutante school when you were a teenager. Pushing the door open, you let Peggy walk through the door first, the lively tunes of the piano once boisterous, halting suddenly as the pianist slowed his fingers, jaw hung open as he ogled the two of you.
Silence filled the pub as the soldiers' eyes were fixated on you. You recognized some of the men you rescued from the hydra base, making your way over to them and joking, "Glad to see you guys are alive and well enough to drink your fill."
The one with the bowler hat and mustache nodded, tipping his hat then lifting his cup to you, "Thanks to you and our Captain America over there! Forgive me for being so bold with you, Miss. You're no able grable, but a fine woman indeed. We here at this table all agree. Cheers to you."
Nodding at them, you looked at each of them gratefully and they drank their beers in honor of you, clinking them loudly as the foam spilt over the sides. Turning the corridor, you saw Peggy already with Steve. You intended to give them more time, but she was already turning toward the exit.
"You're leaving already?" You asked, "You should stay for a dance."
"I can't." Then, looking past you, she smiled, "But you can. And it looks like you already have a dance partner."
Following her eye line, ahead you saw Bucky, hands in his pockets and that same smile from before donned on his lips. He had anticipated your arrival, his head constantly peering toward the entrance every chance he got before you came.
"Good luck." Peggy whispered into your ear, winking.
Peggy left you in the center of the room, the soldiers all still with their eyes lingering on your figure. Bucky was leaning against the frame of the walkway, his gaze full of adoration with every step you took toward him.
You were almost within arm's length of him when you were interrupted by Stark's familiar voice behind you, his usual charm lacing it, "I almost didn't recognize you without your uniform on, Miss y/l/n."
Stark pivoted to your front, blocking Bucky's view as he admired the dress on you, "I do know how to pick an evening gown, don't I?"
"I'm surprised to see you here. Aren't you a little busy decoding that blue stuff from the hydra base?" You jabbed at him, ignoring his flirtatious advances.
"Not too busy to reschedule our fondue." He leaned forward suggestively, "What do you say?"
You caught Bucky's eye, his gaze never leaving you and his stance still against the doorway. Seeing him still waiting there, your heart softened and you smiled at him, "Sorry Stark. I would but—"
"But, I owe her a dance." Bucky was quick to walk over when he heard your apology, finishing your sentence as he boldly spoke for you.
Stark looked up at Bucky, puzzled before he recognized him, putting a hand out, "Ah, Sergeant Barnes, is it? Glad to see you're alive."
"I've got Steve and y/n here to thank for that." Taking Stark's hand, Bucky shook it firmly before letting it go and extending his hand to you, "Shall we?"
You looked over at Stark, who felt instantly challenged by Bucky's gesture, the two of them suddenly glaring at one another.
"Thank you for the gown." You kissed him on the cheek, and he hung onto that lingering touch as he ghosted where your lips had been.
Finally, you took Bucky's hand and he clasped your fingers together leading you to the area where people were dancing. You saw Steve sitting at the bar, waving at him as he held his drink high as if he was toasting to you.
You pulled Bucky back toward the bar, insistent on getting a drink first. When the bartender turned around, he almost dropped the glass he was wiping with the rag, jaw hung open as he adjusted the tip of his hat, "What can I get for you, miss?"
"Whiskey will do. Thank you sir. How much?" You asked, pulling out your purse, which Bucky put down for you, already placing money on the counter.
"You're on my dime tonight." Bucky insisted as the man began to pour your drink.
Steve scoffed, "How come you didn't buy my drink?"
"You're not a beautiful woman, Steve," He gave you a dazzling smile, eyes beaming at you, "And a beautiful woman should never have to pay."
"Is that so?" You replied, leaning over the counter and batting your eyelashes at the bartender, "Do you agree, sir?"
"Uh, well, yes, miss!" The glass was almost overflowing as he stood flustered by you, "This one's on the house!"
Flashing him a smile, you winked, "Thank you kindly."
Downing it all in one go, Bucky and Steve looked at one another, Steve's eyes widened, but Bucky's seeped with intense ardor. Once you finished, you slid the glass back toward the bartender, who tipped his hat again to you.
Then, meeting Bucky's eyes, you trailed your hand down his arm and hooked your fingers around his, "I guess you were right, Barnes."
In the middle of the dancing area, Bucky wasted no time in gently pulling you close, minding your injury as he placed your hand on his lower waist. The piano player, who had once played an upbeat tune, slowed his tempo down, the song's natural romantic nature creating an air of intimacy around you and Bucky.
You rested the other hand on his shoulder, but instead of his attention fixed on you, they were on the bartender. Lifting your hand to his chin, you coaxed his focus back to your face, teasing him curiously, "You've got a real sour face on for someone who wanted to dance."
"So...what's with you and the fondue guy?" He was itching to know more than he cared to admit, the sight of you kissing another man's cheek igniting a territorial urge he didn't know he was capable of.
"I didn't take you for a jealous man, Barnes. What got you exactly?" You laughed and seeing that, he instantly surrendered his seriousness, lips pulling upward with joy while you cheekily replied.
"I'm not jealous," He sucked on his teeth, scoffing a little at your response, "See, you actually did me a favor at the bar."
"Did I?" You said with surprise, raising your eyebrows eagerly.
"Yeah, you just saved me a couple more Italian lira to get you something real nice." He seemed proud of his answer, head tilted a little higher as he kept a smirk.
Challenging him, you spoke, "I'm used to the finer things in life, Barnes. Whatever you buy won't impress me."
"I find that hard to believe when you're wearing the dress that fondue guy gave you," Bucky playfully looked at you.
Looking down, you nodded, "I am wearing Stark's dress, yes. But, I'm dancing with you, and where you are is exactly where I want to be."
You expected another sly and quick reply from him but Bucky was at a loss for words, rendered speechless not just by your touch, but by your words. You taunted him amorously, "What's wrong, soldier? Do I need to give you a command to show a girl a good time?"
He gulped, suddenly feeling weak in his knees over you— all his senses centered around your entire being, "I'll do anything you want, doll. Just say the word."
Slowly, you closed the gap between you two, resting your head on his shoulder and interlacing your hand into his, "Good, now hold me close and we'll see where the night takes us."
Everything about you was warm, any worries and fears he had disappearing from his mind. The smell of roses were distinctly yours now, your perfume permeating through his nose pleasantly and without thinking, he leaned into you a little closer, the feel of your hair soft underneath his chin. You were humming quietly with the piano too, and he decided then that the piano was too loud, too disruptive against your melodic voice.
Savoring the moment, he squeezed your hand lightly, the gesture necessary as he wondered whether or not he was dreaming. In response to him, you tilted your head back to regard his eyes, and almost instantly he looked down at your lips that were softly parted, the cherry red calling his name.
Gulping, Bucky held back the temptation, the tension in the air almost suffocating him while you stared, curious what he would do. He tried his best to abate wanting to kiss you, but your lips were beckoning him and leaning in he surrendered vulnerably, connecting his lips with yours.
Realization hit him deep as you kissed him back, your hands once on his back trailing to the back of his neck with a tender fervor. He knew he was a ladies' man, the worst kind too—the kind who'd have a different girl on his arm every week. Yet, he found his match in you. For the first time, he was actually scared of losing a girl, and he'd be damned if it was to another man.
Separating your lips from his, he stared at you breathless and longingly, as if your face held all the answers in the world, everything about you already embedded into the inner workings of his mind and the chambers of his heart.
He decided right then and there that he'd only ever want to be with you—to be the only man you ever held, ever kissed.
You yourself were taken by him too, and it felt odd to feel such a natural attraction to someone. You were courted by so many suitors back in New York, showered with gifts, wined and dined until the day was long, yet none of them had ever made you feel the way Bucky made you feel.
"You know, you looked beautiful today." Bucky let out, the words almost not coming out as a sudden nervousness bubbled in his stomach.
Bewildered, you squinted your eyes at him, "When?"
"When I was crossing that beam." He admitted, "Damn near almost fell off staring at you."
You ignored the feeling of your cheeks getting rosy, sighing, "I'm happy you're safe and sound."
Shrugging, he coolly responded, “Well, I had to make it to you. It would have been embarrassing to fall like that on our first date.”
Another laugh escaped your lips, “I don't think that rescue mission can be called a first date."
"What do you mean? It was perfect. You know, we held hands, I walked you home...I think that's standard date procedure." Bucky stated, pleading his case flippantly.
"Steve was also there, and we almost died too." You added, which made him laugh.
"So, it was memorable." Bucky argued, “We're both soldiers, doll. Battlefield or not, anywhere I go with you is a date."
Your cheeks were red now, but there was no point in hiding it anymore, his effect on you evident by your sudden silence. He was naturally alluring to you, but deeper than that, he saw you as a soldier, and it felt good to be recognized, to know that you were something more than a high-society woman from New York.
"I look forward to that next date, but for now, let's focus on this one." You replied, validating his advances happily.
You and Bucky danced together late into the night, and you would have been there the whole way through if the piano player didn't pass out in the middle of a song, his drunkenness getting the best of him. The other soldiers were also filing out of the pub too, some of them knocked out too, their heads on the tables or leaned back onto the chairs.
Bucky walked you back to your room in Stark's headquarters on the base, draping his jacket over you to shield you from the cold. The two of you walked in comfortable silence, but not entirely as you continued to hum the tunes from the pub.
When you got to your room, you gave him his jacket back as he leaned against the doorframe. Watching you walk in, you elected not to turn your light on, but rather light a few candles on your bedside table.
"You know, I was never really worried about the dress, doll." His tone short of indelicate as his voice deepened.
Spinning around, you walked over to him, leaning forward slightly as you played with his shirt collar, "And why's that, Barnes?"
The heat from the candles held no comparison to the passion imbued in the air, once embers igniting instantly into a flame as Bucky spoke, "I figured, you know, if you'll have me...I wouldn't keep you in that dress any longer than you needed to be."
"It was difficult to put on, just so many buttons," You were baiting him purposefully, drawing the moment out longer, your face just inches away from his.
"I have nimble fingers." Bucky blurted out a little too eagerly as his eyes shined with mischief but he kept a giddy smile.
Without thinking, you couldn't help the laugh that erupted, charmed by his sudden switch from sultry to silly. And realizing how he sounded, Bucky laughed along with you, scolding himself internally.
"That was—" He began, but you interrupted.
"Cute. That was cute." You said, and caressing his cheek adoringly you teased him again with a chaste kiss on his lips.
Bucky longed for more, the touch so light that he was aching inside when you pulled away, biting his bottom lip.
Giving him one last smile, your eyes crescent moons and your cheeks still rosy, you stepped backward into your room, grabbing the edge of the door, “Good night, Bucky.”
His ears perked up, but in his disbelief he tilted his head, “You just called me Bucky.”
“Oh, do you prefer Barnes? Because I’ll happily—“
He put a finger to your lips, shaking his head, “No, no, doll, keep calling me Bucky…please.”
Again, you chuckled, moving his fingers over and holding them, “I’ll see you tomorrow Bucky. Now, go get some sleep.”
“Impossible, y/n. I’ll be thinking about you all night.” Bucky was dragging out the moment too, head downcast and staring at your fingers, still intertwined together, neither of you wanting to let go.
You looked behind you, the candles setting the mood already and biting your lip, you sighed, "The barracks are pretty far from here.”
Slowly, you led him forward and with no hesitation, he walked toward you, out of the doorframe and to the center of your room. The candlelight cascaded onto you guys, the two of you so close, your shadows had become one.
Boldly, he twirled you around, his chest facing your back as he adored you from your left side, his breath sending a chill down your spine as he whispered in your ear, "You did order me to show a girl a good time. I have to make good on that promise."
"You already have," You were beaming, eyes locked and your hand in his hair, your voice slightly raspy from the whiskey you were drinking earlier.
"Well, I'm an overachiever." He kissed your cheek softly, his stubble tickling you.
You placed your hands on top of his where they rested on your waist, "Then, what are you waiting for? This dress isn't gonna take itself off."
-
You woke up to a knock on the door, the first one gentle at first then the second one jolting you awake. You blinked rapidly, eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room. The candles you lit were on your bedside table, wax spilled past their holders, long burnt out. Then, you felt a tug at your side, an arm pulling you closer and a deep groan begging your attention as you looked to your side.
He was also woken up by the knock, but it hardly mattered when he was waking up next to you, your bodies still entangled with one another.
"Morning, doll." He greeted, raspiness coating his voice, his tone echoing the way he spoke to you last night, his adoration declared while he was on top of you, matching every word with his amorous movements.
"Y/n! Are you alright? We have a briefing to get to in fifteen minutes!" You heard Peggy yell on the other side of the door.
You left Bucky alone on the bed as you hastily got up and in a rush, you quickly put his pants on and his jacket to cover your naked body. When you got to the door, you only opened the door a sliver to hide Bucky, then smoothing your hair out, you replied to her with a smile, "I-I'm fine. I just didn't get a lot of sleep last night so I woke up late."
She paused, taking in your appearance, her eyebrows raised when she noticed the stripes on the sleeves, the symbol not at all reflecting your military rank, "Ah, have you always had that jacket, y/n? I didn't know you changed ranks. Although, I've always known you've had a little sergeant in you."
Bucky was listening to your conversation, holding in a chuckle from Peggy's comment.
You were certain you were bright red, but you brushed her off, "Oh, this? I borrowed it last night. It was quite cold when I left the pub." You lied, scratching the back of your head.
She smiled at you, amused, "Okay, well, I don't want you to be late. So, hurry, please," She backed away from the door, but just as she was about to turn away she called out, "And that goes for you too, Sergeant Barnes."
Shutting the door, you put your head against it for a second, not wanting to look at Bucky until he cleared his throat, joking with you, "As much as I love seeing you in my clothes, we have a briefing to get to."
You bit the inside of your cheek, scoffing as you took the jacket and pants off, you bare again making Bucky clutch his heart, "Or we can skip the briefing."
You walked over, clothes in your right hand as you leaned forward on the bed, teasing him as you ghosted your lips on his, "Just get dressed, you idiot," You whispered, throwing his clothes at him.
"Anything you want, doll." He smirked, hopping off the bed.
-
You barely made it to the briefing on time, slightly out of breath when you walked in, Bucky right behind you. Everyone was gathered around the large flat table in Stark's main office, all of their eyes on you when you walked in.
You took your place beside Peggy, who pinched your hand in acknowledgement underneath the table. You held in a wince, glaring at her, but she only gave you a mischievous grin. Stark willfully ignored the sight, continuing what he was saying as he pointed to the maps on the table. Steve, who had already caught on, assumed at first that it was another fleeting moment with another girl. Yet, it became painfully obvious that Bucky actually liked you when his best friend only looked at him for a moment before clinging to your side, taking his position on the opposite end of you.
And from that day on, you and him were practically inseparable, and in all the time that Steve had known his best friend, he never saw him so smitten with someone. Whenever you talked, Bucky's ears perked up and he gave you his full undivided attention. When you walked, Bucky was never far, usually next to you or a few paces behind. And when you were simply doing nothing, his eyes never left you and his smile was perpetual, cheeks lifted like he never got tired of doing it.
As a soldier and a sergeant, he wasn't allowed to stay outside of the barracks, but he broke the rules for you every chance he got, his place beside you in bed hardly ever empty.
And even in battle, it was easy for you and Bucky to be side by side, the two of you being sharpshooters. But on the occasion that you were on the ground with Steve, Bucky would hound him about keeping you safe, the idea of you ever being hurt unbearable even just in thought.
For two years, you remained that way.
Always together, never apart.
It was in the winter of 1945 when Bucky showed up with his hands behind his back while you were studying the maps of the weapons' bases. You and the Howling Commandos were making great headway disarming the hydra bases, but there were still so many more to go.
The snow was falling above you in the tent, and he found it odd how you were positioned, your body still in the snow while you held the map underneath the tent.
"What are you doing, love?" He knelt down beside you, placing a gentle hand on your knee.
"Enjoying the snow, but I have to keep this map dry." You laughed, looking at him through snow-covered eyelashes, the white specks falling so beautifully in your hair, "I probably look like some sort of white witch with all this snow on me."
“Witch? You’re more radiant like the elves in the Hobbit.” He complimented, making you look up from the map.
You saw how contemplative his expression became when you made eye contact, and tilting your head, you asked, "Is something wrong?"
Bucky carefully took the map out of your hands, placing it on the ground. He was halfway in the snow now too, his hair getting covered while he gushed, "I've just been thinking. I can't imagine my life without you in it. You'll always be my doll, y/n."
Letting out a soft chuckle, you joked, "Always is a long, long time. Are you sure about that?"
"I'll bet my life on it." He replied confidently, reaching up to caress your hair, "And when we come back from all this, I'm marrying you."
"Is that right?" You took his hand into yours, kissing the inside of his palm, "And how are you so sure I'd say yes?"
Smirking, he lowered his eyes at you seductively, "Well, I figured you would since you didn't have any problems saying yes to me last night," He leaned in closer, inching toward your lips as he whispered softly, "Again and again and again..."
He connected his lips to yours and you smiled into it as he kissed you, every movement entrenched in deep affection as his hands pulled you closer to him.
Pulling away slightly, you put a hand on his cheek, your foreheads still touching and your voice almost breathless as you said aloud, "I love you, Bucky."
"I love you too," He breathed in, your words intoxicating him beyond what he could fathom, and reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small box, "I know you hate gifts, but I couldn't resist."
He popped the top open to reveal a ring, the stone sparkling in the snow, "I figured I can't marry you without a ring."
"Bucky, you didn't have to—"
He took it out of the box, taking your hand and putting it on your left hand, "And before you start yelling at me, I didn't buy it, I made it."
You gasped, smiling widely, "You made this?"
"With my own hands." He stated proudly.
"How—" Speechless for a moment, you held your hand up, admiring the details, your heart warmed by the thought of Bucky working so hard to make it for you.
"I told you I have nimble fingers." Shrugging, his nonchalance made you laugh again and you threw your arms around him.
"You really did this for me?" Through German trenches and hydra-infested bases, you had been through so much together, you knew him inside and out and yet, you were still shocked at how he could still surprise you.
"I'm in it for a lifetime, doll. So, what do you want to do for our wedding? A horse-drawn carriage? Roses down the aisle?" Bucky's love outpoured with his words and you kissed him again.
Shaking your head, "I have something else in mind."
You stood, taking his hands into his as he asked eagerly, "What do you mean?"
Leading him, you kept your eyes peeled ahead, "Steve's a captain right? Can't he just marry us? I don't think I can wait any longer to be called Mrs. Barnes."
"I haven't heard a better idea all day." He agreed, and in his own excitement, he took the lead, running with you to find Steve.
You got married right on the base, Peggy and Stark being your witnesses while Steve officiated your wedding. There was no greater honor than being able to marry his best friend to the love of his life, and having not made a move with Peggy yet, he felt more encouraged, the romance in the air intoxicating.
Stark, who still had quite the chip on his shoulder about you, was still happy nonetheless, having grown fond of Bucky since he met him.
Still, he teased you flirtatiously after your ceremony, not at all caring that Bucky was beside you as he said, "It's a shame to see you married off, but I'll be sure to tell my future son that you were supposed to be their mother."
You rolled your eyes at him, but joked back, "And when I name my son after you Howard, he'll know you as the man that could never take a hint."
"My love, I did not agree to that." Bucky protested, and making eye contact with Steve, he yelled out, "Our son's gonna be named Steve Barnes! No exceptions."
"And what if you have a daughter?" Peggy asked, her hands clasped together before she wrapped her arms around your shoulders in a tight embrace.
"Margaret, of course, after my cherished friend." You leaned into her embrace, happiness bubbling inside of you.
Steve came over to Bucky, putting a hand on his shoulder proudly, "I think Steve could be a girl name too," His comment earning a laugh from everyone.
"All this baby talk..." He took your hand into his, tone suggestive as he boldly declared, "I'm thinking we should probably go make one then, right, love? It is our honeymoon, after all."
He mainly said it to to irritate Howard, who scrunched his nose at Bucky. Steve pressed his lips into a thin line, putting his hands on his hips and shaking his head, but Peggy thought it was oddly endearing, her heart warmed by the passion he had for you.
"I wouldn't be surprised if little Steve is already in there, Bucky." You replied, scratching the back of your head, slightly embarrassed.
"Well, you can never be too sure." He said cheekily, peppering your face with kisses.
"Okay, okay." Steve said, putting his hands up, muttering under his breath, "You guys are like rabbits."
You glared at him, "I heard that, Steve."
-
That was the best day of your life.
It was the first day of forever with Bucky.
But what you didn't know?
Forever would only last a day.
You would have never thought that the last image of your love would be of him holding onto the metal bar on that moving train, your hand outstretched toward him just like the first day you met.
Yet, his hand never touched yours again, and he knew it too, his eyes, although struck with so much fear imbued with so much affection as he managed to tell you he loved you before the metal bar gave out.
The sight of him falling was surreal for you, and in your quickness to act, you were about to jump off the train too, but Steve held you back as you screamed and screamed for him to let you go.
When you got back to the base, you had nothing else on your mind except for Bucky. You couldn't shake the feeling that he was still alive, and you went with that gut feeling all the way.
The only person who knew about your plan was Stark, who had agreed to take his plane back to the mountains. He was the last person you would see in a long time, unbeknownst to you.
Over the mountains, you opened the hatch, looking down at the white abyss. Before you jumped, Stark grabbed your arm, asking you, "What if you don't find him?"
"I will." You replied brazenly, giving him one last kiss on the cheek, "Goodbye Stark. Just know that when you get married and have your son, he’ll change the world, just like you are right now."
With that, you disappeared into the snow.
And for a hundred more years, you became a piece of history, along with Steve, frozen in the ice, the remnants of the two of you kept alive in the minds of Peggy Carter and Howard Stark.
And when Steve was finally out of the ice, finally meeting the son of his old friend, he was surprised to hear your name out of his mouth so casually as he ate his blueberries, "Yeah, my hacking program is named y/n. Apparently she was supposed to be my mother. And man, was she a babe. I totally get where dad was coming from there."
In a funny way, it was meant to honor you. Stark had meant what he said when he told you he'd tell his kid about you, your name coming alive again when Tony was growing up. It was only right for him to know, your last words being about the kid that would grow up to change the world.
Howard never forgot that.
And in his final moments lying on the ground near his car, his wife shot and his life fading, he looked up at his assassinator only to find his lost friend.
"Sergeant Barnes?" He uttered in disbelief, but he was met with blank eyes and silence. And in a last attempt to awaken something familiar in his friend, he spoke your name, "Y/n, she looked for you in the mountains. Your wife."
But those words meant nothing to the Winter Soldier.
Yet, that memory was not lost on Bucky, trapped inside, forced to hear about your fate through the friend he had just murdered.
And when he finally was out of Hydra's grasp, his mind free of that control, his first instinct was to look for your grave.
He found it easily in upstate New York, your family's influence on the entire city marking fame and praise. Your name was engraved on an empty casket in your family mausoleum, and when he saw it, tracing his hands over it, he dropped to his knees, endless sobs escaping him.
And at night, when he’d lie awake, he would always turn his body to the side, arm outstretched to hug the pillow that he always placed beside him. He never did get used to sleeping alone after you.
But still, he couldn't shake that you were somehow alive, and on the day that Steve time travelled, coming back in his old age, Bucky approached him, "When you were back there, did you—"
"No," Steve shook his head, his hands in his pockets, "I didn't find her. But man, she loooved you, Buck."
Taking two pieces of paper out of his pocket, he handed one to Bucky, "She wrote this for you."
"You read it?" Bucky asked, offended.
"I peeked, okay? I had to make sure which one was mine." Steve defended himself.
Unraveling it, it read:
Dear Bucky,
You once told me that you could never imagine a life without me in it. And I could say that was the reason I went after you, so you wouldn't have to. But, honestly, a day didn't even pass after you fell and I felt like I was dying.
I realize I can't live without you. I had everything growing up. But, that's all nothing compared to what I have with you.
If you're reading this now, it means I never did find you. But it also means that you're alive, just like I knew you would be.
I would tell you to be happy, to marry someone else, and have a family.
But, if you do, I'll haunt you for the rest of your life.
I hope you don't mind that I gave Steve the ring you made me. I figured if he had one already, he couldn't use the excuse that he didn't have a ring to finally marry Peggy.
I love you, Bucky, I love you a whole lifetime's worth, even if we didn't get to live it out.
Love,
Your doll
Bucky, although he was struck with another wave of grief, tears welling in his eyes, he laughed, hearing your voice so clearly in his head as if you were saying everything out loud to him.
In his other pocket, Steve took out the same ring box that he had given you all those years ago, "I did end up getting a ring for Peggy. I'm offended, you know? Y/n, she always thought I was so hopeless."
"Hey," Taking the box from Steve, he opened it, remembering the day he gave it to you, the way you looked in the snow still so vivid in his mind, "That's my wife you're talking about."
Steve sighed, "There's a lot more life for you, Buck. If you wanted to move on, I don't think she'd really mind."
"I could, so she would haunt me and I'd finally see her again," Bucky joked, making Steve chuckle.
"But, honestly Steve, I'd rather see her when it's my time to go. She's worth the wait."
-
Author's Note:
Omg omg omg I kind of got carried away but I couldn't resist writing 1940's Bucky. I can't wait to write this next chapter where they see each other again but damn writing this ending actually lowkey had me tearing up
Please let me know what you thought of this chapter! Again, first time writing for Bucky and I had so much momentum after Thunderbolts I had to just get into writing IMMEDIATELY.
If you'd like to be in my taglist, tell me your fave part about the chapter and i'll add you!
Summary : You fall for Bucky Barnes, the Avenger assigned as your bodyguard. When a photo of the two of you kissing leaks to the tabloids, your clients start questioning your company’s integrity.
Pairing : Bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x CEO!reader
Warnings/tags : implied sex, cursing, mutual pining, canon-typical violence, you have a dad in this one, post FATWS and pre CABNW, forced proximity-ish, slice of life fic taking place over 15-ish months.
Word Count : 16.2k oops
Notes : Hi!!! I just got home from a holiday and I’m still super jetlagged when I realised my queued posts aren't posting! I will post one fic a day until the schedule catches itself up. Will take the next couple of days to reply to all your comments, so please bear with me! Enjoy!
Day 1.
Bucky grumbled the entire ride to your penthouse, arms crossed like a sulking teenager.
“I’m a super soldier, not a glorified babysitter,” he muttered to Sam as the Quinjet cut smoothly through the air. “I’ve fought aliens. Now I’m stuck protecting some spoiled heiress who probably throws tantrums if her latte isn’t the right milk-to-coffee ratio.”
Sam barely spared him a look, busy in whatever he was reading on his tablet. Bucky glanced over his shoulder— Sam was reading your profile.
Apparently, someone tipped off that an assassination attempt would target you soon, and it wasn’t a threat Sam took lightly. Your father had gone to him, but still new to his Captain America mantle, Sam had government contracts to fulfill, and passed this private contract to Bucky. “First of all, you don’t know her, so maybe reserve some judgment. Second, this ‘spoiled heiress’ is the acting CEO of one of the most important cybersecurity firms in the world.”
“Acting CEO?” Bucky snorted, leaning his head back against the seat. “That’s just rich kid code for ‘daddy does all the work, and I pretend to help.’”
Sam shot him an unamused look, finally setting the tablet down. “Do you ever stop to think before you talk? This woman keeps half the world’s secrets under lock and key. If she’s taken out, it’s not just her life that’s in danger—it’s the lives of millions of people. National security, Buck. You know, the thing we’re supposed to care about?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky muttered, waving his concerns off. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
When Bucky finally made his way to your front door, he was… surprised.
He convinced himself he was going to be walking into some modern-day palace. He pictured marble floors, gaudy chandeliers, and some butler answering the door for you while you lounged in designer silk pajamas, sipping champagne.
Instead, when the door swung open, his expectations shattered.
The image of a pampered heiress was gone. You were dressed in a crisp, tailored suit, a book in your hand. When you saw him, you looked with mild disinterest before you gave a curt nod.
“Ah. The babysitter,” you said dryly. It was clear that you weren’t thrilled about this arrangement, either.
Bucky blinked, caught off guard for a moment, before frowning. “I’m here to make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”
You arched a brow, unimpressed. “Right. Babysitter.” Then, without further comment, you stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter.
Bucky hesitated, his brows knitting together as he stepped into the apartment. The space was meticulously organised— modern, clean, and completely devoid of the overindulgent luxury he’d envisioned.
As he followed you into what appeared to be your home office, he stopped dead in his tracks. Your desk was a controlled chaos of monitors, blueprints, encrypted code streams, and neatly stacked documents.
You set your book down, not sparing him a glance as you continued your work.
“I told my father I didn’t need one,” you said, sliding into your chair and typing something rapidly.
Bucky could only stare, unsure of what to say. He was ready to handle a woman too busy Instagramming her designer handbags to care about anything important. He was certainly not prepared to face someone who seemed to run her empire like a general commanding an army.
On top of that, Bucky could tell you were frustrated, and honestly, who could blame you?
You had been put under mandatory house quarantine until the assassination threat passed— that’s what your security advisors had decided. Which meant you had to settle for video calls instead of in-person meetings, you had to rely on food delivery instead of doing your own damn groceries, and that you couldn’t work from your office building— you had to take calls and manage the company from your home office. Your world, once meticulously structured under your control, had suddenly shrunk to the square footage of your penthouse.
And the worst part? The only person you were allowed to interact with in person for the foreseeable future was the bodyguard who took the contract: Bucky. He didn’t even seek it out, Sam offered it to him and he reluctantly agreed. You were going to have to spend weeks alone with someone you barely knew. Maybe months. Who knew when the threat would pass?
“What were you expecting?” you asked, finally glancing up from your monitors. “A pretty princess?” you mocked, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of your lips.
He crossed his arms, furrowing his eyebrows. “You could say that,” he admitted.
“Let me guess,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “You thought I’d be… what? Lounging around, eating bonbons, and counting Daddy’s money?”
Bucky’s jaw clicked, the faintest hint of heat creeping up his neck. “Something like that.”
You chuckled, shaking your head. “Typical.” He could hear you were a bit irritated, but also a bit amused. “Let me make one thing clear, Barnes— I don’t need you here. The only reason you’re standing in my office right now is because my father insisted the assassination threat is a real threat. I think it’s bullshit. So let’s keep this simple: you do your job, and I’ll do mine.”
Bucky can help but feel a little bit of admiration. In fact, he found himself both annoyed and oddly intrigued.
“Fine by me,” he said, voice gruff.
As you turned back to your monitors, ignoring him completely, Bucky took a moment to watch you— the way your fingers flew across your keyboard, the slight furrow in your brow as you concentrated.
He’d seen it before, in Howard Stark, in Bruce Banner, in Shuri, and even perhaps, begrudgingly, in Arnim Zola. it was clear you were brilliant, maybe even intimidatingly so.
What he didn’t realise was that you were stealing glances at him too. Irritated, yes, but mostly because the so-called babysitter was annoyingly (and objectively) attractive.
Neither of you said it, but you both were two sides of the same coin: two people who were both frustrated and intrigued by each other.
Day 2.
The first day or so with Bucky was strained, a battle of selfish wills in which neither of you conceded an inch. He was curt and distant. His default expression was a scowl, and you weren’t exactly going out of your way to make him feel welcome. If he thought he could scare you with his threatening looks, he was in for a surprise. You had faced tougher opponents— CEOs, board members, government officials. Compared to them, James Buchanan Barnes was almost charming. Just… almost.
It was just so annoying that he had to live here, with you, in one of your guest bedrooms for god knows how long.
Day 3.
It was late, the kind of late that blurred the lines between night and morning. You were in your office as usual, the glow of your monitors projecting colourful shadows on the walls. That’s when Bucky’s voice startled you.
“Do you ever sleep?”
You looked over the monitors, finding him leaning against the doorway. His hair was slightly tousled, his face softened by the dim light, and he looked… annoyingly attractive.
“Do you ever stop hovering?” you glared back, though the crack in your voice hinted at exhaustion.
“Just doing my job,” he replied, his lips curving into a smug smile. He tilted his head toward your desk. “What’s keeping you up this time?”
You hesitated, glancing at the encrypted files on your screen. “Work.”
“Obviously.”
You rolled your eyes. “It’s classified.”
“Fine.” He pushed off the doorframe, stepping closer. “But you still look like you could use a break.”
His tone surprised you— it wasn’t mocking, or patronizing, it was just… genuine. For a moment, you almost let your guard down. “I’m fine.”
“Sure,” he muttered, retreating to his post in the living room. But as you turned back to your screen, you couldn’t help noticing the way he lingered in your thoughts longer than he should have.
Day 5.
The next crack in the ice came during an impromptu kitchen encounter. Bucky, ever the stoic, was rummaging through your fridge with a look of increasing disapproval (to be fair, you had given him full access to it the day before).
“Do you eat anything that isn’t green?” he asked, holding up a bottle of your favourite smoothie like it was a biohazard.
“I’m sorry,” you said, folding your arms, “I didn’t realise I needed to stock the fridge for Captain America’s sidekick.”
He turned to glare at you, but there was a spark of amusement in his eyes. “First of all, I’m not his sidekick. Second, this—” he shook the smoothie for emphasis “—cannot be good.”
“Be my guest,” you challenged, and you knew he wouldn’t turn down the challenge.
As he lifted his brows, he twisted off the cap and took a long sip. The look of betrayal that crossed his face as he gagged was priceless.
“That made my day,” you said, trying—and failing—to suppress a laugh.
“God, that’s vile,” he muttered, rinsing his mouth under the sink. But when he turned back, he was grinning, his blue eyes adorably crinkling at the corners.
Your grin widened, and for the first time, the tension between you felt… easier.
Day 7.
By the end of the first week, Bucky had moved his post from the couch in the living room to the armchair across the room to your home office desk. You’d never admit it, but his presence was becoming a source of comfort in your day-to-day isolated life. He’d bring his coffee in the morning and sit there while you worked, making sure no one harmed you.
This morning, as you typed furiously at your desk, you felt his eyes on you.
“Take a picture,” you said without looking up. “It’ll last longer.”
He snorted, ignoring your remark, though he didn’t know how to really respond to it without denying it.
Week 2.
The teasing had become second nature by now.
Over the last couple of days, Bucky started finding reasons to linger— whether it be sitting closer to you during your brief movie breaks, offering to carry things that you could definitely carry yourself, or asking questions about your job that he probably didn’t even understand.
Today, you were standing on the balcony, staring out at the glittering city lights when Bucky joined you.
“Not bad,” he said, leaning on the railing beside you.
“You mean the view?” you asked, glancing at him.
“Sure,” he replied, but his eyes weren’t glued to the skyline. They were on you.
You leaned in closer. your shoulder brushing his. The touch sent a jolt of electricity through your spine, and you swore he looked at you like he’d had, too.
“Something on your mind, Barnes?”
He smirked. “Just wondering what you’d do without me.”
“Sleep better, for one,” you quipped, though your voice was just a bit gentler than usual.
He chuckled kindly. “I think you’d miss me.”
I think so, too, you wanted to say, but kept your mouth shut.
Week 3.
The line between professionalism and… whatever this was became increasingly blurred. You caught him watching you more often, studying you as if his days with you were numbered. It was as if he was desperately trying to memorise your face.
You’re thought weren’t exactly innocent either. You noticed the way his shirt clung to his broad shoulders during workouts in your home gym, the way his stubble framed his face, the way he looked at you like he knew exactly what you were thinking of: him.
This afternoon, you found yourself standing closer to him than necessary as he handed you a cup of coffee.
“Thanks,” you said, shyer than usual.
“Anytime,” he replied, heartbeat racing in his chest.
The moment passed, but the tension didn’t.
Week 4.
Bucky had always been good at noticing patterns, that’s why he was an expert in tracking enemy movements and ambush tactics.
So, of course, he noticed your pattern, albeit in a more… innocent manner. He noticed the way you skipped meals, ran on caffeine, and buried yourself in work until exhaustion practically dragged you under.
At first, he figured it wasn’t his problem. You were a grown woman, fully capable of making your own choices. But somewhere along the way, he started caring.
And when Bucky Barnes cared, he didn’t do it halfway.
So, on the first day of the fourth week, he placed a plate of food on your desk. You didn’t look up, just kept typing.
“What’s this?”
“Dinner.”
“I don’t have time for—”
“Then don’t leave the desk. Just eat here.” He insisted.
You finally glanced at the plate— it was Italian takeout. Nothing fancy, but definitely better than your usual liquid diet. You looked up at him. “I’m not a child, Barnes.”
“Look, you haven’t eaten a full meal in days,” He crossed his arms, metal fingers tapping against his bicep. “If you collapse, you’re gonna make my job harder.”
You sighed, glaring at him. He simply raised an eyebrow, waiting.
“Fine,” you gave in, stabbing a fork into the food. As soon as the food entered your system, you realised how right he was. Everything hurt a little less, even when you hadn’t noticed it hurting in the first place. “You know, for someone who claims to be my bodyguard and not my babysitter, you sure act like one.”
He chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. “Just eat your damn food.”
After that, it became a thing.
At first, he made a point to bring you food just to annoy you. But the more he did it, the more he found himself relieved that you’re keeping yourself alive.
One night, he even cooked.
You walked into the kitchen for a short water break to find him at the stove with both sleeves rolled up. You crossed your arms, watching him with a smile.
“I didn’t know you could cook.”
He didn’t look up as he plated dinner for two. It wasn’t part of the job, but he found himself wanting to do it.
Month Two.
Like clockwork, Bucky would plop a plate of food on your desk at least once a day. And you had fully accepted that you weren’t getting out of it.
So, one evening, when he placed dinner in front of you and made himself comfortable in his armchair across the room to eat his dinner, you frowned. “Why do you always eat all the way over there?”
He glanced up, mid-bite. “Because this is where I sit.”
“I mean— I know that, but,” You rolled your eyes, gesturing at the empty seat beside you. “Just sit here. Might as well.”
Bucky hesitated, eyebrows raising slightly. “Might as well?”
You shrugged, avoiding his gaze by stabbing at your food. “You’re already making sure I don’t starve. We might as well eat at the same desk. At least I’ll have…” You trailed off, suddenly a bit too self-conscious.
His lips curled into an infuriating smirk. “Company?”
You scoffed. “Sure, let’s go with that.”
Still, he pushed himself up and took the seat across from you, resting his metal forearm on the desk. The two of you ate in silence for a moment before he spoke again.
“Y’know, if you wanted a friend, you could just say so.”
You shot him a flat look. “Oh, please. If I wanted a friend, I’d get a cat.”
Bucky huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You’d be a terrible cat owner.”
“Why?”
He took a sip of water. “You barely remember to feed yourself. The poor cat wouldn’t last a week.”
“Shut up, Barnes.”
He chuckled but didn’t argue, taking another bite.
And just like that, it became routine. Every night, he pulled up a chair at your desk, and you ate together. Somehow, it was starting to feel like the best part of your day.
One night, you finally asked a question that had been on your mind for a while. “How much of your arm is vibranium?”
Bucky froze for a second, fork hovering midair. “Why?”
You shrugged, typing something quickly before taking another bite. “Curious.”
He hesitated, then slowly set his fork down. “It’s all vibranium now. Wakandan upgrade.”
You nodded, eyes trailing over his arm, impressed. “The integration with your nervous system must be seamless for the reaction time you have.”
His lips twitched, somewhere between surprise and amusement. “Most people just ask if it’s heavy.”
You rolled your eyes. “That’s a stupid question. Weight distribution clearly isn’t an issue, considering you fight like it’s part of you.”
Bucky didn’t respond at first. Most people looked at his arm like a weapon, an extension of his failures. He knew it wasn’t Hydra anymore, but it wasn’t exactly comforting knowing it was the reason he was here, now. But you… you were looking at it like technology. He realised that it was the only language you understood.
“Oh.” He could only say.
“W-we don’t have to talk about this anymore,” you quickly backtracked, unsure how to read his response. “I know it can’t feel good to talk about your uh… your past.”
“Did… you read my file?” he finally said, voice quieter now.
You hesitated, fingers stilling on your keyboard. “… yes.”
A pang of guilt flashed across his face. “So you know everything.”
“I know what the files say,” you admitted. “Which is different from knowing you.”
Bucky tapped his metal fingers against the plate absentmindedly. “And what do they say?”
You considered your words carefully. “That Hydra turned you into an asset. That they wiped your memories, controlled you.”
He looked away. “Sounds about right.”
He didn’t like talking about this— you knew that. So, softly, you said, “That’s not who you are now.”
Bucky’s fingers twitched. He swallowed, the muscle on his neck flexing. “Sometimes it feels like it doesn’t matter.”
You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbows on the desk. “It does.”
And just like that, you realised you weren’t just tolerating each other anymore. You were understanding each other.
Month Three.
It wasn’t long before Bucky became comfortable enough to just sit next to your desk, even when you weren’t eating. At first, it was a little odd—he’d just sit there in silence, watching you with that signature stare.
“If you’re going to sit there like a guard dog, at least read something,” you said, grabbing a book from the stack on your desk and handing it to him.
Bucky took it, turning it over in his hands before reading the title. He snorted. “This is some dense reading, doll.”
You raised an eyebrow, mostly at the increasing use of pet names over the last few days. Not that you were complaining. “I thought you were a hundred years old.”
“I am.” He said. “Doesn’t mean I want to spend my day reading Advanced Cryptography and Security Protocols.”
But he read it anyway.
That became a thing, too. When you worked, Bucky sat across from you, flipping through one of your books. And that led to more conversations.
“So, explain this part to me.”“No, Bucky, I’m not giving you a lecture at midnight.”“Why not? You love hearing yourself talk.”
“Wait, this actually makes sense. The firewall acts like a shield.”“Yes, exactly! It’s kind of like—”“Like a cap’s shield being hit by a laser beam.”“I hate that that analogy works.”
Month Four.
Bucky had been through a lot in his lifetime, but nothing could’ve prepared him for the absolute terror in your voice when you screamed from your bathroom.
His blood ran cold.
The worst-case scenario flashed through his mind.
This was it. Someone had broken in. The assassination attempt must be happening now.
Bucky bolted down the hallway, his heart hammering in his chest. He didn’t even think.
His shoulder slammed against your bathroom door, forcing it open—
Only to be met with you.
Standing there, dripping wet, wrapped in nothing but a towel.
His brain short-circuited for a solid three seconds before he snapped back to reality. His eyes darted around the room, searching for the threat. “What happened? Where are they?”
You blinked. “Where’s who?”
“The assassin!” His hands curled into fists, ready to end someone.
You just… stared at him. Then, slowly, you lifted one hand and pointed toward the corner of the bathroom.
Bucky followed your finger.
There, in the corner, sat a spider. A tiny spider.
Bucky’s eyes twitched. “You have got to be kidding me.”
You crossed your arms, holding the towel tightly around yourself. “Kill it,” you whispered.
He let out a breath, running a hand down his face. “You screamed bloody murder… for this?”
“Yes!” You gestured aggressively toward the tiny intruder. “It lunged at me.”
Bucky gave you the flattest known to man. “I’m sure it did.”
“It did!”
The spider, for its part, remained still.
With an exaggerated sigh, Bucky stepped forward, reached out, and plucked the spider off the wall with his bare hand.
You gasped. “What the—Bucky!”
He rolled his eyes, walking over to the window. “Relax.”
You backed up toward the sink, clutching your towel like it was a shield. “You touched it.”
“Uh-huh.”
“With your human hand.”
“Mmm.” He slid open the window and dipped it on the windowsill. “Crisis averted.”
You sighed dramatically. “Fuck, thank you.”
Bucky turned back around, ready to deliver some sarcastic remark—
And then his brain finally caught up with what was happening.
But what was really distracting was the fact that you were still standing there, dripping wet, wearing close to nothing. He shouldn’t be staring.
He should not be staring.
And yet, here he was, looking at the curves your skin molded. The way your collarbone peeked out just above the towel. The droplets of water trailing down—
Nope. Abort mission.
He tore his eyes away, clearing his throat. “So, just to be clear… the tough CEO of a cybersecurity empire, the woman who runs meetings with government officials like they’re her subjects… you are scared of a tiny spider?”
You scowled. “First of all, it was huge—”
“It was not.”
“—and second, yes, I am, and I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
Bucky crossed his arms. “… but it’s just a spider.”
You glared. “Get out of my bathroom, Barnes.”
And ever since then, you have been more comfortable around Bucky. To be fair, he had seen you almost naked, and to your surprise… things hadn’t gotten weird.
Well, until one night…
You were sitting on the couch, absentmindedly flipping through channels, when Bucky joined you, his presence a quiet weight beside you.
“You ever stop working?” he asked when you noticed you were still arranging charts on your tablet, even in your downtime.
“No,” you replied, glancing at him, “what about you, do you ever think you’ll stop working?”
Bucky shrugged, “I take breaks all the time.”
“I mean,” you finally put your tablet down, “I mean… for good.”
Bucky squinted at you, “like retiring?”
You could only nod.
For once, there was no teasing in his eyes, “Maybe I should,” he finally said, “get a farm, settle down.”
You gulped when he leaned closer, his arm brushing yours.
“Sounds nice,” you whispered.
His lips curved into a faint smile. “Yeah.”
Neither of you moved for a long time. And though nothing really happened that night, you knew it was inevitable.
Then, it was mid-morning the next time anything notable happened. You were just hanging up from yet another tense phone call with your father. You tossed your phone onto your desk with a little more force than necessary and sighed, leaning back in your chair.
Bucky, who had been leaning against the doorframe with a mug of coffee in hand, raised a brow. “Rough call?”
“Oh, you have no idea,” you groaned, rubbing your temples. “My dad is impossible. He’s always checking in, double-checking, triple-checking everything I do like I’m still twelve. It’s exhausting.”
Bucky walked in and settled in the chair across from you, crossing his arms. “Sounds like he cares.”
“Yeah, well, caring is one thing,” you said, your frustration bubbling over. “This is micromanaging. He doesn’t trust me to make a single decision on my own. To him, I’m just a kid playing dress-up.”
Bucky tilted his head, sipping his coffee.
“And then,” you continued, pacing in front of your desk now, “He insists on sending a bodyguard—sorry, babysitter—like I’m some helpless damsel in distress. It’s ridiculous! I mean, It’s not like you’re bad company or anything—”
“Appreciate that,” he said dryly.
“—but it’s like he doesn’t trust me to handle myself. I’ve worked so hard, Bucky. So hard. And he still treats me like some little girl who can’t handle the real world.”
At that, Bucky chuckled and muttered under his breath, “There’s the spoiled princess I was expecting on day one.”
You froze mid-pace, narrowing your eyes at him. “What?”
“Oh, nothing,” he said innocently. “I’m not saying you’re ungrateful.” He paused, a teasing smile spreading across his face. “Or maybe… just a little.”
Your jaw dropped, sitting on your desk and looking down at him. “Excuse me?” You demanded.
“Look,” he said, shrugging, clearly enjoying himself now. “I’m just saying… People have harder lives than you, Princess. People would kill for a dad who loved them, who cared enough to be overbearing. Your dad loves you. That’s why I’m here— because he cares.”
You opened your mouth to respond with some smart-ass comments, but then closed it again. As much as you hated to admit it, he had a point. “That’s…,” you said begrudgingly, “that’s— you’re… right.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Glad you see it my way.”
You rolled your eyes, but a sad smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “To be fair, you’re not the worst part of this arrangement. At least I get some eye candy out of it.”
Bucky choked on his coffee, his eyes going wide. “What?”
“What?” you said nonchalantly, leaning against your desk. “I’ve got a little crush on you. No big deal.”
“Crush?” he repeated, blinking at you like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.
“Don’t act so surprised.” You shrugged, feigning indifference, though your heart was hammering out of yourself. It didn’t matter, right? Someone had to say it, and it might as well be you. “I know you find me attractive too. I’ve seen how you look at me.”
His mouth opened, then closed again as a deep blush spread across his cheeks. “I—uh—well—”
“You’re not subtle,” you teased, biting back a laugh at his flustered expression.
Bucky groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well… fuck.”
His shyness was disarming, and you couldn’t help finding it endearing.
For a moment, you both stood there, the air between you crackling with unspoken tension. Then you sighed, breaking the silence. “But there’s nothing we could do about it anyway.”
Bucky frowned, his blush fading slightly. “Why not?”
“Oh, you know,” you said as if it was obvious. “Professionalism. My dad hired you. Technically, I’m the acting CEO, which makes you my subordinate. Power dynamics and all that. Workplace misconduct. Can’t have that, right?”
“Right,” Bucky echoed, though the reluctance in his tone was impossible to miss.
“We’re professionals,” you said, almost as if trying to convince yourself. “Right?”
“Right,” he said again.
That night, as you said good night to Bucky, you realised you were in trouble. Serious, heart-racing, palm-sweating, can’t-stop-thinking-about-him trouble. And judging by the way Bucky had looked at you, he was too.
Month five.
You were starting to think the assassination threat was just that. A threat.
Oh, you were proven wrong.
One moment, you were wrapping up a phone call in your office, and the next, a muffled explosion rocked the building. The power flickered, your monitors shut off, and the emergency lights bathed the room in an eerie red glow.
Bucky was already moving, shoving you behind the massive desk as he scanned the room with quick, practiced precision.
“Stay down,” he barked, pulling his gun from its holster just as the door to your office was kicked open.
Three armed men stormed in, their faces masked, their weapons raised.
Bucky didn’t hesitate. He fired twice, taking out the first man with a clean shot to the shoulder. The second dropped his weapon as a bullet clipped his hand, and Bucky was on him in seconds.
The third man lunged toward you.
Big mistake.
You grabbed the heavy paperweight on your desk and hurled it with surprising accuracy, catching him square in the jaw. He stumbled, and before he could recover you kicked out, your heel connecting with his knee. Perhaps you were riding on adrenaline, but that was satisfying. He collapsed with a grunt, and you didn’t hesitate to grab his dropped glock, aiming it at his chest.
“Don’t,” you warned.
The man froze, his eyes wide as Bucky turned to glance at you. “Remind me not to underestimate you,” Bucky muttered, finishing off the last of the attackers with a solid punch that left the man crumbling on the floor.
The commotion outside the office was growing louder— you could hear more shouts, and footsteps. Bucky grabbed your arm, pulling you toward the door. “We’re not done,” he said.
The rest of the fight was a blur of chaos and adrenaline. More assailants flooded the building. And even as Bucky led the charge, you managed to hold your own. While he handled the bulk of the attackers, you were able to incapacitate two of the men who had the audacity to think you couldn’t throw a punch.
When the dust finally settled, the assailants were either unconscious or restrained, their weapons scattered and useless. Sirens wailed in the distance— authorities that Bucky had alerted.
You leaned against the wall, catching your breath as Bucky surveyed the scene. “You okay?” he asked, his voice gentle.
You nodded, managing a small smile. “Yeah. You?”
“Been through worse,” he reassured.
Later that afternoon, you were seated on the couch, a blanket draped over your shoulders, the adrenaline finally wearing off. Bucky stood nearby, his arms crossed, his.
“So,” he said, breaking the silence. “I guess my job here is done.”
You looked at him, your chest hurting slightly at the thought of him leaving. “I guess so.”
There was an awkward pause before he cleared his throat. “If you ever need, uh, bodyguard services again—like, if you’re traveling or something—just let me know.”
That made you laugh, though there was no real humor in it. “I think I’m good, Barnes. I don’t want you working for me anymore.”
Oh.
Oh. You didn’t want him around? What… what changed?
Were you just married to your job? Did you think he was going to become a distraction, an obstacle?
Sadness flickered across his face—but he masked it quickly. “Right. Of course.”
You hesitated, studying him. The way he stood there, hands stuffed in his pockets, avoiding your eyes—it made your heart ache.
“Bucky,” you said softly, standing up and walking to him until you were standing just a foot away.
“Yeah?” he said, his voice quieter now.
“You know why you can’t work for me anymore, right?”
His brows furrowed. “Why?”
Instead of answering, you reached up and pulled him down, your lips pressing against his in a kiss that was sudden, intense, and utterly consuming. For a moment, he froze, caught off guard. But then his hands found your waist, pulling you closer as he kissed you back with equal passion.
When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless. His forehead rested against yours as he stared at you, his blue eyes wide.
“That’s why,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the pounding of your heart.
Bucky blinked, his lips parting slightly. “Right.”
“Don’t act so surprised,” you teased again, echoing your previous conversation.
“I’m not,” he said, but failed to hide the blush crawling up his neck.
You chuckled, your fingers brushing against his jawline. “So, what do you say, Barnes? Think you can handle a spoiled princess like me?”
His hands gripped your waist a little tighter. “Pretty sure I already have.”
And when he kissed you again, he couldn’t possibly imagine letting you go.
Month six.
After the threat had been neutralised, you were allowed out of the house again. Stepping back into your office building felt like reclaiming a piece of yourself. No longer confined to the solitude of your home, you could finally immerse yourself back into the workspace. And your office, oh how wonderful it was to have it back.
It had always been more than just four walls and a desk to you; it was a sanctuary, a fortress. Every detail, from the sleek desk to the subtle personal touches, reflected both your meticulous nature and your need for control in a world that rarely offered it.
And dating Bucky Barnes was just the cherry on top.
Of course, by now those who worked closest to you knew about him— how could they not? He was the only one you ever allowed inside with unquestioned access. Still, they had to sign NDAs, just in case. You weren’t ready for the world to see you with him yet—not because you didn’t want to show him off, and certainly not because you were ashamed. But your relationship with Bucky was a ticking time bomb, a potential scandal waiting to happen.
What would the world think of you, a high-profile cybersecurity CEO with government contracts spanning the globe, romantically involved with a freelance superhero with a past that made governments nervous? That would make headlines and invite scrutiny you couldn’t afford. For now, keeping your relationship under wraps was the only way to protect Bucky.
That was why, beyond that small working circle, no one had a clue that you were dating him. Not even your father, who lived comfortably in semi-retirement a few countries away.
The first month of dating Bucky was equal parts exhilarating and intimate. There was the night he cooked a proper dinner at your place. You had laughed when he furrowed his brow in concentration as he scrolled through a recipe on his phone like it was a mission briefing. Later, he sat on your couch, fingers lazily tracing circles on your waist as you talked about nothing and everything, just being there for you as your boyfriend and not your bodyguard.
Then there was the time he surprised you at the office late one evening. You had been drowning in reports, when he walked in with a donut and hot chocolate in hand. “Figured you needed a snack,” he had said, placing the bag on your desk.
Of course, there were the challenges, too. The first time he stayed over, he woke up before dawn, hyperventilating, fists clenched in the sheets. You just reached for his hand and whispered sweet reassurances in his ears.
When he let out a shaky breath and laced his fingers with yours, you held on until he fell back asleep.
He never said much about those nights, but he always held you a little tighter the next morning, as if grateful you were still there.
Month Seven.
One particularly hectic afternoon, you sat at your desk, surrounded by stacks of reports that seemed to multiply the more you worked through them. Your brows furrowed as you scribbled notes in the margins, the pen in your hand moving with exhausted strokes.
You didn’t hear him come in.
Bucky had a way of moving like a shadow, the ex-assassin that he was, always watching before making his presence known. This time was no different. You felt him before you saw him when you caught a faint whiff of leather and steel.
“You’re going to burn out, you know,” he murmured, his voice a rasp that sent a shiver down your spine.
“Nope,” you replied, not bothering to look up, “not today.”
But then he stepped, his fingers brushing the small of your back. And then he leaned in. Close enough for you to feel his breath against the shell of your ear.
“You work too hard,” he murmured, tone smooth as silk.
You smiled sadly, still keeping your eyes on the document in front of you. “And you don’t work hard enough.” The words were a tease. You both knew they weren’t true, it’s just that world-ending threats weren’t exactly a daily occurrence.
Bucky chuckled, that deep, rich sound that sent warmth blooming in your chest. Before you could react, Bucky spun your chair, and suddenly you were facing him.
Your pen slipped from your fingers, clattering onto the desk.
He towered over you, his hands braced on the armrests, trapping you. His blue eyes darkened, flickering between your lips and your eyes, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
“Say that again. I dare you, Princess.”
The nickname sent a chill through your spine, though you’d never admit it. Your lips parted to reply with another half-hearted joke, but you never got the chance.
Bucky’s lips were on yours before you could think. It was slow at first, like he was teasing, testing. His fingers slid from the armrest to your jaw, tilting your face up as he deepened the kiss. And you gave in. Always.
Your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, gripping tightly and pulling him closer as heat flared low in your belly. He tasted like coffee and vanilla— and it was addictive. The world outside faded, the reports forgotten, because all you could think about was the intoxicating drag of his lips against yours.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard, your lips swollen and aching for more.
“Think I’m working hard enough now?” His voice was rough against your skin.
You rolled your eyes. “Shut up and kiss me again.”
Bucky smirked that cocky, confident, and devastatingly handsome smile of his. “Yes, ma’am.”
This time, the kiss was hungrier. His hands gripped your waist, tugging you forward until you were perched on the very edge of your chair, your knees brushing his thighs. You gasped as he took full control, tilting your head back as his tongue swept against yours in a slow stroke that had fireworks exploding low in your stomach.
Your fingers threaded through his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp, earning a low groan.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, logic whispered that this was your office, that the walls weren’t exactly soundproof, that anyone of your clients could walk in. But when Bucky kissed you like this, it was impossible to care.
His hand skimmed the curve of your waist, his thumb brushing the hem of your blouse. You felt his hesitation, and you answered by pulling him impossibly closer.
Month Eight.
Late nights in Bucky’s apartment became your favourite escape from the chaos of your life. It wasn’t extravagant and fine-art decorated like your penthouse, but it was him. The mismatched furniture, the slightly scuffed hardwood floors, the mud stains on the carpet, and the faint smell of aftershave made it feel lived-in.
Sure, your penthouse was bigger—modern and intimidatingly expensive—but it was cold. It was sterile, and you had made sure it stayed that way, because it was designed for hosting high-profile clients and meetings, not for unwinding. Not to make a charming mess in. Everything was neutral because it had to be. The few personal touches you’d tried to add had been swallowed by the size of the place, but Bucky’s apartment, on the other hand, felt like home.
One night, as you sat cross-legged on his couch in a pair of leggings and one of his old Henleys, you couldn’t help but let out a content sigh.
Bucky was unpacking a greasy bag of Chinese takeout, carefully arranging the cartons on the coffee table like it was some kind of grand feast. He glanced at you sheepishly.
“Sorry it’s not… y’know, fancy,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Figured you were used to dating guys who paid for five-course meals or somethin’.”
Before accepting the bodyguard contract, he had done his homework on you. He’d looked into your background, your lifestyle, your friends and family, and, perhaps most frustratingly, your dating history: the it-guys, the celebrities, the athletes. He was none of those things.
He would never say it outright, but some nights, he would feel insecure about it.
He’d fret that creeping feeling that it wasn’t enough because he spent so long being feared when your past lovers had been admired. But what he didn’t seem to understand was that, to you, he was worth so much more. He wasn’t drawn to your money or the power. He saw you for you—not for your name, not for your influence. And that made him better than every single one of your shitty exes.
You blinked, momentarily stunned. “Oh, no,” you said quickly, leaning forward and reaching for his human hand. “What are you apologising for? I love this.”
“Yeah?” he asked, a still-skeptical smile on his lips.
“Yeah,” you confirmed. “I can’t even remember the last time I felt this… normal.” You picked up one of the cartons that contained lo mein. “No cameras, no meetings, no press conferences. Just greasy takeout and…” You gestured vaguely to the room. “... you. Us. This is perfect.”
A faint blush crept up his neck as he sat beside you. “Didn’t think ‘normal’ would be high on your list of things to love, princess.”
You chuckled, scooping a bite of noodles onto your chopsticks. “You’d be surprised. The whole ‘spoiled rich girl’ thing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? How so?”
You hesitated, toying with your food. “It’s like… you’re in this golden cage. Everything you do is scrutinized, and… it gets… lonely. “
Bucky nodded, almost giving you permission to go on.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” you continued, “I’m grateful for… everything. I know I was born with an insane privilege. But it’s exhausting trying to live up to everyone’s expectations all the time, you know?”
“Sounds rough, Princess,” he shook his head. “Almost makes my life of alien invasions and missions sound easy.”
“Oh, shut up,” you laughed, swatting at his shoulder. “You know what I mean.”
“Hm,” he said, feeding you a little bit of sweet and sour chicken, “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”
You leaned back slightly. “What, did you think your princess couldn’t handle a night in Brooklyn?”
“Guess I was wrong,” he shrugged, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
The rest of the night included sweet conversation, kisses, and laughter. You leaned against him, listening to him recount stories about his time in Brooklyn before in the 40s. He listened just as intently when you opened up about your father’s expectations, your struggles to prove yourself.
When the food was gone, you found yourself curled up in his arms, your head resting against his chest.
And to think you hated the idea of him just months ago.
Month Nine.
It started small, of course—practical, subtle gestures you could justify as "just looking out for him." Bucky wasn’t the kind of man to ask for anything, so you had to fill in the gaps yourself.
You bought him a new pair of waterproof boots after you noticed his old ones had a tear on their side. He grumbled and said “I didn’t need them”, but the next time it rained, there he was, thankful you did buy them.
But it didn’t stop there.
You ordered him a tactical knife after seeing it in catalogue and couldn’t resist. It was sleek, durable, and so perfectly Bucky.
“What’s this?” he asked suspiciously when you handed it to him, like the idea of receiving gifts was still foreign to him.
“Just something I thought you’d like,” you replied, your voice light, your heart racing at his reaction.
Bucky stared at the knife for a moment, then at you, “You… you didn’t have to.”
“You deserve it,” you murmured, brushing your fingers against his.
He laughed. “You’re gonna spoil me rotten.”
You took that as a challenge.
Because once you realised how much Bucky secretly loved being cared for (despite the grumbling and insisting that it was too much), you couldn’t help yourself. You wanted him safe and comfortable. And, maybe selfishly, you wanted to see that stunned, almost vulnerable smile he had when you gave him something new.
A custom upgrade for his arm was next, complete with enhanced plating, fine-tuned joint control, and a sleek matte-black finish. You had worked together with Shuri to get it to him, making sure to give him some… personalised software upgrades in the process. When you gave it to him one evening, he stared at the box, then at you, before finally pulling you into his lap with an exasperated sigh.
“You’re gonna make me soft,” he joked, thanking you profusely with kisses afterwards.
Month Ten.
Then there was the tactical suit.
It had taken weeks of planning, but it was worth it. You had meetings with the best designers in the industry (Luke Jacobson was an honour to work with) and came up with reinforced kevlar, adaptive camouflage, and more holsters than he probably needed. When you presented it to Bucky, you’d half-expected him to refuse it outright.
Instead, he stood frozen, stunned as he turned the suit over in his hands. “You got this? For me?”
“Who else, James?” you teased, pretending to fuss with his hair just to see him scowl. “You’re the only super-soldier boyfriend I’ve got.”
Sam caught on fast.
“So,” Sam started casually one day as they cleaned their gear. “Where’d you get the fancy new suit?”
Bucky barely looked up. “What suit?”
Sam pointed at the table. “The ones that look like they belong in a vault.”
Bucky rolled eyes, turning his attention back to his new gear. “They’re not that fancy.”
“Oh, I get it now,” Sam whistled, “You’ve got yourself a rich girlfriend, don’t you?”
Bucky glared at him, but the faint pink creeping up his neck gave him away.
“And to think,” Sam rambled on, clearly enjoying being right, “you whined about being her bodyguard for four months. Now look at you—”
“Shut up, Sam.”
The towel Bucky threw hit Sam square in the face, but it did nothing to hide the telltale blush that had spread to his ears.
The truth was, Bucky wasn’t used to anyone noticing the little things he needed, let alone going out of their way to provide for him. But the more time you spent together, the more you noticed everything.
The worn-out gloves he wore on missions? You replaced them with a pair lined with heat-retaining tech. The ancient motorcycle helmet he refused to replace? You handed him a new, high-tech model with advanced HUD capabilities. The faint shadows under his eyes after sleepless nights? You arranged for the softest, most luxurious bedding money could buy, complete with blackout curtains for his room.
“You can’t keep buying me things,” he told you half-heartedly one evening as he tested the thermal lining of a new jacket you’d slipped into his closet.
You only shrugged. “Sure I can.”
He gave you a look, both exasperation and affection present in his eyes. “Why?”
“Because I love you, and I want you to be safe.” Your voice softened. “You’ve spent so much time fighting for everyone else, Bucky. Let someone take care of you for a change.”
He didn’t respond right away. But later that night, as you lay curled up together, he kissed the top of your head and mumbled “thank you.”
You knew he loved it—being spoiled, being cared for—even if he’d never admit it.
Month ten.
Bucky’s version of spoiling you was less flashy but still every bit as thoughtful. Where you splurged on gifts, whisking him off on surprise weekends to private villas or showering him with new tech he insisted he didn’t need, he poured his affection into acts of service. It started small. He stocked his kitchen with your favorite coffee blend, even though he rarely drank the stuff himself. “A man can learn to make an espresso,” he’d said with a casual shrug, but the first time you saw him carefully frothing milk to perfection, you realized it was his way of saying I love you.
Then there were the notes. You’d find them tucked into your purse or slipped into your laptop bag before work, little scribbles in his tidy handwriting. Sometimes they were sweet, like “Don’t forget to take breaks.” Other times, they were cheeky: “Try not to buy another building today, Rockefeller.”
But it was in the kitchen where Bucky really poured his heart into spoiling you.
One particularly brutal day, you’d stumbled into his apartment late, your heels dangling from one hand and your bag slung over the other shoulder. You were ready to crash out but the moment you walked in, you could smell the love.
“What’s all this?” you asked, padding into the kitchen barefoot, watching as he stirred something on the stove. His broad shoulders stretched his shirt, the sight of him standing there so domestic making your heart melt.
He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes lighting up. “Dinner,” he said simply. “Figured you’d had a hell of a day.”
After dinner— a hearty stew, crusty bread he’d bought fresh, and a glass of your favorite wine—you were sprawled on his couch, your legs draped across his lap, a blanket pulled over you both, his metal thumb absentmindedly rubbing your calves.
Month Eleven.
On Valentine’s Day, you handed him a plain white envelope. He took it with a curious smile, but as he slid out the paper inside, his eyes went as wide as dinner plates.
He was expecting a fancy gift card, not the paid-off deed to his apartment.
He just stared, breath hitching as his brows pulled together, disbelief etched into every line of his face.
“Doll, you didn’t—” His voice was barely above a whisper.
“Of course I did.” You smiled, slipping onto his lap and wrapping your arms around his neck. “I love this place. It’s yours now.”
He laughed, almost nervously, fingers curled around the paper as though he didn’t really believe it. “You didn’t have to—” His voice cracked, and he couldn’t finish his sentence. “I know,” you muttered, pressing a kiss to his cheek, “But you’ve given me so much more than money could ever buy. Let me do this. Please.”
His arms tightened around you,
“And—” you hesitated, looking into his beautiful blue eyes and wanting him to understand. “It’s not like it’s ours. It’s yours. Only your name is on that paper. No strings. No expectations. Just… peace of mind.” You nudged your nose against his. “So you never have to worry about this again.”
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hands curled the fabric of your shirt. “Thank you, he mumbled, “I— I love you, princess.”
You only smiled, running your fingers through his hair. “I love you too.”
Year One, Month One.
Your penthouse has become even more of a sterile workplace than ever before. It was perfect for entertaining, but never felt quite real. It wasn’t home.
Bucky’s apartment, though—that felt more and more like capital H home.
It was where you smelled of freshly brewed coffee in the mornings, where the couch cushions were always just a little lopsided from the way he curled up with a book, where you’d kick off your heels when you got back. It was where he pressed a kiss to your forehead after a long day at work, where grabbed your toothbrush before bed, where he made you feel like the richest woman in the world with a love that couldn’t be bought.
Tonight, the air didn’t feel so suffocating. Bucky walked beside you through the quiet streets of Brooklyn, his gloved fingers laced with yours.
Bucky let out a small sigh, stealing a glance at you. “You know, princess… you practically live with me already.”
You lifted your eyebrows. “Mmhmm?”
“Your shoes are by the door, your clothes are in my drawers,” he pointed out, “I can’t remember the last time we actually slept at your penthouse. Even my fridge has more of your favorite snacks than mine.”
You let out a chuckle , but he wasn’t done.
“Move in with me. Officially.” His voice was quiet but sure, and so heartbreakingly filled with hope.
You let out a small laugh, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Bucky, we’ve only been together, what? Eight months?”
“Almost a year,” he corrected.
“We’ve only known each other for a year, Bucky,” you pointed out.
“So?” He turned slightly, stopping at the corner. “We spend most nights there anyway. What difference does it make?”
You hesitated. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to. God, you wanted to. But it wasn’t that simple.
“You know how this works,” you said softly. “One of these days, I’m going to get caught sneaking in and out of your place, and when that happens, it’s going to be a thing for the press. I don’t need a moving van, making it worse.”
Bucky’s muscles tensed, but he didn’t argue. He exhaled, tilting his head with that maddening smile. “Then do it slowly. One bag at a time.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “That’ll take forever.”
Bucky shrugged. “I have time.”
You stared at him for a long time, at the man who had taken your chaotic world and turned it into something worth coming home to.
“Not now,” you said finally, “But one day.”
He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’ll hold you to that, princess.”
Year One, Month Two.
“You’ve been working too hard,” Bucky said as he appeared in your office doorway, arms crossed, eyes locked onto you like he could see straight through the exhaustion behind your eyes.
He stepped inside, bracing his hands on the edge of your desk as he leaned in, close enough that you could smell the leather and metal.
You sighed, rubbing your temples. “If I don’t keep up, I’ll have half the world breathing down my neck.”
“They do it anyway,” Bucky scoffed, shaking his head. “That’s why you’re coming with me.”
Before you could protest, he was already dragging you out of your chair, stealing your work phone right from your grasp and slipping it into his pocket.
“Bucky—”
“Later.” He laced his fingers through yours, pulling you out of the building. You sighed, but you knew it was for the best. Bucky could tell you were slowly losing your mind in your work, and he was right— you needed a break.
When he dragged you out, the city was alive around you, and you wouldn’t trade your hand in Bucky’s for the world. Yet, the idea of work still gnawed at you. Your free hand moved towards your pocket—only to find it empty. Your eyes flickered to Bucky’s jacket, where he’d stashed your phone, and he caught it immediately.
Without warning, he veered off-course, steering you into a dimly lit alleyway between two old brownstones.
“Bucky, what are we—”
He didn’t let you finish.
His hands framed your face, palms cradling your jaw, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones. His lips crashed onto yours, cutting off whatever half-hearted argument you might have had.
The kiss was slow at first. Like he needed you to feel this—his frustration, his longing, the way he missed you even when you were right beside him.
You gripped at his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric before slipping beneath, your palms meeting the hard muscle of his abdomen. He groaned into your mouth as one of his hands slid down, skimming over your waist, gripping your hip like he was staking a claim.
Your back hit the brick wall, and his mouth traveled along your jaw to down the column of your throat, each kiss intended as a brand, a distraction, a reminder of everything you’d been neglecting in the name of work.
“Bucky,” you whispered, nails dragging along the bare skin of his back. His name had never sounded quite that desperate before—half moan, half plea—and he felt it.
“Do you ever stop?” he murmured. You barely had time to process before he kissed you again.
He let out a quiet groan against your lips, the sound reverberating through your chest and settling low in your stomach.
His grip tightened on the curve of your bum as his teeth grazed your lower lip. You gasped, heat pooled in your core, your mind turning hazy and drunk off his taste.
When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, a little cocky, a little breathless. “I just couldn’t help myself,” he murmured. “You looked like you needed a distraction.” His hands hadn’t left you, his thumbs still tracing maddening circles against your skin.
“Hmm,” you sighed, eyes half-lidded with want. And you knew exactly what you wanted when you went back to your office. “You succeeded.”
He hummed in satisfaction, but suddenly, body tensed, just for a second. He tried looking to the far end of the alley and found nothing. Did he hear something? Footsteps, maybe?
“Bucky?”
It was probably nothing. Probably no one.
And yet, his arm curled around you just a little tighter.
The next day, your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Calls, messages, and alerts were stacking up faster than you could dismiss them.
You didn’t realise why until you saw the news.
Shit.
“Heiress and Assassin: Secret Romance or Conflict of Interest?”
Your breath hitched as you stared at the screen. The accompanying photo was unmistakable— Bucky kissing you in the alley, your fingers twisted in his jacket like he was the only thing that mattered to you.
The image was grainy, but it didn't matter. The damage was done.
Your assistant rushed in with a tablet in hand, her face pale.
“You need to see this.”
“I’ve already seen it,” you said, not looking up.
The story had gone live less than an hour ago, but your company’s media monitoring team flagged its progress within minutes.
Your desk phone rang, and you had a couple guesses on who it could be. Bucky. The PR team. The board. Government contacts who normally kept their distance unless something was on fire. Your father. Your inbox soon filled up with official statements demanding explanations, thinly veiled threats wrapped in professional language.
“The diplomatic channels are blowing up,” your lead strategist announced when you stepped into the emergency briefing. A dozen pairs of eyes locked onto you as if you alone held a gallon of water that could put out this fire.
“They’re questioning your judgment,” he continued, tapping at the stack of reports in front of him. “The optics of being involved with someone like Barnes, his past, his ties to the original Avengers, are problematic, to say the least.”
“They’re worried I’m compromising national security,” you said flatly, “Because of a kiss?”
“Because of what it represents,” he corrected. “You’re the acting CEO of the most powerful cybersecurity firm in the world. Governments trust us to protect their most sensitive data. And now they’re wondering if you’re using that position to—”
“To sell them out to the public-facing heroes?” you snapped, though you knew this scrutiny would come sooner or later. “That’s absurd. You all know me better than that.”
“It’s not about what’s true,” your PR director cut in, her sentences coming in clipped. “It’s about what looks true.”
By the time you got to Bucky’s home that night, your head was pounding, your nerves frayed from the day’s endless barrage of scrutiny. You had looked over your shoulder more times than you could count, half-expecting to see a reporter lurking in the shadows or a government agent ready to pull you in for questioning. The paranoia was sinking its teeth into you.
The second you stepped inside, you kicked off your heels and slumped onto the couch, pressing your fingers to your temples in a desperate attempt to ease the tension pooling there.
Bucky was already by your side, jaw tight as he scrolled through the headlines on his phone. The dim glow from the screen cast harsh shadows across his face, making him look every bit as dangerous as they made him out to be.
“‘Heiress Caught in Lip-Lock with Winter Soldier,’” he read aloud, his tone dripping with disdain. “Really? That’s the best they could come up with? Do these people have nothing better to write about?”
You let out a dry laugh. “It’s not just the tabloids, Buck. This is more than gossip columns and viral photos.” You sighed, dropping your head back against the armrest of the couch. “Governments are questioning whether their data is safe with me. My credibility?” You raised your hands, mimicking an explosion, “Hanging by a thread.”
Bucky set his phone down, rubbing a hand over his face before shifting to sit even closer to you. “This isn’t your fault,” he said, his voice softer now, but laced with… guilt.
“Maybe not,” you admitted, staring at a crack in the ceiling. “But it doesn’t matter. Perception is reality. And right now, the whole world thinks I’m compromised.”
Bucky cursed under his breath. His hand found yours, his vibranium fingers cool yet grounding against your skin. He held on a little too tight, like he wished he could shield you from all of this. Like he blamed himself.
“What can I do?” he asked, low and urgent.
You shook your head, a bitter laugh slipping past your lips. “Nothing. I just have to fix this.”
His grip tightened for a fraction of a second before he let out a slow breath, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “You shouldn’t have to fix anything,” he muttered. “They don’t get to question your loyalty because of me.”
“I know,” you said softly, turning to him, squeezing his hand. “But they do anyway.”
When he looked away, you could see it— the self-recrimination, the way he was blaming himself for this. He was the one who convinced you to go for a walk, the one who pulled you into the alleyway because he just couldn’t fucking help himself.
“This isn’t on you, Bucky,” you said gently, tilting his chin toward you. “We both knew what we were getting into.”
“Did we?” he asked. “Because I thought you wouldn’t have to pay for my past.”
God, did your heart break at the fact that perhaps the world could never truly move on, no matter how much he tried to outrun them, no matter how much he came to terms that it was not really him on the steering wheel all those years ago.
You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his, your fingers trailing his chin. “I don’t care what anyone thinks,” you whispered. “I just need to figure out how to make the rest of the world see what I see.”
He kissed you then, hands firm as they traced over your skin. You melted into him, hands sliding under his shirt and feeling the ridges of his scars and the heat of him beneath your fingertips.
Then, your phone rang.
With a groan, you reached for it, already knowing who it was before you saw the name flashing on the screen.
Dad.
Bucky let out a quiet sigh, his forehead pressed against your shoulder for a brief second before he pulled back. You swallowed hard, bracing yourself before answering.
“Hi, Dad—”
“What the hell is going on?”
You flinched, pulling the phone slightly away from your ear.
“Dad, I—”
“I wake up this morning to my inbox exploding with concerned emails from investors and heads of state,” he barked, “And not one of them was about our new initiatives! All I see headlines about you making out with that… that vigilante in a back alley? Are you serious?”
You pressed your fingers against your temple. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“Oh, it never is, is it?” His words dripped with disbelief. “Why didn’t I know about this? About him? What, you’ve been sneaking around behind my back? How long has this been going on?”
Bucky’s hand found yours, squeezing before letting go. He could hear your father’s raised voice even from where he sat.
“It’s not sneaking around,” you muttered, your patience fraying. “You’re just… blowing this out of proportion.”
“Oh really?” he repeated, incredulous. “I hired that man to protect you last year! And now you’re telling me you’re dating him? Do you have any idea how bad that looks?”
“Dad, please,” you groaned, frustration bubbling over. “This isn’t even about the company—”
He cut you off, his voice sharp. “If people think you’re compromised—if they think you can’t keep your personal life separate from your professional responsibilities—”
“I know, Dad!” you snapped, your voice finally matching his. “I know how bad it looks! I’ve been dealing with it all day while you sit in your fancy cabin three countries away and shout at me over the phone!”
Bucky’s fingers tightened again.
You could hear your father exhaling through the line. “Fine,” he breathed, “lf you think you’ve got it all handled, then handle it! But I swear to God, if this relationship jeopardises our clients, our reputation, or your future—”
“It won’t!” you fired back. “And for the record, Bucky isn’t some random fling. He’s serious about me. He—”
You hesitated, only for a second, and swallowed hard.
“He cares about me,” you finished, quieter this time. “And I care about him.”
For a while, there was only silence. When your father finally spoke again, his voice had lost some of its bite. It sounded like… Consideration.
“Is he actually serious about you?” he asked.
Bucky could hear him clearly even when he was not shouting— courtesy of his super soldier hearing. He nodded.
“He is,” you answered without hesitation. “I wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.”
Then, softer, your father asked, “Then why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
You rested your elbows on your knees. “Because I knew you’d make it about the company and the board and my future when all I wanted was to keep it private. Just… for us.”
Your father sighed, and you could picture him rubbing the bridge of his nose— just like you always did.
“Look,” he said. “I’m not coming to the city to deal with it. That’s on you. But… for what it’s worth, I don’t want to see you hurt. And I don’t want to see this company—your company—take the blow, either.”
“I know,” you said softly. “And I’ll handle it. I promise.”
“Good,” he said. “Because if I hear one more thing about this in the news, I’m the one who’ll come down there to straighten it out. And I’ll start with your boyfriend.”
Bucky let out a quiet snort, shaking his head.
You couldn’t help rolling your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Deal with it now. I got it.”
“Good.” A beat of silence. Then, softer, “I love you, kid.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
The line clicked off, leaving you in silence.
You stared at your phone for a moment, rubbing your temples. The shouting match had left you drained, but at least it was over. For now.
Bucky shifted beside you, his fingers still tangled with yours. His voice was quiet when he spoke.
“You okay?”
You turned your head to look at him, at the careful way he was studying your face. He looked guilty, like this was his fault, like he wished he could take the weight off your shoulders.
You exhaled, tilting your head until it rested against his shoulder. “I will be.”
Little didn’t you know, he didn’t really believe you would be.
Not as long as he was around.
The morning after the scandal broke, the world felt different. It felt smaller, suffocating, as if the walls of your life had started closing in overnight.
News anchors dissected your love life like it was some kind of public crisis.
"Heiress in a Scandalous Affair with Ex-Assassin”
"Dangerous Liaison: How a CEO’s Secret Relationship Could Threaten Her Empire"
"Should a Man with a Bloodstained Past Be This Close to Power?"
Your phone hadn’t stopped ringing. Your father’s people had practically barricaded the office, because outside, reporters swarmed like vultures.
And Bucky was quiet. Too quiet.
You caught him sitting at the edge of the bed, watching the morning news with that expression you hated—it was almost as if he already knew how this story ended. Like he’d already made up his mind that this was going to break you apart.
"They act like I’m putting a damn gun to your head," he muttered, tone rough. The news anchor was mid-sentence, debating whether your involvement with Bucky posed a national security threat. As if your relationship was an act of terrorism.
You sat beside him, barely resisting the urge to throw the remote at the screen. "They're sensationalising it. It’ll die down."
Bucky scoffed. "No, it won’t." He rubbed a hand down his face, then gestured at the TV. "They love a good villain. And princess, I was tailor-made for the role."
Year One. Month Three.
You had taken a week of leave at this point, just so you could mentally recover.
By the time you arrived at your office after your week off, the damage control team was in full force. Half a dozen advisors, PR strategists, and corporate lawyers were waiting, some with their arms crossed, others furiously taking notes.
"We need to get ahead of this immediately," your PR officer said, clicking to the first slide of a PowerPoint labeled Mitigation Strategy like your personal life was a boardroom crisis. "We’ve already drafted potential responses, but the best option is for you to publicly distance yourself from Barnes."
You stiffened. "What? He’s my boyfriend. How would I do that?"
"An official statement clarifying that your relationship is purely professional—"
"That’s a lie."
"A necessary lie," she corrected, with the forced patience of a woman stuck in a room with a ticking time bomb. “Say… it was a misunderstanding, shift the narrative. You got too close, it was a lapse of judgement—"
"Are you serious?" You looked around the room. "You want me to pretend I was reckless and naive instead of just admitting that I love him?"
"This isn’t just about you,” your CFO sighed. “The board is already nervous. Investors are threatening to pull out. This could cost millions."
It wasn’t a threat. It was a fact. And yet, all you could think about was Bucky—sitting on your bed this morning, already bracing for the moment you’d walked away.
You swallowed hard. "I can’t do that!”
Your PR officer let out a deep breath, clearly recalibrating. "If you won’t deny it, at least don’t fuel the fire. No public outings, no statements, no contact that can be seen or reported on. We let the story fade, alright?”
When you got back that night, Bucky was sitting on the couch, looking at his phone. Not scrolling. Not texting. Just staring at the screen.
"You should… reconsider.”
You froze. "What?"
He didn’t look up. "It’d be easier for you to not be with me.”
Your heart broke. "Don’t do that."
"Do what?" His voice was bitter now. "Face reality? Come on, princess, we both know how this ends. You drop me, your life goes back to normal. Your father stops looking at you like you just burned the empire he built. You get your clean slate."
"That’s not what I want."
Bucky sighed, looking up at you with devastating pain in his blue eyes. "You say that now,” he started, "But I’ve been through this before, and it doesn’t end well. People always realise… I’m not worth all this."
Your throat tightened. "I’m not most people." It came out like a squeak.
"No, sweetheart, of course not,” he said with a sad smile, “but you have too much to lose."
You groaned, standing right in front of him, and daring him to look you in the eye.
"Listen to me, James. I do not give a single fuck what the world thinks. I do not care about shareholders, or press conferences, or what my father expects from me." You swallowed. "I care about you. And if you think I’m going to let you walk away because you’ve decided you’re a burden, then you really don’t know me at all."
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He wanted to believe you. He really did.
You reached for his hand. He let you.
"This doesn’t scare me," you whispered.
Bucky closed his eyes. “Maybe it should.”
That night, something felt off.
The next week, it only got worse.
It started small—little things that weren’t so little when you pieced them together.
Bucky stopped inviting you over to stay as often. When he did, he kept his distance, claiming he was just tired. He started answering texts late, then barely at all. When you reached for his hand in public, he let go a second too soon.
At first, you convinced yourself you were imagining it. But then came the missed calls, the sad sighs, the way he looked at you— like he was preparing to say goodbye.
“You’re avoiding me,” you finally confronted him.
Bucky didn’t look up from where he was sitting on the edge of the couch, unlacing his boots. “I’m just busy.”
“That’s bullshit.” You crossed your arms. “You barely talk to me anymore. You leave before I wake up. You don’t even—” You stopped, breath catching in your throat. “You don’t even…“
You trailed off, not knowing what else to say.
He froze for a second before he yanked his boots off and tossed them aside. “It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it, Bucky? Because from where I’m standing, it feels like you’re trying to fuck off.”
You were only met with silence.
You stepped closer. “If this is about the media—”
“That’s exactly what this is about.” His voice was a growl. “Every article, every news cycle, every goddamn headline— your name is dragged through the dirt because of me.”
You clenched your teeth. “I don’t care—”
“Well, I do!” He rose to his feet so quickly you took a step back. His eyes burned as he stared at you, breathing heavily. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to be the reason your life went to shit. I don’t want to be the reason your father loses faith in you, or why the world suddenly thinks you can’t run your own goddamn company.”
“What?” You challenged, “you think leaving will fix that?”
Bucky scoffed, shaking his head. “Maybe it’ll make it easier.”
Your stomach churned with a frustration you haven’t felt in a long, long time. “Easier for who?”
“For you!”
The words hit you like a slap.
You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but your chest felt too tight, too suffocated, like hellfire was clawing its way up your throat.
“You really think I’d be better off without you?”
His eyes flickered with, his muscles twitching. “Hmm.”
Your heart dropped. “Y-you can’t do this to me.”
His eyes snapped to yours. “I’m doing this for you.”
“T-that’s— but that’s so condescending! Do you hear yourself, James?” You shouted this time, hands curling to fists at your sides.. “You think walking away makes you noble? That’s bullshit! You’re just a coward!”
His lips parted slightly, but no words came out.
“You think I don’t know what this is?” You continued, voice shaken “You hate feeling like you’re not in control, and I get that, I do, but instead of dealing with it, you’d rather run.” You swallowed. “You’d rather run from me.”
The muscles in his neck flinched. His human fingers curled into fists.
Then—
Without another word, he grabbed his jacket, turned on his heel, and walked out the door.
He didn’t slam it. Didn’t yell. He just… left.
And that hurt worse than anything else.
The first night, you thought he needed space.
The second night, you got worried.
By the third, you were panicked.
You practically lived at his place, probably stayed over four days a week, and he rarely stayed at yours. So when he disappeared and wasn’t in either apartments, you had no idea where the hell he was.
He wasn’t answering texts. Wasn’t picking up calls. You tried not to assume the worst, but it was hard when the worst was always a possibility.
Was he hurt? Was he drinking in one of those newly opened Asgardian bars? Was he spiraling?
You barely slept. Barely ate. You kept replaying the fight in your head, hearing your own voice, your accusations. Maybe you’d pushed too hard, been too harsh. Maybe this time, he won't come back.
Little did you know, Bucky was staying with Sam. He hadn't planned to, but to be fair, he hadn’t planned on anything. He just walked out, got in the car, and kept driving, and somehow ended up on Sam’s doorstep like a stray cat.
To his credit, Sam didn’t ask questions. He just took one look at Bucky, sighed, and let him in.
And now, here they were— three days later, Bucky was nursing a beer on Sam’s couch, staring at the muted TV, while Sam leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed.
“You finally gonna tell me what happened?” Sam asked, even though he knew what happened. He saw it in the news— he just needed to hear it from Bucky.
Bucky had a hand down his face. “Not much to tell.”
“Right.” Sam snorted. “You ghost your girl and disappear from the public eye for days in the middle of a media scandal. but there’s not much to tell?”
Bucky looked down, staring at the floor. “I needed space.”
Sam hummed. “Uh-huh. And she knows that? Or did you just decide to vanish?”
Bucky shot him a glare, but Sam wouldn’t budge. He cannot— will not— let his friend self-sabotage a relationship he clearly didn’t want to end.
Bucky muttered, “She’s better off without me.”
Sam actually laughed at that, and the sound was short and dry, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Look, man, I get it. You think you’re doing her a favour.” Sam sighed, shaking his head. “But she chose you. Instead of trusting that choice, you’re what? Hiding out at my place and letting her deal with the media fallout on her own?”
Bucky’s grip tightened around the beer bottle. “I’m not hiding.”
“Then why are you still here?”
Bucky’s throat tightened. He had no answer to that.
“I just… I don’t want to be the reason everything falls apart for her,” Bucky sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Sam shook his head. “And what if you’re the reason she holds it together?”
Bucky didn’t respond, and he didn’t know how to. Because it might actually be true
So instead, he just drank his beer, staring at the silent TV.
And then he saw own damn face, plastered across the screen.
And then there you were, giving a statement.
Sam frowned as he watched Bucky grab the remote.
“…and I cannot let the media twist this story,” you said Bucky turned the volume up mid-sentence.
Bucky sat up straighter.
There you were— standing behind a press conference desk, cameras flashing, reporters practically foaming at the mouth for any ounce of information you would give.
You looked exhausted, but nothing could erase that familiar determination in your eyes.
“James Barnes is not a liability,” you continued, voice steady despite the chaos. “He’s not a danger, and he’s not the monster some of you painted him as.”
Bucky’s stomach twisted.
A reporter cut in. “So you’re confirming your relationship with Mr. Barnes?”
You didn’t even flinch.
“I’m confirming that he’s someone I trust with my life,” you shot back.
Bucky blinked. You weren’t denying it. Weren’t distancing yourself from him.
You were standing in front of the whole damn world… defending him.
A different reporter raised his hand. “Given his history, do you really think associating with someone like Barnes is wise for your public image?”
You looked at the guy like you wanted to strangle him. “His history?” you repeated incredulously. “You mean the history where he was forced to do things against his will? The history he’s spent every damn day trying to atone, even though it wasn’t his fault?”
The room went silent.
You let out a deep breath, gripping the desk. “You all act like redemption is a myth, like some people just don’t get to have it. But Bucky Barnes is not a story. He is not a headline. He is a person. And I won’t let you write him into being a villain because it’s more convenient for you.”
Bucky only stared, heart hammering out of his ribcage.
You were risking everything for him—your reputation, your credibility, everything.
And he’d walked out on you.
Sam let out a low whistle, glancing at Bucky with his eyebrows raised. “Still think she’s better off without you?”
Bucky swallowed hard.
The second the press conference ended, he was out the door. Sam barely had time to say goodbye.
You had stood in front of the whole damn world and defended him. You hadn’t folded under pressure, hadn’t let them tear him down just to save yourself.
And…. he’d walked away.
Bucky wasn’t sure how long it took to get to you. He barely remembered the drive, barely felt the drift when he pushed open your penthouse door with the key you’d given him months ago.
Bucky expected to see you when he stepped into your penthouse— you always regrouped here after a media day.
What he didn’t expect—was to see your father.
He hadn’t met him before, at least not in person. And if you called him in to help you cope, then it must be bad.
The man was standing near the massive windows, looking out over the skyline, a glass of rum in one hand. The picture of composed authority, as you always made him out to be.
The fact that he was even here instead of you meant something— Bucky just wasn’t sure what yet.
Bucky hesitated just inside the doorway, unsure if he should step in. Your father finally turned his head, looking at him.
"She must be serious about you if she gave you the keys to her place."
Bucky shut the door behind him. "Guess so."
Your father just nodded, swirling the liquor in his glass.
Bucky wasn’t sure what to call him. Sir? Felt weird— he was a hundred and ten years old, after all. First names seemed too casual. Last name felt too formal.
"I assume you’re looking for her."
"Yeah." Bucky hesitated. "And… she’s not here.”
"If she were, I imagine you’d already be getting an earful." Your father replied.
Bucky’s eyebrows twitch. He probably would deserve that.
Your father turned away, walking toward the bar. "Drink?”
Bucky hesitated. "No, thanks."
Your father poured himself another two fingers of rum. "Probably for the best."
The room was silent after that, and your father didn’t feel the pressure to fill that space until he put his drink down. “I hired you to protect her, Barnes." The words weren’t spoken in anger, but there was a hint of disappointment behind them. “Not to break her heart.”
Bucky took a deep breath. "I know."
"Do you?" Your father turned to face him. "Because I was at that press conference. I saw what it did to her. She stood up to the world and defended you, and you—" He exhaled sharply. "You weren’t there."
Bucky clenched his fists. "I didn’t ask her to do that."
“That’s not how she works, Barnes. You should know that by now." Your father sighed, crossing his arms across his chest. "She doesn’t respond well to media attention," he said, quieter now. "Never has. She’s been under this scrutiny since she was a kid. She knows how to handle it, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t affect her."
Bucky looked away, guilt crawling under his skin.
Your father sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I don’t give a damn about the headlines." His voice was firmer now. "I don’t give a damn about what the board or the investors think, or whatever bullshit the media’s spewing." He paused, his eyes locking onto Bucky’s. "I care about her."
Bucky’s throat tightened.
"Look, I’ve known her longer than anyone else,” your father continued. "and I— I know— I can tell that she loves you."
Bucky’s head snapped up.
“She wouldn’t have fought for you the way she did if she didn’t,” he said.
“I…” Bucky swallowed hard. "I love her too."
“Prove it.” He almost snapped.
Bucky took a step back.
"Be careful with her heart, Barnes." Was the last thing he heard from your father.
After that, Bucky went to your office. Empty.
Your favourite restaurant—nothing.
The city was huge, but he knew you well. He knew where you went when the world became too much. When you needed to be alone.
And that was how he found himself outside his own apartment, staring at the door, heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to break free.
He felt sick.
His fingers hovered over the handle for a moment before he forced himself to knock. It was hesitant— perhaps he was afraid of what he might find on the other side.
No answer.
Bucky swallowed hard, unlocked the door and stepped inside.
And there you were.
Sitting on the couch, still wearing the same outfit from the press conference, head in your hands. He could tell you were exhausted— shoulders slumped, breaths uneven.
His heart broke.
You must’ve heard the door click shut because your head snapped up, your eyes wide and glassy.
For a good five agonizing minutes, neither of you spoke. Just stared. Until—
“You left."
When you said it, it barely came out as a whisper, but it still struck like a bullet to his temple.
Bucky swallowed against the lump in his throat, "I know."
"I defended you," you rasped. "I stood there and let the world tear into me because I thought—" You cut yourself off, chest rising and falling unevenly. "I thought we were in this together."
Bucky took a slow step forward, one after another. Then he sank to his knees in front of you, his hands resting on your thighs. "We are."
"You walked away, James." Your voice cracked. With a bitter laugh, you snapped your fingers. "Just like that. Like it was easy.
His hands curled into fists. "It wasn’t."
"Could’ve fooled me."
His teeth clenched. "I thought I was protecting you."
“Well, congratulations,” You let out a hollow laugh. "You protected me so well that I spent the last three days wondering if I meant anything to you at all."
Bucky flinched. "Don’t," he whispered, pleading, "You know that’s not true."
Your eyes locked onto his, desperate and angry. "Then why did you leave?"
"Because I thought I could make it better," he said again, as if saying it enough times would make it true. "By keeping myself out of this mess—"
"It was never a mess, Bucky!" you snapped, your tone rising. "Not to me! Not until you left!"
He shook his head, meeting your eyes with something close to desperation. "I thought—"
"Do you have any idea what it felt like to wake up and realise you were gone?" You cut him off.
Bucky opened his mouth, but you weren’t finished.
"I don’t care if the whole damn world has an opinion about us." you whispered. You took his hand, pressed his palm flat against your chest, right over your heart. "I care that I came home to an empty bed."
Bucky’s throat tightened. "I thought—“
"Stop thinking!” You shouted.
Bucky scoffed, shaking his head as his grip tightened on your hand. "I thought if I made it easier for you, I wouldn’t lose you forever!”
"You lost me the second you walked out that door," you spat out, but even as you said it, you knew you didn’t truly mean it.
Bucky’s breath caught, but instead of backing down, he moved forward, crowding into your space, his hands gripping your waist and holding you in place. "No." He said, almost a growl, his fingers digging into your sides. "No, I didn’t."
Before he could say anything more, your lips crashed against his.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate, brimming with anger and need and the kind of longing would never go away. He kissed you back like he was trying to prove himself, like he needed you to understand that walking away hadn’t meant he stopped wanting you. That it had killed him to.
You gasped into the kiss, and any protest you might have had dissolved the second his hands moved up your back, pulling you flush against him. His warmth, his scent, the way his breath mixed with yours—it set every nerve on fire.
"I can’t lose you," he murmured against your lips, voice trembling. He kissed you again, his hands roaming your body like he was terrified you’d disappear. "I won’t.”
Your hands threaded through his hair, tugging slightly, making him groan against your mouth. "But you left," you whispered, "You left me."
"I’m sorry," he rasped, and he meant it. His lips moving along your jaw, down to your neck, teeth scraping against your pulse. "I hated every fucking second of it."
A shudder ran through you, your nails digging into his shoulders as his hands slid lower, gripping your hips and pulling you into his lap. You straddled him without hesitation, pressing against him, feeling the way his breath stuttered as you moved.
"Then don’t do it again," you whispered, voice breaking, your forehead pressing against his.
Bucky’s hands framed your face again, forcing you to look at him. His eyes were wild, almost desperate. "Never," he swore, his thumb stroking over your cheek. "I swear on my life, never."
And then he kissed you again.
This time, it was slower— he took his time. It felt like regret, it felt like a confession. His hands were everywhere, exploring, pulling you closer like he wanted to mold you to him.
"Fuck," he breathed, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his fingers squeezing your thighs. "You have no idea how much I missed you."
You cupped his face, forcing him to look at you. "Show me."
And when his lips found yours again, when his hands started to slide under your clothes, when your bodies pressed together in a way that left no space between you—
You knew this time, he meant it.
The morning after was gentle.
Sunlight poured through the sheer curtains, warming the bed sheets.
Bucky stirred beside you, his arm draped over your waist, holding you close like he was afraid you’d slip away.
When his lips brushed lazily against your shoulder, you hummed, shifting in his arms to meet his eyes. His hair was a mess, his eyes still half-lidded.
God, it’s only been a few days. You’ve missed him.
“Morning,” he murmured hoarsely.
You smiled. “Morning.”
For a long moment, neither of you moved, just staring, just breathing. Then, as if reality was starting to creep back in, you sighed, tracing a fingertip along his stubble.
“We should eat,” you suggested.
Bucky groaned, tightening his grip on you. “We could stay in bed.”
You let out a quiet chuckle and pressed a quick kiss to his lips before slipping from his hold. “Let’s go get breakfast, sweetie.”
Reluctantly, Bucky let you go, watching as you stretched, grabbing the first thing you could find to throw on—one of his shirts.
He rolled out of bed and pressed a kiss to your temple, “We’d be in public, you know.”
You sighed. “I know.”
Breakfast wasn’t some Michelin-star brunch spot. It was a small café, tucked away from the busier streets, where the scent of fresh bread and coffee lingered in the air a little longer. The kind of place where no one would look twice at you if you sat there for hours, just talking, just being.
And that’s exactly what you did.
Bucky’s hand never left yours, his fingers tracing circles on your palm, his thumb absentmindedly grazing your knuckles. Every so often, he’d lean over, steal a kiss between sips of coffee.
He was here now. With you. In public. That was all that mattered.
But it wasn’t long before the cameras showed up.
They weren’t subtle. A handful of photographers across the street, lurking.
The press had been relentless, but after your statement on Bucky yesterday, the world… was quieter.
Ever since you’d stood in front of the cameras the backlash had softened. World leaders, once eager to weigh in, had gone silent. Maybe, for the first time, they respected you. Maybe they respected Bucky, too.
But that didn’t mean the vultures were gone.
Your clients might have been reassured, but the media will always try to sensationalise the story.
Bucky had been trying to ignore them.
But when another camera flash went off, too close, too invasive, he snapped.
With a sharp exhale, he pushed his chair back, the legs scraping against the pavement. You barely had time to grab his wrist before he was turned marching toward the swarm of photographers lingering just across the street.
“Bucky,” you warned, but it was useless.
The reporters tensed when they saw him approach, cameras at the ready, expecting a fight— maybe even hoping for one.
And Bucky didn’t disappoint.
“Get a fucking life,” he snapped, voice rough with frustration. He gestured wildly to the table behind him, where your half-eaten breakfast sat. “We’re trying to eat like normal fucking people.”
A few photographers shuffled awkwardly, lowering their cameras, but others stood their ground.
“Mr. Barnes, the public just wants to—”
“The public can mind their damn business.” His glare could have turned them to stone. “Unless you want some asshole shoving a camera in your face every time you try to grab a coffee, I suggest you back off.”
Oh? Oh.
You heard a few more murmurs. More feet shifting.
Then one of them had the nerve to say, “You can’t really be surprised, can you? You’re the winter soldier, and she’s—“
Bucky scoffed, cutting him off. “Fuck this.” He threw his hands in the air, turning back toward you. “They act like we just committed a goddamn crime when all we did was order fucking pancakes.”
You fought the urge to chuckle—because, God, when was he ever this pissed? His jaw was tight, shoulders squared, the restrained fury radiating off him in waves. But beneath all that anger, there was something protective in the way he positioned himself between you and the world, as if it was his job, perhaps because once… it had been.
And he was given a second chance. He would make it up to you, no matter what.
You sighed, stepping closer and slipping your hand into his. His fingers curled around yours without hesitation, like he’d been waiting for you to reach for him.
“Let’s go,” you said, giving his hand a squeeze.
He didn’t argue. He just nodded once, casting his final glare at the cameras before turning on his heel and pulling you along with him.
But as the two of you walked, you felt it—the way the usual chaos had dulled. The shutters weren’t clicking. The voices weren’t calling his name, your name, they weren’t desperate for a reaction. It was… quiet.
You glanced back over your shoulder at the stunned crowd of photographers, their hands hesitating over their cameras, unwilling to lift them.
An almost-wicked smile formed on your lips.
“You know,” you murmured just loud enough for Bucky to hear, “we could give them a show.”
And Bucky Barnes never did anything half-heartedly.
So the second he heard the words leave your lips, he stopped right there, in the middle of the street and kissed you.
And it wasn’t a short peck, wasn’t a brief gesture.
It was slow, it was deliberate. It was the kind that sent heat curling in your stomach and stole the breath from your lungs. It left no room for misinterpretation.
He wasn’t just kissing you. He was claiming this moment. It made you feel untouchable, unreachable.
And yet—not a single flash.
Not one camera dared to snap the million-dollar shot they’d been desperate for just minutes ago.
Let them look.
Let them talk.
But they would never own this.
When he finally pulled back, lips still ghosting over yours, his words were meant for you and you alone.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Masterlist
Bucky x reader
Summary: She wasn’t supposed to meet him like that. He wasn’t supposed to let her in. But sometimes, things don’t go according to plan.
Word Count: 7,051
When you woke up to Bucky’s alarm again the next morning, you were exhausted. Bucky just reached over and turned it off, arm immediately coming back to it’s place around you.
“Mmm no,” you groaned, pushing your face deeper into his chest.
“What baby?” he murmured.
“Don’t wanna get up,” you groaned again, moving your hand from his chest to wrap around his side, pulling yourself closer to him.
He just chuckled, tracing random patterns on your back as you laid against him. “You’re gonna have to, doll.”
“No.”
“I mean, I could text Steve and tell him you don’t feel well.”
You just sighed and finally lifted your head up. “He wouldn’t believe that,” you deadpanned.
“Well – no, probably not,” he said, smiling. “But he definitely wouldn’t ask about it. He’d be too embarrassed.”
You just laughed at the thought before you pulled yourself up. You just sat there for a bit before climbing out of bed, Bucky immediately sitting up and throwing the blanket off of him.
“You don’t have to get up if you don’t want to,” you said, waving him off. “I know you don’t have training today.”
He just got up anyway, picking his sweatpants up off the ground and pulling them on. “No, that’s okay,” he said, smiling at you. “Someone’s gotta pour your coffee.”
You just scoffed, stretching your hands above your head before relaxing again. “I’m pretty sure I can do that myself.”
“Well, I guess today’s your lucky day, because you don’t have to,” he said, smirking.
You laughed softly before pulling the door open and standing in the doorway as Bucky made his way over to his closet.
“Gotta grab a shirt since someone decided to steal mine,” he said, raising an eyebrow at you, failing to hide the smile on his face.
“I take your shirt, you keep my underwear on your floor…seems like a fair trade to me,” you said, giving him a smug smirk.
He just sighed and shook his head, eyes darting to your underwear still on the floor before meeting your eyes again. “You’re killing me, doll.”
You just gave him a fake-innocent smile before turning and padding down the hallway, him following right behind you.
When you got to the kitchen, the only person in there was Steve. He took one look at you – walking in with Bucky, in your sleep shorts and what was obviously Bucky’s t-shirt – and just raised a brow, but didn’t say anything.
You both told him good morning, you settling in a stool at the island and Bucky pulling two coffee mugs from the top shelf.
“Morning guys,” Steve said, trying to hide a smile behind his mug. “Get any sleep last night?”
You and Bucky locked eyes for just a brief second, trying to hold back a smile as you turned toward Steve. “Yeah.”
Bucky just chuckled, pouring the coffee before walking over and setting one in front of you, lowering himself into the stool beside you. “Yeah, why wouldn’t we?” he responded, raising an eyebrow right back at Steve before smirking.
After just sipping your coffee for a while, you got up, making your way to the fridge and pulling out the yogurt.
“Either of you guys want some?” you asked, reaching into the pantry and grabbing granola.
Steve just said “no, thank you,” but as you turned back toward the counter, Bucky was already up and grabbing two bowls.
He opened up the yogurt container, then grabbed a spoon to start filling the bowls.
“No fruit?” he asked, reaching out to grab the granola from you.
“Eh, didn’t feel like cutting the strawberries,” you replied, shrugging your shoulders.
“I got it,” he said, not looking up from the bowls as he started pouring the granola. “You can go ‘head and sit down.”
You just raised an eyebrow at him, leaning against the counter as he finally looked up at you.
“You spoil me, y’know,” you said, laughing as you walked back over to your stool to sit down.
“I know,” he said, opening the fridge and pulling out the strawberries.
Steve just sighed from the other end of the counter, setting his coffee mug down.
“You spoil her?” he echoed, eyebrows raised. “What parallel universe did I wake up in this morning?”
Bucky didn’t even flinch. “You’re just mad no one asks you to cut strawberries.”
You snorted into your coffee, and Steve gave you a look like, please don’t encourage him.
“I mean, come on,” Steve continued, gesturing toward the two of you with the mug. “This guy–” he pointed to Bucky, “–used to grumble if anyone even looked like they were gonna ask him to do something domestic. Now he’s making breakfast?”
“I didn’t ask him to,” you said quickly, acting innocent. “He offered.”
Steve raised his brows. “Yeah, that’s my point.”
Bucky just shook his head, slicing the strawberries with easy, practiced movements. “People change, Steve.”
Steve narrowed his eyes, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I just never thought you’d go full suburban husband before nine in the morning.”
“I haven’t vacuumed yet,” Bucky deadpanned, sliding the bowl in front of you with a small smile. “Give me an hour.”
You let out a quiet laugh, already digging into your yogurt.
Steve watched the whole thing with a kind of stunned, amused expression, like he still couldn’t quite believe this was his life.
After a pause, he shook his head again, though this time there was a softer edge to it. “Nah, I’m happy for you, Buck. Really. I just…never thought I’d see the day when you made breakfast for your girlfriend while she’s wearing your t-shirt.”
Bucky glanced down at your shirt – well, technically his shirt – and smirked. “Yeah, well. You’ve seen worse.”
Steve raised his mug again in a mock toast. “That I have.”
You just smiled to yourself as you took another bite of yogurt, warmth spreading through your chest that had nothing to do with the coffee.
Steve just shook his head once more before pushing himself up and walking toward the hallway. “I have to make a quick call, but I’ll meet you in the training room.”
“Okay,” you said, mouth full, before he just chuckled and stepped out.
The second he was gone, you looked over at Bucky, who was already trying – and failing – not to smile.
“Did you see his face?” you said through a laugh.
“Oh, he looked personally offended by the strawberries,” Bucky replied, chuckling as he leaned his elbow on the counter. “Like I’d betrayed every version of myself.”
You grinned, swirling your spoon through the yogurt.
“Sergeant Softie strikes again,” you teased, nudging him lightly with your knee under the counter.
He narrowed his eyes at you, but the smirk gave him away. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Oh no, it’s adorable,” you said sweetly, flashing him an exaggeratedly innocent look. “Just don’t let Steve catch you fluffing the couch pillows later.”
Bucky huffed a laugh. “Okay, first of all, I only did that once–”
“Twice.”
“–because they were squished and uneven,” he finished, ignoring your interruption as he reached out to pluck your spoon from your hand and take a bite of your yogurt without asking.
You gasped in fake offense. “You strawberry thief! I see the domestic bliss has gone straight to your head.”
“Just making sure I earned my ‘Softie’ title properly,” he said with a grin, handing the spoon back.
You laughed again, shaking your head, heart full. “You really have changed, y’know.”
He gave you a softer look then, eyes meeting yours for a beat longer.
“Yeah,” he said, voice a little quieter now. “I think that’s a good thing.”
You just smiled and reached out, brushing your hand gently over his.
“Yeah,” you said. “I do too.”
After you finished eating, Bucky grabbed both of your bowls without a word, standing up and taking them over to the sink, rinsing them out.
When he was done and wiped his hands on a dish towel, you got up and made your way to the hallway, him following behind you.
“So, whatcha gonna do while I’m in PT?” you asked, glancing over at him.
He just hummed, walking a few more steps before looking over at you with a smirk.
“Probably just lay in bed. Yearn. Look at your picture on my phone. Miss you.”
You just busted out laughing, grabbing his shoulder to steady yourself while you kept walking. “Y’know, I wouldn’t put that past you.”
He just scoffed, still smiling. “Oh c’mon, I’m not that far gone.”
You looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. “Mhmm. Sure.”
He just rolled his eyes as you made your way into the elevator.
When you got to your room, you went straight to the dresser and started rummaging through it, looking for the workout set you wanted.
You just sighed when you realized you wore it a couple days ago.
“Ugh, I need to do laundry today,” you muttered, grabbing another set and shutting the drawer.
Bucky shrugged, leaning against your doorway. “I can start it while you’re at PT.”
You turned slowly, one eyebrow raised. “Oh…really?”
He raised both hands in mock surrender, but the smirk was already spreading. “What?”
“You? Volunteering for laundry? That’s interesting coming from the guy who said – and I quote – ‘I draw the line at laundry,’ like the day after we met.”
He snorted, head tilting back slightly with a laugh. “Yeah, well. Things change.”
And before you could respond, he casually walked over and grabbed your laundry basket from the corner like it was nothing.
You let out a soft, amused breath and shook your head. “God, I love you,” you said easily, with a little laugh.
And then you turned, taking one step toward the bathroom before your body went completely still.
Your heart stopped when you realized what you’d just said.
Bucky, still holding the basket, blinked once. You didn’t turn around. Neither of you said anything for a second.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
Then, slowly, like you were afraid of what you’d see, you turned around.
Bucky was still standing there, laundry basket in his arms, eyes wide and frozen like he’d just short-circuited. His lips were parted slightly, like maybe he was about to say something – but hadn’t gotten that far.
Your eyes were wide too. “I mean–” you started, but your voice cracked, and the words fumbled out of your mouth in a rush. “I didn’t – I didn’t mean it like that, or – I mean, I did, but not like – like in a serious, declaration kind of way–”
You were gesturing vaguely now, backing up a half step, your thoughts tripping over each other faster than your mouth could catch up. “I mean I do love you, obviously, because – well, I mean, come on – but I wasn’t – this wasn’t–”
You stopped when you heard him start to laugh softly.
You blinked and looked up.
Bucky had set the laundry basket down gently, and now he was crossing the space between you with calm, unhurried steps. You froze again when he reached out and placed both hands lightly on your shoulders.
You looked up at him, breath caught in your chest, heart racing like you were about to be pushed out of a plane.
He was smiling.
Not teasing, not smug – just soft. Steady. Like he knew exactly what you were feeling because, somehow, he felt it too.
“I love you too,” he said quietly.
Your breath hitched.
For the first time in the last thirty seconds, you stopped moving. Stopped sputtering. Stopped panicking.
And just looked at him.
“…You do?” you asked, barely above a whisper.
He nodded once, smile deepening as his thumbs brushed gently over your arms. “Yeah, doll. I do.”
You finally fully relaxed, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, before you started to laugh awkwardly.
“Well, good,” you said, shaking your head. “I thought I’d just ruined this.”
“Aww, c’mon,” he said, “you really think you could ruin this?”
“I mean, probably not,” you replied, smirking. “You seem pretty down bad to me.”
“I’m just being a good teammate,” he said, smirking back as he dropped his hands from your shoulders.
“Teammate?!” you exclaimed, eyes wide. “So when Sam’s doing a good job in training, you tell him he’s doing ‘so good for you’ in that low voice of yours?”
He busted out laughing before smirking at you again. “So you liked that, huh?”
“…Maybe,” you said, raising an eyebrow.
His smirk just got bigger as you turned toward the bathroom. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he called out to you.
“Get outta here,” you said, smiling and waving him away as he picked up your laundry basket again.
You could still hear him chuckling as you shut the bathroom door behind you.
--
After you finished physical therapy and iced your ankle, you were walking out of the training room and almost ran right into Nat and Wanda.
“Oh, good,” Nat said, “we were hoping to catch you.”
“Don’t plan anything the rest of the day,” Wanda said, pointing at you.
“Why, what’s up?”
“Since we have the day off, we’re doing a girls’ day!” Wanda exclaimed.
“Which means no boyfriend,” Nat added, smirking.
“Oooh, okay, sounds fun,” you replied, starting to walk with them down the hall. “What are we doing?”
“Well, we thought we’d get lunch first, then maybe do some shopping?” Nat said, shrugging.
“And getting our nails done,” Wanda said, wiggling her fingers at you.
“Okay, I’m in,” you said, smiling. “Just gotta shower first, then I’ll meet you downstairs.”
“Okay, we’ll be in the common room,” Nat said as they turned away, heading in the opposite direction.
You got in the elevator, then made your way to your room, quickly jumping in the shower before you wrapped yourself in a towel and made your way back into your room to get dressed.
When you stepped out of the bathroom, Bucky was sitting in your bed, leaning back against the headboard.
“Oh,” you said, jumping a little. “Hi?”
“Oh, sorry,” he said, sitting up, eyes sweeping over you. “I heard the shower running so I thought I’d just chill here ‘til you came out.”
You just laughed as you started walking over to your closet. “You waited in here while I was showering?”
Bucky shrugged like it was the most casual thing in the world. “I figured you’d come find me after, so I thought I’d save you the trip.”
You opened the closet and pulled out a nice, fitted top. “You are so down bad.”
He let out a low chuckle, leaning his head back against the headboard. “Yeah? And what does that make you?”
You gave him a pointed look over your shoulder. “I’m not the one lurking on someone’s bed.”
He raised a brow. “I’m not lurking. I’m lounging.”
“Right,” you said, smirking as you walked to your dresser and pulled open the drawer, grabbing your new pair of jeans. “Very dignified of you.”
“Thank you,” he said, nodding. “I take my lounging seriously. Especially when it involves you coming out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel.”
You rolled your eyes with a laugh but didn’t deny it. “Okay, Sergeant Softie. Enjoy the view.”
Bucky was still watching you, that cocky little smirk playing at the corner of his mouth like he knew exactly what effect he had on you.
So you smirked right back.
Then, without warning, you turned your back to him, dropped your towel, and started getting dressed right there – completely nonchalant.
You heard him inhale sharply, followed by a brief, stunned silence.
You pulled open your dresser drawer, pulling on a pair of underwear and a bra.
“Need me to leave?” he asked, voice a little raspier than before.
You stepped into your jeans slowly, shimmying them up with deliberate ease before pulling on the shirt and smoothing it down.
You turned around, now fully dressed and giving him a smug smirk. “Oh no, you waited this long. Least I could do was give you something to look at.”
His eyes were definitely not on your face.
But when they finally met yours again, they were dark with amusement. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
You grinned. “Better me than on a mission.”
That made him laugh out loud as he pushed himself off the bed and walked toward you, hands finding your waist as he dipped down to brush a kiss to your lips.
“You’re trouble, you know that?”
“You love it,” you whispered.
“I really do.”
Bucky let his hands slide off your waist as he stepped back just slightly, letting his eyes sweep over you, with a dramatic tilt of his head.
“Well, look at you,” he said, eyebrows raised. “Who’re you getting all dressed up for, huh?”
You grinned, grabbing a pair of socks from your dresser. “Girls’ day with Nat and Wanda.”
He immediately gasped dramatically, one hand flying to his chest. “Girls’ day? You’re abandoning me?”
You just rolled your eyes, heading back toward the bathroom. “You’ll survive, Barnes.”
“No, I won’t,” he called after you, following like a sad puppy. “I can feel my heart breaking already.”
You reached for your hair dryer, plugging it in and flipping your head to the side to start drying your hair. “You’re so dramatic.”
He leaned against the doorframe, watching you like it was his favorite channel. “Only because you’re my favorite.”
You just shook your head with a laugh, aiming the dryer down the length of your hair.
A few moments passed – just the low hum of the dryer and Bucky’s eyes quietly trailing your every move. His arms were crossed, shoulder resting on the frame, like he had no plans to be anywhere else.
You glanced at him in the mirror, catching the soft, absolutely smitten look on his face.
You turned the dryer off for a second and gave him a teasing smile. “You really don’t know what to do with yourself without me, huh?”
Bucky just smirked, not even trying to deny it. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
You laughed again and flipped the dryer back on.
He stayed right there, watching, smiling, completely content.
Like just being near you – even if you were doing something as boring as drying your hair – was more than enough.
Once your hair was dry, you flipped off the dryer and set it on the counter, glancing up to see Bucky still posted in the doorway like a statue.
“You’re still here?” you teased, reaching for your makeup bag.
He just shrugged, completely unbothered. “Free show.”
You laughed, pulling out your mascara. “You really have no hobbies outside of bothering me, do you?”
He grinned. “I mean…watching you do your little morning routine while I lean dramatically in a doorway? That is my hobby now.”
You rolled your eyes, turning toward the mirror as you started applying light makeup – nothing fancy, just enough to feel put together. A little tinted moisturizer, mascara, and a swipe of lip balm.
Bucky stayed quiet while you worked, but you could feel his eyes on you the whole time. That soft, completely ruined kind of gaze, like he couldn’t believe you were real.
As you capped your mascara and leaned back to check your reflection, you glanced at him in the mirror. “You good?”
He just gave a slow nod, his smirk shifting into something warmer. “Yeah. You’re cute when you concentrate.”
You made a face at him. “Okay, now you’re just trying to distract me.”
“Is it working?”
You tried not to smile, but failed. “Yes. Shut up.”
When you finally finished getting ready, you put everything away then made your way toward him.
“Alright,” you said, straightening your shirt. “Time for me to go paint nails and talk about boys.”
Bucky reached for your hand as you passed, tugging you to a stop. “Hey – have fun, okay?”
You smiled, fingers brushing his briefly. “I will.”
He didn’t let go just yet. “Text me when you’re on your way back.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You gonna be waiting in my bed again when I get home?”
“Only if you’re lucky,” he said with a wink.
You let out a soft laugh and shook your head as he finally released your hand. You gathered up your phone, purse, and a jacket, and he fell into step beside you, walking with you toward the elevator.
When you stepped inside and the doors slid closed, he leaned against the wall casually, hands in his pockets. “You know, I should get extra points for chivalry.”
You gave him a sideways look. “For escorting me to the common room?”
“Exactly. I am but a humble man seeing his girl off to war.”
“You’re seeing me off to lunch.”
“Same thing,” he said, deadpan. “Less bloodshed. More gossip.”
You just grinned as the elevator dinged and the doors opened.
Sure enough, Nat and Wanda were waiting in the common room, both of them perking up the second they saw you walk out – with Bucky.
“Oh, he’s escorting her now,” Nat said, grinning.
Wanda gasped dramatically. “Wait – is this goodbye? Is this the part in the rom-com where they kiss before she gets in the cab?”
You turned to Bucky and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Bye, Sergeant Softie.”
He smirked. “Bring me back something. Like your attention.”
You rolled your eyes and walked off, laughing as the girls practically dragged you out the door – already peppering you with questions.
Bucky just stood there in the doorway for a second, watching you go.
And smiling like an idiot.
--
“Tell us everything,” Nat said, eyebrows raised.
You were sitting at a table across from Nat and Wanda, feeling like you were at an interview instead of a restaurant.
“What do you mean everything,” you asked, laughing.
“Well, we obviously saw you all over each other in the elevator,” Wanda said, smirking. “But when was your first kiss?”
You just sighed at them, trying not to smile as you thought back to it. “It was right after we got back from shopping. In my room.”
Nat raised an eyebrow. “Your room, huh? So what happened after?”
They both leaned in dramatically, making you laugh.
“Nothing happened after! We came down and made supper.”
“Uh-huh,” Nat responded, not looking convinced.
“But how did the kiss happen?” Wanda said, resting her chin in her hand and looking up at you.
You sighed again, rolling your eyes, but you knew they were going to eat everything up.
“So, you remember him joking about letting you guys know how I looked in my new bra the next morning?”
They both nodded, eyes lighting up.
“Well, I was obviously flustered, and he was being smug as hell about it. So, I had to get him back. So when I changed, I made him cut the tags off of one of my new bras for me, then I ‘accidentally,’” you said, doing air quotes, “forgot to grab a shirt.”
Their eyes went wide and Wanda’s hand shot up to cover her mouth.
“So, I walked out of the bathroom in just shorts and a bra, which shut him up pretty quick.”
“No way!” Nat said, laughing.
“Yes way,” you said, smirking. “But it gets better.”
They stopped laughing now, leaning toward you in anticipation.
“He got bold. Walked over and started running his hands up my arms, telling me I’d look better in my red one.”
Nat’s jaw dropped. Wanda gasped.
“BUT THEN,” you said, holding up a finger to stop them from saying anything yet, “he hooked his fingers under the bra straps, and started playing with them.”
“WHAT?” Nat yelled, jaw dropping.
“Bucky did that?” Wanda say, still covering her mouth.
“Yeah,” you replied, nodding your head. “So I was obviously beyond flustered. But then, I was kinda thinking about the whole day, and how much I realized I liked him, so as he started to pull away, I pulled him down to me and kissed him.”
Wanda’s eyes went wide as Nat put her hands up to stop you. “Wait wait wait, you mean to tell me you initiated the first kiss? He’s so down bad I was sure it was him. Especially after seeing that elevator scene.”
You just laughed, shaking your head. “Nope, it was me.”
“Wow, that’s surprising,” Wanda said, shaking her head in disbelief.
“I mean, not really,” you responded, shrugging. “He practically asks me for permission before everything.”
Wanda froze as Nat narrowed her eyes at you.
“What do you mean everything,” Nat said, leaning in.
You froze, realizing what you just admitted. Obviously you were talking about last night, but you weren’t planning on telling them about that.
“I mean – just – like, before we kissed again.”
Nat raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “You mean to tell me he asked for permission before basically attacking you in the elevator?”
You opened your mouth, then closed it. “I mean – not that time, but–”
“Oh come on,” Wanda groaned. “Just tell us.”
You sighed, leaning your head back before looking at them again. “Fine. But you can’t tell anyone else.”
“We won’t,” Wanda said quickly.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Nat said, leaning in once again.
You just sighed once more, dragging a hand down your face. “Okay. We had sex last night.”
“What?” Wanda said, eyes wide.
“Oh my god,” Nat muttered.
“I know it’s super soon, but – I don’t know – it just felt…right? Like at the time.”
“Well, what about now?” Wanda asked, softly. “Does it still feel right.”
“Oh, yeah. I don’t regret it.”
“That good, huh?” Nat said, smirking.
You just huffed out a laugh, but when you opened your mouth to say something, you just started grinning before anything came out.
“Alright, alright,” Wanda said, holding up her hands.
“Yeah, never mind,” Nat said.
You just laughed. “I mean, you know the answer to that.”
“Okay but, you said he asked permission before he did anything?” Wanda asked.
“Yeah, like before everything. Before every piece of clothing he took off, before he did anything new. Didn’t even allow a nod, I had to say yes.”
Wanda’s jaw dropped again as Nat’s eyes went wide.
“Oh my god,” Nat said, looking a little horrified. “Did he tell you to use your words?”
“Well – no, not exactly like that.”
“Then…what’d he say? Wait, do I wanna know?” Nat said, partially covering her ears.
“He said,” you paused, neck heating up as you replayed the scene in your head. “Say it, baby.”
Wanda covered her mouth, saying “oh, wow.”
“Wait,” Nat said, dropping her hands back down to the table. “That’s kinda hot.”
“I know right?” you said, smiling like a fool.
“Did he dirty talk a lot?” Wanda asked, before covering her mouth again. “Wait, is that weird to ask?”
You just laughed, but before you could respond, Nat cut in.
“Let me guess, he practically worshipped you, didn’t he?”
You just gave them a sheepish smile. “Honestly, that’s kind of understating it a bit.”
“See, told you,” Nat said, pointing at you.
“Wow,” was all Wanda said.
“But, to answer your question, yes. He did. And it was hot.”
You guys just giggled together before Nat raised up a hand to stop you.
“Question. What was the hottest thing he said?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “As long as it’s not super gross,” she added quickly.
You just hummed, staring down at the table to think about it.
“I don’t know, that’s hard,” you said, finally. “But probably,” you paused covering your mouth and giggling a little bit, feeling weird saying it out loud. “He said ‘you’re doing so good for me.’”
Nat’s jaw dropped and both of them started to blush.
“He also said ‘that’s my girl,’ and I could’ve died right then and there,” you said, face burning.
The three of you started giggling again, just barely calming down as the server finally came out with your food.
You dug in, face still flushed, but loving that you could talk about this with them. It made it so much more exciting when it felt like you were at a high school lunch table discussing it.
You mainly ate in silence, other than a few more comments from Nat and Wanda, but when you finally finished, they pushed their plates away and leaned in once again.
“So,” Nat said, wiggling her eyebrows at you. “Have you put a label on it yet? Started planning your wedding?”
You just laughed, waving her off. “No and no.”
Wanda looked at you, shocked. “You really haven’t talked about that?”
You shrugged, leaning back in your chair. “Nope. They definitely did things different back in the 40s, so he probably thinks it’s just a given we’re dating. I mean – we did have sex. Plus, Steve made a comment about me being Bucky’s girlfriend this morning and he didn’t even bat an eye.”
They both nodded.
“Yeah,” Nat started, “if you asked him ‘what are we?’ he’d probably just look at you like you were crazy.”
“Probably,” you said, laughing.
After talking for a little while longer, you guys made your way out and headed to the mall. You walked around for a while, doing some shopping, but mostly gossiping.
You bought a new purse, a couple cute t-shirts, and a couple pairs of sweatpants, and when you sat down in the nail salon, you were glad to have a break from holding all your stuff.
“Man, I wish Bucky was here just so he could hold all my bags again.”
They both laughed, then as they started looking at different nail polish colors, you pulled out your phone, sending Bucky a quick text.
I have to carry my own bags. Wish you were here😔😂
He answered almost immediately.
Just say the word and I’ll come carry them for you.
You smiled.
You: Can’t, it’s girls’ day. That’s illegal.
Bucky: I’ll find a wig and borrow one of your dresses.
You: Now that I’d pay to see😭
You slid your phone back into your purse before standing up to join Nat and Wanda. Nat had a dark blue polish in her hand and Wanda was holding a dark red.
“What color are you gonna get?” Wanda asked.
“Hmm, I don’t know.” You reached out and grabbed a pale blue one off the shelf. “I was thinking a light pink, but this blue is really pretty.”
“Oooh, I love both of those,” Wanda said, eyes lighting up.
“Maybe you should have your boyfriend decide for you,” Nat said, smirking at you.
You just laughed as you grabbed a light pink polish off the shelf. “Actually, I kinda wanna see what he would say.
The three of you walked back over and sat down. You pulled out your phone and opened up facetime, clicking on Bucky’s name as Nat and Wanda crowded around you.
The call rang twice before Bucky’s face filled the screen. He was clearly in the common room, kicked back on the couch, still in his t-shirt and sweats.
“Hey, doll,” he said, smiling the second he saw your face – and then immediately squinting. “Wait. Why are Nat and Wanda looming like henchmen?”
“We’re at the nail salon,” you said, smiling sweetly. “And I need help picking a color.”
“Oh,” Bucky said, sitting up a little straighter like this was a very important task. “Alright. Show me what we’re working with.”
You held up both polish bottles – light pink in one hand, pale blue in the other.
“Okay…” he said, tilting his head. “Pink is soft and pretty. Kinda classic. But that blue – that’s different. Clean. Cool. Matches your eyes.”
Nat and Wanda burst out laughing in the background.
“Oh my god,” Wanda said, covering her mouth. “He took that so seriously.”
“He gave you a compliment while analyzing the tones,” Nat said, shaking her head. “You’ve ruined him.”
Bucky just smirked on the screen, unfazed. “Sorry, I thought the whole point was to help her decide.”
“Oh no, keep going,” Wanda said, still giggling.
Bucky looked back at the screen and pointed. “Pink says soft girl, delicate. Blue says confident and fun.”
You bit your lip, pretending to consider. “So…which one should I do?”
He leaned in closer, like he was really considering. “I’m gonna say blue. You’ll look great in either one though.”
Wanda made a strangled sound while Nat leaned out of frame like she physically couldn’t take it.
“Oh my god,” Nat shouted from somewhere off-camera. “I’m done. I’m done.”
You were laughing so hard your hand wobbled, and Bucky just smiled, like he was proud of himself.
In the background of his screen, you suddenly heard Sam’s voice yell out: “Are you seriously helping her pick nail polish right now?”
Then Tony: “Barnes, blink twice if they’ve taken you hostage.”
Steve: “Leave him alone, he’s in love.”
Nat and Wanda started cracking up again while Bucky turned the camera slightly to flip off the guys behind him.
“I stand by the blue,” he said, smiling at you.
You rolled your eyes, cheeks warm, but you couldn’t help the smile spreading across your face. “Blue it is.”
“Good choice,” he said, smirking. “Show me when it’s done.”
“Oh, you’ll see,” you teased, grinning. “I’m gonna make you hold my hand for an hour just so you can admire it.”
Bucky leaned back again, still grinning. “Deal.”
Nat and Wanda made dramatic swooning sounds beside you.
“You’re done for,” Nat said.
“Oh, completely,” Wanda added. “You’re gonna be married by next week.”
You just smiled, then waved at Bucky. “Bye.”
“Bye, doll. Love you.”
The call ended and Nat and Wanda froze.
“Wait. Did he just say he loved you?” Nat said, eyes wide.
“Wow – you’re like…serious serious.” Wanda added.
You just cringed a little. “Uhh, yeah. I kinda said it accidentally this morning.”
“An accidental ‘I love you’ and he didn’t freak out?” Nat said, shocked.
“Yeah,” you said, laughing. “I thought he was gonna panic, so I tried to take it back but just stumbled over my words. He just laughed, though. Then said it back.”
“Wow,” Nat said, just sitting there. “So you really will be married by next week at this point.”
You just scoffed, waving her off as the nail tech called you guys over. You tucked your phone away and made your way over, pale blue nail polish in hand.
--
“Bye, doll. Love you.”
The words left his mouth easily – like breathing.
He didn’t even think about it. Not because it wasn’t important – just because it was. Simple. True.
But the moment he hit end call, he felt it.
The silence.
Not from his phone.
From them.
“Wait a minute,” Sam said, practically leaping over the back of the couch. “Did you just say ‘love you’?”
Bucky turned his head slowly, already grinning. “Yeah?”
“Oh my god,” Tony muttered, standing with his arms crossed and an incredulous look on his face. “That wasn’t even subtle. That was like full-on Hallmark Channel.”
Steve, lounging on the opposite end of the couch, just sipped his coffee and said, “Told you. He’s in love.”
Sam stared at Bucky like he’d grown a second metal arm. “No, but – out loud? In front of witnesses?”
“She facetimed me to ask about nail polish,” Bucky said, still lounging like he didn’t just drop the L-bomb in front of half the Avengers. “What was I supposed to do? Hang up and fist bump her?”
Tony made a mock gagging sound and flopped onto the couch. “I miss the days when you were scary.”
Bucky just smirked. “I’m still scary.”
“Not when you’re talking about which shade of blue matches her eyes,” Sam said, sitting beside him and mimicking, “‘It’s clean, cool…like you, baby’” he said, laughing. “You’re soft.”
“Soft?” Bucky repeated, raising an eyebrow and reaching behind him to grab a throw pillow off the couch. “Say it again.”
Sam held up his hands. “Hey, I’m not judging. It’s cute. Just didn’t expect Sergeant Grump over here to turn into a walking heart emoji.”
“Man’s out here writing poetry about nail polish,” Tony said. “What’s next, crocheting sweaters?”
“Maybe,” Bucky said with a shrug. “She gets cold easy.”
Steve snorted into his mug, shaking his head, and Sam just rolled his eyes.
There was a beat of silence, and then Sam said, “Okay but…seriously. You meant that, right?”
Bucky looked at him, eyes a little softer now.
“Yeah,” he said. “I did.”
The teasing quieted a bit after that. No one laughed, no one cracked a joke. Just Steve giving him a small nod, and Sam letting out a breath like he finally believed it.
Tony was still scrolling on his tablet, but even he said, “Well…guess that explains why you’ve been smiling like a damn idiot all week.”
Bucky just chuckled and leaned back again, a little more smug now, arms stretched across the back of the couch.
“Yeah,” he said. “She’s kinda worth smiling for.”
--
When your nails were completely done, you immediately handed your phone to Wanda and set your hands on the table, having her take a picture for you.
You sent it to Bucky and he answered just a few seconds later.
Bucky: Those look so good! That blue? 10/10.
You: You’re such a simp and I love it
Bucky: You picked me. You don’t get to act surprised.
You: Fair point
You: Sooo…did you get bombarded with questions after you said “love you” on the call??
Bucky: Oh yeah. The second I hung up, it was like a pack of wolves.
You: LMAO I knew it. What’d they say?
Bucky: Sam called me soft. Steve just nodded like he saw it coming.
You: I knew Steve wouldn’t even blink, he’s been calling me your girlfriend anyway
Bucky: He’s been waiting for me to catch up. And Tony said I sounded like I was writing poetry during the polish analysis 😂
You: To be fair…you kinda were
Bucky: Guilty. Can’t help it when you look that good, doll.
You: You’re lucky I like you, otherwise I’d have to roast you for being this romantic over nails
Bucky: I’ll take the risk. Also, when you get back, I am holding your hand for an hour. That wasn’t a joke.
You: I’ll allow it (but only because you were brave enough to say “love you” in a room full of men who live to roast you)
Bucky: Worth it.
You were still smiling down at your phone when Wanda leaned over and peeked at your screen.
“Let me guess,” she said, grinning, “Sergeant Softie again?”
You tried to fight the smile tugging at your lips, but it was useless. “Maybe.”
Nat rolled her eyes fondly. “You’ve got that lovesick look. Like your brain just shut off mid-text because he called you pretty.”
“He complimented my nails,” you said, holding your phone to your chest like it was a secret love note. “And he meant it.”
Wanda gasped dramatically. “That’s practically a marriage proposal in nail salon language.”
You just laughed, standing up. “Okay, okay. Mock all you want.”
“We will,” Nat said, linking her arm with yours as the three of you headed for the door. “Because you deserve it. You’re way too cute right now.”
“I’ve never seen someone get flustered over a text that says ‘I’ll hold your hand for an hour,’” Wanda added, still giggling.
“Well,” you said with a shrug, “he is very good at holding my hand.”
Nat groaned. “I’m gonna puke.”
You just beamed, swinging your shopping bag a little as you walked.
Once you made it back outside and started heading toward the exit, you spotted the pretzel cart.
“Oh my god,” you said, already steering them toward it. “We’re stopping.”
“Obviously,” Wanda said, already digging into her purse for cash. “We’ve earned it.”
“You’re just craving salt after that sugar overload from your texts,” Nat teased, nudging you.
You stuck your tongue out at her but didn’t deny it.
The three of you crowded the cart and placed your orders.
As you checked your phone again, Bucky had sent another message:
You should bring me home a pretzel. I’m craving one now.
You smiled again – because of course he knew where you were without even being told.
They called your names, and you took the first bite of your pretzel before you’d even made it away from the cart, nearly groaning at how warm and soft it was.
“Oh my god,” you said, holding your napkin under it. “This was the best decision we’ve made all day.”
“Agreed,” Wanda said through a mouthful of hers.
The three of you leaned against a nearby bench, bags at your feet, enjoying the pretzels in silence.
When you finished, you tossed your napkin in the trash and grabbed your purse. “I’m gonna grab one for Bucky before we go.”
Nat immediately groaned. “Of course you are.”
“You’re such a girlfriend,” Wanda said, grinning around her last bite.
You just rolled your eyes and shrugged. “He said he was craving one. It’s the least I can do after making him suffer through polish debates.”
“Oh, no,” Nat said, putting a hand over her heart dramatically. “The horror. Nail polish and a warm pretzel? What a brutal life he leads.”
You just laughed and ignored them, already turning back toward the cart and getting back in line.
“Get him one with extra butter,” Wanda called after you. “Feed the simp.”
You just smiled to yourself and ordered a second pretzel, this one wrapped up neatly to go.
When you returned, pretzel in hand, Nat gave you a slow clap.
“You’re gonna hand-deliver that thing like it’s a peace offering,” she said as the three of you made your way back toward the car.
“Yeah,” you replied, completely unbothered. “And he’ll be grateful. Because I’m amazing.”
“And humble,” Wanda added with a wink.
You just laughed, climbing into the back seat, Bucky’s pretzel carefully cradled in your lap.
Summary : Bucky has to recruit the love of his life to save New York from the void. He doesn't know if she wants to ever see him again, though.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers below the cut!!!!!!! Exes to friends to lovers. Fluff, angst, reader is a tracker with enhanced senses. Cursing, Trauma. Implied sex. Alcohol consumption. Death(Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)
Requested by : anon
Word count : 15k whoops
Note : This story touches on the events of Civil War, IW, Endgame, FATWS, BP Wakanda Forever, and Thunderbolts*! I used google translate for the Xhosa, so please let me know if it needs to be corrected. If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!
You were a tracker.
Your body was a weapon, biologically improved by enhanced senses. You could smell a carcass from ten miles away. You could hear a pin drop on the other side of town. Your eyes could track body heat through a crowd of thousands— and it meant you were a hunter in a world full of invisible prey. Some people hunted with tools. You were the tool.
So, of course Steve Rogers found you when he needed to find a ghost. Steve found you when the world turned on James Buchanan Barnes.
After the UN bombing in Vienna, when Bucky was framed and every intelligence agency on Earth wanted him in chains or dead, Steve came to you— he heard of you through old SHIELD files— with desperation and a duffel bag full of cash.
“I need you to find him,” he said. “Before they do.”
You didn’t even hesitate before taking the job. Because even then, before you met Bucky you believed Steve. And more than that, you believed in redemption.
You tracked Bucky down with your senses—following the scent of gunpowder and cold metal, the subtle trail of heat left in his wake, the ragged sound of breath through the cities of Bucharest.
You found him before the world did and pointed Steve and Sam in the right direction.
—
By the time the Avengers disbanded, you were a fugitive—hunted by that least half of the world’s government. Helping Steve Rogers had branded you a traitor in their eyes, but you didn’t regret it. Not then. Not now.
When T’Challa offered sanctuary to Bucky, he extended the same offer to you. Wakanda didn’t just take you in; it gave you purpose. In exchange for refuge, you worked for the royal family— tracking those who dared to steal vibranium from the borders and ensuring justice found them before they slipped through the cracks.
Your home was a modest apartment tucked into the east wing of the palace. It was secluded, perfect for someone like you.
—
When Bucky finally woke from the ice and the trigger words were gone, he didn’t know who to trust. The world had changed too much. He had changed too much.
He trusted Queen Ramonda, who always made sure there was room for both of you at the palace table. He trusted Shuri and the Dora Milaje, because they helped him heal his mind. He trusted both you and T’challa, simply because… Steve trusted you.
He didn’t expect to fall for you, though.
—
At first, Bucky barely spoke. He moved like a shadow through the palace when he even left his little hut at all.
He was healing, but not whole. Not yet. The arm was gone—torn from him in Siberia, left behind with the rest of Hydra’s wreckage.
Bucky hadn’t gotten his new arm yet. Shuri insisted they take their time, that his body and mind needed rest before they complicated him with upgrades. It was the right call. But it left him vulnerable in ways he hated.
For a man who’d lost so much already, it felt like one more cruel subtraction. You noticed how he avoided using his left side. How he winced at imbalance. How he hated needing help.
You didn’t pity him. You just made space for him to breathe. You shared meals together in the palace garden, never pushing for a conversation he wasn’t ready for.
Sometimes, you’d sit and sharpen your blades while he watched the sky. Other days, you’d bring him small things—a worn paperback with dog-eared pages, a piece of fruit from an outreach mission, or a knife he could train with using only one hand.
“You're not trying to fix me,” he said once, more surprised than grateful.
You shrugged. “You’re not broken.”
You started getting really close because of jars. Peanut butter, mostly. Occasionally pickles. Once, a stubborn jar of papaya jam.
You noticed how he hesitated at cabinets, how he didn’t ask for help even when he clearly needed it— especially because he didn’t know how to use just one hand.
If he needed a jar opened, you’d walk by, say nothing, and twist the lid off. Then you’d leave it on the counter and move on. No questions. No pity.
Over time, it turned into more than jars.
He started joining you on your patrols—not in an official capacity, just to walk, perhaps to feel the beauty of the world again without being chased. You’d track down potential threats to Wakandan borders—smugglers, black market mercs—and Bucky would wait for you to get back before having his meal.
He eventually told you about Bucharest in fragments. About Hydra in pieces. In return, you told him about the experiment. Not all of it—just enough for him to understand that you, too, had been shaped into something you didn’t ask to be.
Days passed like water through your fingers.
You trained with him in the early mornings — barefoot in the dirt, palms open, bodies moving like you were learning each other through motion. You’d fight, laugh, fall, rise again.
At night, you sat together under the stars, sharing stories in fragments — half-finished memories neither of you were strong enough to say out loud in full. You learned he liked fruit, that he slept on his side, that he sometimes talked in Russian in his dreams and didn’t realise it.
One night, you asked, “Do you remember who you were, before all of it?”
He hesitated, then shook his head. “I think… I remember who I loved. My sister. Steve. The Howling Commandos. But who I was a long time ago? He’s long gone.”
“He’s not,” you whispered. “You’re him. Just… in pieces.”
He looked at you like you were a miracle.
And one of those days, you fell in love with him.
You didn’t fall in love all at once. It happened slowly, quietly—like stepping into warm water without realising how deep it’s gotten until you’re already submerged.
You tried not to make too much of it. Tried to keep it buried. But your heart had a mind of its own.
So one afternoon, you found yourself pacing in the royal garden while Nakia and Okoye pruned herbs, and blurted it out before you could stop yourself.
“I think I’m in trouble.”
Okoye raised an eyebrow, “Did you get injured?”
“No,” you said, “but I—“
Nakia interrupted you, a knowing smile curling at the edges of her mouth. “Is this the kind of trouble with blue eyes and long hair?”
“Well, yes, I—“ You groaned, pressing a hand to your face. “—I think I like him.”
Okoye tutted, not unkindly. “You think? I’ve seen the way you look at him like he’s a sunrise after a long night.”
Nakia laughed.
“I’m serious!” you said, trying to sound firm and absolutely failing. “He looks at me like I’m not broken.”
“What is wrong with that?” Okoye asked.
“Because I might believe him.”
Nakia finally stopped laughing. Her voice softened. “Sounds like someone sees you the way you’ve always deserved to be seen.”
You didn’t answer her.
—
Meanwhile, Bucky sat on a sun-warmed bench beside T’Challa, overlooking the city below. After a long silence, Bucky confessed, “I think I’m in trouble.”
T’Challa turned to look at him and raised a brow. “The kind with bullets or feelings?”
“Feelings,” Bucky muttered under his breath.
“Ah. More dangerous,” T’Challa smiled slightly. “The tracker?”
Bucky blinked. “How the hell does everyone know?”
“You are not subtle, my friend,” T’Challa said, patting him on the shoulder.
“Yeah,” Bucky chuckled cynically, “Well…”
There was another pause, and then T’Challa spoke softly, “When I was hung up on Nakia, my baba used to tell me Uthando aluyomdlalo; ngumlambo ongenamkhawulo.”
Bucky stared at him for a while, translating in his head. Love is not a game. It is a river with no end.
“You cannot control where it takes you,” T’challa explained, “Only whether you choose to step in.”
Bucky sighed. “I think I already have.”
—
Later, by the lake, the air was still. The moonlight danced on the surface of the water, casting silver over the little hut Bucky called home.
You stood at his door, hands in clenched fists at your sides, heart racing in a way you hadn’t felt since you first got your powers. You knocked, and it was softer than intended— like a question more than a demand.
He opened the door like he’d been expecting you. You didn’t wait. You didn’t explain. You just looked at him and said, “I think I’m in trouble.”
He stepped aside without a word and let you in without a word. “Me too,” he whispered.
Inside the hut, the world seemed a bit quieter.
Bucky stood a few steps away, uncertain. You didn’t move at first. Neither did he.
Then he reached out, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. His fingers brushed yours. You curled into his touch without thinking. “I— I think,” you choked out the words. “Fuck— I don’t know how to say it or where to begin…”
“Shhh, I know,” he whispered reassuringly, “because I do, too.”
You nodded, throat tight. “I know.”
You had known for a while now. Your senses allowed you to smell the oxytocin in the air when he was around you, to hear his heartbeat quicken when you spent time together,
He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. He just stepped closer, forehead resting against yours like it was the only place he belonged. Your fingers traced the curve of his jaw, then slid to the scar marring his shoulder—a mark where his Hydra arm used to bed.
“I’m scared,” he confessed, voice low.
“Me too,” you whispered, your lips trembling.
But then you leaned in, and kissed him.
At first, it was tentative—testing. Then, almost immediately, it turned urgent, like you needed to carve this moment into memory, like you were oxygen to him.
He kissed you back with desperation, like he was terrified you might vanish if he let go. His hand gripped your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left, no more hiding. When you finally broke apart, gasping, foreheads pressed, fingers still clinging to each other like anchors, you said it again, softer this time. “I know.”
“Yeah,” he smiled, “I know.”
The next few months unfolded in pieces.
You were his lover, though neither of you used the word much. Labels felt too fragile, too small for what you were building. You sparred in the mornings, slept tangled together some nights. Sometimes you held him through dreams he didn’t remember. Sometimes he held you through memories you couldn’t say out loud.
Neither of you said “I love you.”
You didn’t need to. You showed it in the broken ways people like you do. He cleaned your knives after missions. You kissed the scars on his body without asking where they came from. But in each other, you found peace.
But you did, though you didn’t say it until a year later, When Thanos’ army broke through Wakanda’s barriers.
You stood on the battlefield, shoulder to shoulder with the Dora Milaje. He was beside you, new arm gleaming.
You both knew you might die here.
So just before the charge Bucky turned to you and reached for your hand, calloused fingers threading with yours.
“I love you,” he said.
You looked at him, heart pounding. And in that final moment—when the world outside this little bubble burned and the force field opened—you said it back. “I love you too.”
And then you let go and ran into the fire together.
—
The battle was chaos.
Together, you carved a path through the madness, never far from each other’s side. Each glance was a tether. But when Thanos snapped—
You felt it first. A strange pull in your chest. Like gravity forgot you.
Bucky turned just in time to see you stumble.
“Doll?” He breathed out, voice catching in his throat.
You looked down at your hand— and your fingers were dissolving.
“Hey…” you said softly, like you didn’t want to scare him.
And then— you were gone, carried by the wind.
Bucky’s knees gave out next.
His vision blurred as your hands started to vanish. The world felt far away as he turned to Steve next and said his best friend’s name.
There was no time to be afraid. He just had one last thought— I’m coming with you.
And then— nothing.
—
Five Years Later.
You came back gasping.
One moment there was nothing—and the next, the battlefield roared around you again. Portals opened. War cried out for soldiers. You ran through it, only searching for one person. You searched the air for his scent, tracked body heat through the crowds looking for Bucky.
When you found him, he grabbed you and pulled you into his arms, and held you so tightly it hurt. But you didn’t care. You buried your face in his shoulder and let yourself feel everything all at once.
You fought side by side again that day, but even after Thanos was defeated, even after the dust finally settled, the weight on Bucky's shoulders hadn’t lifted.
That night, you and him laid down on a half-collapsed med tent. You were bruised, your leg cut, his knuckles torn open—but you both refused to be separated.
“Bucky,” you said gently as you took his shaking hands. “I’m here.”
He didn’t answer, he just stared blankly at you like you might disappear again.
“Talk to me,” you whispered.
And then— he broke.
His hands grabbed your face and kissed you like he had to prove you were real. Like if he didn’t, the universe might take you away again. His breath was uneven, voice hoarse as he finally spoke, “You turned to dust in front of me.”
You pulled him in, forehead to forehead, hearts thundering between bruised ribs. “We came back.”
“I watched it happen,” he choked. “You looked right at me—and then you were just gone. I—“
“I came back,” you repeated, firmer now. “I am here.”
He didn’t ask. He didn’t explain. He just pushed his forehead into your collarbone and let his walls fall.
And in that surrender, you undressed in a desperate attempt to feel something, anything at all.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t perfect. His hands shook against your bare skin, yours ached. You kissed the scar at his shoulder where metal met flesh, and he kissed the bruise on your cheekbones as if he could heal it.
And when you moved together, it was achingly intimate— two ghosts trying to remember how to be alive.
After, he stayed wrapped around you, hand on your stomach, breath finally steady. You ran your fingers through his hair and kissed his temple.
—
You soon learned that you were different people to who you were five years ago.
You were still yourself—but edged. The senses they’d carved into you had only grown keener in the dust. You could smell grief in the air. Taste the metallic echo of time. You threw yourself into your work because it was the only way you could process anything. You have given more time to your job and less to everyone else in your life because it was the only way to block your demons out.
And Bucky—God, Bucky.
Maybe it was watching you vanish into nothing. Maybe it was watching Steve choose a life he didn’t get to have. Maybe it was both. Whatever it was, it left him wound tight, walking through the world like it might crumble beneath his feet at any second. He became suffocatingly protective.
Now, he was always checking exits. Watching windows. Reading strangers’ faces. Looking for ghosts with Hydra insignias or familiar flags. Always ready to run.
You soon realised that while you both have survived death, surviving life was harder.
Some nights, he woke drenched in sweat, eyes wide and terrified. Sometimes he dragged you with him—out of bed, into the hall, whispering about danger that wasn’t there. About people who might take you from him again. You held him anyway.
You wrapped your arms around his trembling body.. You whispered to him that he was safe, that you were real. And some nights, he even believed you.
And on the quietest nights, when your pulse thudded steady beneath his hand, you’d say the only promise that mattered, “If we vanish again—we vanish together.”
He would nod against your chest and weep.
And while your words helped him in the moment, things only got worse.
He was still obsessed with not losing you again.
He watched you like a man teetering on the edge of a cliff. Always scanning, always planning, always afraid. He checked your comms before you left on a mission. He memorised your schedule like a battle plan. He begged for access to your Kimoyo beads so he could track your movements like a tactician studying the terrain.
It wasn’t protective anymore. It was paranoia.
He wouldn’t sleep if you were out past dark. Would sit by the window, waiting for footsteps or the sound of your key in the lock.
You tried to reason with him—gently, at first. You reminded him who you were, what you could do.
None of it mattered.
To Bucky, you were breakable simply because you were his.
When he got pardoned, the first thing he said was, “Come with me. Brooklyn. I have to… make amends.”
“Bucky, the Wakandan royal family is extending my contract,” You sighed, kissing the crease between his eyebrows. “They trust me. I’m not leaving that behind.”
He didn’t argue. Not really. He just clenched his teeth and nodded. But you could feel the storm brewing, so you compromised. You would spend three months in Brooklyn with him, then three in Wakanda for work. A split life.
But even in that compromise, the obsession bled through. Every time you left, he’d call. Text. Ping your locator chip on your kimoyo beads. Just checking, he’d say. Just making sure you’re okay.
It stopped feeling sweet. It started to feel like surveillance.
Sometimes you’d be halfway through a mission—deep in a jungle or in the middle of a compromised crowds—and his name would light up your screen five, six, ten times. His worry grew into desperation.
You knew he didn’t mean to be cruel. But it didn’t make it easier.
And then one day— it was too much.
You’d just gotten back from a run along the Wakandan border. You were bruised but fine as you walked into your apartment and found your phone flashing with fourteen missed calls and a message that said, “If you don’t answer in five minutes, I’m calling Shuri. I’ll track your signal myself if I have to.”
When you called him, he picked up instantly. “Are you okay? I thought—God, I thought something happened—”
“Bucky,” you snapped. “Stop.”
You were pacing now, your heart hammering harder than it had in the field. “You have got to stop doing this. I am not going to disappear every time I step outside!”
“I just—” he started, but his voice cracked. “I can’t lose you again. I can’t—”
“I’m not yours to lose,” you said, quieter this time.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you too,” you said, softer now. “But this—this isn’t love. This is fear in disguise. You’re watching me like I’m one wrong step away from disappearing, and it’s like you’re still stuck in that moment five years ago.”
“I am,” he said, unbearably honest. “You turned to dust. We can't just pretend that's not real.”
“We turned to dust, Bucky,” you corrected, your voice shaking now. “And we came back. We both did.”
There was a long pause. He just exhaled like the air had been punched from his lungs.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he said again, but this time, it sounded like a prayer.
You wiped a tear from your cheek and whispered, “Then let me live.”
That night, he promised he’d do better.
He swore he would be on time to his therapy sessions. That he’d let you breathe. That he’d learn how to love you without gripping so tight it left bruises.
And for a while, he did.
But healing isn't linear, and Bucky Barnes fell back into the spiral like it was a black hole.
Two months later, the calls started again. The check-ins. You’d wake to a dozen voicemails. You’d tell him your mission schedule, but he’d still show up unannounced in Wakanda under some flimsy excuse, saying he just needed to see you, to make sure.
Then the court notices started coming. Missed sessions. Warnings from the state department. Red letters in bold ink.
He wasn’t going to therapy anymore. He was tracking you instead.
When you returned from your latest mission along the southern border, there he was— waiting in your apartment in Wakanda, hands shaking.
“Bucky?” you asked, dropping your gear. “What are you doing here?”
He didn’t answer at first. Just stepped toward you, breathing hard like he’d run the whole way from Brooklyn.
“I tried calling,” he said. “You didn’t answer. You were late reporting in. You weren’t supposed to be gone that long—”
“I was on a stealth mission, James!” you shouted, incredulous. “Do you hear yourself?”
He winced when you used his first name. “I thought you were in trouble.”
“You thought I was in trouble so you hopped a plane, skipped two international borders, and missed court-mandated therapy to come stalk me?!”
“I wasn’t stalking—” he started, but you cut him off, voice shaking.
“Bucky, go to fucking therapy! You are missing mandated sessions to follow me around like I’m going to vanish into smoke again. You’re not okay.”
His eyes flashed with tears building up in the corners. “I’m not okay because the one person who makes me feel safe disappears for weeks at a time without warning!”
“What kind of pressure is that? I am not your fucking safety net!” you finally screamed, though you did not mean to. “I am your girlfriend, not your property.”
He flinched.
“You don’t trust me,” you said, your voice cracking at the seams. “You trust your fear more than me. You trust your obsession more than you trust my skills, my choices, my life.”
“I do trust you—”
“No, you don’t!” you snapped. “If you did, you wouldn’t be here. You’d be in therapy. Not sitting on my damn bed, panicking because I missed a check-in by three hours.”
He looked down. “I just wanted to make sure—”
“I know,” you said softly, bitterly. “I know. And I love you. God, I love you.”
Your voice cracked again, but your words were firm. “But this isn’t love anymore, Bucky. This is control. This is not good for you. Being here? With me? It's hurting both of us.”
Finally, Bucky nodded. Just once.
“Do you think we’ll ever be okay again?” he asked, voice barely audible.
You swallowed the lump in your throat and sat next to him, squeezing his human hand. You didn’t want to do this like this. But the moment you looked at him you knew you couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine and dandy.
You took a breath.
“This…” you started gently, like saying it softer might hurt less. “This isn’t working.”
He blinked. “What?”
“This,” you said, motioning between you with a shaking hand. “Us. The way it is right now. It’s not working.”
He jerked his hand back, standing up in shock like you’d slapped him. “Wait—what the hell are you saying?”
“I’m saying you left Brooklyn without clearance. Again. You broke parole—again. You’ve got people looking for you.”
“I don’t care about any of that,” he snapped, eyes dark. “You weren’t answering. You were off the grid. What was I supposed to do? Just sit around and wait?”
“Yes,” was all you said. You didn’t need to remind him that he needed to trust you. That he needed to trust your skills.
His voice was shaking now. “What happened to ‘if we vanish again, we vanish together’?”
You closed your eyes at the words. You’d meant it.
But promises can rot when fed with obsession.
Your voice cracked. “I said that when you could breathe without having to know where I was every second of every day, Bucky.”
He looked down, jaw, hands balled into fists. “I can’t lose you again.”
“And I can’t live like this,” you said, voice strained as you wiped your tears away. “I’m not your leash, and I’m not your cure. You can’t chain yourself to me because you don’t know how to be with yourself.”
His eyes filled with watery tears, and he didn’t speak.
So you did.
“Please,” you said, “leave by morning. Go home. Check in with Dr. Raynor when you land. If you don’t, they’ll arrest you.”
He opened his mouth, but you shook your head. You couldn’t do another round of argument.
“Don’t,” you whispered. “Don’t make this harder.”
He took a breath, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon just to make it this far. “So that’s it?”
You didn’t answer.
Just stepped up and pressed your hand gently against his chest—where his heart still beat too fast and your enhanced hearing was picking it up too well—and whispered, “Goodbye, Bucky.”
He turned without another word, because anything he said might break you both.
And when the door shut behind him, the silence that followed felt like a funeral.
—
Bucky didn't know where to go, so he wandered and wandered until he sat down on the palace steps, hands shaking, heart swirling like a thunderstorm in his chest.
He didn’t notice T’Challa approach until the king sat beside him, arms resting on his knees.
For a long while, neither of them spoke. “She told you to leave,” T’Challa said simply. Not unkind, but not sparing.
Bucky’s teeth clenched. “Yeah.”
“She’s right, you know.”
“I don’t want to hear that right now.”
“I know,” T’Challa said. “But I am saying it anyway, my friend.”
Bucky said nothing, fists digging into the vibranium infused staircase step beneath him. T’Challa went on, “You love her. I know. She loves you too. But love twisted by fear is dangerous. You were not protecting her. You were holding her hostage in your panic.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were,” T’Challa interrupted gently. “And she forgave you for longer than most would. But she cannot carry both her past and yours. You nearly became what you once fought against: control.”
Bucky turned his head away, chest tight. “I didn’t mean to. I just— I couldn’t lose her again.”
“It’s not just you,” T’Challa said softly, “she… she needs space. She’s throwing herself into work, and perhaps that’s how she copes, but she’s becoming… distant. From you. From all of us.”
Bucky’s breath hitched.
“You know I know what it feels like firsthand to come back from being turned to dust.” T’Challa said, “and when we came back, we all changed. I believe you might need time away from each other to first understand how you both have changed.”
Bucky finally looked at him, eyes rimmed with red. “So what, I just pretend none of this happened?”
“No,” T’Challa said. “You leave. You go to therapy. And you become someone who deserves a second chance—not from her. From yourself.”
Then T’Challa stood, brushing nonexistent dust from his robes. He looked down at the man once known as the Winter Soldier— now just a man.
“I will have a jet ready within the hour,” he said. “You will not say goodbye. That would only cause more pain.”
Bucky could only nod. Deep down, T’challa was his friend as much as he was yours. He was looking out for him as much as he was looking out for you.
—
Bucky didn’t go straight to the jet in the landing pad.
He walked around first—through the gardens he used to kiss you in, down the quiet stone paths lined with flowering trees. And then, when he couldn’t stall any longer, he found Shuri.
She was in her lab, sleeves rolled up, a smudge of grease on her cheek, working on a new upgrade for the Kimoyo bead system. She didn’t look surprised when she saw him.
He stood just inside the door for a while, fidgeting with the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder.
“I’m leaving,” he said finally, voice hoarse.
Shuri nodded with a sad smile. “I heard.”
He hesitated. “Can you keep tabs on her for me?” He asked. As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he realised how bad it must’ve sounded. “I’m not asking you to spy on her. I swear.”
That made her pause. She turned to him, brows raised in wary curiosity. “Sounds like you are.”
“I’m not,” he said again, hands up in surrender. “But I need—I just need to know if she’s hurt. That’s all. If she’s injured. If something happens in the field. Not every move, not every detail, just... if she’s okay.”
Shuri’s eyes softened. “She wants you to move on. You know that, right?”
“I know,” Bucky said quickly. “And I won’t reach out. I won’t interfere. But if something serious happens—if she’s in the med bay or worse—I need to know. I can’t breathe not knowing that.”
Shuri crossed her arms. Studied him.
“You still think it’s love, don’t you?” she asked quietly.
He flinched. “I don’t know what it is anymore. But I know that it’s not trust. Not peace. That’s why I’m leaving.”
She held his eyes for a long time. Then she nodded once. “If she’s ever in danger, you’ll hear from me. That’s all I’ll promise.”
He nodded, relieved. “Thank you.”
Shuri stepped closer, pressing a new set of Kimoyo beads into his palm. “These won’t track her. But they will let you receive encrypted pings if I send one. No contact. Just information.”
Bucky curled his fingers around the beads like they were a lifeline.
“I’ll earn my second chance,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Even if it’s just for me.”
Shuri nodded. And with that, she turned back to her work.
Bucky walked out of the lab with the bracelet tucked into his pocket and boarded the jet alone.
Not with closure. But with a choice to begin again.
—
Six Months Later
You hadn’t meant to watch the news. It was just playing in the corner of the lab, the volume low was meant to be background noise.
But there he was.
Bucky, onn screen, his hair shorter now, beard shaved. He was standing next to Sam, both of them looking like they’d just walked through hell and come out victorious.
“Barnes and Wilson led the operation to contain a Flag Smasher attack—”
The footage cut to shaky video: Bucky saving hostages from a burning truck. Sam dropped from above, wings that Shuri gave him expanding in the night sky
You stopped breathing for a second.
Not because he looked good— though he did— but because he looked... different. Lighter. Still sharp around the edges, still Bucky, but not strung so tight he might snap. His shoulders weren’t so hunched. His eyes didn’t carry that haunted glaze you'd come to know too well.
You looked down at your phone, thumb hovering over the screen. Muscle memory had already opened your messages. The text thread was still there.
You started to type.
Saw you on TV today. You looked—
You paused and backspaced.
Took down some Flag Smashers, huh? Didn’t even trip once. I’m impressed.
Delete.
You looked okay.
No.
You stared at the screen. You wanted to say something small, something kind. Something to let him know you’d seen him, that you still cared.
And then—
“Nope,” Okoye said from behind you.
You jumped, flipping your phone face-down like a teenager caught texting a crush.
Okoye raised an eyebrow, arms crossed in full general-mode. “I know that look. You are thinking about him.”
You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “He looked... better.”
“Good. That is what healing is supposed to look like,” she said, tilting her head. “But do not dishonour that progress by dragging each other back into the fire so soon.”
“I wasn’t going to send it,” you muttered under your breath.
Okoye gave you a really? look.
You smiled sheepishly. “Okay, maybe. But just a little.”
She stepped forward, took your phone, and pocketed. “Let him move on. I will take you on patrol,” she said briskly, already walking toward the hangar. “And after, we have tea. And girl talk.”
“Girl talk?” you chuckled, following.
“Yes. I have opinions on your taste in emotionally volatile men. It is time you heard them.”
You laughed despite yourself.
—
One Year Later.
The palace was quieter now that T’Challa was gone.
And grief didn’t move cleanly through your body like it used to. It crept and lingered and collected behind your eyes, in the back of your throat, in the hollow ache of your chest that wouldn’t quite go away.
You’d expected to feel lost. But not like this.
You stood at the balcony outside your quarters, fingers curled around a steaming cup of tea Ayo had forced into your hands.
You hadn’t slept. Couldn’t eat. Before returning back to your quarters, you stayed with Shuri the entire day today, being present for her and Queen Ramonda.
And then the doorbell chimed.
You opened it to find a small wrapped bundle of flowers on the floor. A delivery slip attached in elegant Wakandan script: With honor and remembrance.
In the bouquet was Snowdrops, winter jasmine, and White hyacinth.
It was a winter bouquet.
Not many people in Wakanda would choose those blooms. Not unless they’d meant something.
It was him. Bucky.
He must’ve contacted his old florist in the city to have it delivered to your wing of the palace.
You sat on the edge of the bed, the flowers still in your hands, too stunned to cry.
And then, before you even realised what you were doing, your phone was in your lap. You opened the message thread with Bucky.
You typed, Shuri said she texted you. Said you could come to the funeral. Why didn’t you?
You stared at it. Then, slowly, you deleted it.
Because what would he even say? That he wanted to give you space? That he didn’t know if you wanted to see him? That he sent flowers because showing up would hurt you more?
Maybe he thought the blooms were enough. But they weren’t.
You needed him— a friend who had known T’Challa like you had. Someone who remembered the man like you did— not just the king.
You wanted Bucky to hold you and reminisce about that time you dared T’challa to arm wrestle him. You wanted to laugh about his horrible jokes during harvest. But all you got were flowers.
And wasn’t this what you asked for?
You had told him to let go. To move on. To live his life. And he had.
You wiped at your eyes with the back of your wrist, too tired to be angry. Too empty to cry. Later, you placed the bouquet beside the small altar in the throne room, next to T’Challa’s photo.
A winter gift for a king.
You whispered, "I miss both of you."
—
You didn’t sleep much the year after that.
You didn’t eat much either. Grief gnawed at your gut like hunger, but nothing ever settled. Not even water. Not even rest.
All you had left was work. You helped Wakanda defend itself from foreign attacks, and when the time came, you helped track Riri Williams for Shuri.
But when Shuri was taken by the Talokan, your sanity was cracked clean in half.
You didn’t feel fear. Or rage. Just focus. Razor-sharp, ice-cold, deadly focus.
You helped Nakia track her— followed her scent through the water, infrared vision scanning jungle heat signatures, nose full of salt and humidity until found her underwater. You got her back.
But then Namor attacked, and Queen Ramonda didn’t make it.
You had to look at one more coffin. One more goodbye to one more person gone who had offered you safety, love, and dignity.
Ramonda had seen both you and Bucky when you came to Wakanda scarred and haunted. She had welcomed you with open arms. And now she was gone too.
At the funeral, you held Shuri up because she was shaking. You held her hand. And when it was over, you took her into your quarters and let her sob into your shoulder for hours
You didn’t cry.
You couldn’t. You had to be strong for her.
That night, your phone buzzed with a message.
Bucky : “You okay?”
That was it.
You stared at it. You read it again. Then again.
Are you okay?
You almost laughed. As if that was a question that could be answered in a text. As if that was something you could possibly explain.
Your queen was dead. Your sister in everything but blood had just buried both her brother and mother within 14 months. The kingdom you had called home for the past decade was under attack. You hadn't slept in four days. Your body was covered in bruises. And Bucky—the man who had once buried his face in your collarbone and sobbed because he couldn’t bear to lose you—sent a text.
A fucking text. Not even a call.
You set your phone down and didn’t respond.
You didn’t throw it. You didn’t curse. You didn’t scream. You just... sat there. Numb.
And that was the first night you drank.
You drank because your hands wouldn’t stop shaking and your mind wouldn’t stop screaming and no mission could numb you enough to silence the memory of T’challa’s last words or Ramonda’s last breath or Shuri’s tears soaking through your shirt.
You didn’t stop after one. You wanted to not feel at all. And when the bottle emptied, you drank again. And the next night. And the one after that.
It didn’t fix anything.
—
A Year Later.
You had buried yourself in fieldwork— back to back missions for Wakanda with little to no rest in between. It dulled the ache of grief, but it never fully faded. You were getting better. Still dying inside, but a little slower now.
You took risks that made even Okoye grit their teeth, but you didn’t care. With Shuri as the new Black Panther and the Midnight Angels at your side, it felt like movement was the only thing keeping you from collapsing.
You didn’t care if the assignments were dangerous. Maybe you even preferred it that way.
Shuri was adjusting your new visor in her lab when she glanced up casually. “You know your ex is running for Congress?”
You tilted your head, “What?”
She flicked her fingers and brought up a holographic newsfeed. There he was—James Buchanan Barnes. Neatly combed hair in a dark blue suit, sporting a nervous half-smile. He was shaking hands somewhere in New York, surrounded by cameras.
You stared. “Bucky… in politics? Are we sure that’s not a skrull?”
Shuri laughed, brightening the room. “Positive. He filed last week. His campaign’s all over the place—veteran advocacy, post-Blip recovery programs.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Making amends.”
“He always said he wanted to,” she said gently.
You nodded, silent for a second too long. “He’ll do well.”
Shuri studied your expression. “You think?”
You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes stayed on the image—on Bucky’s restrained expression, the way he looked down like he was afraid to take up space.
“Yeah,” you said. “Have you seen that smile? He could charm a whole room without opening his mouth.”
Shuri laughed again. You found yourself smiling too, even if it hurt to do so.
For a while, she was as self-destructive as you. But now, you didn’t know how Shuri carried her own losses so gracefully, how she held herself together. Maybe it was the suit or the legacy. Or maybe she was just stronger. Your method was simpler: run into danger and don’t care if you make it out. It wasn’t healthy. But it was efficient.
Still, your senses were stronger than ever. You have noticed how Shuri’s heartbeat always picked up when you mention Bucky. You always assumed it was because she was worried about you— about the old wounds reopening.
What you still didn’t know, what she never told you, was that she and Bucky were in constant contact. And after her mother’s death, her updates to him became more detailed, more frequent. Perhaps, it was because you were the closest thing she had to a sister. Perhaps she wanted to keep you safe— and letting Bucky know of your missions meant that if anything were to go wrong, he would be there to help.
She had already lost T’challa and Ramonda. She was not going to lose you, too.
—
Utah. Thunderbolts* timeline.
The gas station was run-down, lit by flickering fluorescent lights and signs buzzing with static. Inside, the team Yelena had apparently nicknamed the Thunderbolts stood in varying degrees of impatience as Bucky took off the last of their restraints.
Yelena rubbed her wrists and shot Bucky a sidelong glance. “So. How are we going to track Bob?”
Bucky didn’t answer immediately. He was already pulling out his phone, lips pressed in a hard line. “Can’t track Mel’s phone,” he muttered under his breath. “Wherever they are, they must have signal jammers.”
“Great,” John said. “And we’re just supposed to... drive and hope we’re going in the right direction?”
Ava narrowed her eyes. “We don't have time. If Val has Bob, there’s no telling—”
Bucky raised a hand. “I… I might know someone nearby who can track a scent halfway across the world.”
Alexei straightened with a hopeful gleam in his eye. “Ah! We are getting reinforcements?” He cracked his knuckles.
Bucky was already reaching for his phone, hesitation coiling in his chest. His thumb hovered over the screen.
He shouldn't be doing this, right?
Were you ready to see him? After everything? After how you ended things? Did you even want to see him?
He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shove down the uncertainty clawing at his ribs.
Focus, Barnes.
This wasn’t about closure or guilt or anything personal. Civilians could be in danger. And if Sentry project was as dangerous as they said, then they were way past playing it safe.
Even if it was messy. Even if it hurt.
“Something like that,” Bucky muttered, then hit Call—and walked out into the gas station parking lot.
—
Call to Shuri, Wakandan Secure Channel.
“Bucky,” Shuri answered briskly, “If this is about a replacement arm because the raccoon stole it again—”
“It’s not,” Bucky cut in. “I need hotel information.”
A pause. “For whom?”
“For her.” He didn’t have to say your name. Shuri knew exactly who he meant.
“Why?”
“You told me she was in a joint op with Everett Ross in Salt Lake City. I just need the hotel name, Shuri.”
“That’s classified,” she said, more defensively than she meant. She was willing to give him many things about you, but this might be teetering on a line she wouldn’t cross.
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t urgent. We need to track someone before he levels a city,” Bucky explained, “Please.”
Shuri went quiet, because she knew a call from the White Wolf meant things were getting out of hand.
—
You smelled him before he knocked.
He smelled like leather and metal. He had that faint, signature scent — like snowmelt clinging to old wood.
You just finished an intel swap with Everett Ross, and now all you wanted to do was lie down and sleep. That was until you caught a whiff of his scent and you stopped dead in your tracks.
The knock came a second later.
You took a breath, schooled your expression, and opened the door.
And there he was. James Buchanan Barnes. Standing in a Salt Lake City hotel hallway.
His hair was longer than you last saw on TV, a little more silver threading through the temples. A black t-shirt that clung to him in all the ways that weren’t fair, leather jacket over it.
You froze for a moment.
“Wow… I— you…,” he said, as if he couldn’t help himself. “You’re still as beautiful as the last time I saw you.”
You let out a dry laugh before you could stop yourself, folding your arms. “You showing up uninvited in a hallway in Utah wasn’t exactly how I imagined hearing that.”
Bucky gave you a lopsided little smile — the kind that once made your knees weak. “Yeah, well… surprise?”
You rolled your eyes. But it was hard to ignore how your heartbeat had kicked up. “How did you even know I was here?”
He winced. “Okay, so… don’t be mad.”
“Oh no,” you said, flatly. “Great way to start.”
“I, uh… may have asked Shuri.”
Your brows rose. “You what?”
“Just for updates.”
“Bucky.”
“She didn’t tell me much! Just—like—general stuff. Missions. If you were injured. If you’d… eaten.”
“You’ve been asking my best friend to report on my food intake?”
“Okay, that was one time!”
“You don’t get to be worried anymore,” you cut in ever so gently, and the smile dropped from his face.
“I know,” he said.
You stared at him, longing pressing under your ribs.
“You could’ve just called,” you said.
He swallowed. “I didn’t think you’d answer.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I…” He ran a hand through his hair. “I needed your help. For something. But part of me… I- I don’t know. I would be lying if I said I didn't want to see you.”
“Well, congratulations.” You rolled your eyes, “You found me.”
He didn’t respond. Just stood there with that goddamn puppy-dog look on his face — the one you used to wake up to. The one that said he still loved you in ways he probably didn’t know how to stop.
The silence stretched thin.
Finally, you sat down on your bed and said, “You weren’t there.”
Sitting down on the armchair across from you, Bucky’s brows pulled together, and he knew instantly what you meant.
“T’Challa,” you said. “Ramonda. You didn’t come. You sent flowers. A text. That’s all.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Your voice cracked at the edges. “You don’t get it, Bucky. You were family. They loved you.”
“I loved them, too,” he said. “God, I loved them. T’Challa gave me a second chance. Ramonda treated me like a second son. You think it didn’t kill me not to be there?”
“Then why weren’t you?” you asked, quieter now. “Why didn’t you show up?”
He looked away. “Because I knew I’d see you, too.”
Oh.
He continued, voice rough, eyes fixed on a random point over your shoulder. “I knew I’d see you in white, standing in front of that city that saved both of us. And I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold it together. I couldn’t go to Wakanda to grieve them and be reminded of you. I was already falling apart. I couldn’t break in front of everyone.”
Your breath hitched, just a little.
“You think I didn’t fall apart?” you whispered. “You think I didn’t wake up everyday being reminded of you? That I didn’t carry Shuri when she couldn’t stand even when I missed you?”
He looked back at you, “You are stronger than me.”
“No, Bucky,” You shook your head. “I just showed up.”
He swallowed hard, his chest heaving just slightly.
You stared at each other again — that thick, choking silence drowning you like a wave.
And still… underneath it all, there was love. Frustrated, frayed, unresolved — but alive.
Bucky leaned forward. “I know I messed up. I know I don’t deserve to ask you for anything.”
You didn’t answer. You just watched him, waiting.
“I’ll stop,” he promised. “The updates. Everything. I’ll leave you alone. I just… need you to do one thing.”
Before you could respond, your nose twitched.
You frowned and sniffed the air, eyes narrowing when your ears picked up four new heartbeats in the vicinity.
“Bucky,” you said slowly. “Does this have anything to do with the four jackasses currently pressed up against the hallway wall?”
He blinked. “...No?”
You sighed, walked to the front of the room and opened the door. Yelena, Ava, John, and Alexei all flinched like a bunch of kids caught behind a curtain.
“I told you to wait in the car,” Bucky groaned.
You crossed your arms at the four extremely guilty faces frozen mid-lean.
Ava, arms crossed like she wasn’t just eavesdropping with laser focus. Yelena, who gave a tiny wave. “Hi.” John, trying very hard to act casual. Alexei was grinning wide. “Ah! She is even more terrifying than Mr. Soldier described! I like her.”
You stared at them. Then at Bucky.
He winced. “...So yeah. About that one thing.”
—
They gave you the rundown on Bob and the Sentry Project—chaotic, riddled with questions and coded language that made you realise that Bucky was right— this was a larger-than-life situation.
It was enough to raise every red flag in your head, and by the end of it, you were just dragging a hand down your face like you were wiping off the last shred of peace you had left.
“Fine,” you muttered, already rerouting your mental map like instinct. You stepped in closer, tilting your head just slightly at the three people who had been in close vicinity to Bob.
Yelena, John, and Ava.
You went in close and did a focus inhale through your nose. Your senses lit up. You could smell a thread between them— that must be Bob’s smell.
You could pick apart the sweat and smoke residue. You could smell the iron-spike scent of stress hormones surging through their blood. You could practically taste the adrenaline.
“Got it,” you said, nodding once.
Then you turned, already moving.
Your pupils contracted as you flipped into the edge of your infrared vision, sweeping the environment in layered pulses of heat and light. People lit up like sketches in flames. Your hearing tuned up next, catching radio chatter three blocks out, the thrum of a drone overhead.
You walked out, and they followed you as you followed the scent straight toward Avengers Tower.
—
Void, New York.
The city was being devoured—block by block, building by building—into a yawning chasm of darkness,a negative space eating reality alive. It was as if Bob had carved a hole in the fabric of reality and let nothingness bleed through. The skyline blurred at the edges, buildings sucked into the black like paper into flame.
People were turned into shadows, and what scared you the most was you can’t smell them anymore. You can’t hear them anymore. They… vanished.
You stood on the edge of where Grand Central Station used to be. Bob was in the center of it all—or what was left of him.
You had found him, and it had gone bad. Catastrophically bad.
Yelena didn’t hesitate. She was the first one to go in.
The others had followed—Alexei, John, Ava—one by one, swallowed whole by the nothingness.
Now it was just you and Bucky.
The edge of the Void shimmered like a heat mirage, the floor fracturing under it.
You stared into the nothingness and it looked exactly how you’d felt the day Wakanda lost its king. The day Ramonda breathed her last breath in that throne room. The day you held Shuri’s hand as she lost everything.
And all you could think, selfishly, was how Bucky hadn’t been there.
You swallowed hard, voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m scared.”
Bucky looked at you, eyes softening.
You didn’t know what was on the other side. You didn’t know what you’d see— what the Void would show you, or take from you.
But for the first time in years, the love of your life reached out and took your hand.
“If we vanish again,” he said quietly, “we vanish together.”
Right.
Your fingers curled around his, Your voice barely trembled as you said it again, “Together.”
Then you stepped forward and let the Void take you both.
—
Bucky woke up in the snow.
He recognised this place even before he heard the screaming wind, before he looked down and saw his blood soaking into the white ground.
Bucky was twenty-something again—still Sergeant James Barnes. Still just a soldier, a friend, a smartass.
He was watching himself fall. Watching his arm catch on the railing, and breaking on impact. He watched his body spiral and bounce once before settling.
He tried to look away, but he couldn’t.
He remembered waiting for hours for help. No one came.
“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispered, but the younger version didn’t respond. He blinked once more and then stopped moving altogether.
Then, in an attempt to escape this vision, he buried himself in an avalanche of snow.
He woke up in another room. It was his apartment, familiar and claustrophobic at the same time. The curtains were drawn tight, the air thick with the scent of cheap whiskey
And there he was — himself again. This Bucky was slouched on the floor, back against the wall, surrounded by a graveyard of bottles. Some still full. Most empty. The floor was soaked where he’d dropped one earlier.
He had a bottle pressed to his lips now. He took another long, angry swig. Then another. Then—
Nothing.
No burn. No warmth in his chest. No haze. He roared suddenly, launching the bottle across the room. It shattered against the wall. Glass rained down like glittering snow.
“Why won’t it work?” he shouted, voice hoarse. “Why won’t it fucking work?”
He lurched to his feet, fumbling for another bottle in the kitchen. His hands shook. His breathing was ragged.
“Just let me forget,” he begged, staring at his reflection in the microwave’s glass. “Let me forget. Let me be numb.”
But his body refused. His curse of super soldier metabolism was that he would never let him escape. He would never get drunk ever again.
He threw the next bottle harder. The glass cut his knuckles. He didn’t feel it.
He had only landed from Wakanda twelve hours ago. But this time, he landed with the knowledge that you were not his anymore. And now there was no one to fight with. No one to talk to. No one to hold his hand when the nightmares got bad. No one to anchor him when he spiraled.
He slid down the wall and pressed his forehead to his knees like he could disappear into his own body.
He whispered your name over and over again.
The most devastating part was knowing that he had finally found someone who saw him, and still, somehow, he had driven you away.
He stayed like that for what felt like hours. Days. Maybe he never left that floor at all.
Then — Bucky saw a ripple from a puddle across the room where he had spilled his drink earlier.
He looked into it, and instead of a reflection, he saw you.
You were curled up on a couch in another life, in another room. Fingers wrapped around a half-empty bottle. Your head lolling against the armrest, eyes glazed. Laughter bubbled out of your mouth that didn’t belong there — not the happy kind. This laughter was crooked, the kind you used to hide the sobs building beneath your ribs.
The bottle slipped from your fingers and onto the floor.
You were drunk. Not a buzz. Not a haze. You were gone, and it showed.
You started slurring words to no one and between fits of laughter. The makeup smeared across your cheek wasn’t from a night out — it was from wiping away tears with the back of your hand over and over again.
You were wrecked in a way Bucky couldn’t be.
You had the freedom he envied, the escape he was never allowed. You could bury the grief. He had to live with it. And then— he saw what you were clutching in your lap.
It was a photo of You, Bucky, Shuri, and T’challa, taken by Queen Ramonda by the lake, only a couple of days before Thanos attacked.
You stared at the photo like it might move. Like if you looked hard enough, you could reach through the glossy paper and pull them out.
But they were gone.
T’Challa. Ramonda.
And Bucky.
He hadn’t died, but he wasn’t there either. Not when it mattered.
Your grip on the bottle tightened. And then—suddenly—you screamed. “WHY AREN’T YOU HERE?!”
The words tore out of you like glass, shredding you from the inside out.
You hurled the bottle across the room. It hit a wall, shattered, and splashed liquor across the floor. Your body jolted with it, like you’d thrown a piece of yourself.
And then you just collapsed yourself, rocking back and forth. “My fault,” you whispered over and over again. “My fault. All my fault. My fault.”
Bucky watched from the other side of the reflection, both of you broken in different ways—he, invulnerable and furious that he couldn’t feel the poison work; you, drowning in it.
The grief between you wasn’t just shared.
It was mirrored.
Both of you in your separate corners of the world, drinking like it might erase memory, like it might bring someone back, like it might turn regret into penance.
With a deep breath, he took a leap of faith and stepped into the puddle.
It felt like falling like leaping off a rooftop with no guarantee of landing, but choosing the fall anyway because it might bring him back to you.
And he was right.
He was there, with the real you.
You were in that room, in the corner, watching it all play out like a film you couldn’t pause.
That puddle had been more than a doorway. It had been a choice. And he had chosen you.
Bucky knelt down beside you slowly. He didn’t say anything at first. Just pulled you into him.
And for a moment, you didn’t move.
But then his arms wrapped around you, the walls gave in. Your fingers clutched at the back of his jacket and you buried your face into his shoulder.
You stayed like that for a while.
Then, muffled against him, you said, “I should’ve called.”
He just held you tighter.
You continued. “You gave me flowers. A text. It wasn’t much, but… at least it was something. I didn’t even text back. I didn’t give you anything.”
Bucky pulled back slightly to look at you, his hands still resting gently on your shoulders. “No,” he said. “Don’t apologize. I—” He exhaled slowly, eyes dark and honest. “I was suffocating you. I… I ruined you.”
“You never ruined me, Bucky,” you said. “You broke my heart. But you never ruined me.”
Silence stretched again — for a while.
“I was scared I’d never see you again,” you admitted, quieter now. “That you’d disappear into some mission and I’d never get to tell you I was still… that I still— fuck… I—” Unable to finish your sentences, looked away instead, chewing the inside of your cheek. Then you asked what had been burning in the back of your throat this whole time: “Are we ever going to be okay again?”
His answer was quiet, immediate. “We already are.” He kissed your temple — not possessive or desperate, just… loving.
You blinked up at him. “What?”
He smiled. “You’re here. I’m here. We’re talking. Yelling. Holding each other. That’s more than most people get.”
You chuckled, exhaling a shaky breath, forehead resting against his. “So what now?”
“Now?” he murmured. “We get up.”
Your hand slid down his arm and laced your fingers with his. “And what about the end of the world?”
He gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Right. That.”
You both stood, like people learning how to walk for the first time again.
He looked at you, wiping a tear from his cheeks. “C’mon,” he said, nodding toward the door. “Let’s go find Bob.”
And this time, you walked out together.
—
Post-Void. New York, again.
You’d done it. You’d pulled Bob out, helped him control the void inside of him.
And just as the dust started to settle, Val ambushed you all with a press conference. She threw around the word New Avengers like it was already printed across a glossy magazine cover.
Your phone immediately lit up like a Christmas tree.
Everett Ross: Did my EX-WIFE just put you in the New Avengers lineup? Why did you not tell me this?
You winced. Ex-wife. Of course.
Then, Shuri: ??? What is HAPPENING? Should I have not given Bucky your hotel?
And the kicker came from the current king of Wakanda himself.
M’Baku: Weren’t you on a foreign mission on behalf of Wakanda? You are now on AMERICAN NEWS? Call back immediately.
You groaned and thumbed your phone to Do Not Disturb.
The others were watching you now. Bob was still sitting in the sun. Yelena tried ignoring the cameras with practiced disinterest.
Beside you, Bucky was catching his breath, hair tousled, jacket streaked with dust.
“You wanna come back to my place?” he asked, pointing to your phone. “Make the calls from there, if this is too much.”
You blinked. “Don’t you live in D.C. now? Whole Capitol Hill, suit-and-tie Bucky?”
He shrugged, glanced at a hovering drone cam, and flipped it off without changing expression. “Kept my old apartment in Brooklyn. Rent controlled.”
You smirked, though the change in his heartbeat did not go unnoticed. “You’re sentimental.”
“No,” he chuckled. “I’m cheap. But if it helps, the water pressure is still garbage and the radiator still sounds like a haunted typewriter. Just like last time you were there.”
Before you could answer, Alexei called out from behind you. “Can we all come? Team debrief?”
You turned, and shook your head. “Top secret. I’ll find you later.”
Ava lifted a hand lazily. “She’s a tracker. She will.”
She was right. If anyone tried to disappear, you’d have them in an hour.
As you turned away with Bucky at your side, your super-hearing picked up everything. Far behind you, John Walker, never one for subtlety, muttered to someone — probably Yelena, “Twenty bucks says they’re back together by tonight. I mean, do you see how they look at each other?”
You kept walking. Bucky hadn’t heard it — his senses weren’t as sharp as yours, even with the serum.
You debated pretending you hadn’t either.
—
You knew before he even unlocked the door that keeping this place wasn’t about rent control.
When it creaked as you walked, the first thing you could smell was remnants of yourself.
The radiator still coughed in the corner like it was dying. Everything smelled faintly of old wood and clean laundry, and something faintly him — steel and cedar and memory.
Your breath hitched when you saw the shelf to your left still had your copy of Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time, the one Bucky swore he never borrowed.
Your old hoodie — the grey one with the thumb holes — was folded on the arm of the couch like you had just worn it yesterday.
The photos in the frames hadn’t changed. There was one of you and him, laughing in the sunset. One of Bucky, Sam, Steve, and T’challa with you and Shuri making faces while photobombing them. Then, a photo of you, him, Shuri, and T’challa— his copy of the one Ramonda had taken.
Oh.
The space was like a museum and a time capsule rolled into one.
You didn’t say anything at first.
You sat down at the kitchen table and pulled out your phone. A stack of voicemails and messages had piled up, still buzzing in the background. The world was catching up to what had just happened — the Void, Val’s PR machine spinning headlines while you were still scrubbing concrete dust out of your hair.
You answered M’Baku first, then Shuri, then Ross. But your eyes kept drifting to the photos, the jacket, the battered mug with the chipped rim that you used to have your coffee in, no matter how much it leaked.
Bucky stayed quiet.
He didn’t hover. Just leaned against the counter with a mug in his hand that had long since gone cold.
When you finally finished the last call, you let out a deep breath. Your fingers tightened around the edge of the table. Then, you looked at him. “Rent control, huh?” you raised an eyebrow.
He blinked, looking down to his feet.
“You’re full of shit,” you added, gentler this time.
And Bucky chuckled his first real laugh since your reunion. He dropped his head for a second, shaking it slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess I am.”
He stepped a little closer, leaning one hand on the table across from you. His other hand hovered, like he wanted to reach out but didn’t want to break whatever fragile platform you were both standing on.
“I kept thinking I’d throw it all out,” he said. “That I’d come back one day and finally… take it all down. Pack the clothes. Box up the books and mail them to you. But I never did.”
You looked down at your hands. You could feel his eyes on you.
“I think,” he said, quieter now, “that part of me thought… if I kept it all exactly the same, maybe you’d come back.”
Your throat tightened.
He ran a hand through his hair, his voice rough around the edges. “I don’t know how to do this. I’m not… good at this. At any of it. But I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t want you in my life .”
Silence stretched for a long moment.
Finally, you said, “Shuri told me something the other day.”
Bucky straightened a little.
“She was trying to explain quantum entanglement to me. That even when particles are separated by galaxies, they still feel each other. React to each other. Like distance doesn’t matter. Not really.” You met his eyes. “That’s us, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Bucky gave you a sad smile, “It’s us.”
You looked around the room again.
“I’m not ready,” you said. “I don’t know how to go back to what we were. I don’t even know if we should.”
“I don’t want what we were,” he said, without hesitation. “I want better.”
You studied him. He looked different than the last time you saw him — older, maybe. Not physically. But his eyes were angry. Less anxious.
You nodded. “Slow,” you said. “We take it slow.”
He looked… relieved.
He didn’t step closer. He didn’t grab you or kiss you or make some grand statement. Instead, he reached out and gently rested two fingers against the back of your hand, just enough to feel you there.
“Okay,” he said.
And somehow, it was enough.
Not everything was fixed, but for the first time in a long time, you had him back in your life.
—
You didn’t know what you expected when you landed in Wakanda. Maybe M’Baku would challenge you to one final sparring match and attempt to win the truth out of you with his bare hands. Maybe Shuri would yell. Maybe Okoye would look at you like a traitor.
But no one raised their voice, and that almost made it worse.
The throne room was still. M’Baku stood tall with his arms crossed. As you stepped forward, you tried to square your shoulders, trying to find the version of yourself that had once stood tall here— not as a visitor, not as a liability, but as someone who helped this nation rebuild from the blip, from the loss of their king, from the loss of their queen.
But your throat was dry. Your heartbeat thrummed in your chest. “I came to explain,” you said, voice thinner than you’d hoped.
“You do not need to,” M’Baku replied, his voice grave but not unkind.
You stopped, stunned by how final he sounded.
He descended the steps from the throne, each footfall echoing through the vibranium coated walls. “I regret to inform you that your contract with Wakanda is terminated,” he said. “Effective immediately.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but he lifted a hand before you could speak.
“You are now aligned with the New Avengers,” he said, reciting an uncomfortable truth. “You report to the CIA’s director. Your loyalties have shifted—by necessity, perhaps, but shifted nonetheless. Wakanda cannot afford blurred lines.”
Fuck.
“I didn’t ask for the public announcement,” you said as a last line of defence. “Valentina made that move without consulting anyone.”
“And yet the world knows,” M’Baku answered. “Perception, as you know, is reality. The eyes of the world are on you now. And those eyes inevitably turn toward Wakanda.”
You lowered your gaze, heart dropping in your chest. “I understand.”
“But…” he continued, “I want you to know that you were never just a contract to us.”
When he stepped closer, his stance shifted. He wasn’t Wakanda’s king now. He was M’Baku— your sparring partner, your most stubborn friend, the man who once cracked your rib in training and called it ‘bonding.’
“You were family,” he said quietly. “You annoyed me more than any outsider I’ve ever met, and I will miss that more than you can imagine.”
Before you could speak, he pulled you into his arms and… hugged you.
You held onto him—tighter than you meant to. You didn’t want to let go. Wakanda had been more than a mission or a job. It had been your home. It was the place that gave you purpose when the rest of the world had hunted you. And now, with a few words and a king’s goodbye, it was slipping through your fingers.
“You’ll be alright, sister,” he reassured, voice. “You always land on your feet.” He pulled back just enough to smirk. “Like a very ugly cat with no grace.”
You laughed. Or maybe you cried. You weren’t sure.
—
Outside the throne room, Shuri was waiting.
She stood like she’d been pacing with her eyes trained on the floor— but when you appeared, her head snapped up. Okoye was beside her, and even her usual perfect posture had softened.
“I’m sorry,” Shuri said the moment your eyes met, brittle at the edges. “For giving Bucky your location.”
You let out a deep breath and a sad smile ghosted across your face. “Don’t be.”
“He said there was a threat,” she shook her head, stepping closer. “And he wasn’t wrong. But I didn’t know it would end…. like this. I thought I was helping.” Her voice broke slightly. “I thought I was giving you back something you’d lost.”
You shook your head. “You weren’t wrong.”
She didn’t look at all startled by that— as if she knew whatever hole had been carved into you by the loss of Wakanda had immediately been filled by Bucky coming back into your life, by the rest of the team that you found.
“Every time I hit a wall,” you said, just above a whisper. “I throw myself into work and pretend I don’t need anyone.” Your voice cracked open without permission like a dam that had held too long.
“But maybe…” You glanced down, then up at her. “Maybe it’s time I stop pushing away the people who love me. Maybe it’s time I meet them halfway and let them care for me.” You took her hand, “like you do.”
Shuri stared at you like sunlight through storm clouds— equal parts pride and heartbreak.
“Bucky cares,” she said. “Do not let each other slip away this time.”
“He is better,” she said, almost approvingly. “He has learned how to breathe without you. Perhaps it is precisely the reason you need him again. And he might just remind you that life is not all about survival and contracts— it is meant to be lived.”
You tried to blink away the sudden sting in your eyes. “Okoye…” you managed.
She raised a finger in warning. “Do not make me cry, girl.”
That startled a snorting laugh from Shuri.
You smiled. Just a little.
—
Two days later, Bucky helped you move into Avengers Tower.
He smiled sadly when he spotted your duffel bag on the curb beside a single, battered box.
“That’s it?” he asked, easily lifting the box labeled in your unmistakable handwriting: SENTIMENTAL SHIT.
You raised an eyebrow. “You expected me to have more emotional baggage?”
He let out a small laugh, missing your sense of humour. “I meant literal baggage. But…” he glanced down at the label, the corner of his mouth twitching, “…noted.”
You fell into step beside him, entering the still-mostly-empty tower. The echo of your footsteps followed you down halls that smelled like fresh paint and industrial cleaner. A few rooms were already occupied—Bob’s, Ava’s, and an unnamed office space—but yours was at the far end of the residential floor: a bit secluded, sunlit, and overlooking New York in a way that felt almost too generous.
You dropped your duffel onto the bed with a sigh. He set the box on the desk and stood back, studying in the space like he was mentally filing it away for future reference.
“You alright?” he asked softly.
You shrugged, arms crossing out of reflex. “I guess. Feels… weird.”
“What does?”
“Living out of Wakanda.” You glanced at him. “It’s even weirder being around you like this.”
“Like what?”
“Friends,” you said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “That’s what we are now, right?”
“I guess so.” He gave a gentle laugh, scratching the back of his head. “Friends who know exactly how the other one likes their coffee.”
You smiled for real then. “Friends who have seen each other naked. And cry. And leave.”
His voice was quieter now. “And come back.”
—
Two days later, the tower was silent after midnight.
It didn’t feel like a base yet—more like a draft of a memory— place still deciding what it wanted to be. The lights in the common room were dimmed to an amber gold. Somewhere down the hall, a ventilation unit clicked and sighed like an old house learning how to breathe again.
You couldn’t sleep.
You’d unpacked your bag. Stacked your few books with spines you knew by heart. Hung your jacket on the back of the door and lined up your toiletries with mathematical precision, like symmetry might trick your brain into believing this was home.
But your body didn't buy it yet, So you wandered barefoot down the hallway in an oversized sweatshirt—the same one Bucky had given you all those years ago.
You found him in the common room, curled into one corner of the couch, damp hair curling at the ends from a recent shower and mug of tea cradled between his metal fingers,
He looked up when he saw you. “You too, huh?”
“Sleep is a myth,” you said, plopped onto the cushion beside him.
He handed you the mug. You didn’t hesitate before sipping— he used to share drinks with you all the time. The tea was warm, chamomile and honey, just the way you used to make it for him when he couldn’t sleep.
You let the heat sink into your palms for a few seconds longer than necessary before handing it back.
“This place is too clean,” you said at last.
Bucky nodded. “Won’t be for long. Alexei just moved in. Give it two days before something explodes.”
You snorted. “I give it twelve hours.”
That made him laugh, as he leaned his head back against the couch cushion and looked up, like he could see constellations through the ceiling. You looked at him and, for a second, you imagined you were both back in his hut again, painting stars on the ceiling with glow-in-the-dark stickers and half a bottle of wine.
“Remember that night by the river?” you asked.
His eyes flicked to yours. “The one after T’challa’s birthday dinner?”
You smiled. “Yeah. We dragged the blankets out and tried to sleep under the open sky. You brought out your old army jacket. I stole your pillow.”
He didn’t say anything for a second. Slowly, he reached out, brushing his fingertips across yours.
—
The next few months passed easily.
You and Bucky slipped back into some old habits. Mornings were for training. Afternoons often ended in sparring sessions and conversation. And in the hours in between, you found each other again and again— sometimes late night tea. Sometimes, you'd leave a book by your door. SOmetimes, he’d put in your favourite movie after a stressful day.He never made a big deal out of it, and neither did you. It wasn’t discussed. It simply was.
Of course, the team noticed.
Ava, subtle as a brick, started running a betting pool in the group chat on who would initiate getting back together. She never said who the odds favored, but winked at you every time you entered a room with Bucky in tow.
John grumbled about “weird tension” on mission briefings, mostly because he lost his first bet. Even Bob— still learning how to survive in a household of ex-spies, assassins, and super-soldiers—picked up on it. One morning over coffee, he glanced at you, then at Bucky, then said, completely unprompted, “You breathe easier when he’s around.”
You blinked at him, stunned. He just sipped his coffee and went back to his crossword.
But the real kicker came at breakfast, a few weeks later.
You were barely awake, slouched at the long kitchen island in the tower. Bucky sat beside you, reading news with a tablet in hand.
Yelena walked in, grabbed a banana, and without hesitation said, “So. When are you two getting back together?”
You nearly choked on your tea. Bucky froze mid-scroll. You coughed for a solid ten seconds before managing, hoarsely, “I—what?”
Yelena leaned on the counter. “Please. The movie nights? The sparring together all the time? You are basically together.”
Bucky cleared his throat. “We’re… talking. Taking it slow.”
Yelena squinted at him like he was the world’s worst liar. “Slow like friends slow, or slow like ‘you slept in her room after the Prague mission and thought no one noticed’ slow?”
You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks. Bucky stared at the ceiling like he was considering defenestration.
“I—I didn’t—we didn’t—” you stammered.
“She had a nightmare,” Bucky said valiantly. “I stayed in her armchair.”
Yelena raised her eyebrows. “How noble. You’ll be married by June.”
And with that, she bit into her banana and walked out as if she hadn’t just casually set your entire life on fire before 8 a.m.
You stared at the doorway for a long time before turning to Bucky. “We are never living that down.”
He smiled, just a little. “She’s not wrong, though.”
You tilted your head. “About what?”
He shrugged. “About the slow part not really being all that slow anymore.”
That shut you up, but not in a bad way.
—
The day it had finally happened, though, you’d been in the tower’s comms room, backlit by flickering screens, teeth clenched as you watched the mission feed buffer and skip. Bucky and John were on the field on recon and containment. It should be routine. No reason to worry.
You told yourself it was fine. You knew Bucky could handle himself. You’d said it a hundred times.
But then the feed glitched again. Then John mentioned gunfire and Bucky’s comms went dark.
The jet returned fifteen minutes later, skidding onto the landing pad. You were already waiting there when they brought him in.
Bucky.
His combat suit was torn, blood soaking through the thigh, gashes deep in his side. His vibranium arm was scorched, still hissing faintly from an energy blast. And yet… he was awake. Breathing. He gave you a small smile, somehow, even when the poor nurse wheeled him into the med bay. You ran to follow
He could’ve died. And you weren’t there.
That’s when you saw John.
“You were supposed to watch his six!” you shouted at him before you could even register how much you meant them. “Do you even know what a field partner does, or do you just wing it and hope the super soldiers heal fast enough?”
John blinked, surprised. “Jesus, I didn’t—”
“Don’t!” you snapped. “You were with him! He had your back—where the hell were you?”
“He told me to take the high ground!” John barked, his voice rising. “I didn’t know they had long-range fire!”
“It’s literally your job to know!” Your skin felt like they were on fire now. “Do you even remember the brief? You think because he’s got the Hydra serum he can take every shot for you?”
“Hey.”You heard Bucky say from the bed behind you. “Relax.”
Your head snapped toward him. “Relax?”
He half-winced as a doctor pulled a bullet fragment from his thigh. His breathing was shallow, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward in dry amusement
“Yeah. Relax. You’re doing that thing.”
You narrowed your eyes. “What thing?”
“You sound like me back in the day,” he managed to say, letting his head fall back on the pillow. “God. The role reversal’s kinda scary.”
And just like that, you shut up.
He did used to do this. When you were still together. When it was you on the field and him pacing the halls of the palace like a caged wolf. Every bruise you got, he catalogued. Every mission report, he read twice. When you brushed off injuries, he’d pull you aside and look at you like you'd died and no one told him.
And now here you were, standing over him, boiling over like your heart had been under for years.
“It’s different,” you whispered under your breath. “You were obsessed.”
Bucky opened his eyes again, squinting slightly. “What?”
You could hear the beeping of monitors overwhelming you. You could taste the metallic tang of blood and antiseptic. “You were obsessed,” you said, a bit louder, “I’m freaking out over bullets. You used to freak out over a scratch.”
He gave a nod, not flinching. “Yeah. I know.” He shrugged. “Wasn’t healthy. But I cared.” But then his tone shifted. “And you don’t get to talk to John like that.”
You took a step back, caught off-guard. “Are you serious?”
“He’s not perfect,” he said, matter-of-fact.
“Wow,” John interjected under his breath, “Thanks.”
Bucky paid him no mind “But he tried. This wasn’t on him.”
You pressed your fingers into your temple, trying to breathe. “I know, I just—I didn’t know what else to do, Buck.”
You looked at him then, and all the fire in your chest dimmed into ash. He looked… tired. Older. Stronger, too. But there was something in his eyes—some flicker of the man you left behind.
Bucky glanced toward John. “Give us the room when they’re done, yeah?”
John, for once, didn’t argue. He just nodded and backed out, probably relieved.
The door shut with a hiss, and you waited until the doctors had finished stitching him up and giving him the okay to rest before you walked back to his side, a little more tired, a little more human.
You sat on the edge of the bed. Your hand found his immediately, as if it was instinct. His skin was warm and he smelled like bullets and iron, the way it always got when he’d been running on too much adrenaline and too little self-preservation.
“Is this okay?” you asked, voice barely more than a whisper.
He nodded before reaching for you with both hands in that familiar, greedy way he always used to, like he couldn't stand another second without you touching. “C’mere,” he said.
So you climbed carefully onto the too-small mattress beside him, your body curving into his like muscle memory. You avoided the bruised side, settling in close with your head tucked beneath his chin, just where it used to belong. His wrapped his arm around you.
Your palm rested over his chest, right above his heart. It beat steady, and you wondered if it ever really stopped beating for you.
He breathed in your hair. "You always smell like home," he whispered, so quiet you almost missed it.
You watched the little cuts and bruises heal on their own, bit by bit. His lashes fluttered like he was teetering on the edge of sleep — then opened again, just to make sure you were still there.
You stayed tucked beneath his chin for a long while. Eventually, you spoke, your voice muffled into his chest. “I didn’t mean to scream at Walker,” you said with a small laugh. “Or be… so overbearing. Like you used to be.” You peeked up at him with a sideways smile. “Funny, right?”
Bucky chuckled. “I deserved that,” he smiled, rubbing slow circles against your back with his human thumb
You swallowed, then pulled away just enough to look at him properly.
“I just…” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully, like they mattered. Because they did. “For the first time in a long time, work isn’t the most important thing to me.” You reached up and gently brushed your fingers along the edge of the bruise on his cheeks. “You are.”
“I know,” he said, voice rough. “And I… I just wanted you to know I never stop caring — just didn’t know how to care right.”
You both laughed a little at that — sad and sweet, like the punchline to a very old joke.
“Remember that time you hacked into a satellite feed because I missed one check-in?” you teased, smirking.
Bucky groaned, his cheeks turning pink. “Okay, first of all, it was a tactical recon satellite, I didn’t hack it, I borrowed a login.”
“Oh, that makes it better,” you said, eyes sparkling. “You bribed M’Baku with a reservation at a two Michelin Star vegan restaurant just because I didn’t text ‘safe’ fast enough.”
“I was worried,” he shook his head, then, quieter, “You didn’t answer for four hours.”
“I know,” Your brows relaxed again. “I know you were trying to love me. I just… couldn’t let myself be loved like that back then.”
Bucky reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Are you now?”
You smiled, eyes filling up with a puddle of tears.“Well,” you said, voice a little wobbly, “Only if we meet halfway.”
He smiled, and god, it was like the sun rose just for you.
“Okay,” he agreed, leaning in until you could taste the air he breathed.
Just before your lips touched, he stopped. “You sure?” he asked, looking down at your lips.
Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could feel it through your chest.
You nodded. “I’m sure.”
He didn’t move yet.
“You sure you’re sure?” he whispered, voice lower now. His fingers had tightened just slightly at your waist, anchoring you there,but he just needed to give you one last chance to run — but you didn’t take it.
“Bucky…” you whispered, and the way you said his name answered everything for him.
“Okay,” he said, more a sigh than a word. “Okay.”
Then he kissed you.
It was heat and hunger that only two people who had been starved of each other, who’d tasted what it was like to be apart and never wanted to go back could feel. His mouth claimed yours like he needed to make sure you were his and you kissed him back just as fiercely, just as desperate to prove that you were.
You curled your fingers into the collar of his tac vest, pulling him closer, and he groaned against your lips. His metal hand slid up your back, and his other hand cupped your cheek and pulled you closer
And he kept saying it between kisses, like a litany, “You’re sure?”
You answered with another kiss. Deeper now, borderline bruising.
“You’re sure?” he asked again
“I’m sure.” Your lips parted on a gasp, and you nodded, forehead pressed to his. “I’m so sure, Buck, I— I never stopped—”
His mouth was on yours again before you could finish, and it didn’t matter. His thumb traced your cheek like he was re-learning you all over again, when he realized he still remembered all the ways you liked to be kissed. When you finally pulled back, breathless, he looked at you like you’ve been to hell and back for him.
“God, I missed this,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I missed you so bad, doll.”
You smiled, blinking back the tears that weren’t sad at all. “I missed you worse.”
He grinned, all wrecked and completely in love.
You kissed again, gentler this time, remembering how good it felt to be known by each other again.
Which was exactly when the door slid open with a cheerful whoosh.
“—Bucky! I was gonna check on—oh,” came Alexei’s voice, suddenly flat as pancake batter left too long on the griddle.
You froze, lips still an inch from Bucky’s. Your heart leapt straight into your throat, and you turned slowly toward the door, horror across both your faces.
Alexei stood there, blinking once, before giving the slowest nod known to man. His hands were crossed on his chest, looking too smug for his own good.
“Well,” he said, dragging his voice out. “Well. I’m going to tell team it finally happened!”
Bucky let out the deepest, most resigned sigh imaginable and let his head thunk back against the pillow. “Can you please wait until I’m discharged?”
“Nonsense!” Alexei said brightly, already halfway down the hallway. “Ava owes me twenty American dollars. And John will make that face. You know the one.”
You groaned and buried your face in Bucky’s chest, playfully mortified.
“Back then,” he chuckled, lips brushing your hair, “I would've fought him for interrupting.”
Super Soldier Domesticated | Bucky Barnes x reader
Summary: Domestic scenes with Bucky Barnes, because Bucky Barnes deserves to be HAPPY.
A/N: I have returned to pray at the altar of James Buchanan Barnes. Thunderbolts dropped and flooded my insta feed. Oh, how past me would have rejoiced in all of this Bucky content.
Word count: 3.1k
Warnings: fluff, implications of smut, language, possible misinformation about various contraceptive devices (please inform yourselves lol)
-
Bucky Barnes was the fist of Hydra.
He’d spent decades being shaped into the perfect asset—ruthless, detached, the ultimate killing machine. He was cruel. He was dangerous. He was violent.
He’d been tortured. He’d been torn apart and stitched back together, and only when barely an inkling of the man he used to be remained, they’d set him loose on the world.
It was almost funny, Bucky thought now as he looked down at his working hands. To think what this arm—this near indestructible artificial limb—had been created for. It had squeezed the life from many a target, had pulled the triggers of guns and survived explosions. It had brought unspeakable pain upon his victims.
And yet …
“Not too tight, Bucky.”
Her voice had come quietly, softly, and from where he sat on the edge of the bed, Bucky could tell that her eyes had slipped closed a while ago. She sat on the floor between his legs, with her own legs crossed and her back straight.
Bucky loosened his grip at once, the strands of her hair now looser in his palms.
“Like this?” he asked, only taking his eyes off her face once an approving hum resonated through her chest.
“Perfect.”
A smile tugged on the corners of his lips as he went back to work. Right strand over, pull the middle to the right, then repeat with the left. It was tough to keep each of the three strands separated—nimble work, delicate. This was his second attempt after the first had ended in a merging of the left and the middle strand. It had been chaos.
“I can’t believe you manage to do this behind your head,” he spoke quietly, fingers moving a little faster with every inch he managed to braid successfully.
“Years of practice.” There was a smile in her voice. It warmed Bucky’s chest. “Hey, Buck?”
He hummed to signal that he was listening, concentrating on getting the bottom of the braid right. She’d warned him that it could get tricky to avoid shorter strands of hair from sticking out at the side.
“Would you mind running to the store later?”
“’Course not, doll,” he mumbled, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth as he pinched the end of her braid between his fingers to carefully slip on the hair tie he kept on his wrist. It was one of his, but ever since he’d cut his hair, he didn’t need them anymore, and so they’d long been adopted by Y/N, merging with her own hair accessories in the small bathroom they shared.
When he finished, he carefully draped the braid over her shoulder, succumbing to the urge to touch her with a single finger brushing along her neck.
“What do you think?”
Delicate fingers found the braid, and Y/N turned her head far enough to peek down at his work. Bucky found himself holding his breath in anticipation of her verdict.
When she looked up at him, she offered a smile. It was the wide kind—the beaming kind. It was the kind to touch the corners of her eyes and have Bucky’s heart stutter in a way that would be worrying if it wasn’t for the serum in his veins that pretty much prevented cardiac arrest.
“Perfect job, baby,” she said, craning her neck towards him. Bucky smiled when he leaned forward to meet her in a kiss.
-
Left hand clutching the handle of the shopping basket, Bucky stuck to an empty aisle to study the yellow post-it note she’d written him.
Granola
Eggs (2 dozen)
Apples
Tomatoes
Grated cheese (Gouda or Cheddar)
Toothpaste (2x)
Tampons
Ice cream (!!!)
He smirked at the three exclamation marks behind ice cream, carved deep enough into the paper to leave grooves on the other side. There was exactly one type of ice cream she loved, and ever since he’d bought the wrong one once, she’d taken to reminding him on every note she wrote.
By now, he knew the layout of the supermarket well enough that he could find his way in the dark. They were good for him, these mundane tasks. He needed routine, needed something to do. It gave him peace to do something that was important but did not include guns, or bombs, or mission reports. It gave him peace to function in this little bubble he inhabited with Y/N.
He stood before the shelf with the period products now, two cartons with a dozen eggs each already secured in his basket. They were mainly for him. He ate four each morning.
Bucky could not recall a time when he didn’t know everything there was to know about the absorbency of Tampons. He knew the brands, knew the sizes, knew that Y/N preferred the ones without the applicator because she thought the extra piece of plastic was an unnecessary waste.
Two purple boxes fell into his basket before he moved on to the ice box.
-
The headboard pressed into Bucky’s back as he held out the tub of ice cream for Y/N to dig her spoon in. They’d agreed it was best he hold it, as his was the only hand that would not eventually freeze.
He loved these moments with her. He lived for them.
She lay next to him, one leg stretched before her, the other bend at the knee. She was wearing one of his shirts and a thick pair of socks, leaning most of her weight against his shoulder. Bucky found it soothing.
“It’s one of the only options without hormones,” she explained before her spoon vanished into her mouth, then adding with her mouth full, “But it’s supposed to hurt like a bitch when they put it in.”
Bucky gave a grunt, scraping some off the top of the ice cream with his own spoon. “I read that it increases bleeding. Makes your cramps worse, too.”
“Well, that only leaves hormonal birth control then.”
Bucky frowned.
It had taken some explaining for Bucky to fully understand the intricacies of new age contraception, but he found that he didn’t like the idea of something messing with her hormones—with her health.
“There’s nothing I could take?”
She thought about it for a moment, lips clasped tightly around her spoon. The sight almost took Bucky’s mind off the topic at hand. Almost.
“Afraid not,” she finally said with a small sigh through her nose. “Unless you want to get snipped,” she added with a pained smile.
Bucky offered her the tub and watched as she dug a large spoonful from the centre.
“I might be sterile anyway, darlin’,” he finally said quietly.
They’d spoken about it—the possibility that the serum had done some irreversible damage to Bucky’s system. He’d already gotten tested before he’d met her, but it had been hard for the doctors to tell. No one was accustomed to a super soldier organism. The best they’d been able to tell him was that it was likely either one extreme or the other.
“Sterile or super-soldier-fertile,” Y/N repeated what he’d told her. “And your body would likely just heal you if you got a vasectomy.”
Bucky tilted his head as he looked at her. “I don’t actually mind us using condoms.”
It had been Y/N who’d brought up the possibility for her to start taking birth control, but Bucky could not quite shake the feeling that she’d mentioned it mainly for his sake.
Y/N hummed in thought, lifting her free hand to push her fingers through his hair, tugging gently at the ends. Bucky’s eyes slipped close for just a second.
“Forever?” she asked pensively, pursing her lips. “It seems easier for me to just get something permanent. An implant, or an IUD.” A thought crossed her mind then, and she narrowed her eyes at him with interest. “What did you do in the 40s?”
Bucky pulled a face. “Ah, couldn’t tell ya. Pulled out and hoped for the best.”
Truth be told, Bucky had never really bothered with it back in his youth. He’d known that they were experimenting with jellies and creams—he’d heard it from a girl he’d been going out with. There’d been condoms of course, but they weren’t nearly as common as they were nowadays, and frankly Bucky wouldn’t have been able to afford them even if they had been.
Y/N snorted. It was a delightful sound.
“So what you’re telling me is you might have some unknown descendants scattered around the world?”
Bucky smirked down at the ice cream, a cold drop of water trickling in between the vibranium tiles of his hand.
“I would’ve heard,” he said. “Wasn’t like I was sleeping with the whole neighbourhood.”
She hummed, grinning when she pressed her nose into his cheek. “I don’t believe you for one second. Not with that charm of yours.”
“I don’t want you taking hormones,” Bucky said suddenly, turning to meet Y/N’s gaze. “Not for me. I read some horror stories online, doll. About blood clots, embolisms, heart attacks. I know they’re rare, but I would never forgive myself if something happened.”
She considered him for a moment, smiling when she lifted a hand to squeeze his chin between her thumb and index finger.
“Okay,” she breathed. “Condoms it is then.”
-
“I can’t believe this!”
There was anger in her voice, a deep crease between her brows when she turned to look at Bucky, throwing her arms up in exasperation.
“You are one hundred years old,” she snapped. “How are you this fucking good at Mario Kart?!”
Bucky felt his lip twist at the corners, smirking as he flicked through the different racetracks on screen. They’d been playing for a little over an hour, and so far, Bucky had managed to beat her in every single round, scoring first place with a substantial lead each time.
“How about this snowy one next?”
At her silence, he turned to find a deadpan expression adorning her features.
“Yes, Bucky,” she said, words dripping with sarcasm. “Let’s do the fucking snow track.”
Bucky couldn’t stop his grin from widening, reaching out his human hand to pinch her cheek. “You’re adorable when you’re competitive.”
Swatting after his hand, Y/N harrumphed and turned back towards the TV. She sat straight-backed as a soldier with her legs crossed beneath her, while Bucky lay back against the couch with his legs stretched out on the plush ottoman before him.
“I’m just saying it doesn’t make sense,” she muttered to herself. “You pause Netflix movies by clicking the pause button with your cursor. You shouldn’t be this good at a video game.”
Bucky snorted, pushing at her shoulder with the back of his wrist, to which her cheeks lifted, betraying her grin despite her attempts to hide it.
“Today’s youth is rude,” Bucky muttered.
He thought he heard her giggle, which had warmth seep through his chest. But of course, it felt nothing as good as the rush of triumph he experienced at the large golden 1 appearing on his side of the screen after a few minutes spent racing in concentrated silence.
“Unbelievable,” Y/N half-yelled at the TV, waving her hands so much, Bucky feared for a moment that her controller would go flying into the screen. “Un. Fucking. Believable.”
While Bucky’s little green dinosaur celebrated by waving from his motorcycle, Bucky lifted a shoulder. “I’m a good driver.”
“This game in no way reflects real life driving skills.”
“Sure, it does.”
Y/N opened her mouth, and Bucky could tell that she was readying herself to argue. Before she could, however, he discarded his controller and wrapped his arm around her waist to pull her down towards him.
At once, she began to laugh, struggling against his grip as he attempted to wrestle the controller from her hands.
“You need a time out,” Bucky announced, dodging her elbows as she attempted to keep the controller out of his reach.
“One more!” she gasped, twisting and turning in Bucky’s hold, giggling as she did so. “I need to beat you at least once.”
“You’re gonna have a heart attack with that road rage of yours.”
She scoffed in mock outrage, but Bucky lowered his lips to hers before she could continue. She was laughing against him, wiggling when he finally got hold of her controller without looking, pushing at his shoulder when he began to scatter small kisses across her face.
But with every second, her resistance lessened, her body melting into his hold, her laughter softening into amused hums, until finally, her fingers curled into the hair on the back of Bucky’s head, and she met his lips with enthusiasm. Her controller—finally acquired, but already long forgotten—slipped from Bucky’s grip to clatter to the ground.
-
Bucky’s fingers pressed into the flesh of her hips, jaw tight and head tilted back into a pillow as the tension in his body slowly ebbed away to make room for a comfortable, cushy daze that warmed his body from head to toe.
She shook in his hands, the last of her breath rushing from her lungs in a hitched gasp. She tensed, thighs pressing firmly on the sides of his hips, and then it seemed her bones turned into something soft, pliable, as her body sank to his for her lips to rest in the crook of his neck.
For a moment, there was just their shared breathing to be heard—fast, choppy, warm. Bucky lifted his head only far enough to peer over her shoulder, watching the black metal of his hand detach itself from her skin without a mark left behind. Ever since those first times, those first bruises when he hadn’t yet gotten used to the strength of his arm in a context such as this, he paid extra attention.
With a soft groan, she pushed to her hands to look down at him with a glint in her eye. Bucky pushed the hair from her face, running his thumb along a swollen bottom lip, along the bridge of her nose, and the arch of her cheekbone.
Y/N pushed her face deeper into his palm, eyes slipping shut.
“I won’t ever get tired of this,” she breathed, to which Bucky smirked.
“I sure hope you won’t, dollface.”
Her nose scrunched at the drawled pet name. She’d always found it corny, but the corners of her lips curled higher nonetheless.
“I’m—”
“Hungry,” Bucky finished, sitting up with a groan of his own, one arm curled behind her back. “Comin’ right up.”
Y/N gasped in mock offence. “That’s not what I was going to say!”
Bucky rose a single brow, one arm pushing into the mattress behind him to keep him upright. She was always hungry after. Sometimes more, sometimes less. But most times ended in a late night snack shared on the couch, in the kitchen, in their bed.
“What were you going to say, then?”
She pursed her lips, letting a few seconds tick by silently, and Bucky knew then and there that she had nothing.
“I wanted to say,” she declared importantly, lifting her hands to hold his face between her palms. “That I’m in love with you.”
“I’m in love with you too, darlin’.” Bucky couldn’t help his rising cheeks. “I’m just gonna lay back down then—”
“And also,” she interrupted, pausing by kissing him deep enough for his mind to buzz when she pulled back with a satisfied smirk. “That I might just be a teensy bit hungry.”
A husky laugh slipped from Bucky’s throat, and with his arms wrapping around her tightly, he stood in a swift move, taking her with him as he went.
-
“So what I’m saying is,” Y/N said, swinging her legs as she lifted another piece of orange to her lips, chewing as she continued. “While I do agree that a beach vacation would be nice, I think going to Scotland would be a lot more interesting.”
Bucky kept his attention on the board before him, chopping tomatoes into somewhat uniform little cubes as he listened. She sat not far to his left on the countertop. The smell of citrus crawled up his nose.
“It rains a lot in Scotland.”
“Yes, but think of the castles. The highlands. The cows.”
“If we go to Portugal, we could lay in the sun all day. Swim. Fool around.”
An amused sound left her throat, her thumb pushing into the orange to break off another piece. She held it out to him, and Bucky leaned over to take it with his teeth.
“Fool around?” she giggled. “What are we, teenagers? Besides, we can do that anywhere. And it would be a lot cozier in a little hut in the highlands when it’s raining.”
Bucky weighed his head from side to side, considering her words.
“Think about it,” she added. “One is sweaty, sticky, and hot; the other is cozy and cuddly.”
“I honestly can’t tell which of those you think is the less desirable option.”
She laughed at that, chewing while Bucky scattered the tomatoes into the pan already holding a still liquid layer of egg, followed by shredded cheese, salt and pepper.
“I thought you didn’t like heat.”
“What made you think that?”
There was a moment of silence.
“Well, you always kick away the blankets, and you never notice when it’s too cold in a room. I thought it was part of the whole supersoldier shebang.”
Bucky rose a shoulder. “I don’t mind heat. Especially not when a pretty dame is involved.”
She burst out laughing at that, and Bucky smiled as he watched from the corner of his eye.
“Fine, fine. You win, Barnes,” she chuckled, offering him another piece of orange that he took with a quick kiss to the back of her hand. “I will fool around with you at the beach. But if we get kicked out of Portugal for public indecency, we’re going to the highlands.”
“Deal.”
After flipping the omelette with a skilled flick of the pan, Bucky folded it in half and placed it carefully on a nearby plate. Y/N beamed as he handed it to her.
“You’re the bestest,” she said, craning her neck for a kiss. “Thank you.”
Bucky stepped between her legs, opening his mouth when she offered him a forkful of omelette, already chewing herself. His palms found her thighs, her skin covered by a plush bathrobe to match his own in both colour and pattern.
The fist of Hydra, standing in a dimly lit kitchen with his love and an omelette. He could get used to this—he already had gotten used to this—and as he looked down at the black metal thumb he ran along the smooth skin of a thigh, he wondered how this limb had ever been used for something other than making omelettes for his love.
-
A/N: Can you believe it's been three whole years since I wrote a Bucky fic????? TF
You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.
Tags: 18+ content minors dni, nudity, female masturbation, fem reader, panic attacks, bucky is touch starved, mentions of previous sa, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, safe word/motion use, bucky barnes needs a hug, angst, bickering, major arguments, sparring, training, mentions of alcohol, reader is lowkey depressed, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything
Word Count: 10k
A/N: it's ready early! thank you everyone for the support. um i'll keep it brief but this is a pretty rough, angsty one. please trust and bear with me. it will get better. thank you for putting up with my silly ideas. also a big thank you to @soelstress and @buckybarnesfic for reading this over for me and giving feedback while i was pulling my hair out a bit! as always, sorry for any typos!
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In the split second it took for you to twist around, an arm half-heartedly lifting to cover your chest, Steve’s complexion had lurched from deathly white to a deep, mortified crimson. One hand clamped desperately over his eyes, as if that could undo what he'd already seen. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly, floundering for something to say, before he choked out a strangled “Sorry!” and spun around so violently he almost took the doorframe with him.
The silence that followed was somehow worse. Beneath your hands, Bucky turned to stone, all his warmth leeched away, as if he'd been sculpted into a gargoyle mid-breath. You remained straddling his lap, dress tangled around your waist, nipples peaked against the air.
“Well,” You muttered dryly, glancing down at him. “That’ll give him something to think about during his little jogs around the compound.”
Bucky didn’t laugh.
His eyes were wide, glassy. He jerked his head towards the door, then back to you, panic flickering across his features. “How much did he—What do I—”
His hands left you completely, raking his hands down his face, as if he could claw the moment out of existence. You caught it then, the way his shoulders started to shake, breath stuttering in his chest, fingers balling into a fist as he pressed his knuckles against his forehead. You reached for him gently, two fingers grazing his wrist, the start of a soft coaxing, just enough to try and ease his hands away from his face. But he caught your wrist mid-motion.
You went still, dread curling behind your ribs.
His grip was trembling, the cool metal of his vibranium fingers tightening around your skin. Wordlessly, he motioned, three firm squeezes in quick succession.
Stop.
You were already sliding off his lap, kneeling in the tangle of half-kicked sheets and discarded pillows next to him in a futile attempt to give him more space, but it was already too late.
“Bucky?” You breathed, and he visibly flinched. You were unsure where the panic had pulled him, nor what thoughts drowned him, but you knew you couldn’t let him stay lost. “Bucky, talk to me.”
“I can’t, I can’t—” He gasped, voice thin like every breath was a fight.
“Bucky.” You interrupted him firmly. “I need you to breathe.”
The super soldier ignored your instructions, crumpling in on himself as you hovered, unsure if touching him would make it better or worse. His breaths were coming fast, too fast. You could hear how each intake rattled in his chest, lungs not fully expanding as his body was quickly switching into a fight-or-flight mode.
“He’s going to be upset.” Bucky managed to choke out, his voice breaking.
“Why would he be upset?” You pushed, keeping your voice steady and calm. “He’s your friend.”
“I don’t know, I just…” His voice was rising, near frantic. He was tugging at his hair now, stuck in a panicked spiral of his own making.
“You’re panicking. You’ve had a shock,” you said quickly. “That’s all it is. Just breathe, okay? In and out, like we always do. We’ve done this before, remember?”
His chest heaved, a desperate sound clawing up his throat.
"I can't... I—”
"Just breathe," you repeated quickly. You needed to make yourself small, unthreatening. You dropped off the side of the bed, kneeling on the floor in front of him. "Bucky, look at me."
His eyes were wild. You reached out, gently, just brushing his kneecaps with your fingertips. "Let's rationalise this for a second, okay? You’re safe. Nothing bad happened."
He shook his head in short, jerky movements, like he couldn't even hear you over the roaring panic inside his skull.
"He's gonna hate me," he gasped, chest spasming. "I—fuck—he's gonna be disgusted—"
"Hey, hey, stop," you said firmly, voice low and steady, even as your heart hammered in your own chest. You pressed your palm lightly against his thigh. "Steve is not disgusted. Embarrassed? Sure. Mortified? Definitely. But not at you, Bucky."
"I—he—" He couldn’t even get the words out anymore. His hands tore away from his hair to clutch at the sheets twisted around him.
You frowned, your mind racing as you tried to decide your next move. The shift had happened so fast. Alarm prickled at the back of your neck. You needed him to come back to you, to breathe, to move, to thaw out before he became solid ice.
You leaned closer, gently but firmly capturing his wrists in your hands. Your fingers curled around the tense line of his forearms. His skin was clammy under your touch, his pulse erratic just beneath the surface. You drew his arms down, guiding them from where they hovered and settling them across his lap.
"You’re not in trouble," you repeated, slowly and carefully. "Nothing bad is happening. Steve just walked in at the wrong time. That’s all."
He made a broken sound in his throat, squeezing his eyes shut. His vibranium hand was twitching uncontrollably against your grip.
"You’re okay," you whispered. "Look around. We're still here. No one's yelling. No one's mad."
He shook his head again, tiny tremors wracking his whole body.
"You're not back there," you added quietly, knowing exactly where his mind wanted to go. "You're Bucky Barnes. You’re safe. You’re home."
The words seemed to reach some small part of him. His breathing was still ragged, but he cracked his eyes open, glassy and rimmed red.
"There he is," you murmured, giving his wrists a soft squeeze. "Hi. Still with me?"
He nodded shakily.
"Good," you praised, shifting your grip to run a hand slowly up his arm, grounding him. "Breathe with me, Buck. In through your nose... hold it... out through your mouth. Easy. Like we always do."
You exaggerated the breath yourself, making it big and obvious, hoping he'd mimic you. You tried not to let your mind flicker to how ridiculous the situation was, you half-naked, the remnants of arousal now a cold, wet patch in your underwear as you guided a super soldier through his panic attack. Was he in over his head? Were you in over your head? He had used the safe motion. Had you pushed him too far this time—?
No. No, you had to remind yourself. It was all fine, all controlled and okay until Steve walked in. He was the unpredictable element. Each time you and Bucky had lessons, he was handing you a piece of himself, handing you all of his trust. He was vulnerable in these moments, entirely raw and exposed. And you hadn’t even taken a second to ensure the damn door was locked, too caught up in the moment, the thrill. Why had you done that? Why were you allowing yourself to be so easily swept away?
It took a few tries, several messy, half-choked inhalations, but finally, finally, he caught the rhythm. You sat there with him, counting out soft beats under your breath, refusing to let your thoughts drag you under.
When the worst of the tremors had faded, you eased back just a little. Bucky shook his head slightly, another ragged breath escaping him, but this time there was something like life in it. His hands were still shaking, but he wasn’t clawing at himself anymore.
"You're okay," you soothed. "We’re okay."
"I’m sorry," he croaked.
"You don’t have anything to be sorry for," you replied simply. "It’s not your fault. Steve should’ve knocked. If anything, I should be charging him rent for getting a free show."
That dragged a real, if frail, smile out of him.
You grinned back, pushing his sweaty hair off his forehead gently.
“Listen to me,” you leaned in closer. “Let me talk to him. I’ll get Steve to come back. We’ll clear it up, face it head-on. It’s only going to make it worse if we pretend it didn’t happen.”
His blue eyes met yours, unsure. The colour looked almost unnatural, too bright against the bloodshot whites. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure, Bucky,” you replied, voice firm with conviction. “You think I’d ever do something to hurt you?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t speak, but you saw the tiny shift, his fists uncoiling, his breathing slowing, no longer tearing through him like it might rip him apart. You stood, tugging your crumpled dress back up to cover your chest again, hooking the thin straps over your shoulders.
Bucky stared down at his hands, gears in his vibranium arm whirring slightly, still sat among the dishevelled sheets. You knew he was overthinking, already surrendering to worry in those brief seconds. Against your better judgment, you reached out, cradling his head in your palm as you forced him to look up at you, shell-shocked and miserable.
“I’ll be back," you promised. He blinked up at you, throat bobbing with a hard swallow, and you had to trust he believed you. You pressed a feather-light kiss to his temple, fingers dragging across his jaw as you pulled away. You could’ve sworn he tilted his head to follow you, chasing your touch as you marched towards the door. “And hey, atleast next time we’ll remember to lock the fucking door.”
You weren't sure if he replied or if he even heard you. Some part of you, the jaded, self-destructive thing that had learned it was safer to be alone, whispered that maybe there wouldn’t be a next time. And that perhaps it was for the better. You’d survived so far, tearing down anyone who got too close, keeping parts of you locked away in solitude for your protection…You crushed that thought before it could bloom any further and slipped barefoot into the hallway. Steve hadn’t made it far, and you caught him halfway to the elevators.
"Steve! Steve, can we just talk?"
He didn't even turn around, just threw a hand up over his shoulder. "I don't think I want to know what I just walked in on—"
"Listen," you snapped, stepping sharply into his path before he could retreat any further down the hallway. He tried to sidestep you, but you mirrored him without hesitation, cutting him off cleanly. He shifted again, impatient, but you were faster, darting to block him completely. You planted yourself firmly in front of him and crossed your arms, chin lifted in a challenge. You were sure you looked a right state, hair messy, lips swollen, and the remnants of your makeup smudged. "He’s freaking out in there, okay? He thinks you’re mad at him. Please just come back and reassure him it’s fine—"
“Is it fine?” Steve cut in, slicing clean through your rambling. The edge in his voice made you falter, your brows knitting together in confusion.
Was he… angry?
Steve Rogers was ever the serious figure in the compound, tightly wound, controlled, the kind of man who dotted every ‘i’ and crossed every ‘t’. But you’d never heard his voice drop in such a way before—low and tight, his jaw clenched and his posture stiff, as if he was stewing on something unspoken.
“What?” You managed to stumble out.
Steve looked you up and down, unimpressed. His arms crossed over his own chest in a mirror of you, biceps bulging against the fabric of his sleeves. “What you’re doing. Is it really fine?”
You hesitated, thrown completely off-balance. This wasn’t anywhere on the radar of reactions you’d prepared for. You’d expected embarrassment, maybe a flustered apology, half-hearted but well-meaning. Perhaps even a flash of happiness, pride that Bucky was finally confident enough, safe enough, to take a step forward in his life. You’d braced for fist bumps, for some awkward bro code moment, whatever the hell men did. What you hadn’t prepared for—what hadn’t even occurred to you while you were coaxing Bucky through his panic—was that Steve’s anger wasn’t aimed at Bucky. It was aimed squarely at you.
Steve watched you expectantly, and all that tumbled out of your mouth was a bewildered, “I don’t understand?”
“Listen, I don’t think there is a polite way to put this…” Steve said, voice low, tight with restraint. His weight shifted forward like he was gearing up for a fight he didn’t want but felt he had to have. You braced yourself instinctively, steeling yourself with a deadly calm, ready for an outburst, accusation, or insult. But to your surprise, when he spoke again, it wasn’t anger that flooded out.
It was fear.
Fear that you had no problem deducing came from a desire to protect Bucky, not just from H.Y.D.R.A., any other foe or the world as a whole, but to protect him from you.
“He’s vulnerable. If this goes south, it could break him.”
“You don’t think I know that?” you shot back, sharper than you intended.
Steve’s eyes flickered with surprise, but from the way he was gritting his teeth, it didn’t take a genius to tell he disapproved. He took a slow breath, like he was trying to hold back everything he wanted to say but couldn’t.
“Just—” His voice cracked slightly. He ran a hand down his face, visibly struggling. “I need you to understand. Ever since we got him back, I see pieces of him. Fragments of the man I used to know.”
He paused as he motioned vaguely into the air, as if he was trying to stop the floodgate of words spilling from his lips.
“And it kills me, it kills me every day, knowing we’ll never get all of him back. That parts of my best friend are just… lost forever. I don't know what H.Y.D.R.A. took from him—hell, maybe none of us ever will—but what I do know is that he’s hanging on by threads. Whatever you’re doing with him is a bad idea.”
He swallowed thickly, his eyes flashing with something dangerously close to desperation. “It won’t just hurt him. It'll undo him. And I can't…I won’t let that happen. I won’t let you play with his emotions like that. I don’t want you damaging him any further than he already is—-”
Any sympathy you felt for Steve quickly drained as you felt heat rising up your neck, and before you could stop yourself, you snarled, “I’m not damaging him—”
You knew this look.
The thinly veiled judgment behind it.
It had followed you like a shadow from the moment you were freed from Dreykov’s clutches. You weren’t oblivious to the way people glanced at you when they thought you weren’t looking, the way prejudice soured even their best intentions. You were not naïve. You were not feeble enough to stand there and be quietly condemned.
“Are you sure?” Steve cut back, ignorant of the frustration now festering in your gut. “He’s not ready for whatever you’re pushing onto him—”
You pinched the bridge of your nose as you struggled to hold onto your temper, but it was slipping through your fingers fast. You could see it in the stubborn line of his mouth, the narrowing of his eyes.
“I’m not pushing anything onto him!”
You took a hard step forward. The movement made Steve tense, like he half-expected you to swing at him, but you didn’t. You just stood your ground, daring him to keep going, daring him to say something worse.
“I think this attitude is part of the problem, Rogers," you bit out. "How is he supposed to overcome anything, experience anything if you baby him? If you cut him off before he has the chance to grow? I’m not hurting him, I’m just helping him.”
Steve opened his mouth like he had a retort ready, but whatever words he had dried up halfway to his tongue. His hands, balled into fists at his sides, finally sagged open in helplessness. His whole stance wilted slightly, shoulders bowing under the weight of doubt.
“I don’t know...” he muttered, the words dragged from him reluctantly, like they tasted sour in his mouth.
You didn’t give him a chance to wallow. The anger was already riding too hot in your blood, crackling in your chest.
“He consents. Every time. I check with him every time.” You hissed. “Because I know how important that is to him, because it’s important to me too, but that’s a topic none of you will ever address, is it?”
Steve stared at you, breathing heavily through his nose, his chest rising and falling like a man trying desperately to hold onto his last thread of composure as you continued your rant. “We never go past his comfort zone. I never pressure him. I never trick him. I respect him. Why would you even think that?”
His mouth contorted into a scowl before he finally answered, “because I don’t know you.”
You recoiled a fraction, brow lifting in disbelief. You could’ve sworn there was a flicker of recognition in his gaze, like he was watching something familiar but hadn’t quite put the pieces together yet. You stared back at him, heat flushing your face, and when you finally found your voice, it came out quieter, but no less biting.
“No, you don’t,” you spat, the words ripping from your throat. “I know I never put the effort in, but you can’t say you ever tried either.”
The hallway fell into a suffocating silence. The kind that rang in your ears. The kind where neither of you wanted to be the first to speak, where the air between you burned with the things you couldn’t unsay now. Steve’s jaw worked soundlessly for a moment, his eyes flashing with a storm of emotions he clearly didn’t trust himself to voice. He finally just looked away, the tension radiating off him like static.
It would have been so easy to leave it like that, to turn your back and let Steve stew in his distrust. But that wouldn’t help Bucky. And he was the only thing that mattered right now.
So you spoke up, catching the thinnest, fraying thread of truce before it would fade entirely.
“Look, I don’t care what you think of me," you tried to calm your voice, keeping your tone neutral despite the fire licking up your spine. "I don’t care if you even like me to be honest, but what I do care about is that if you say you’re his friend, if you say it’s your job to look after him, then I need you to go back there and reassure him before he spirals.”
He dragged a hand through his hair. A rare, raw show of uncertainty from Captain America himself, usually so sure of himself and his actions. “You’re... you’re probably right.”
Before he could hesitate, before he could get cold feet, you reached out and grabbed his arm. His muscles went tense under your grip, but you didn’t let that deter you. You pointed a finger at him, close enough that he had no choice but to meet your glare head-on.
“Don’t treat me like the villain because I care.”
Steve gave one stiff nod, but he said nothing. You stared at him a second longer, making sure it stuck, before you finally released him with a shove of your hand.
Without another word, you turned on your heel and stalked back down the hall. You didn’t look back to see if Steve was following.
You didn’t need to.
His footsteps, reluctant but steady, fell into place behind you.
The silence prickled along your skin as you navigated quickly back to Bucky’s apartment. His anxious face plagued your mind, the way his breathing had turned shallow and scared, like a caged animal.
The door to Bucky’s apartment was still ajar, just a crack, like he'd been too afraid to close it. Or maybe he hadn’t even noticed it was open at all.
You pushed gently at the handle and stepped inside.
Bucky was still sitting on the edge of the mattress, hunched forward, elbows digging into his knees, hair half-clinging to the sweat still damp on his temples. His shirt was still wrinkled from earlier, his vibranium hand flexing unconsciously, twitching in small stutters as though trying to grasp at something he couldn’t hold.
His eyes lifted the moment he heard the door creak, wild, wide with nerves, and then they landed on Steve.
“Hey Buck…” Steve started, voice soft.
“Steve, I can explain—“ Bucky’s words spilt out in a tangle of panic, but Steve raised a hand, halting him.
“It’s alright,” Steve said quickly, the kind of quick that begged not to make it worse. His eyes scanned the room like he didn’t quite know what to do with them. “I’m not mad. I just… didn’t expect it.”
He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, giving a weak, crooked sort of smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “So, uhh… how long has this been happening?”
“Since the gala,” Bucky muttered.
“The gala?” Steve echoed, blinking. “You two really hit it off then, huh?”
You resisted the urge to groan. There was a pause, awkward and brittle.
“So are you like dating or—”
“No—” You and Bucky answered in perfect, rapid unison.
Maybe too fast.
The silence that followed was deafening. Steve raised both brows, then glanced between the two of you slowly, clearly re-evaluating everything. Bucky shifted uncomfortably, rubbing at his jaw while you picked hard at the raw skin around your nails.
“Alright,” Steve said after a moment, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’m not judging. I’m just trying to understand. It’s a whole new century, Buck. I guess we gotta adapt to the times.”
He was trying, that much was clear. His voice gentle, his posture no longer combative, though the tension in his shoulders hadn’t quite let up. It was the kind of compromise only a man like Steve Rogers could offer—discomfort wrapped in compassion.
You opened your mouth, the words slow to form on your tongue. “We’ve just been… I’ve just been…”
You hesitated. Your eyes flicked to Bucky, trying to read him, trying to decide whether he wanted this out in the open, whether he’d say anything at all. But his body locked up like it expected pain, arms folded, metal fingers curled tight. His expression was a mix of shame and fear.
He looked like a man staring down a loaded barrel.
“We’ve just been fooling around,” he cut in, voice flat and even. “Nothing serious.”
Nothing serious.
You tried not to flinch, tried not to let the words sting like salt in an open wound, nor assess why you felt that way. You didn’t understand why it hurt so much, considering you had repeated those same words to Natasha not long ago. He wasn’t lying. What he said was true, even if he carefully sidestepped the messy reality of the lessons. That was a whole other rabbit hole Bucky clearly wasn’t ready to admit to Steve. Maybe not even to himself.
Still, you forced yourself to nod along, pretending the hollow feeling in your chest wasn’t there. Pretending you hadn’t gotten a little too attached to this— to the lessons, to the quiet understanding, to the broken man sitting right in front of you.
Steve’s gaze shifted between the two of you, his mouth tightening. He didn’t press, but the flicker in his eyes said enough. He noticed something, but he just wasn’t brave enough to acknowledge it.
“Alright, I believe you,” Steve said carefully. “You told anyone about this?”
“Just you,” Bucky muttered, still refusing to meet his friend's eye.
You shifted your weight, the guilt gnawing at you sharp and immediate. You forced a breath through your nose, nails digging into the tender skin around your thumb. Neither super soldier seemed to notice the way your jaw tightened, or how the metallic taste of iron bloomed across your tongue from how hard you bit down.
You couldn’t keep lying. Not now. Not after everything you had just preached about trust and care, not if you wanted Bucky to keep believing in you. You had to tell him. In the spirit of being truthful, you would tell him. You had to own up to the fact that you had foolishly confided in Natasha, that you had allowed her to get under your skin, left yourself vulnerable in a way that could very well undo everything you had built together.
The word caught your throat on its way out.
“Well...” you interrupted, voice soft, bracing yourself.
Both men turned to you, and you already regretted your decision. Steve straightened subtly, his arms crossing over his chest as he glanced between you and Bucky with wary eyes, as if already preparing himself to referee whatever was about to happen. But it was Bucky’s reaction that truly cut, his whole body going rigid where he sat, muscles locking beneath the fabric of his t-shirt. His brow furrowed, deep lines creasing his forehead as he stared at you with a mixture of confusion and something rawer, something alarmingly close to hurt.
“You told someone?” he questioned, voice tight.
“No, it’s just... Nat,” you admitted, the words spilling too fast, too desperate to soften the blow.
Bucky's face twisted. “You told Natasha?”
“No! She, uh, kinda pieced it together?” You fumbled over your words, blindly and furiously picking at your nails.
“What?”
“Look, you’re not exactly subtle,” you rushed to explain, feeling Steve shift awkwardly at your side as the conversation nosedived. “I was going to talk to you about it first, but then she cornered me, and I didn’t know what to say—”
“When?” Bucky cut in, voice rising. “When were you going to talk to me about it?”
“I don’t know!” you burst out, exasperated with yourself more than him. “I was trying to figure out how to bring it up—”
“You lied to me.”
“No, I was just—” you tried, stepping forward instinctively, but the look he gave you rooted you to the spot.
“I asked you if you had said anything to Natasha or Yelena,” Bucky interrupted, voice low and wounded, like he couldn’t quite believe it. “And you said no.”
“It just didn’t feel like the right time—” you mumbled weakly,
Bucky rolled his eyes, a sharp, bitter sound escaping him. He looked past you, to Steve, as if hoping for some escape.
“So Natasha knows,” he muttered darkly. “And then we can assume Yelena probably knows as well—”
“Nat wouldn’t say anything—”
Bucky’s laugh was hollow, almost humourless. “Do you know that? For sure?”
“Why are you so worried—”
“Because I don’t want people to know!” he snapped, voice cutting sharper than you thought he could bear to be with you. “Are you not embarrassed?”
You recoiled in shock.
Steve exhaled a breath that came out sounding suspiciously like a curse, entirely unexpected and out of character for the golden super soldier.
“Why would I be embarrassed?” you asked, voice steady despite the way your chest ached.
Bucky opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His eyes darted away, landing on the sheets crumpled around him like they held some escape, some answer. His whole posture shrank inward, collapsing in on himself.
You didn’t let it go. You couldn’t.
“Why would I be embarrassed?” you repeated, louder this time, forcing the question into the space between you.
Bucky still wouldn’t look at you. His shoulders hunched, head bowed. Scolded dog—but for once, you didn’t find it cute.
“Are you embarrassed by me, Bucky?” you asked directly.
“No,” Bucky said immediately, shaking his head. “No. That’s not what I meant—”
“It sure sounded like it,” you scoffed.
The silence that settled over the room was uncomfortable enough to make Steve squirm, the blond opened his mouth to try to smooth over the situation. You stopped him before his tongue could even form a syllable, holding up one finger as you stared across at Bucky. He blinked up at you with an expression cut somewhere between guilt and horror as he realised there was no coming back from what he had just implied. The insult had hit, the damage done, and all that was left was a chasm between you.
“I should go,” you said at last, voice clipped.
“Now, hold on—” Steve interrupted, stepping forward slightly.
“No, it’s fine," you cut him off, shaking your head. "You two should talk alone anyway."
Bucky's head jerked up slightly at your words, expression stricken. He didn’t move from where he sat, just watched silently as you crossed the room with stiff, deliberate motions. He didn’t stop you as you gathered your bra from the floor, nor when you collected your coat and shoes from where they had been haphazardly tossed.
At the door, you paused, squaring your shoulders before gesturing vaguely between them with a small, almost pitying smile. Your eyes locked onto Bucky’s, not angry, not scolding, just exhausted.
“Remember, in and out. Use your words. Talk to him, sort it out.” you reminded him, voice gentle but unwavering. “You’re on your own now.”
“Wait—” Bucky reached out instinctively, voice cracking under the strain, but it was too late.
You snapped the door shut behind you, cutting off whatever apology or excuse he might have tried to offer.
—
You’re on your own now.
The words had echoed through your mind like a curse, looping over and over.
They whispered back every time your phone lit up. They rang louder when Natasha tried to corner you with soft girl-talk after long missions or training sessions. They surged again whenever Steve hovered too close after briefings, or loomed beside the coffee machine like he was waiting for the perfect opportunity to get you alone.
You’re on your own now.
You were beginning to think those words weren’t for Bucky but for yourself.
It was your mess—a slow-burning wreck of your own making. Bucky had reached out in the aftermath, trying to bridge the silence with texts asking to talk, explain, and understand. You’d read them, every one, then locked your phone and buried it like that would bury the damage too. You were too exhausted. Too goddamn ashamed of how much you’d let him in.
You’d broken your own rules and now, predictably, you were bleeding for it.
Two weeks later, you were doing better, or at least performing the illusion well enough that no one dared question it. You’d buried yourself in work with single-minded fervour. What started as six-hour recon missions inside Karpin’s club had stretched to eight, then twelve. You hadn’t missed a shift or turned in a report that wasn’t pristine, timestamped, and drowning in intel. You were producing results so efficiently that it bordered on obsessive. Another compromise, another calculated smile, another night letting your soul rot beneath the thump of bass and leering stares in the club’s smoke-slicked VIP rooms. Progress came steep and you were the currency.
The black dress you wore clung like regret, stitched tight across your thighs and chest, sweat seeping through the synthetic fabric. Glitter clung to your skin like a rash, and your heels had carved angry grooves into the backs of your feet. The thick eye makeup you’d smeared on hours ago had begun to crumble in the corners, leaving your reflection a cracked porcelain doll in the glass door you passed. But none of that mattered. You just wanted to make it to your apartment, scrape yourself clean, and pretend, if only for a few hours, that you hadn’t given up everything just to feel nothing.
You slapped the final handwritten debrief into the data analyst’s hands, your signature barely legible.
Another mission done, but you had the sinking feeling your day was far from over, mainly because Steve was standing by the elevators with a little too much casual ease. The kind that wasn’t casual at all. He’d been lingering since you arrived to complete your debrief protocol, hovering just close enough to be noticed, but not close enough to call it out. Hands shoved in his pockets, one foot angled toward the hallway like he was trying to look like he had somewhere else to be, even though he didn’t. He was waiting, watching, hoping to intercept.
You knew better than to take the elevator. Not just because it was a coffin on cables, but because he would follow. You could already picture it, his voice low in some lame attempt not to spook you, trying to reason with you, explain himself, maybe even apologise. You didn’t want it. You didn’t want any of it. Not his concern, not his guilt, not whatever sense of responsibility he’d suddenly found like loose change in his pocket. He’d said his piece two weeks ago—said you weren’t good for Bucky. So what was this? Regret? Or worse, another excuse to tear into you?
You ducked your head, ignoring the burning ache in your heels, and made a sharp turn toward the stairwell.
“Hey,” came Natasha’s voice, too light, too amused.
You didn’t stop walking. What was this? Some kind of coordinated attack?
“Trouble in paradise?” she added, like this was a game. Like any of this was remotely fucking funny.
“Jesus, give it a break.”
“Not when you keep moping around like you’ve had your heart broken—”
“My heart isn’t broken—” you snapped without turning, pace only quickening.
“Look. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t realise things were so serious between you and Barnes. Let’s just talk about it—”
You stopped at the stairwell door, hand on the bar. Your spine went rigid, and you turned slowly, fixing her with a scathing look that could've flayed skin. She faltered under the heat of it.
“Oh, fuck off, Nat.”
Her smirk dropped. And just like that, you shoved the door open and disappeared into the stairwell.
Two weeks of silence, two weeks of pretending, two weeks of giving everything you had to missions because it was easier than sitting still. Easier than thinking about how much you’d given away and how little you had left.
You should’ve talked to him. Should’ve answered. Should’ve tried.
But you hadn’t. You hadn’t had the strength, or maybe just hadn’t wanted to be vulnerable one second longer than necessary. Because once you were vulnerable, once you opened that door, you couldn't un-feel what was felt. You couldn’t un-know the way he looked at you.
You hit the fifth landing when it happened, and your heel caught.
A sickening skritch, and your ankle jolted back, yanked by the spike of your stupid, overpriced, Stark donated shoe catching in one of the grid holes in the grated metal step. You cursed, gripping the railing, yanking once, twice—harder.
It wouldn’t budge.
A breath shuddered out of you. Your hands trembled as you crouched down, fingers scrabbling to free it. The heel was wedged deep in the hole, warped just enough that it wouldn’t twist loose. You gritted your teeth, tugging again. Nothing.
The pressure inside you, simmering, festering, unspoken for days, snapped like a wire. You stood abruptly and kicked your other shoe off with a grunt, the heel clattering against the wall with a hollow thud. Then you grabbed the stuck one with both hands, tore it loose, and flung it with everything you had.
The shoe hit the concrete wall with a loud crack, then fell limp to the landing.
You let out a dry, broken sound—half laugh, half sob—and dropped to sit on the step, barefoot, legs shaking. No tears came, but the pressure behind your eyes stung. You pressed the heels of your palms hard into your face, breathing ragged through clenched teeth.
You’re on your own now.
—
The shower hadn’t helped.
You’d stood under the stream far too long, letting the water scald down your shoulders and rinse away the tension, the sweat, the last remnants of Karpin’s perfumed hell. Now, dressed in an old t-shirt and soft shorts, you stood at the foot of your bed. The sheets were untouched, cool and smoothed from disuse, undisturbed like a hotel room no one had ever checked into. You blinked at them like they might blink back.
You hadn’t been sleeping well. Not for weeks. Then again, sleep had never come easily. Most nights, you crashed on the couch, half-dressed, half-conscious, the TV humming in the background. There was something final about beds, something about the unspoken history soaked into the mattress and pillows.
With a small, habitual sigh, you pulled back the covers and slid beneath them, curling slightly onto your side, picking absently at the skin around your thumbnail. You winced when your nail caught a sore patch, your skin already raw and torn, but didn’t stop until the sting sharpened.
You reached for your phone, trying to distract your nervous hands. The light burned your eyes, too bright in the dark room, but you navigated by muscle memory. Messages. His name. Your thumb hovered, heart slowing as the thread opened.
The last ones sat like ghosts, pale and greyed, still waiting for a reply.
Just talk to me.
Please?
I’m sorry.
I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it like that.
Can we please talk?
You stared at them, lips parting slightly. That sick little ache twisted low in your ribs. You scrolled past, skimming quickly until the tone shifted, until the anger and desperation faded into something older.
Are you still awake?
Come over?
Can’t sleep.
Still can’t sleep.
I made tea. It’s too strong. You’ll hate it. Come fix it?
You could almost hear his voice, tired, soft, and just a little grumpy, the way it got when it was too late and he didn’t want to be alone but didn’t know how to say it.
You scrolled further, reading the back-and-forth, the playful jabs, the dry jokes, the quiet check-ins he always offered at the end of your missions, even when he already knew the details. You closed your eyes and saw it clearly, his apartment cast in low, amber light, the muted hum of the fridge, the TV murmuring. His arm would hang lazily over the back of the couch, like he wasn’t obviously waiting for you.
You could picture how his lips would twitch into a grin when you finally walked through the door. The quiet press of his hand against the small of your back as he led you past the threshold. How he had grown more confident with each night, how he laughed now, full and unguarded, at the sarcasm that used to make him flinch. How he looked when he was unravelled beneath you, breathless, red-cheeked, eyes blown wide.
You didn’t know when your hand had slipped beneath the sheets.
But now it was there, curled between your thighs, brushing past the waistband of your shorts as memory and longing swelled in your chest like a bruise. His voice in your ear, the way he would shiver when you whispered to him. The little whines he tried to swallow down.
Your fingers found slick heat, and your breath hitched as you brushed against your clit, circling slowly, gently. You kept your eyes closed. It was easier that way. Easier to summon the image of him pressing kisses to your sternum, the chill of his vibranium palm cupping your breast, thumb skimming over your nipple. You could almost feel it.
A soft moan escaped your throat as your fingers dipped lower, working in a rhythm that was steady but hollow, a poor mimicry of what you really wanted. Still, you chased it—chased him—through every flicker of heat and memory.
You ground the heel of your palm against your clit and gasped into the pillow, hips twitching upward.
“Bucky—”
His name slipped from your lips, barely a breath.
And everything stopped.
You froze. Fingers stilled. You sat up sharply, yanking your hand away like it burned, chest rising and falling beneath the old cotton of your shirt. You would’ve thrown your own damn traitorous hand across the room if it wasn’t attached to your wrist.
You stared into the dark, lips parted, throat tight, wondering how the hell you’d ended up here, half undone in an empty bed, chasing a ghost who hadn’t spoken to you in weeks.
—
You stepped into the gym, the doors swinging shut behind you with a dull thud. The air greeted you like a punch to the lungs, rubber mats, dried sweat, and stale air conditioning. Your routine had become muscle memory by this point. Drop the bag by the bench. Roll your shoulders. Stretch until your bones stop screaming. Pretend everything is fine.
Except it wasn’t.
You blinked against the harsh fluorescents, scanning the space. No flash of red hair. No high blonde ponytail bobbing by the punching bags. No snide commentary lobbed across the sparring ring. Just quiet. Not peace, it was never peaceful, but that suffocating kind of silence that settled just before the ground gave out.
And then it did in the shape of Steve Rogers.
“They got pulled last night,” he said, emerging from the weight racks where he and Sam had been mid-stretch. “Mission came in late. Left before sunrise.”
You nodded once, jaw tight, masking the drop in your stomach. Of course they did. Of course, they left. Probably Nat punishing you for being a bitch to her by the stairwell.
Steve offered a vague, practised smile, too quick, too knowing. “But don’t worry. We’re subbing in.”
Your gaze flicked to Sam, who gave you a friendly wave. Then to Bucky, who was hunched over, lacing up his boots with a quiet intensity that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else. His eyes caught yours for only a second, just enough for you to register the damage. He looked as wrecked as you felt. Pale, bruised beneath the eyes, mouth tight. He hadn’t slept properly in days. Favouring his right side again, you could see the subtle strain as he stood up, rolling his shoulders in faux nonchalance.
You hesitated. “You’re... stepping in?”
Steve shrugged. “We usually run around this time anyway. Figured we’d help cover.”
You glanced back toward the exit. The door was still there. Still functional. Escape was still an option, and you were a pretty good liar when you wanted to be. But selfishness was a slippery thing, and you didn’t move.
So you nodded, slow and controlled. “Right. Okay.”
You dropped down into a lunge, one knee kissing the mat, the other bent clean above your ankle. You held it steady, focusing on your breathing as your muscles slowly stretched awake.
Steve crossed his arms over his chest, using that easy posture he adopted when he wanted to appear relaxed. It only made you suspicious.
“What do you three usually run on Mondays?”
You shifted into a hamstring stretch, straightening your front leg and folding over it with practised ease. “Sparring,” you said, voice calm despite the tightness in your shoulders. “Nat’s idea. She says it sets the tone for the rest of the week.”
Steve gave a small smile. “Great. You’ll go with Bucky.”
You stilled mid-fold, hands hovering above your shin. The mat felt suddenly unstable beneath you.
Lifting your gaze slowly, you tried not to flinch visibly. “Is that… necessary?”
Steve tilted his head. “Why? Is there a problem?”
Sam raised a brow but said nothing, sensing the tension but clearly not sure what to make of it. You sat back on your heels, drawing your arms overhead in a stretch you didn’t need, using movement to mask your hesitation.
“No,” you said evenly, rising to your feet. “No problem.”
Across the room, Bucky had stilled, his jaw locked tight, a muscle ticking as he shot Steve a single, withering glance. He didn’t say a word, didn’t need to. The reluctance in his movements said enough as he pushed up from the bench, slow and stiff, like gravity was suddenly working against him.
This wasn’t training. This was theatre. A stage set under fluorescent lights and recycled air. And Steve? Still over by the weights with Sam, pretending to be engaged in some idle conversation? Their voices were hushed, but their eyes flicked over too often, too deliberately? This had been arranged, choreographed behind your back like some well-meaning intervention. You wondered who else knew, who had caught wind. Had Sam pieced it together? Had Yelena? Was this their way of ‘helping’?
Bucky stepped into place across from you, feet shoulder-width apart, arms loose at his sides. He shifted, rolling his shoulders in a slow motion. The right still caught slightly. He still hadn’t gone to physio, that was clear. Stubborn as ever. Just one more thing for you to worry over.
“Ready?” he asked at last. His voice was dry, flat.
You swallowed the knot in your throat and gave a curt nod. “Yeah.”
The first few rounds were predictable. You struck low, swept a leg, and knocked him off balance. He grunted, hit the mat, and bounced back up without a word. Then it was your turn. He twisted past your arm, hooked your leg behind his, and took you down in one smooth motion. You landed hard, breath puffing out of your lungs in a curse.
The fourth time you clashed, your forearms locked, both of you panting, he finally spoke.
“You always fight this sloppy when you're pissed off?” he muttered.
You bared your teeth. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He pushed off with a sharp motion, shoving you back with more force than necessary. You staggered but caught yourself.
“You said we were done,” Bucky said, jaw clenched, circling you again. “Figured that meant you wouldn’t be sneaking glances at me every five seconds.”
A guttural laugh left your lips as you stepped in, aimed low and fast, but he blocked you easily. “I’m sorry, are you embarrassed, Barnes? Must be so embarrassing for you to have someone like me near you—”
“Don’t say that,” he snapped.
You hesitated just a second too long, and he used it, sweeping in, gripping your arm, twisting you toward the floor. But instead of letting the momentum carry, you pivoted mid-fall and slammed your elbow into his side, dragging him down with you. You both hit the mat in a tangle, limbs locked, breath heavy. Your chest pressed to his. His fingers curled tightly around your wrist. You could feel his heart hammering under your palm.
You shoved off him roughly and stood, pacing back toward the centre, sweat prickling down your spine, adrenaline and something uglier twisting in your gut.
“You really wanna do this?” you said, voice hoarse.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes flashing. “I don’t know. Do you?”
Your blood roared.
Steve called out from the other side of the gym, something about keeping it light.
But it was too late.
You charged again.
No more feints. No more dancing around it. You drove into him with a fury you hadn’t realised had been coiled so tightly in your chest. Bucky blocked, returned, shoved—your bodies collided again and again, a flurry of jabs, kicks, twists, and takedowns. Your knuckles ached from where they connected with his forearms, your legs trembled from exertion. Neither of you held back anymore. This was the type of sparring that Nat was desperate to get out of you, messy, dirty plays that she praised.
He got a hit in against your ribs. You grunted and retaliated with a kick that swept his leg, sending him crashing to the mat. He growled, rolled, pulled you down with him, and suddenly you were grappling, arms locking, muscles burning.
Then he flipped you.
You hit the mat hard. Your breath left you in an abrupt wheeze.
His weight came down over you, solid, full-body pressure, his knee between your thighs to brace, his forearm across your collarbone pinning your shoulder. His hand gripped your wrist, and your other hand was caught somewhere beneath your own hip. The mat pressed into your spine. His face loomed above yours, his jaw clenched tight, and his breath fast and uneven.
You struggled.
At first, it was instinctual. A jerk of the hips. A twist of the arm. Trying to buck him off like you always had before. The sparring was routine, muscle memory, a thing you’d done with a dozen people a hundred times. But Bucky was heavier than you remembered. Stronger. His grip was too tight, his weight too much. Maybe you’d never quite realised how gentle he had been with you before, how soft and malleable he made himself when both of you were in bed.
Something primal and old stirred in the pit of your stomach.
Your limbs started to go rigid. Your throat tightened. You blinked, but the edges of your vision were already going dark, tunnelling inward, compressing the world into a narrow box with no air. His weight pressed down on your hips, his knee solid between your thighs, your shoulders pinned in place. You couldn’t breathe. You tried sharp, gasping inhales, but it wasn’t working. The more you pulled in, the more the air seemed to thin.
Your body twitched beneath him, useless, trapped, every muscle locking up. You felt yourself whimper, but it barely escaped your throat. You bit down hard on your lip to stop it from turning into something worse.
You tried to scream, to yell his name—Bucky, stop, stop—but no words came out. Just pressure and panic and the unbearable rush of tears behind your eyes. They brimmed but didn’t fall. You refused to let them fall. Not here. Not now.
He didn’t move. Didn’t notice. He thought it was part of the fight. He thought you were still in it.
You tried to suck in a breath and choked on it.
You lifted your hand, every motion sluggish and jerky, and tapped three times on his forearm.
Bucky froze.
His entire body went still like someone had hit a kill switch. The pressure lifted instantly as he pushed himself off, retreating back on his knees. His face was alarmed, eyes wide and scanning.
You sat up slowly, not looking at him, not looking at anything. Your hands were flat against the mat, supporting your shaking frame. Your lungs worked overtime, trying to stabilise, trying to ground yourself. Your face flushed hot, not just from exertion but also from shame.
“Hey…” Bucky reached a hand toward you, but you cowered before he could touch you.
You forced yourself to your feet, knees stiff, stars swimming across your vision.
Bucky didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just knelt there on the mat, his eyes locked on you, searching your face like he was trying to read between the lines, like the truth might be scrawled somewhere in the way your mouth trembled or how you blindly picked at your nails.
His expression had dropped into something taut and drawn, like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. His brain catching up with what the tap meant—what it truly meant.
“Shit,” he breathed.“I didn’t know. I—I didn’t see it.”
He looked like he might be sick. Like he wanted to reach for you but knew he couldn’t. Knew he shouldn’t. His weight shifted, knee lifting like he was going to get up, close the space between you, but you took half a step back before he could. That was enough. He stayed where he was.
You hated how badly you wanted to fall into him.
Your whole body screamed for it, for safety, for the press of arms you trusted around you, for the warmth of him. For the feeling of a steady heart under your cheek, a voice in your ear telling you you were okay, you were here, it was over.
But you didn’t move. You locked your arms around your middle instead. Drew in a breath so deep it scraped your ribs raw and shoved everything down.
Still, your eyes lingered on him for a beat too long. On his worry. His guilt. His panic. He had remembered. He had known what the signal meant, even after all this time, hadn’t argued, hadn’t questioned it and hadn’t made you explain.
And that—that meant something.
Slowly, with herculean effort, you rolled your shoulders back and let your face go blank as Steve and Sam approached.
“What are you two doing?” Steve asked, brows drawn together. He didn’t sound accusatory, just cautious, like he was testing the temperature of a room already on fire. “I told you to spar, not kill each other—”
“I—” Bucky started, lifting his hands slightly, almost in surrender. His voice was steady, but there was a slight tremor beneath it. You heard it. He was trying to smooth it over, or maybe like the words had just slipped from that place inside him that wasn’t guarded. He ignored Steve, eyes firmly locked onto you. “You alright, doll?”
He said it with such casualness. Casualness that indicated he didn't realise what had just slipped past his lips. It was instinct, probably.
Still, it hit you like a slap.
You didn’t even get the chance to level him with a look of ‘well-you’ve-gone-and-done-it-now’ before Sam’s head whipped around, armed with an expression somewhere between bewilderment and horror.
“What did you just call her?”
Bucky said nothing. His lips pressed into a thin line, and you swore you saw the slightest tinge of red creep up his neck. Steve exhaled through his nose, loud and irritated, dragging a hand down his face like he was already regretting whatever scheme he had been plotting. Whatever it had been, it was clear to you that Sam hadn’t been brought up to speed.
“I’m fine,” you said, too quickly.
You didn’t look at anyone, just grabbed your bag from the bench and turned, heading for the locker room without a word.
Behind you, silence lingered on the mat.
—
Tony’s penthouse glittered like a scene from a luxury magazine shoot, all sleek lighting, glass walls, and a sky full of stars pressed against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Music thumped low and rich through the space, some jazzy, remixed classic that Tony swore gave the night ‘class’. Outside, New York burned electric, skyscrapers blinking like a million eyes. Inside, the air reeked of expensive cologne, champagne, and politics.
You stood by the bar, posture poised, gown clinging perfectly in all the ways it was meant to. The colour was deep and dark, with a silky fabric cascading down your body like liquid shadow, explicitly chosen to flatter, distract, and hide. Your hair was swept into a neat updo, not a strand out of place. Lipstick matched the shade of your nails, the polish partly to distract from the skin you had picked raw. Sleek, practised, controlled. You looked the part.
God, you hated looking the part.
But the board had insisted. Visibility. Cohesion. Unity. The Avengers, Agents, Consultants, Freelance, everybody needed to be seen tonight, in public, together, smiling. To show the sponsors, the donors, the shareholders or whoever the fuck had power that everything was fine. That the world was still being held together by its favourite, dysfunctional little family.
You sipped your drink and nodded when someone from marketing passed by and forced a tight-lipped smile when a UN delegate’s assistant asked for a photo—laughed, genuinely for a moment, when Yelena shoved a canapé into Kate’s mouth mid-sentence and nearly made her choke.
Thor had clearly been overindulging in full Asgardian regalia and a black bowtie hanging comically loose around his thick neck. He was halfway through recounting an epic battle tale to a group of mortified interns, sloshing golden liquid onto the white rug as he gestured too grandly, his booming laugh echoing off the glass.
You laughed with him. Or, rather, around him.
You weren’t drunk, hadn’t dared allow it. The buzz you wore tonight came from anxiety. You had perfected the art of looking like you were fine. Fine in heels. Fine in silence. Fine in a room full of people where the one person you couldn't stop thinking about was also pretending he was fine.
You were on your millionth fake laugh when Steve stepped up beside you.
“I come in peace,” he said quickly, hands raised, like he expected you to throw a punch.
You shot him a flat look and started to turn away. “Whatever it is, Rogers, I’m not in the mood—”
“Hey—” he cut in gently, lowering his voice. “Nat was looking for you. Said she wanted to talk. Something important. She’s out on the balcony.”
That made you pause.
You glanced at him, reading his expression, trying to discern if there was more to it. But Steve had always been a terrible liar. This wasn’t his idea. There was definitely something sketchy about it…but you’d bite.
“…Fine,” you muttered, setting your glass on the bar. “Thanks.”
You peeled yourself from the crowd's edge, careful not to make eye contact with anyone too important or drunk. The floor beneath you pulsed faintly with the bass of the music, the champagne-fueled laughter, the click of heels and the hum of fake conversation.
Out of habit, your eyes scanned the room for him. You didn’t even mean to. It was muscle memory by now. A flicker of dark hair. Broad shoulders. The kind of presence that stood out, even when he was trying not to. But you didn’t see him.
Maybe he left. Perhaps he found a corner to vanish into, away from all this noise.
You dodged a passing executive with a knowing smile and a polite excuse, dipped past a photographer angling for candids, and spun gracefully on your heel to avoid getting cornered by a senator’s wife with a diamond necklace and a mile-long list of questions.
Finally, you reached the balcony doors and slipped through them.
The cool air of the balcony kissed your bare shoulders the moment the sliding door clicked shut behind you. You exhaled. Finally, quiet.
Except—
He was there.
Leaning on the glass railing, gazing out over the city, hands braced as if the skyline could offer answers.
He didn’t turn at first. Just stood there, tall and tense, framed by the hum of the city lights below. His suit fit too well, with sharp lines and immaculate tailoring, the black lapels catching faint glints of light. The tie was knotted tight against his throat like a collar, strangling something feral just beneath the surface, like dressing up a wild, wounded animal and calling it tame.
You knew how much he hated this, the attention, the stiffness, the shallow, gleaming pretence. He hated how the suits itched, how they never accommodated his arm, and how they made him feel on display. Something was jarring about seeing him like this. Clean-shaven, hair slicked back and perfectly parted. Like someone had tried to iron out all the edges and polish him into something smooth and forgettable, it didn’t work. It never did.
And then you saw it—the glove. Smooth black leather over his left hand. Hiding it.
Shame. Fear. Judgment. You knew what that glove meant, what it had always meant. Just another mask he was forced to hide behind, or maybe a mask he forced himself to hide behind. And even now, he felt ashamed among people who called him a hero, who toasted him with champagne and wanted him in photos. And maybe he was right to feel wary, not to get too comfortable around the puppeteers who pulled all the strings.
It broke your heart.
Your heels clicked softly across the balcony tile as you approached. Bucky turned at the sound, startled.
His eyes locked on yours.
You stopped a few paces away, your breath catching for just a second. His gaze darted to the door, then back to you.
“Let me guess,” you said dryly, arms folding over your chest, “Nat came to you and told you Steve was looking for you on the balcony?”
Bucky blinked. “How did you—?”
“Because Steve just came to me,” you said, arching a brow, “and told me Nat was looking for me on the balcony.”
He swore softly under his breath and looked away, exhaling like he’d been sucker-punched. The wind tugged at his jacket, and his hand ghosted near the balcony rail.
“I think we’ve been set up.” You hummed.
“I’m sorry,” Bucky said quickly, already stepping back. “I can go—”
“No, it’s okay.” You cut him off. “We should talk.”
---
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During Shibuya the Reader and Choso bonded through out events that took place….( everyone is alive 🥲) and after that the Reader helps Choso adapt to his new reality of living among the humans…and a few years into that “normal human” life with Choso she finds out she’s pregnant…
She decides to makes a surprise party to reveal to him the news with all their friends but it didn’t go as planned and Choso has a mix reaction with feeling that he himself couldn’t comprehend…. And single tear slides down his face both of happiness and fear cuz he never thought that was a possibility ….
With a crippling fear that ran through him at the thought of Reader going through what his mother went… him kinda spiraling thinking he was no better then his father…. And starts apologizing because of what might happen to the Reader because the child will have his poisons blood and the fear of what others would think or react if the child doesn’t look human…. But Reader reassure him that everything will be all right and that the child will be loved and maybe they have twin boys in the end…. And maybe one of them have Eso eyes and the other Choso stripe or any other characteristic of his siblings…
(English isn’t my first language so I’m sorry for any mistakes 😊 feel free to change whatever you want)
also this consists a somewhat love triangle, implied sex,mentions of pregnancy, mentions of murderand mentions of abandonment and it doesn't have such a happy ending so if you don't like any of these just like skip this
pink = doffy
red = rosinante/corazon
blue = law
purple = reader
you were 8 years old when you met the Donquixote brothers.your father was a friend to their father and since you were mainly lonely at home your father took you with him to visit the Donquixote so you can play with the two boys and well you guys did get along but doflamingo loved you the most whenever you played hide and seek he would jump and hug you whenever and wherever he found you but an issue he had was that rosinante was always "in his way" and out of jealousy he did anything to try to impress and take your attention example you would be playing dolls with rosinante and doflamingo would catch your attention by doing something like "hey *reader* look what I can do!! :D" he attempted to do a cartwheel but since he was 8 and lacked balance his short little arms failed him and he fell on his face miserably you then got worried but he insisted he was okay and yet you still clapped and was impressed by him not because the cartwheel was good but because he had confidence and you liked that shortly after rosinante being the simple minded 6 year
old he wanted to try doing a cartwheel you thought it was a bad idea but Doffy let him do it to see him fall and assume that he will see your laughter "okay here we :)" rosinante says before attempting to cartwheel but instead falls down on the hard floor face first and when he sat up he started crying and you see his nose bleeding as doflamingo laughed "Doffy how could you laugh like that he's really hurt!!" you say upset at his rude gesture as you run to help rosinante .a little while after his mother treated his nose and gave him a bandage he came to you with a hibiscus flower he found "look *reader* I found this flower and im gonna give it to you because I love you :D" you accepted the flower and blushed "aww I love you too rosi!!"you said while doflamingo just watched in a huff
17 years have passed and you were 25 you had grown up old with the brothers and you married rosinante and you both would think Doffy would be happy for his brother and move on but no he was jealous he always found a way to try to separate you two and third wheel things you did together like example you would be on a bench sitting with rosinante and doflamingo would just randomly comes and shove rosinante to scoot to sit between you two and put an arm around you and talked while ignoring rosinante. a little while after you met law you treated him such like a son and rosinante noticed and asked if you wanted to have kids together "hey since you are good with kids I was wondering...would you like maybe..try having one of our own don't get me wrong I love law and all but maybe you would be happier with a child of our own" he said to you with a awkward smile and that day you left law with some snacks and toys to play with while you and rosinante went to a room somewhere and told law that if he needed anything just knock on the door five times.outside that room as hes playing with the stuffed polar bear and panda making them fight he hears noises coming from that room and he wondered
what was happening but decided to stay curious(even after years he still doesn't know what the hell happened in that room).then came another three years you were now 28 rosinante and law disappeared they said something about doflamingo but you didn't pay attention and after you realized they left you felt bad for not paying attention but you had hope they would come back so you could apologize and after months of waiting you go outside and in a distant you see a silhouette of a man with a large coat you stand up and assume its rosinante but the closer it got you saw it was doflamingo "Doffy oh whats a surprise :D umm what are you doing here exactly? I thought you would be with roro do you perhaps know where he is at" he opens his mouth "well he's.." he pauses then thinks about what he says next "he left." your eyes shot wide open in shock "what do you mean he left.." doflamingo looks down looking "upset" "he sended me over here to tell you that..he lost interest in you he found someone else and figured that they would make law happier than you would so he left" you froze and looked down as you cried you ran to doflamigo and snuggled in his coat for comfort as you cried your eyes out and while you couldn't see doflamingo couldn't help but grin,he finally won after 18 years of losing he won in the very end
during the years of your heart break doflamingo managed to grab the pieces all together and fix it he took care of you and did nothing but loving things to you so obviously eventually you falled for him and you then start reflecting on the past on how you felt bad for 18 years on how much you underestimated doflamingo I mean he did love you more than rosinante did and you then start believing that it was all a con rosinante never loved you at all and it was always doflamingo he truly was the one that loved you
after 20 years you are now 38 you married doflamingo and Became his queen to lead Dressrosa and the citizen were shocked to find out that YOU were his queen they expected you to be the Harley Quinn to his joker but..you were kind, you cared about your citizens and there was no mischief in you unlike doflamingo which you had no idea about his behavior because well he would play nice whenever you were around so whenever you were art with doflamingo you would always sensed fear in the citizen and always wondered why.after two months you started to feel nauseous and super sick and doflamingo in a panic called the best doctor there could be In Dressrosa to see whats wrong and cure me as fast as possible no matter the consequence and after a few test from the doctor he told you and doflamingo that you were with child and this got you happy
you always dreamed of having a child especially with the one you love but..something felt off despite you feeling excited having a child there was something empty but you decided to brush it off in 4 months you were now 6 months pregnant you grew a belly and doflamingo became more protective of you since he certainly didn't want anything happening to the future leader of Dressrosa and one day when finally agrees to let you out on your own a certain little pirate with a straw hat comes to Dressrosa along with a familiar person which you were in a bench just killing time till you felt a tap on your shoulder you look up and see a man with tattooed hands,earings
and a spotted hat and your eyes widened before he spoke "hello miss *reader*" you rub your eyes in shock thinking your hallucinating "I-i who are you and how do you know me" the man looked a bit sad and then says "miss *reader* its me law I know you don't recognize me from the tats and how much Ive grown but I obviously could recognize you you still look the same as ever even after 10 years I guess the saying "real queens never age" is true after all" you give him a gentle hug which makes him notice your belly "hey your pregnant now,who did you remarry?"he said out of curiosity as you giggled "only the nicest man I've ever known...doffy!! :D" you say out of joy as trafalgars eyes widen out of shock and he backs up and
looks real upset "WHAT!! THAT MONSTER!!"when he said that you got completely offend before he continued "YOU HAD THE AUDACITY TO MARRIED AND EVEN OPEN YOUR LEGS TO THAT COLD BLACK HEARTED-" you slapped law across the face and he holds it out of pain as you yelled "OH AND WOULDN'T YOU KNOW ABOUT MONSTERS AS YOU WERE RAISED BY ONE!" law looked confused "I don't know what you mean *reader*.." you yelled back "DON'T PLAY DUMB OR INNOCENT YOU KNOW HOW YOUR PRECIOUS "CORA-SAN" TOOK YOU AND LEFT ME BEHIND FOR ANOTHER WOMAN SINCE HE WAS TOO MUCH OF A COWARD TO SIMPLY TELL ME HE FELL OUT OF LOVE AND JUST THOUGHT ABANDONING ME WOULD BE THE SOLUTION" Law now understanding your point of view of things
"no miss *reader* your wrong its all wrong he didn't leave he died! your precious beloved husband killed him" you got taken a back and shook your head "no...thats not true" trafalgar looked at you "he died freeing me...so he didn't leave you he loved you so much after we left he would go none stop talking about how much he misses you so who even told you about that lie and how could you ever believe it" you looked down "it was..doffy I believed him because I figured since hes his brother he knew him better than I ever did..." you say ashamed as law nods in understand "well another thing about doflamingo was that his mindset about you is that if he can't have you then nobody else can until he gets you so he lied to you ever since"
you start sniffling and crying as law looks down on you "its not too late you know.." you shake your head "no...it is too late...I can't have my child without their father even if he is doflamingo" law just blinked before you said "I'll try my best to help you with whatever your doing but im sorry I cannot leave him either I hope you understand" law just opens his mouth about to protest but he held it back understanding your situation and walks away as you now know the truth and how you made a decision and now suffering consequence..so your trapped now having to raise a child with doflamingo
alternate ending:you end up committing suicide 1 week after giving birth to the baby you were planning on doing it months before but you figured that if your going down the hole you shouldn't drag the child along with you so you just left the child for doflamingo to raise on his own selfish yes but you didn't know what else to do surely you couldn't give it to law since you didn't wanna put an extra weight of responsibility on his shoulders so that was your only option and as your suicide note just tells doflamingo on how you now know the truth and describing how much you despise him now for taking your TRUE soulmate away from the world and from you and before you shot yourself your last words were "see you soon rosi." and then bang
doflamingo's,the Donquixote Pirates and Dressrosa citizens reaction to when you agreed to be his lover after 18 god forsaken years for him:
Young adult Gojo puts the blindfold for the first time:
Where Gojo has migraine for the first time and doesn’t know how to deal with it… tried all sort of stuff to help relieve the pain but nothing so reader hears him moaning and complaining that his headache doesn’t go way (they could be already in an established relationship or not) so she decides to check on him… and when she sees him curled in the bed she has an idea to blindfold him because the darkness and the pressure of it might help and she also suggests for him to try an orgasm to help distract his brain and the pain….so the reader offers to help in the most pleasurable way just to help him relieve his pain 😂or in other words she worships every single part of his body 😂
(Sorry for any mistakes English isn’t my first language 🫰🏻)
✴︎ summary: after you take an attack meant for him, choso can't seem to understand why -- so you show him just how important he is to you.
✴︎ contents: 18+ only, angst then smut, choso is confused about human emotions, he doesn't know if he deserves love, making out, groping, sex (p in v), handjob (f! + m! receiving), semi-public sex (sort of), pet names (love, pretty, lovely)
✴︎ wc: 1,965
“Why did you take that hit for me?” his words come out in a hiss, a rush of breath that he forces out between gritted teeth, as if he was both afraid to ask and afraid not to, “it was foolish, it was unnecessary—”
You blow out a sigh between your pursed lips, as you rest against a damp sheet against cold concrete of a corner of Shibuya that currently wasn’t under attack — the not too distant groans of other injured not too far, but far enough for your privacy, “You know why I did it, so why are you asking that, when you mean to ask something else?”
And you knew him — knew him a little too well for someone who only had known him a few weeks now? Is that how long it had been since he had joined up with sorcerers? Switched sides to protect his little brother — and somehow, he ended up here — sitting next to you instead of him. Yuji could handle himself — he had faith in his brother — and he knew you could too. A skilled sorcerer — he saw your skill firsthand from a distance during the fights in shibuya, and then up close when you nearly caved his head in when you found out how he almost killed Yuji.
Is that when he first started to like you?
He didn’t know.
Could he even have such emotions? He had never known any sort of love, except for that of his brothers. But that was natural? To care for his family, to watch after them, to protect them, to avenge them. And anything that helped him achieve that goal, was worth it was it not? Even if it came at the cost of a different life, right? His eyes slid to you again, so why did it huqrt so much when he saw you crumpled on the ground, blood pooling on the cement around your abdomen, the same blood he didn’t think twice about when it spilled from other humans or sorcerers alike. Now, it was different.
He was different — maybe you were, to him.
“What question am I asking then?” he finally asks, as you only sigh again, eyes fluttering open to look at him with that same gaze that felt as if you were looking right through him.
“You’re asking me why I thought you were worthy of being saved in the first place?” and his mouth parts — words ringing in his ear.
It was true — he was a cursed womb — a mixture of curse and human blood that never was supposed to exist in the first place, a thing that has no other purpose in this world, aside from his brothers. And especially after the things he’s done, the people he’s killed, the harm he’s caused, and even the body he walks in now isn’t his own, but a person killed for his gain — how was he worthy of saving? How was he worthy of the risk of your life?
“And what’s your answer?” he asks, his voice growing raw, as he can’t bear to look at you, his gaze fixed on his lap, and he doesn’t see you push yourself up, sitting, as you stare at him, lips curling in a small smile, as you leaned over, fingers brushing against his cheek, that finally pull his gaze back to you.
“Because you’re Choso, because you deserve to be saved, you deserve the same kindness you’ve given to us,” your fingers are so gentle against him, had he ever been touched so gently before? His eyes almost feel the urge to shut, and just indulge in the feeling of your skin against his, “you didn’t ask to be here, you were manipulated, you were controlled, and you were forced to be a pawn,”
“But that doesn’t change—”
“It doesn’t change the hurt you caused, no, but that’s not who you are now,” you force him to meet your gaze, lips curled in a smile, “and who are now is definitely worth saving,”
“But why?” he still doesn’t understand, he still doesn’t see his worth, and you give your third sigh, before your other hand finds his shoulder, pulling him closer, a breath away.
“Do I have to spell it out for you, Choso?” your words warm his lips, and send warmth to the tips of his fingers, warmth he hadn’t known since he had been forced to come back. And all he can feel is your hands against him, all he can see are your eyes gazing at him the way he thought anyone would, and all he can think about is when your lips are finally going to touch his, “because I think I can only show you now,” and your thumb finds his lips, dragging down the bottom one, “would you want that?”
And his eyes flutter, a sharp intake of breath when your finger touches his lips, “I don’t think I’d like anything more,” he whispers, his eyes falling to your lips, as you lean forward.
Your lips brush his, featherlight, as if you worry he’d recoil, he’d run, he’d leave, but he does none of those things. Your lips part from his and he’s staring, as you do, before his lips seek yours again. And this time, he’s sure.
His lips surge against yours, as you melt into his touch, as gentle as can be — those same hands used to slaughter, now grazing your sides as if you’d break apart in his hands. And he didn’t care if the world was falling apart — and it was all around you both — if he could have this moment with you, maybe it’d be worth it.
“What is this hold you have over me?” He murmurs, and you’re pulling him closer to your tattered blanket against the concrete, fingers running through his hair making him shiver, “you touch me and I can’t think straight, I can’t—“
“Then don’t,” you murmur, your lips pressing butterfly kisses to his jaw, “give in, let me love you,”
And he does, relinquishing his thoughts and worries in exchange for your touch, and his hands find your waist, as you move slowly, climbing into his lap, making him grunt, before concern flickers across his features.
“Your injuries—“ he starts, but your lips brush against his ear, lips curved against the soft flesh.
“Are not as serious as how much I want you right now,” your words send a shiver down his spine, as your lips find his again, and you swallow his groan with pleasure. Your tongue parts his lips, as you taste him, fingers carding through his jet-black locks, fingers pulling at the ties in his hair, pulling them around your wrists, “I’ll keep them safe,” you tease, you tug teasingly at his hair making him gasp.
You’re pulling moans and whines from his lips, as you part from him for a moment, breaths coming as pants, as you press your forehead to his, taking in his now kiss ruined lips and violet irises glazed with lust, “so pretty,” you coo, “too pretty, Choso, how am I supposed to resist?”
And your fingers find their way to his belt, pausing, “is this okay?” Your hand cups his cheek, thumb brushing the length, and he’s nodding wordlessly, as his fingers find yours, undoing his belt and letting his robe fall open.
Your breath catches as you see him, your fingers dragging over his bare chest and abs, your eyes finding your way to his cock — it was so pretty, long and thick with a pretty pearl of precum. And your gaze is hot, hypnotized, “all this f’me?” You murmur, making him swallow, and then gasp as your fingers trace the vein running up the side. Your lips curl, “oh we’re just getting started, baby,”
Your fingers curl around his cock, your thumb rubbing against his slit, making him hiss, “I—“ his hips stutter against you, bumping against your damp shorts, making you groan. And he was so good in your hand, how good would he feel inside?
No, not yet, you wanted to make him feel good first.
“It’s okay, just breath,” your fingers tease his head, smiling as his head lolls back, and your hand begins to stroke him, spreading the precum along his length, “I got you, let me make you feel good,”
And your hand squeezes at the base, and he’s groaning your name, like a curse, as your other hand teases his balls, before you’re slipping off his lap, pressing his tip against your lips, painting them with his precum.
“You taste so good, Choso,” you lick your lips clean of him, tasting his salty precum.
“Please, love,” he’s murmuring, a whine in his throat, his fingers pulling at your clothes, “I want you—I want you to feel good too,”
And you smile, guiding his hands to your shorts, “Are you sure?” You murmur, kissing his neck, “we don’t-“
He’s pulling your shorts off, as he’s lowering you onto the sheet gently, tugging them off, his calloused palms parting your soft thighs. And his gaze darkens, half lidded with lust, “You’re lovely,” his fingers brush against your soaked folds, thumb pressing against your puffy clit, making you gasp, “you like that?” He hums.
And he’s leaning down, his lips brushing against your inner thigh, “Choso, please—“ and his breath warms your cunt, pressing a kiss to your dripping pussy, drawing a gasp from your lips, “I need you—“
“What do you need, pretty?” His velvet words are thick and slow like molasses, settling warm heat over your skin, as his hands draw up your thighs around his waist, “do you want my hands? My lips?”
And your hips roll against him, his tip bumping against your cunt, “what do you think?” And he’s hissing, before he’s grasping as his dick, teasing you with his head, “fuuuck, Choso,”
“Not so loud,” he murmurs, “someone could hear us, see you all spread out for me, and this view is just for me, lovely,” and his cock is parting your folds, both moaning in synchrony, your walls fluttering around him, “so tight, pretty, so fucking wet,”
You think he’s even prettier, brow furrowed and forehead slick with sweat, kiss bitten lips parted in a pant, and his violet eyes fluttering. And he’s bottoming out in you, his hips pressed against you, “so good, so perfect,” he’s murmuring, and he’s pulling out only to thrust back in. His strokes are languid at first, before he’s fucking you in earnest, hips snapping against yours, “.
“Choso, fuck, please, I’m close—“ your back is arching against him, and his lips find yours again in a searing kiss, as his fingers reach down between the two of you, and press against your clit, just as his hips piston into you just right with deep long strokes, until your walls are clamping down. He doesn’t last much longer, his hips stuttering against you, until he’s moaning, his hot load painting your walls white, as he fucks his cum into you.
And he’s panting above you, as you pull him into a sloppy kiss, pulling him beside you, as he slips out of you, making you whine at the emptiness.
“Don’t think that was part of Shoko’s instructions for recovery,” you murmur against his lips, as you grin, “but it was definitely needed,”
His lips curl, as he’s pressing kisses along your jaw, “So you need me, huh?” and the question fills him with warmth, just as you have, a sort of purpose he had never had, aside from his family — a want for him that he had never thought he’d be lucky enough to have.
And you only smile, pulling him into another kiss, “Why else do you think I took that hit for you?”
✴︎ a/n: new episode did something to me. i have a longer fic planned for choso, but this will have to do for today :). yes i'm posting this in the middle of the night, sue me.
In which Toji and the reader are summoned but both regain control over their bodies….. right before about Toji decides to end his life (he doesn’t encounter Megumi yet) he sees the reader and everything stop because the last time he saw her she was found death (maybe a year or so after her giving birth to Megumi) no one knew if it was an accident or murder but Toji never was the same after that….. when he comes back to himself he notices that she’s crying and about to also end her life but he stops her….. and idk maybe after that they have a really wholesome and emotional reunion but unfortunately it will come to an end or not 😂😂 and maybe they even reencounter Megumi or not 😂😂
(I don’t this shitty idea came to me right after the new jjk episode 😂😂)
(English isn’t my first language so I’m sorry for any mistakes 😊 feel free to change whatever you want)
A scenario in which the reader is a sorcerer in The Heian Era and she knew Sukuna while he was still human ( before he became a curse) she was always present in his life but mostly in the shadows passing unnoticed by other but incredibly strong…
They developed a strong bond but not like they were in love but loved each other (does that makes sense?? but she strongly disliked Yorozu 😂) but eventually started engaging in a physical relationship…..and in one of those intimate and sensual encounters they performed a ritual where Reader painted the marks on Sukuna skin with both their blood mixed and later those marks stayed permanently on his skin and became a reminder of their relationship and a bittersweet memory of her because shortly after she vanished….
After 1000 years he sees her again through the eyes of his vessel….
[Maybe her curse technique allows her to suck others energy to remain young and powerful some sort of reverse cursed technique idk 😂]
(English isn’t my first language so I’m sorry for any mistakes 😊 I really hope someone likes this and decides to write it 😊 feel free to change whatever you want)
NSFW under the cut 😏😂
This idea poped up out of nowhere and unfortunately I’m not good at writing so I decided to draw it even though I’m not very good at it either and this is still a WIP and I will eventually finish it 😂 I just wanted to get a visual
Fic idea for Eustass Kid x StrawHat f!Reader Feel free to use
In which the reader is in love with Eustass Kid and always makes excuses to be near him every time they team up or are in the same island and she always manages break his guard and steal him a kiss (or something like that) Even though he is very wary of her and doesn’t understand her persistence to be near him….he probably thinks she’s just trying to rail him up or making fun of him which makes him angry and confused and Killer find it very amusing… but in the end they are caught having full steamy passionate making out session and Kid makes sure that she wears some type of metal from that moment forward..and him saying he is going to steal her and taker her with him plus Luffy reaction to someone threatening to steal one of his nakama 😂….and the Straw hats reaction to her shenanigans and them trying to find out what she sees in him
(English isn’t my first language so I’m sorry for any mistakes)
(I really hope someone likes this and decides to write it 😊 feel free to change whatever you want)
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