When I read...

| When you accidentally stumble upon fanfics and they completely blow your mind. | It stared out as an accident.. now I'm here for all the fics. |

[ms-raina]

I'll figure out where they put all my automation eventually.. this is why you can't leave here. They move sh*t, and you need to figure out how to do it all over again.

I don't write, I'm just here to read, and I am trying my best to reblog to the best of my (very rusty) abilities.

Some of my favorites (I'll add more):

https://www.tumblr.com/kellyn1604

https://www.tumblr.com/mcrdvcks/800854695244677120

[bucksangel]

you taste like suburbia

pairing: mafia!stucky x reader (poly), john walker x reader but not for long

word count: 6.4k

summary: your lousy boyfriend John Walker owes quite a bit of money to some pretty shady people. And since he doesn’t have the means to pay, he’s brought you along to a negotiation to meet them - and hopefully entice them into accepting a different form of payment.

warnings: 18+, smut, dub-con kind of, a tiny bit of stalking/dark behavior (it’s only hinted at), voyeurism i guess?, vaginal fingering, oral (f & m receiving), threesome, poly relationship, petnames (princess, kitten, beautiful), daddy kink, sir kink, unprotected p in v, a little bit of misogyny (not from stucky), not john walker friendly, mentioned verbal abuse, mention of murder (you have to squint and turn your head 90 degrees)

a/n: this is based off this post and @crazyunsexycool ‘s very amazing comments (title is from ‘suburbia’ by devon again)

tip jar | masterlist

“It’s simple, really.” The men across from you have been staring you down this whole time, eyes barely leaving your body and that’s only to occasionally glance at the man sitting next to you. And though they’re looking at you, you know their words aren’t directed your way. No. It’s for John.

John Walker; your shitty boyfriend who, apparently, has got himself into a lot of trouble with some pretty shady people. You don’t know much, you just know that he has a debt to pay and he doesn’t have the funds.

And you’re not stupid, you know how this will go. Your relationship with John started good, great in fact, but then he fell back into his old gambling ways a few months in. You wanted to leave, to kick him to the curb the moment he asked you for money to cover some bills. But you were too kind-hearted for your own good and felt the need to help him just because you loved him. But the deeper into trouble he’s gotten the less he’s actually cared about you, too focused on getting his debts paid off so he doesn’t get a bullet in his head.

Thus, you’re here. Forced to wear that dark red, wrap-around dress that shows just enough to be desired in the hopes that will entice the men across from you into accepting a different form of payment. Fifteen minutes into the ‘meeting’ you can already tell that they’re going to accept. And you don’t really know what to do in this situation, you know you don’t really have a say in how this plays out, but some part of you doesn’t really mind. Part of you is glad you’ll finally be free from John’s bullshit.

It just helps that the men your boyfriend owes money to are extremely attractive. Both men don dark black suits, white button-ups, and sleek black ties. And the brunette - Bucky, maybe? - smirks when he catches your eye after having been staring at his hand grasping a cigarette for a few moments before glancing up at his face. With a wink, he turns his head towards his partner - Steve, if you remember correctly.

“You owe us quite a bit of money, but you already knew that. We also know that you don’t have the means to pay us.”

From beside you, you can feel John shaking in his seat. With just a glance in his direction, you can see the beads of sweat forming around his hairline at Steve’s commanding tone.

“We’re assuming that’s why you brought her, isn’t it?” With that question, both men look back at you, the hunger in their eyes is prominent. And part of you wants to cower in your chair, to wrap your arms around your body and hide from their intense gazes. But a bigger part of you likes it, craves being desired. Lord knows John hasn’t looked at you like that in a long while.

“Um,” John stops himself, seems to not know what exactly to say. But then Bucky raises one of his eyebrows and John is quick to continue. “Y-Yes, sirs.”

Steve hums, bringing up his glass to take a long sip of his liquor of choice. Bucky takes a short drag of his cigarette before speaking up.

“And if we don’t accept the arrangement?”

John starts really vibrating out of his seat now, both of his legs bouncing furiously. One of his hands rubs over the back of his other, and he gulps loudly.

“I-I don’t… Please. I don’t have the money right now. And, she’s good in bed. She’ll listen to whatever you say, so she’ll please you guys whenever you need, she can even cook and clean so she can be a maid for you too.”

His words make you want to vomit, talking about you like you’re nothing more than a whore, a piece of meat to be passed around and commanded. Your eyes narrow, glaring over at your asshole boyfriend as you begin to pick at your fingernails with a mixture of anxiety and anger.

Steve surprises you by slamming his glass down onto the dark oak desk in front of him, some of the liquid inside spilling out.

“And what makes you think you can talk about a woman like that?” His voice is booming, and the tension in the air is palpable. It’s hard to hide the smile that wants to spread across your face, but you manage to not show your smugness when John sits up straight and begins sputtering out an apology.

“Enough,” Bucky says, taking another long drag and then putting out the cigarette. As he exhales out the smoke, he makes sure to blow it in your boyfriend’s direction, and you have to look down at your lap to prevent the men from seeing your smirk at the show of dominance.

With a glance at his partner, they seem to have a silent conversation before Steve nods, looking back at John while Bucky looks at you.

“We’ll accept. If nothing else then to get her away from you.”

Even with the passive-aggressive comment, you can see the way John’s body visibly relaxes, and can hear the sigh of relief that passes through his lips.

You on the other hand don’t quite know what to do. Yeah, you’re glad you’ve found a way out of this toxic relationship, but you’re also very aware that this major adjustment in your life was made without your consent or input. This thought immediately makes all the satisfaction drain from your body, and you keep your gaze averted so the men across from you can’t see the underlying fear growing in your eyes.

Because you don’t know these men. You’ve never even heard of them until now. All you know is that anyone connected to the dark underworld that is the mafia couldn’t possibly be a good person. For a moment, you’re so lost in your own thoughts that you don’t realize all of the men are staring at you.

“Wh-What?” Your throat is a little dry due to not having spoken in a while, and you try your hardest not to let your voice waver.

“Are you okay with this?” Steve asks with an uncharacteristically soft smile and calm voice. He’s asking you how you feel about this? Why? Shouldn’t this be the end, the part where your boyfriend leaves and you uproot your life to live as payment for his debts?

Apparently not.

“Why are you asking me?” Confusion is laden in your tone, your eyebrows furrowing and your fingers picking at your nails even harsher.

“Because, beautiful,” Bucky starts, waving to a red-headed woman who suddenly appears with water for you. “We don’t want you thinking this is purely transactional. You’re not property, you’re a grown woman and you deserve to have a say in your life. If you don’t want to come with us, that’s okay. We’ll extend our contract with your dear boyfriend.”

Steve speaks up next.

“But if you do want to come with us, we’ll show you how real men treat ladies.” His eyes grow hungry for half a second, then return to that unnerving adoring gaze.

Everything grows silent for a moment, everyone awaiting your answer. As you look over at John, his face is contorted in fear of what they’ll do if you deny them, and anger - silently demanding that you say yes. And, looking over at him, you finally realize he’s never been who you thought he was. Even when he was being an asshole, when he would steal from you, when he would yell and scream and verbally abuse you because he lost even more money, you were so blinded by trying to help him that you couldn’t accept that you were being used.

Now, you know. You know that even if you don’t know these men, the fact that they’re even asking for your opinion says more than anything John could ever do. With one final look at him, you sigh, looking Steve in the eyes.

“I’ll go with you.”

Not only does John visibly relax, but you can see some of the tension leave Bucky and Steve’s bodies, almost like they were hoping that you would say yes.

“It’s settled then.” Steve’s smile turns into a sly smirk, and he momentarily shifts his gaze to John. “Your debt has been paid.”

John tries thanking him, tries to thank the men for sparing his life, but Bucky cuts him off by clearing his throat.

“Don’t think you’re getting away with that comment, though.”

With that, Steve nods at the redhead who comes to stand behind John. In one swift movement, she puts one hand on his shoulder and one hand grabs the inside of his elbow, and she twists. The sounds of his bones cracking are loud, but his screams are louder, his cries of pain reverberating throughout the office. And, as much as you want to feel bad for him, you can’t find it in you to do so. The last two years have been hell for you, and seeing him in pain feels a little like payback for all the pain he caused you. You simply sit there and stare as the woman grabs both of his shoulders and hauls him up, ignoring his cries while dragging him to the door.

The woman follows him out, leaving just you and the two men. For a moment, neither of you speaks, almost like you’re all waiting for the other person to say something.

“So, um. What happens now?” You look at Bucky as he stands and walks around the desk, holding his hand out and encouraging you to grab it. Once you do, you let him help you stand and move you so you’re nearly pressed against his body, a heavy, black metal hand settling on your waist as he brings your hand up to kiss your knuckles.

“Now we take you home,” Bucky says softly, staring deep into your eyes and tugging his bottom lip between his teeth.

“We’ll have our associates pick up your things,” Steve says, suddenly standing so close behind you that you can feel the heat from his body. His large hands settle on your shoulders, gently massaging your muscles and allowing any remaining tension in your body to slip away.

“And you won’t have to worry about anything for the rest of your life.” Bucky presses his body against yours further, holding your gaze for a long while before he leans down to place a delicate kiss on your cheekbone, very close to your ear. “Your only concern will be taking care of us, and letting us take care of you.”

In order to not moan you have to clear your throat, focusing all of your attention on not melting into a puddle at their feet. Steve leans down to place a kiss on your other cheek, sighing softly as though he’s been waiting for this. You hesitantly place one hand on Bucky’s arm and one on Steve’s hand, and he immediately threads your fingers together.

“Home?” Bucky asks, pulling away to look into your eyes.

“Home,” You say without a second thought, already liking the idea of being with them, being theirs.

____________

You all get back to their mansion, because of course they live in a mansion, about an hour later. It’s in a woodsy and remote area of upstate New York with no neighbors for a good two miles, and upon driving through the gates and down the long driveway your eyes go wide, everything is just so big. The fountain in the front yard stands almost as tall as the three-story house, several expensive-looking cars are parked off to the left near what you assume is the garage, and you’re pretty sure you can spot a greenhouse in the backyard.

As soon as the car is stopped two men appear on either side of it, opening the doors for Steve and Bucky and letting them step out. A woman - the same redhead from earlier - comes up to your door and opens it, reaching out her hand and guiding you out.

“I’m Natasha,” She says with a welcoming smile on her face. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“What do you mean ‘finally’?” Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, jumping slightly when an arm wraps around your waist.

“It’s nothing, beautiful.” When you look up at Bucky, you see him giving Natasha a look that you can tell is a silent demand to stop talking. Then, he turns to you, pulling you close to his side. “Come on, let’s get you settled in.”

Despite a spark of uneasiness popping up, you walk with him, Steve appearing by your other side and taking your hand in his and once again threading your fingers together. He gives you a warm smile, squeezing your hand. “We’ll give you a tour later, for now, we just want you to relax.”

As you walk through the entrance, your eyes open even wider than before. Not only is the foyer huge, but the chandelier that hangs from the ceiling illuminates the area beautifully and your heels make clicking noises on the pristine tile floor. You let your eyes wander as you walk up the grand staircase, admiring the artwork on the walls while you’re led through a large living area and down a hallway to a door.

And when they open it, dear lord you just want to scream. It’s bigger than the one-bedroom apartment that you shared with John. There’s a huge canopy bed off to the left, a massive TV mounted on the opposite wall, and a reading nook against the floor-to-ceiling window with a long bookshelf on the wall next to it - ending a few feet from the bed. There’s plants hanging from the ceiling and potted ones in each corner of the room, and an open door off to the right gives you a peak at what must be the bathroom but resembles more of a spa.

It’s absolutely gorgeous and it makes you feel at home.

“How do you like it?” Steve asks, both men tugging and leading you further into the room when they notice you’ve frozen while taking everything in.

“I love it,” You say quickly, smiling at them as you walk towards the bed so you can run your fingers along the silk bed sheets. “It’s beautiful.”

“Good.” Bucky appears behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and placing his chin on your shoulder. “You deserve beautiful things.”

Butterflies erupt in your stomach, warmth filling your body. These men are already showing you more affection than John had during your entire relationship, and it simultaneously hurts your heart that you stayed with an ungrateful and uncaring man for so long while also making you happy that you’ve fallen into the laps of men with high standards of how to treat a woman.

“We’ll let you rest up, now.” Steve comes up to you and works his arm between your back and Bucky’s body so he can hold your waist. He leans down and presses a tender kiss to your forehead, bringing up his other hand to cradle your head so he can really breathe in your scent.

“Wait.”

Immediately Bucky and Steve pull away, and when you turn around and look up at them you can see the concern written on their face.

“This is my room?”

Bucky nods, his eyebrows furrowed. “Yes. Is it okay? We can redecorate if you want, just tell us what you like and we’ll do it.”

You shake your head, placing one hand on Bucky’s chest and the other on Steve’s.

“N-no. No, I love it. I just thought…” You trail off, biting your lip. You’re not too sure how to phrase your thoughts, but you try your hardest when the men continue to stare at you. “I guess I just thought you would want me to sleep in your room.”

Bucky sighs and pulls you close, placing one hand on the back of your head while Steve saddles up beside him to grasp your hip.

“While we would absolutely love having you in our bed,” Bucky stops to swipe his tongue along his bottom lip and you have to fight the urge to lean up on your toes to bite it. “We’re not going to force you to do anything you’re not ready for.”

“We know this is a big adjustment,” Steve says, smiling down at you when you look at him. “So we don’t want to make you do something that would make you uncomfortable.”

The men go silent, as do you, allowing you to process their words. They’re right, of course. This is all so new for you, and even though you’re more than ready - you’ve been deprived of physical contact and a good orgasm for a while - you know it wouldn’t be a good decision to jump into a relationship like this so soon after leaving your ex.

Fuck good decisions.

“What if…” You trail off, biting your lip nervously. Deciding to be bold, you trail the hand on Bucky’s chest up until you can cup his cheek, smiling when he turns his head and kisses your palm.

“What if I do want to?” You glance over at Steve, batting your eyelashes and fighting the shiver that wants to run through your body when he groans, low and utterly sexy.

“And what exactly is it that you want?” Bucky asks, his voice dropping while moving his free hand to your back, slowly inching down until he can rest it on your ass, but not squeezing.

“I -“ Suddenly a whine is forced out of your mouth when Steve moves your hair and leans down so he can kiss and nibble at your neck. “Steve!”

Then, Bucky dips down while pulling your head closer to his so he can press a searing kiss on your lips, swallowing your moan as he squeezes and kneads your ass.

“Tell us what you want, kitten,” Steve murmurs, biting and sucking a dark bruise on your neck and laughing when you pull away from Bucky’s lips with a huff.

“I - fuck.” Your whining is bordering on desperation. The lack of physical and sexual contact for the last few months has finally caught up to you, and you’re about to cry with how needy you feel. “I want you to fuck me.”

Both men curse, Steve nodding but not removing his mouth from the column of your throat. And maybe if your head wasn’t already fogged over with desire you’d have heard Bucky’s muttered “finally.” As it is though, you don’t pay attention to anything other than their hands caressing and groping your body, the men working in tandem to strip you of your dress and lay you flat on your back in the middle of the bed.

Both men stand at the end of the bed, staring at you with dark lust in their eyes as Bucky palms his crotch. They stare for so long that you start to get self-conscious, wondering what they’re thinking. It was always quick with John, he never really focused on your pleasure but rather worried about getting himself off and asking with an infuriatingly smug grin if it was good. It never was, but you never told him that, you hate confrontation. So it’s a little unnerving to have sex be drawn out, to be the center of attention - and the attention coming from the two hottest men on the planet makes you squirm uncomfortably. You’re about to cover yourself with your arms when Bucky kneels on the bed and grabs one of your wrists, Steve appearing next to you so he can grab your other one.

“Don’t,” Bucky says hoarsely, a determined look in his eyes. “Don’t hide from us, kitten.”

An involuntary moan forces its way up your throat and out of your mouth, and you find yourself agreeing with a quick nod. “I-I’m sorry,” You whine, arching into Steve’s hand that has now found a home on your covered breast.

“Don’t be sorry, princess,” Steve murmurs trailing his hand from your breast to your neck, toying with the necklace John had given you on your sixth-month anniversary. You haven’t taken it off since, it felt like a mark of ownership. And at first, it felt good, you loved knowing you were John’s girl. However, as the relationship progressed and worsened with every day, it felt more like a chain, weighing you down and forcing you to stay tethered to him. Yes, it had occurred to you to take it off a few times, but you weren’t ready for it to end. Even though it was an extremely toxic relationship, you had nowhere to go.

“Did he give you this?” Steve asks, disdain clear in his voice. And when you nod, he hovers over you, smirking as he grips the necklace and pulls, the chain snapping in two as he flings it across the room. Ignoring your shocked gasp, Steve and Bucky lean back and get off the bed, resuming their earlier position near the end of it.

“She’s perfect, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs after a long moment of silence. Putting a hand on the back of his partner’s neck, he yanks him forward, pulling him into a downright filthy kiss that makes your legs immediately squeeze shut to relieve the growing ache in your core.

At your loud and needy whine, they pull away, both men working in sync to get undressed and hurry to lay on either side of you. Both of them have kept their boxers on, but the very large bulge straining against the fabric does absolutely nothing to hide their arousal.

“Are you sure you want this?” Bucky asks, and even though you can hear the desperation in his voice, you know deep in your bones that they would stop if you said no. And that just further cements your decision, you need them, you need to feel them and kiss them and have them worship you in ways John could never.

“I’m sure, Bucky.”

“Call me ‘Daddy’, princess,” He says, reaching up a hand and placing it on your throat. He doesn’t choke you, but the pressure lets you know that he wants to.

“I’m sure, Daddy.”

Bucky groans as though he’s been punched in the gut, and his hips jerk forward, rubbing his erection into your thigh. He dives down and captures your lips in a heated kiss, momentarily distracting you from everything around you. That is until you feel a hand travel down your stomach, ignoring your underwear and slipping inside to quickly cup your wet and aching pussy.

Pulling away, you let out another gasp, your gaze immediately shooting to your left to see Steve’s very smug smirk.

“Feel good?” He asks as he tugs his bottom lip between his teeth, slowly moving his middle finger up and down your slit until he finally pushes through, slipping the thick digit into your quivering hole all the way to the third knuckle.

“Oh God, yes! Yes, Steve.” He pulls his finger out momentarily, only to shove in two fingers - once again pushing in all the way.

“Sir,” Steve growls, leaning down to nibble at your ear. His gravely chuckle when you mumble, “Yes, sir,” sends tingles down your spine, and you’re near tears with how good but not enough his fingers feel.

“I-I need…” You trail off, whining pathetically when Steve removes his fingers again. You whine even louder when Steve pulls his hand out of your panties altogether, letting you see his fingers covered in your juices glinting in the moonlight. The sight doesn’t last long, because Bucky immediately dips down to suck on them, both men groaning in pleasure. The brunette doesn’t swallow though, he actually lets the fingers slip free from his mouth so he can capture his partner’s lips, letting Steve taste you too.

“Fuck,” You whimper, hands automatically tugging at both of their boxers in an attempt to move things along. “Please just fuck me already.”

They separate from each other, grinning wolfishly at each other for a moment before glancing down at your cute pout and pleading eyes.

“What’s the rush?” Steve asks, dipping down to give you a brief kiss. “We’ve got all night.”

Thankfully, though, they get with the program, maneuvering your body to their liking until your bra and panties are also discarded. And you’re about to undo the strap on your heels before Bucky grabs your ankle, shaking his head in disapproval.

“You’re keeping these on.” His command sends shivers down your spine, and you can’t even speak anymore with how turned on you are. Despite this, you somehow manage to whisper, “Yes, Daddy.”

“That’s good,” Steve says, moving to kneel on the bed next to your head while he palms his bulge with one hand and squeezes your cheeks between his fingers with the other. “You’re going to be a good girl for us, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir!” You say enthusiastically, nodding your head as best as you can. And due to Steve holding your head in place, you can’t see what Bucky is doing, but you feel your legs being pushed wide open as the bed dips between them.

“Good,” Steve mutters mostly to himself, giving you an unnervingly soft smile for the situation. “Now, Bucky’s been dying to taste you since he first laid eyes on you, so you’re going to let him worship your pussy while I fuck your mouth. Okay?”

If you weren’t already drunk with pleasure, this would’ve been the thing to send you under. His commanding tone and the heat of Bucky’s mouth so close to your dripping core already have you on edge, ready to snap at the slightest touch. And when you nod, Steve turns to his partner, nodding once and smirking when he dives in, parting your pussy lips and licking a long stripe from your hole to your throbbing clit, where he then sucks it into his mouth.

The borderline scream you emit is so loud you’d be surprised if anyone on this floor didn’t hear it, but it’s quickly muffled by Steve shoving his boxers down and easing his cock into your gaping mouth. Now, you’ve never really liked giving head - well, with John anyway. He was always too rough, and the fact that he never returned the favor made it seem more like a chore than anything.

But you could definitely get used to this. Steve’s girth stretches your lips wider than ever before, and even through the haze of pleasure, you can tell that he’s holding back, letting you get used to the stretch. It doesn’t take long, and a particularly rough nip to your clit has you sucking Steve’s cock further into your mouth, and the man curses above you.

“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” Steve sighs, rocking his hips forward ever so slightly. When he finds little resistance, he pulls back and pushes in a little further, groaning deep in his chest when you bring up a hand to tug at his balls.

“Taste so fuckin’ good too, princess,” Bucky mumbles against your pussy, pulling away only briefly so he can easily slide two metal fingers in as deep as they could possibly go. It’s clear that his goal is to make you cum, and you’re not that far off. To be frank, your arousal has been building from the moment you met them, and they are not disappointing.

It only takes a few more thrusts of Bucky’s fingers and Steve’s hand coming down to wrap around your throat for you to cum - your cunt spasming and hips thrusting up into Bucky’s face as you chase your high. Soon enough, both men retreat from your body, giving you a short reprieve while they rid themselves of their underwear. Steve moves you so he can lay back against the headboard, adjusting your position so you can rest in between his legs with your back against his chest while Bucky hovers over you.

“Now, princess,” He murmurs, just loud enough for both of you to hear him, and taps your arm. “You’re going to hold onto Stevie while I ruin this pussy. Then, he’s goin’ to fuck my cum back into you.”

“Oh God yes, yes please, Daddy!” If your mind wasn’t deep in the pits of desire you’d probably be embarrassed by how needy you are, maybe even ashamed. Right now, though, you can’t imagine feeling anything but pure pleasure and happiness.

It all happens so fast, Steve grabbing the backs of your thighs so he can spread them wide and Bucky quickly following by pushing his cock - easily the longest you’ve ever taken - halfway into your cunt. He stops there for a moment, letting you get used to the sudden stretch before surprising you by pulling out until his tip is only poking in.

You’re frustrated, extremely so, and you’re pretty sure you’ll cry if he doesn’t fill you back up. And you’re about to start whining when the man above you thrusts forward, burying his cock so deep in your pussy that you swear you could feel him in your throat. Deep and guttural groans fill the air, a metal hand grasping your thigh and keeping it spread so Steve can wrap his arm around your midsection and hold you close while the pace quickly picks up.

And you’re in heaven, this must be heaven. Because in no other plane of existence would the two most handsome men in the world be touching and gripping you like you’re a priceless gem they’re afraid to lose. From behind you, Steve groans every time Bucky pushes into you, forcing you to shift in Steve’s lap and subconsciously grind into his throbbing erection.

“Fuck, kitten,” Bucky mutters, bracing one hand on the headboard and dropping your leg so he can grab your throat, squeezing the sides and forcing you to look into his eyes - dark with a desire you’ve never known. But there’s something else there, something primal that no ordinary man could have, a sense of possessiveness and ownership that seeps out of his pores.

You can’t do anything except moan, your mouth parting wider to let out a scream when Bucky shifts slightly, thrusting and hitting that special spongey spot deep within you dead on.

“She’s perfect, isn’t she Stevie?”

“Fuckin’ perfect,” Steve says softly, running the hand he has on your stomach down to your pussy to rub at your hole, feeling where you and his partner are connected. “Always knew she would be.”

Thankfully for them, those words fly over your head. You’re already too fucked-out to think properly, do you even know what your name is?

When Steve swiftly moves his fingers to your clit, your answer is a confident no. All you can seem to focus on are these two men and the immense pleasure they’re giving you. And it takes only a few more thrusts for you to feel that coil in your tummy wind tighter and tighter.

“Is she gonna cum?” Steve asks cockily, noticing the way Bucky’s hips stutter and his brow furrows. Reaching up, Steve grabs the back of his partner’s neck and pulls him in for a rough and messy kiss - mainly tongue and teeth. When they pull away, Bucky is nearly breathless, and you can hear the cockiness in his voice when Steve tells him, “Make her. Come on, baby. Fucking fill her up so I can.”

Those words - coupled with the fingers rubbing your clit, the pressure on your neck, and the cock that’s currently rearranging your guts - make you cum harder than you’ve ever. It doesn’t even really feel like an orgasm, it’s better than that. Something squirts out of your pussy with every forward thrust, and if it weren’t for being sandwiched between the two buffest men to ever exist then you’d be positive you were floating off into the clouds.

Bucky follows soon after, a loud groan of your name filling the room before his hips are flush with yours. Vaguely, you can feel his seed filling your womb, coating your insides, and it takes a full minute for Bucky’s breathing to even out. When he finally regains his composure, he leans back, holding your hips steady and chuckling at the glazed look in your eyes.

“Ready for me to pull out, kitten?” The answer he gets is a mumbled and pitiful “no”, which he laughs at, affectionately patting your hip. “Sorry, princess, we have to let Stevie have his turn.”

With that, he nods to Steve, who reaches over to the nightstand and procures a phone, handing it to Bucky. Bucky places his metal hand on the inside of your right thigh, holding it in place while he goes to the camera app on his phone. 

“Okay, princess, gonna pull out now.” With his phone aimed at your hips, he slowly pulls out, hissing quietly but not stopping until his cock finally slips free. He moans softly, and when you finally manage to lift your head enough to see what he’s doing you see the phone leaning closer, capturing the no doubt obscene view of his cum dripping out of your hole. Bucky takes a few pictures and then tosses the phone back to Steve, who places it back on the nightstand.

The men shift, maneuvering your limp body until you’re laying flat on your back with Steve kneeling on the bed between your legs while Bucky stands off to the side, gripping his still-hard cock.

“Alright, beautiful,” Steve says, adjusting a pillow underneath your hips. “You ready for me?”

It takes a second to process his words, but when you do you nod your head as fast as you can, nearly giving you whiplash. You don’t care though, all you care about is the delicious stretch in your core as Steve pushes in slowly.

“Fuck, kitten,” Steve growls, stopping when his crotch is flush against yours with his pubic bone pressing against your clit. He grinds his hips against yours, the stimulation to your clit making you whine loudly.

Steve is drastically different from Bucky, he fucks you slow and sweet, though no less forceful, reaching deep in your pussy until you can barely gasp for air. When your head lolls to the side, you see Bucky stroking his cock in time with Steve’s thrusts, and, without thinking, you reach for him, beckoning him forward until he’s close enough that you can wrap your hand around it. Both men moan, and Bucky brings up his flesh hand and cups one of your breasts, kneading the flesh and rubbing over your nipple, pinching and twisting just right so it’s bordering on a delicious kind of pain.

Then, a loud smack rings through the air, Steve’s hips jerking forward almost immediately after.

“Pick it up, babe,” Bucky says with a smirk, chuckling at Steve’s agitated look, but he does so nonetheless.

Steve starts fucking you with intent, slamming into you at a borderline inhuman speed - and you don’t know how it’s possible but the orgasm building in your core seems to be more intense than the last. And after a few more thrusts, you’re plunged into the dark abyss of pleasure - mind going blank as a loud sob rips through your throat.

It’s an indeterminate amount of time later when you regain consciousness, and this time you don’t recognize the room you’re in. It takes a few moments for you to shake the fogginess out of your mind enough to notice that you’re alone in the large bed, and when you raise your head to look around the room you can’t see Bucky or Steve. But the pictures of the two of them and friends scattered throughout the space show you that this is their room.

“Bucky?” You call softly, your eyebrows furrowing when you hear no reply. Stretching your arms above your head, you force yourself out of bed - noticing that you’re now covered with a large shirt that smells a lot like Steve’s cologne. You go into the bathroom to find it empty, then wander to the large walk-in closet - again, empty.

Where are they?

“Steve?” You say a little louder, tentatively opening the bedroom door and peeking out, finding the hallway empty and quiet. There’s a spark of uneasiness that ignites in your stomach, though you try to stomp it out by reasoning with yourself - they’re busy men, after all.

When you look to your right, you see a set of double doors at the end of the long hallway, and something in you tells you to check there. As you walk down to the doors, more uneasiness pops up, it just feels a little too quiet. But the closer you get you can start to hear whispers, and they become more prominent when you stop right outside the doors. Bits and pieces of conversation flow through the wood.

“I want him gone within the hour.”

“Off the bridge.”

“They won’t find him.”

But one line hits you differently.

“Don’t let her find out.”

Your curiosity is extremely peaked, and it takes all of your willpower to bring your hand up to knock. You feel a little like you’re intruding, but you’re too confused to not impose.

The door opens a few moments later, though it’s only cracked halfway, and Steve appears in the doorframe.

“Hello, beautiful,” He says sweetly, reaching out a hand to hold your hip. “Why don’t you go back do bed, hm? I’ll be right there.”

“But, Buck-”

“Is just dealing with a few things. We had to deal with a business related issue, but he’ll join us when he’s done.” Steve is calm, and the soft look in his eyes is enough to quell any anxiety you were feeling. You’re not sure how he’s able to do it, but he’s mesmerizing, already able to manipulate you to his liking.

You’re sure it’s supposed to be frightening, but you can’t find it in you to care. Unlike John, you know with an enormous amount of certainty that they would never harm you, they’ll protect you.

What you don’t know is just how far they’ll go to protect you - to save you from deadbeat men who are too selfish to not recognize a treasure when he has one. And men that are too stupid to know when he’s being lied to. You don’t need to know that, though.

So, with a smile and a kiss, he sends you on your way, only retreating back into the room when you go in theirs.

“That was close,” Bucky says as he hangs up the phone, putting it back in his pocket.

“It’s okay, she doesn’t know.” Steve turns to his partner, both of them wearing matching smirks. “And she never will.”

taglist (+ people who seemed interested): @yamitem @buckysprettybaby @kokeshi-mynx @cevansbaby-dove @biteofcherry

[bucksangel]

neighborly behavior

pairing: lumberjack!alpha!stucky x omega!reader (poly)

word count: 8.6k

summary: Needing a change, you take a risk by moving out of California to a cottage in upstate New York that your great-grandfather built for your great-grandmother when they first got married. What you didn’t know was that the house was going to need more work than you originally thought, more than what you could handle. Luckily, your very attractive and handy neighbors offer their help – free of charge, of course. The only problem is that they’re mated to each other. So, why does it feel like they’re flirting with you?

warnings: modern!au, omegaverse, this is just full of absolute fluff, miscommunication/obliviousness, teasing and flirting, also Steve is a little bit of a slut (it’s already canon), reader is a little clumsy, stucky are extremely smitten, public displays of affection, poly relationship, stucky are tall and beefy, pet names (bambi), true mates, love at first sight, stigma around two Alpha’s dating, alternating pov’s 

a/n: thank you so much to @toocrazyunsexycool for this idea (from forever ago)!

masterlist | tip jar | ao3

It’s quite a beautiful day for it being well into fall. It’s not freezing cold thanks to the sun shining high in the sky, but the light breeze keeps it pleasantly cool. The leaves are orange and falling, crunching underneath your boots as you make your way up the cobblestone path to your new house. Stopping just in front of the porch, you look up at it – a beautiful one-story cottage with a broken board on the porch and a busted window. It’s a light-yellow color with trees surrounding the backyard and a decent space in the front for a vegetable garden.

It was hand-built by your great-grandfather in the mid-thirties for his wife after they first got married, and it’s been passed down in your family with each new generation. And despite the house’s dilapidated state, you can tell there’s a lot of love that went into the foundation. You’ve heard stories of your great-grandparents' love and happiness, and the fact that your great-grandfather built his wife a house with his own hands is just proof of their everlasting bond.

It’s a bond you want for yourself.

Shaking yourself out of your thoughts, you carefully step up the porch and push through the front door – making a mental note to pick something up from the store to fix the creaky hinges. Immediately upon entering, the kitchen is placed to the right, with the dining room directly across, off to the left, and the living room straight ahead. The bedroom and bathroom are down a hallway near the back of the house, and the open plan allows you to see almost the entire living area, making the environment inviting and comforting.

Setting down the box you were holding by the dining table, you take a quick glance over all the other boxes scattered around, and already anxiety is forming, wondering how you’re going to unpack all of your things by yourself. But you decide to tackle that later and go back out to your truck for the last of your things.

You stop as soon as you get back to the porch, finding two men standing at the end of the driveway, motioning to the moving truck and talking to themselves. You’re not sure where they came from, but their athletic clothes let you know they were probably exercising before they stopped here.

“Um… Hello?” You wrap your arms around yourself to shield yourself from the wind picking up, and walk carefully down the porch. “Can I help you guys?”

“Oh!” The men turn to you; the blonde’s eyes are wide as though he wasn’t expecting you. The brunette man smiles at you and waves, looking sheepish.

“Hey,” He says, nudging his elbow into his friend’s side and walking towards you. “Sorry, we were on a run and saw you driving by, so we wanted to come and say hello to our new neighbor. No one’s lived here since we moved in a couple of years ago.”

His explanation puts you at ease, and when the men stop in front of you, your knees almost buckle. The wind carries their scent directly into you, their Alpha scent. Potent due to their run, but not unpleasant, not at all. And the men must take note of your scent because their nostrils flare and their eyes darken a little bit before the brunette man shakes himself out of his trance.

“I’m Bucky, and this is Steve.” You give them your name before you can forget to think, and you have to shake yourself out of your own reverie.

“My great-grandfather built this house in the thirties, and it’s been in my family ever since. I lived in California for a bit but wanted a change, so my mom gave me the keys,” You say as you motion to the house behind you. You take a quick glance at its deteriorated state and cringe a little. “I obviously didn’t know it would be in this condition, but now that I’ve seen it, I want to fix it up again. I don’t want my great-grandfather’s effort to go to waste, you know?”

You’re not sure why you’re telling them this, but their smiles are understanding, and they quickly glance at each other before Steve speaks up.

“Well, we’re lumberjacks, so we’re pretty handy. We’d be happy to help you with some of the dirty work.” Steve sounds hopeful, and Bucky nods in agreement, his eyes shining with nervousness, and it tugs at your heart. You’ve heard of true mates. It’s not super common, but it does exist, and you can’t help but feel like this might be that.

Stop it. You just met them. You’re getting ahead of yourself.

“Oh, oh no, I couldn’t ask you to do that. It’s a lot of work, and I don’t want to put you guys through that. Plus, I–I really can’t afford to hire people to help right now.” You smile awkwardly, and while you would love the help, it’s true that you’re limited on funds. You’d spent a lot of money moving all of your things across the country, and you’re seriously rethinking taking time off work to adjust to the move.

“Oh, no,” Bucky says, turning your attention to him, and he’s shaking his head. “You’re our neighbor; we’re not going to charge you a thing.” Maybe he can sense your hesitation because he holds up a placating hand. “Plus, like you said, it’s a lot of work. We’re not trying to undermine you, we swear, but we’d feel bad if you had to do all of this yourself.”

Biting your lip, you weigh the pros and cons. On the one hand, you just met them; they could have an ulterior motive just to try and get into your pants. Or steal your things. On the other hand, you really do need help. When you first saw the cabin, you figured that you would start small and slowly fix things over time, but it would be very nice to get everything done faster. Plus, even though you’re an Omega, you’re strong-willed; you know how to set boundaries and are firm in them.

“Okay, but I’ll still feel really bad if I can’t pay you. Um… I could buy you guys food whenever you come over? After all, I wouldn’t be a good host if I made you work without eating.”

Steve and Bucky glance at each other with smiles, seemingly having a silent conversation before they nod and look back at you.

“I’m sure you’d be a great host even if you didn’t feed us, but we’ll take the compromise.” Steve smiles at you, and you momentarily get lost in his ocean-blue eyes. They pull you in, but Bucky’s soft laugh pulls your focus to him. And, you want to be ashamed of yourself for so clearly ogling him, but Bucky doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seems rather amused, especially when you shuffle awkwardly and fiddle with your fingers.

Plus, you’re pretty sure Bucky’s laugh is the best sound you’ve ever heard; it’s deep and filled with a sort of mischief that doesn’t put you off. Instead, it flusters you, and you can even tell your scent is sweetening at all the attention and kindness. It’s not that you don’t receive positive attention from Alphas, it’s just never been these Alphas. And, well, it’s fucking with your brain because you don’t know how to process these feelings.

Your great-grandparents were true mates, so you do you believe in them, you’re just positive you’re not supposed to feel like that for two people. To your knowledge, it’s never been documented as a possibility, so your conflicted emotions send you spiraling a little.

“Okay,” You say, somehow able to speak while also having an internal crisis. “Um… when would you be able to start? I still have a few boxes to bring in, but other than unpacking, I have a lot of free time, so you’re welcome to come over whenever.”

“How about now?” Bucky asks, maybe a little too quickly. But you don’t mind; it just makes you smile at his eagerness to help. “We can take a look at the house now, and then we’ll be able to see what we need to focus on first.”

You can hear your mother’s voice in your head chastising you for letting strangers into your home, but you’re going to ignore that. Because there’s a feeling deep in your bones that lets you know that this is a good idea.

“Okay.”

With your permission, Bucky and Steve make their way inside, and Bucky pulls out his phone so he can start taking notes. Within the first thirty seconds, he’s already got a few problems jotted down. The broken board on the porch, creaky door hinge, broken windows, the dining table looks like it’ll collapse if anything is placed on it, and a few of the cabinets in the kitchen are completely gone.

Bucky wants to get to work immediately, and with the way Steve is fidgeting as they walk further into the house, he wants to as well.

“Babe,” Steve says quietly after he notices the long list on Bucky’s phone. And they haven’t even made it past the living room. “We need to get her new furniture too; the springs are busting out of the couch.”

“I know,” Bucky says, eyebrows furrowing in concern, not necessarily for the house, but for you. The work needed will take at least a month, and both he and Steve can already tell the heater is busted. They haven’t seen your room, but if the couch is anything to go by, both Alphas just know it’s old as well. But he also knows that they’ll do whatever they need to do to help you.

“Let's focus on the big things right now, like the windows and the porch.”

At the mention, they hear a thud and your shout of pain behind them, and they whip around and see that you’ve tripped over the broken board. They rush over to you, Steve moving the box you were holding while Bucky helps you sit so he can crouch down and inspect the damage. There’s a pretty nasty cut on your shin, and you whimper when he touches your ankle.

“How bad does it hurt?”

“Um – ah!” You shout again when he gently moves your ankle to test the pain, and he immediately lets it go in favor of worming his arm under your bent knees, and his other arm wraps itself around your back. He hears you whimper, and he has the suddenly irrational feeling of wanting to absorb your pain, getting agitated that you’re hurting, and knowing he can’t really stop it.

Steve has already taken to laying a blanket on the old couch and placed a pillow on the arm of it. While Bucky gently sets you down so you’re propped up against the pillow and your leg is out straight, Steve rushes to the kitchen, then comes back with a frozen bag of vegetables that were put in the freezer thanks to your foresight of grocery shopping before you started unpacking the moving truck. He also has a towel, which he places over your hurt ankle before resting the make-shift ice pack on it.

“Where’s your first-aid stuff?” Bucky asks in a calming tone despite feeling nearly frantic with the overwhelming need to help, to show you that he can be useful.

“I – I don’t have one,” You say sheepishly, and Bucky wants to sigh and lightly scold you, but knows it’s not his place to.

“Steve –”

“I’ll go get our kit!” Steve interrupts as he jogs out of the door and back to their house. When Bucky sees your eyes widen slightly, he knows you’re about to protest.

“The cut might get infected if we don’t clean it up soon, plus, I’m pretty sure we have a wrap we can use for your ankle. You shouldn’t walk on it for a little anyway, so Steve and I can finish bringing in your boxes. And –” Bucky’s rambling is cut off when you place your hand atop his that’s now on your knee.

“Thank you, Bucky,” You say softly, and Bucky just melts. It’s a little unnerving, these feelings swirling in his chest. He knows them well; he’s grown accustomed to them ever since he can remember, because this is almost exactly how he feels about Steve. He grew up with Steve, has known Steve was his mate since they were young, even when they both presented as Alphas. It’s a little different because he knows Steve intimately in ways no one else does, and he doesn’t know much about you other than the red string of fate telling him that you’re theirs. But, it’s strong enough that he genuinely believes he could love you just as much.

He knows it’s not common for two Alphas to be mated to each other; the dirty and confused looks, coupled with the fact that they were practically shunned out of their neighborhood when they decided to come out, were the main reasons why they moved up here. They wanted to get away from prying eyes and hateful comments, and they’d managed to find friends up here, ones that accepted and supported them.

Bucky briefly wonders how they’d react if they found out about you.

“O-Of course,” Bucky clears his throat, squeezing your knee affectionately. His heart rate is increasing slightly, and he hates feeling off kilter, but your grateful smile settles his worries. “Besides, Stevie and I would never let a pretty Omega be in pain by herself.” He doesn’t know where he got the gall, but it’s worth it when you awkwardly giggle and look away, clearly flustered.

Bucky wants to rumble pleasantly when your scent sweetens, and he can’t deny that his ego gets a little boost when he realizes that he is the reason for it. For a moment, he stares at you while you mindlessly fiddle with the threaded edges of the blanket you’re sitting on. When you look back up at him, you open your mouth to speak, but then immediately shut it when Steve comes rushing back through the door.

“Alright! I got the kit,” Steve says as he kneels down beside Bucky. They work in sync, cleaning your wound and rubbing antibiotic ointment before carefully bandaging it, and are gentle when they have to adjust your foot so they can wrap your ankle.

It doesn’t take long, but Steve talks and asks you questions to distract you from the pain. Apparently, your favorite color is yellow, you have a cat that’s currently at your mother’s house, you’re planning on getting her back after you’ve finished moving and unpacked at least half of the boxes, and you work as a freelance copywriter for various art-centric blogs and articles.

That last fact had Steve perking up, and Bucky wants to playfully roll his eyes because his Stevie will take any chance he gets to discuss art history and different painting techniques for hours. Bucky wants to, but he won’t, because you get excited too when Steve reveals his passion for art, and he would never discourage that.

Eventually, Steve and Bucky go back to searching for more problems with the house, though they check on you every few minutes. Time flies by, and Bucky’s phone is filled with issue after issue, things that need to be fixed, and things that need to be replaced altogether. But, they’re both worried about leaving you so soon after your fall, so they take it upon themselves to order pizza – your insistence on paying for it falling on deaf ears.

And they spend most of the day with you, talking and laughing as though you’ve known each other for decades. It’s surprising, while at the same time not, that all of you just instantly click. You have a lot of the same hobbies they do – reading, hiking, and the occasional baking if you’ve found a particular recipe on pinterest that you think you can make without fucking it up too bad given that you’re actually quite horrible at baking in general.

It’s not until Steve glances at his phone later in the day that he groans.

“What is it, Steve?” You ask, your eyebrows furrowing.

“It’s almost six-thirty, we need to feed Alpine,” Steve says remorsefully, glancing at Bucky, who hums in agreement.

“Alpine?”

“Our cat,” Bucky explains, smiling when you perk up. He pulls out his phone and scrolls through it until he finally holds it up so you can see the white fur ball curled up on what looks like a sweatshirt. “She loves stealing Stevie’s sweaters.”

“And our blankets, sweatpants, and basically anything that has our scent on it.” Steve looks down at Bucky’s phone lovingly; they both love Alpine, doting on her like she were their child.

Bucky smiles widely when you laugh, nodding along and saying, “I wish my cat did that; Maggie prefers my socks.”

Both Alphas laugh, and Bucky can’t help but want Alpine to meet Maggie and see how they’d react to each other. Alpine is very particular about humans, but relatively friendly with other animals as long as they’re not loud and rambunctious; she likes peace and quiet.

“Well, I guess we have to go,” Bucky says sadly, slowly standing because he really, really doesn’t want to leave, but also knows that their cat is probably missing them and their attention. “Are you going to be okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” You assure him with a smile, gently lifting your leg and rolling your ankle in a small circle to test the pain. “It still hurts a little, but not as bad; I’ll be able to walk.” Suddenly, Steve takes both of your hands in his and helps you stand, not letting go until you rest more of your weight on your injured ankle and nod.

“Go get some rest, we’ll be back tomorrow morning with some tools and get to work,” Bucky says, smiling, admittedly a little dazedly, when you look up at him with a smile of your own.

“Okay, I’ll have food ready when you get here.” Steve opens his mouth to protest before you start speaking again. “I promised you food, and I’m not taking it back just because I hurt my ankle by being clumsy.”

Bucky and Steve look at each other hesitantly, but eventually agree when they realize you won't back down.

“Alright, but please don’t overwork yourself,” Steve says, taking your hand again so he can squeeze it.

“I promise,” You say with a chuckle, squeezing back. “Now, go give some love to Alpine for me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky says, laughing along with Steve. As they walk to the door, Bucky can’t help but look back at you, smiling when he finds you looking back at them with what Bucky thinks (hopes) is fondness. With a final wave, they leave and make the short trek back home.

It’s nine in the morning when you hear a few knocks on your front door, and you have to remind yourself not to hurt your ankle further by rushing to answer. When you do, you see both Alphas holding bags presumably filled with tools to fix up your rundown cottage. Bucky sets his down on the porch next to the broken board while Steve brings his inside, and you step aside to let them in.

“Good morning, guys! I didn’t know what you liked to eat, so I just made pancakes and bacon; I hope that’s alright.” Suddenly, you’re hit with a mild wave of regret for not asking them yesterday what they preferred, but Steve’s stomach growls almost as soon as you finish talking, causing all of you to laugh.

“Sounds perfect to me,” Steve says with a wide smile, and it fills your stomach with butterflies, even more so when Bucky nods in agreement.

“We’ll eat anything you make us, Bambi. I’m sure it’s going to be delicious.”

“Bambi?” You ask, your eyebrows furrowing a little. When Bucky nods to your hurt ankle, you huff out a laugh and roll your eyes. “Oh, because I’m clumsy?”

“You said it,” Bucky says and shrugs, his eyes twinkling with amusement when you playfully glare at him.

“Well, I guess I can’t argue against it. But just for that comment, I’m making you clean up the dishes.” You meant it playfully; you’re not actually going to make them clean, so you’re surprised when Bucky nods easily and shrugs.

“I’m fine with that.”

“Oh, no, I was just -”

“Alright!” Bucky interrupts you, giving you a wink. “Let’s get eating, Stevie, and then we’ll get to work.”

They scarf down the food quickly, but not before making sure you’ve already eaten because they’d feel bad about not leaving any for you. And when they finish, Bucky shoos you out of the kitchen so he can work on the dishes while Steve sets up in the front yard.

“Is, um. Is it okay if I stay out here with you guys? I won’t get in your way; I’ll just sit on the swing over there and read.” Fiddling with the book in your hands, you chew on your lip nervously. You’d hate to disrupt them in any way, but your concerningly overwhelming need to be around them outweighs any of that trepidation.

“It’s your house, Bambi,” Steve says, now kneeling and emptying his tool bag. “You can sit wherever you’d like. Plus, Buck’s always happy to show off.”

“Shut up, punk,” Bucky grumbles, giving an admonishing tap on the back of Steve’s head. “Besides, you know your shirt size yet still refuse to wear the correct one.”

“It’s all for you, babe,” Steve laughs, jabbing Bucky in the side when he kneels as well.

“Babe?” You don’t mean to question it aloud, but you’re a little confused. Sure, they smell like each other, but you figured that it’s because they live together. You didn’t question why they do, based on yesterday, you assume it’s because they’re such close friends. And, you’re pretty sure Bucky was flirting with you yesterday with that ‘pretty Omega’ comment. They couldn’t possibly be -

“We’re mates,” Bucky explains, but he seems a little hesitant to do so. They give each other a brief and nervous look before turning back to you. “We know it’s not… common for Alphas to be mated together, and if you’re not comfortable with us being here -”

“Oh, no!” You say quickly, now worried about upsetting them. You don’t want to upset them, but you can't deny that now you’re a little sad knowing that they’re taken. But then you have to remind yourself that just because you might think you’ve found your true mates, they’re probably too enamored with each other to even consider you. “I’m not uncomfortable with it, I promise! Like you said, it’s not common for Alphas to be mated to each other, so I just didn’t assume. But I don’t care what other people do as long as they’re not hurting anyone.”

“Well, we’ll treat you right, we promise.” Steve’s words and smile do little to ease the ache in your heart, but you plaster on a smile and nod.

With that, you make your way to the porch swing and open your book. And you really do try to read it, but the Alphas’ grunts as they work to fix the wood, coupled with their scent growing more and more potent the longer they’re out in the sun, makes your head spin.

It also confuses you because they keep sending glances your way – which you’re aware of, considering you keep glancing at them. You’re not sure what it means, but you try to focus on your book and put it out of your mind. That is, until an unknown amount of time later, Steve comes up to you holding a glass of lemonade.

“I hope you don’t mind,” He says, smiling awkwardly down at you as he offers you the drink. “Buck and I were thirsty and raided your fridge.”

You’re momentarily frozen because Steve apparently took off his shirt at some point, leaving him in only a white tank top. His muscles glisten with a thin layer of sweat, his pecs are bulging through the fabric, and you’re definitely not proud of the way your mouth waters at the sight. And if he notices how flushed you are, you hope he assumes it’s because of the abnormally warm Fall day and not the fact that he looks and smells like sin.

“Oh, no it - it’s okay! Help yourself to whatever.” Your voice cracks a little in the middle of the sentence, causing you to cringe slightly. “Thank you for bringing me some.”

“Of course,” Steve says easily, looking relieved that you’re not mad. “We’re almost done out here, then we’re going to move inside.”

Nodding, you set your book aside and stand, but you soon regret it because you’re now almost pressed to Steve’s chest because he didn’t move back. You have to crane your neck a little to look up at him, and his large stature makes you feel safe and protected. It also makes your hindbrain go a little insane – an innate feeling that he can provide for you, that he – and Bucky – can be the perfect Alphas for you.

It’s not until Bucky calls for Steve that you break out of your trance.

“I’ll, uh, go make us some food.” You give him a smile and one to Bucky as you pass him on your way into the house.

Cooking gives you a little break from your inner turmoil, having something to hone in on that’s not the confusing swirling of emotions in your heart. It feels like they’re flirting with you, but that can’t be true because they’re mated together for fucks sake.

And these feelings continue throughout the day, sitting on your sofa and constantly stealing glances at them, and feeling their eyes on you whenever they pass through the living room. They have the heater fixed within two hours, and you’re grateful for that because it was freezing last night, and you’d hate to have to deal with that for another night.

It’s just the beginning of sunset when they decide to leave for the day, promising to return tomorrow around the same time to look at the few broken windows. You wave them goodbye with a smile and a promise of your own to get breakfast ready.

It’s when you’re finally lying in your uncomfortable bed that you internally curse whatever higher power there is for teasing you like this, dangling the two most perfect men right in front of your face, only to pull them away within the blink of an eye.

The next three weeks practically fly by. Steve and Bucky go to your house three days a week to help with renovations in between doing their actual jobs. They’re efficient in fixing up your house, but both of them will admit that even though it’s taking less time than they originally thought, they’re taking a little longer than necessary because, despite Steve and Bucky’s hints, you don’t seem to catch on to their flirting.

Which is why Steve decided that today would be a good idea to take you to the market in town to do some decor shopping, figuring that maybe taking you out would give you a better taste of what it would be like to be with them.

And it’s quite a beautiful day; the sun is out and shining bright, the birds are chirping happily, and the leaves are more colorful than ever, giving that true autumn effect. It’s made even better when you step out of your house and make your way down the walkway to Steve and Bucky’s truck. You’re wearing a simple long-sleeved sweater and jeans, but Steve thinks you’re the most beautiful Omega ever. And Steve doesn’t even have to be mated to Bucky to know that he feels the same, because he immediately starts trying to adjust his own sweater despite the seat belt being in the way, always wanting to look his best for you.

“Hey, Bambi,” Steve says as he steps out of the car when you’re closer, giving you a wide smile that matches your own and opening his arms for a hug.

“Hi Stevie,” You say, and Steve rumbles a little when he hears your tiny squeak whenever he squeezes you to his chest.

“Get her in here, punk!” Bucky calls, and Steve lets you go so he can help you into the middle seat of the truck.

“Aw, are you feeling left out, Buck?” You tease, and Steve settles in beside you once you’re buckled. You lean into Bucky’s shoulder, wrapping an arm around his neck and giving him a side hug.

“Of course not, I know I’m your favorite.” Bucky winks at you, and both Alphas can smell when your scent sweetens at the action.

Bucky loves flustering you.

“That’s a lie and you know it,” Steve says, knocking his arm against yours. “I’m her favorite. She said so just last week.”

“That’s just because you gave her your vintage art magazine she’s been searching for, but I am going to be her favorite today because I’m getting her the good hot chocolate from Clint’s shop.” Bucky sticks his tongue out at Steve, causing you both to laugh.

“Well, I will –”

“Who said either of you guys are my favorite?” You ask in a teasing voice. “If Clint’s hot chocolate is as good as you’ve been saying, then maybe he’ll be my favorite. Now, let’s go. I want to look for new blankets.”

Bucky grumbles playfully about how he’s not getting you the drink now as he backs out of the driveway, and Steve smiles to himself when you laugh. And Steve really can’t be blamed for getting hit with a wave of fondness at the sound. He and Bucky just want you so badly; they want to make you laugh every day, they want to provide for you, and love you like they’re sure no one else can. They want to make you happy and support you in everything you do.

It’s a fairly small town, so it doesn’t take long to get to the outside market, and your eyes widen when you step out and get a good look at a few of the stalls. There’s food, wall art, pottery, and the Alphas know that there are a few book stands towards the back that you’ll probably be most excited about.

“Ready?” Steve asks with a laugh, already knowing the answer because you’re practically vibrating in place.

Instead of answering him, you hook your arm through his and do the same to Bucky when he rounds the corner holding a basket. You practically drag them to the entrance, and your excitement is contagious because neither Alpha can keep the smiles off their faces when they see the wonder in your eyes.

They know you haven’t experienced a true Fall season in a while due to you living in southern California for a few years, and they’re already a bit happy with themselves for this date idea, even though it’s not technically a date. To you, anyway.

The three of you spend hours walking around and visiting all the shops, picking up knick-knacks and spices that they refuse to let you pay for. They also encouraged you to pick out vegetable seeds since you’ve mentioned wanting to start gardening. And the entire time, you’ve only let go of their arms to pick items up and inspect them, but as soon as they’re put back or paid for, you wrap your arms around theirs again, and Steve feels like he’s walking on clouds the entire time. And, based on the fond smile that hasn’t left Bucky’s face since they first picked you up, he feels it too.

It’s when you finally make your rounds to Clint’s setup that your eyes really light up.

“Hey guys!” Clint calls when he sees you all, one arm high in the air and waving to gain your attention.

“Hey Clint!” Bucky says when you get closer, and you’re able to see all that he’s selling: hot chocolate, coffee, and various pastries that Steve already knows you’re going to want.

“And hello to you, pretty lady.” Clint’s comment makes you smile, and you greet him with a small wave. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, we promised Bambi here that we’d get her some of your famous hot cocoa, so we came by to see if you had any left.” Steve smiles down at you and fights the urge to puff out his chest when you lean your head on his arm affectionately.

“Of course I do,” Clint says easily, pulling out three cups to get started. “And I stole one of Nat’s peppermint chocolate bars earlier that your Bambi can have.”

Now, you get flustered easily. Or, at least you do around Steve and Bucky, so it doesn’t surprise them when you start shuffling nervously and awkwardly chuckling. And Steve would be worried about the ‘your’ part of Clint’s comment upsetting you if not for your scent getting noticeably sweeter. Steve looks at Bucky over your head, and he can see the light flush on his mate’s face as well as the fact that he’s clearly trying not to smile.

“O-Oh, um, thank you,” You say, extracting your arms from the Alphas’ so you can grab your cup and hold it close to your chest, letting the steam waft up into your face and warming you up. As soon as you take a sip, Steve has to stop himself from shivering at your pleased hum, and he aches to taste the chocolate straight from your lips.

He doesn't kiss you, though. No matter how badly he wants to. What he does is wrap an arm around your shoulder, smiling down at you when you look up at him, your eyes wide and sparkling.

"You like it?"

"It's delicious," You respond, leaning into his side. But, unable to leave Bucky out, you once again loop your arm through his.

"I'm glad," Clint says, breaking you both out of your moment. When Steve looks at him, Clint has a mischievous glint in his eyes, a smirk forming on his face. Immediately, he knows his friend is going to say something to embarrass him and Bucky, probably to point out how stupid they look whenever they're so much as near you.

"Why don't we look for those blankets you've been wanting?" Steve asks, interrupting whatever Clint is about to say.

"Okay!" You perk up almost immediately, smiling widely at him and Bucky, then turning to Clint. "Thanks for the hot chocolate. How much do I owe you?"

"Not a single penny, sweetheart," Clint responds, shaking his head. "It's on the house. After all, I’ve never seen these two idiots more in lo–”

“Alright!” Bucky exclaims nervously, glaring at Clint when he’s sure you’re not looking at him. “I think there are more stalls this way.”

Before you even have a chance to question anything, both Alphas are ushering you along the walkway to a booth further away, not caring what they’re selling as long as they get you away from Clint. When Steve looks back at his friend, he sees the cheeky smirk plastered on his face, and Steve knows he should probably be upset about his friend almost spilling their secret, but he and Bucky have been trying to tell you for so long that he’s anxious for you to know, no matter how you find out.

Still, Steve reasons that you probably shouldn’t find out in public when they are your transportation, and they’d hate for the drive home to be awkward in case you don’t feel the same way they do. So, they spend the rest of the day showing you around, buying whatever you look at for more than five seconds, and relishing in the feeling of having you so close to them.

When they finally take you back home, they insist on bringing in your things, never wanting not to be useful to your needs and wants. And, if they linger in the doorway a little longer, if they hug you a little tighter, if they take a few inhales of your scent before pulling away, well, who can blame them? When it comes to you, they’ll take whatever they can get.

It’s almost four in the afternoon, and your entire body is thrumming with nerves. Steve and Bucky came by around nine this morning, only to kick you out of your own house under the guise of Natasha, another one of their friends and Clint’s fiancée, wanting to hang out with you. You don’t doubt that she genuinely did want to go shopping together, after all, you’ve become pretty good friends ever since you met her shortly after the farmer’s market. But the looks on everyone’s faces when you hesitantly said yes to the girl’s date had your mind racing.

What could they possibly be planning?

Steve only texted you once since you left: a blurry picture of Bucky falling down your porch steps. It had you cackling and texting back that maybe Bucky’s nickname should be ‘Bambi’, but there wasn’t a response, so you were left to rack your brain over what the hell is going on at your house for the rest of the day.

“Don’t worry,” Natasha says as you both get back in her car, your bags in the trunk and your stomachs filled with delicious food from the bakery not too far from your cottage. “I promise that they’re not breaking your house.”

“Wait.” You turn in your seat, giving her a quizzical look. “Do you know what they’re doing?” She smirks, and confusion settles in your chest, now even more desperate to know what they’re up to now that you know she definitely knows.

“Not everything,” She says easily, shrugging one of her shoulders, and you’re momentarily jealous of how soft her hair looks as it bounces with the movement. “I can just tell you’re a little worried. And they may be idiots sometimes, but they’d never do anything to mess this up.”

That causes you to pause. Mess what up? It may seem a little silly, but you’ve come to trust them over the last few months you’ve known them. They’ve shown endless amounts of patience, not just with you, but with your house as well. They’ve proved over and over that you can trust them, so you don’t doubt that they’re not fucking up your place again, but you do know that they can cause trouble if they want to.

So, again, what are they planning?

“Natasha,” You sigh, biting your lip nervously. “What is going on?”

“I can’t tell you.” Natasha sighs too, and looks over at you with a soft smile, placing her hand over yours. “I can just see how nervous you are, and I feel the need to tell you that you’re going to love what they’re doing. They care about you, Bambi.”

For a moment, you almost tell her that you love them, that you trust them more than anyone, but you feel like that would give away too much. Besides, just because they care about you doesn’t mean they love you like you love them. With how they are, you know they care about all of their friends, so you try to remind yourself that you’re not their mate.

“I… I care about them too,” You say softly, settling into your seat.

“I know,” She says, a hint of a smile on her lips as she puts the car in drive. You don’t bother asking how she knows, over the time you’ve known her you have come to realize that she knows a lot. And what she doesn’t know, she’ll find out some other way. “Now, let’s get going.”

Even though the drive back to your cottage is not even ten minutes, it still gives you enough time to think over the million possibilities of what could be happening, what they could have waiting for you. The anxiety in your chest is growing slowly, but you try to remind yourself that the Alphas would never do anything to harm you, even if they are goofballs with tendencies to play pranks.

As you get closer to your cottage, driving out of the town and passing Steve and Bucky’s own house, you notice something weird. In the driveway are more cars, but they block your view of the entrance of your house, and Natasha parks far enough away that you can’t make out who is on the porch. You’re only more confused when you see Sam, another friend of Steve and Bucky, jog down the path to Natasha’s car with a wide smile and a piece of cloth.

“Hello, Bambi!” Sam says excitedly, opening the door for you and helping you out.

“Hey, Sam - oh!” You’re cut off by Sam turning you around and placing the cloth over your eyes and tying it around your head, using it as a blindfold. “What the hell is up with everyone today?”

“You’ll see!” Sam exclaims, and even though you’re even more curious now, Sam’s excitement is contagious, and you can feel your heart beating a little quicker in anticipation. “And you’ll love it.”

Sighing, though playfully, you let Sam turn you around to presumably face your cottage, and you feel one of his hands on your back while his other takes hold of you arm as he urges you forward, occasionally guiding you left or right to avoid any obstacles in your path. And, despite feeling overwhelmingly perplexed, you can’t deny that you know you’ll love whatever the Alphas have planned for you.

After a minute of walking, slowly since you’re basically blind right now, you feel Sam step behind you and start untying the blindfold.

“Okay, Bambi. Are you ready to see what your Alphas did?”

Your face immediately goes hot, because, while they’re not technically your Alphas, no matter how much you want them to be, it does feel nice to hear it, especially from one of Steve and Bucky’s closest friends.

“God, yes,” You say exasperatedly, laughing a little to show him that you’re not actually upset over the fact that you’ve only been given cryptic clues throughout the day, left to wait to see what they could have done to warrant this type of energy from their friends.

“Okay then. Three, two, one!” The cloth falls away from your face, and you have to blink and squint your eyes for a moment to adjust to the light.

Once you’re able to focus your eyes on what is in front of you, your mouth drops open, your heart nearly stopping. Because in front of you stand Steve, Bucky, and Clint, all with wide smiles on their faces. Natasha moves to stand beside you, shopping bags in hand, and you can see her smiling out of the corner of your eyes.

It takes you a moment to gather your bearings, but finally you notice something that wasn’t there this morning: fairy lights dangling from the roof of the porch, a new porch swing with what looks like the softest pillows perched on it, and potted plants on either side of the front door. In the simplest of terms, it’s beautiful. Ethereal, even. It’s almost like Steve and Bucky dove into your brain to figure out how you want to decorate your place.

“Wha - How did you…” You’re unable to finish your sentence because you’re just at a loss for words. Obviously, it wouldn’t have taken all day just to decorate the porch, so you have a sneaking suspicion that they must have also added some finishing touches on the inside as well.

“Your mother helped a lot,” Steve says, a soft and endearing smile on his face.

“My mother?”

At the mention, the front door opens and your mom steps out, also smiling, with her arms open for a hug. You haven’t had the chance to see her since the first day you moved out here, so you can’t really be blamed for rushing up the steps and practically throwing yourself at her, a laugh bubbling up in your chest as she squeezes you to her chest.

“I may or may not have found your Pinterest account and sent them the link,” She explains, and you pull away to look at her with a raised eyebrow. “Don’t look at me like that. These handsome Alphas wanted to help you get officially settled in, and you deserve to have people in your life that want you to be happy.” She then leans in closer to whisper in your ear, but just loud enough that you know she wants the others to hear, “And even though I just met them, I know they make you happier than you’ve ever been.”

Your face flushes even more at her comment, and tears want to spring to your eyes. Even though you lived in California for years, and you had several friends that you were reluctant to say goodbye to, you never really realized how much you needed people like Steve and Bucky in your corner, not to mention their friends that have welcomed you into their little circle. It sends a surge of love all throughout your body, and when you finally step back from the hug, you turn to see both Alphas looking at you nervously, both fiddling with their clothes as though they’re stopping themselves from hugging you as well.

“Thank you guys, I – I mean it. You didn’t have to go through all this trouble.” Your voice is small, and you take a risk by slowly walking towards them, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. “But I’m so grateful that you did.”

Before you can stop to think, you surge forward, wrapping one arm around Steve’s waist, and the other around Bucky’s, pulling them close to hug both of them. You can feel them sigh in what sounds like relief, both of them encasing you in their arms as well. For a moment, you forget that there are people watching you, you just hug the Alphas as tight as you can to show your gratitude. And it seems to last forever, neither of you wanting the hug to end. That is, until you hear someone clear their throat, and that’s when you remember that you’re not alone.

You pull away from them, turning your head and looking at the group with an almost embarrassed smile.

“Oh, don’t mind us,” Sam says with a smirk, looping his arms around Clint and Natasha’s shoulders. “Why don’t we give these three a little privacy.”

“Come inside everyone, I’ll make us some tea,” Your mother says, and when you look at her, you see a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Not you,” She says while pointing at you, “You guys take all the time you need out here.”

With that, the gang follows your mom inside the house, leaving you to stand in front of Steve and Bucky, shuffling nervously. Finally, when you’re alone, you look up at the Alphas, both of them glancing at each other before turning their gaze back to you.

“We, um…” Bucky trails off, breathing deeply. “We wanted to talk to you about something.”

Immediately, your heart starts beating faster, and you have the smallest suspicion of what they’re going to tell you. You know it’s probably wishful thinking, but you can’t help but hope and pray it’s what you’re wanting to hear.

“About what?” For a moment, everything is quiet except for the pounding of your heart in your ears, but then, both Alphas reach forward to take your hands in each of their own.

“Bambi,” Steve sighs, looking over at Bucky anxiously. When his mate nods, they both once again turn back to you. “We care about you. A lot. And – And it’s more than just how we care about our friends. We…” When Steve stops, Bucky picks up for him.

“We love you, Bambi,” Bucky says, and you can smell how anxious they are, it’s potent. “We’re pretty sure you’re our mate.”

“And we know it’s rarely heard of for people to have two mates,” Steve continues, squeezing your hand. “But from the moment we met you, we knew you were different than any other Omega we’ve ever met. We’ve been trying to drop hints here and there, but you’ve never responded to them. And we didn’t know whether it’s because you truly didn’t know or you’re just too kind to say anything about it, but now that the house is finished, we couldn’t wait any longer.”

“It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way.” Bucky chews on his bottom lip for a moment, and you want to stop them, you want to scream from the rooftop that you love them too, you want to kiss the worry off their faces. But, you don’t, because he keeps talking. “And if you don’t, then that’s perfectly fine. We don’t expect you to love us back just because we helped you with the cottage, and we’re still not going to charge you for any of the work. And we’d love to still be friends, but it’s totally understandable if you’d be too uncomfortable with that. We just…”

“We just needed you to know how we feel,” Steve says softly, smiling at you, his eyes filled with uncertainty. “But –”

“Guys,” You say quickly, squeezing both of their hands and stopping them in their tracks. “I… To be honest, I did kind of suspect that you were flirting with me. I just didn’t know if it was wishful thinking, though, because you’re mated to each other. But…” Taking a deep and steadying breath, you glance between them, happy tears in your eyes.

“But, I do love you. More than I’ve ever loved anyone. I just never said anything because I didn’t want to ruin our friendship. I couldn’t handle not having you both in my life, so I was content with what we had. However, if you’re serious, then I’d love to be with both of you. Like, mates.”

“Thank god,” Both Alphas say, laughing from the sheer joy of finally having what you’ve all apparently wanted for months. The three of you fall into a bout of silence, relishing in your newfound relationship, Bucky’s free hand coming up to wipe away a stray tear with his thumb.

“Oh come on!” Someone exclaims, and all of your heads snap up to see the whole gang staring at you through the slightly opened window.

“Kiss already!” Your mom says happily, and you would be scandalized at her watching, but you know she just wants the best for you, so you’re not that upset that they’ve been snooping.

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve says, smirking down at you, leaning in close and pressing a lingering kiss on your lips. It’s not an intense kiss, but the emotions you feel certainly are. It’s almost like the world has tilted, righting itself, and leaving you breathless when he pulls away.

Bucky follows soon after, pulling you in by the hold he has on your hand so he can kiss you too. It’s a little hard to kiss when you’re both smiling, but it’s just as perfect as your kiss with Steve.

Now that you think about it, you never thought you’d ever have a true mate, let alone two, and it may be a little cliche, but right now you feel as though you’ve been missing something for your entire life, and you’ve finally found it in the form of two perfect Alphas.

tags: @buckysprettybaby | @lilyalone | @goldylions | @yeehawbrothers | @buckyssweetheart | @ozwriterchick | @pxgeturner | @gentlelimerence | @justsebstan | @toocrazyunsexycool | @calzone-d

[lee-cu]

Lookout

Reader gets shot on a mission with Steve and Bucky, and once she is finally back to the safehouse Steve can't help himself but need to be surrounded by her, to know she is really safe and sound.

Warnings: 4.5k words, reader is shot in the chest, graffic description of gun shot wound and healing powers, voyuerism/exhibitionism, face-sitting but vertical? steve picks up reader and eats her out against the wall, oral sex (fem receiving), male masturbating, vaginal fingering, cumplay, begging, pet names (doll, baby, babe, sweetheart), showering together, hydra experiment!reader that knows how to ride a motorcycle, established Steve x Reader, pre-poly Stucky x reader. No use of Y/N, fem reader.

Technically a part of a series, probably takes place between Debriefing and Mission Status: Successful but could also probably be read alone with the context of established Steve/reader and Reader was a hydra experiment.

You have been sitting so long in the same position you can feel every vertebrae in your spine. Your mind begins to wander from your objective, you can’t help it, as you count each bone, then follow the curve around to your cheekbones where the tender skin aches from a lack of proper sleep. Unbidden, your tongue darts out over chapped lips and immediately you are struck with a pang of thirst, unleashing a cacophony of discomfort into the forefront of your mind. Your flask ran nearly an hour ago, no snacks allowed on recon missions for obvious reasons, have to sit as still as possible but in a position that keeps you hidden with a perfect view of the only entrance to the building.

And the fucking heat. It’s blistering hot, the sun beating down at what feels like every angle, and you wish you had brought your sunscreen, the light load and minimal movement orders be damned. You’re made plans to sue Tony if you got skin cancer from your lackluster sunscreen reapplying, not that he had anything to do with it, but you’re sure you could spin a tale good enough to at least afford a lifetime supply of lotion. Tony liked you well enough to just buy it for you if you just asked but going the suing route sounded more entertaining, and that was another thing you were lacking. Entertainment. 

Steve and Bucky were talking as little as possible, only a whispered one-word check-in every 15 minutes, in case of any listening devices that may have been left inside the building while its employees were away. You were supposed to be watching, waiting for any sign of life coming down the wide-open solitary road to the old warehouse, but it had been nearly 3 hours of sitting in the same position on concrete and you were fucking sick of it. You know Steve preferred to be thorough in his searches, and it’s a base of operations warehouse so there’s bound to be plenty of boxes and files to skim through, but 3 hours is excessive, borderline dangerous. 

You contemplate shifting your weight to take some pressure off your chest after laying on your stomach for so long, but that would be risking getting a scolding from Steve. Admittedly a scolding from your boyfriend, would be hot, but probably nothing would come of it because it was ‘supposed to be a punishment’ and ‘no fornication in the field’ so it would just be a tease overall. As you decide it may just be worth the gamble, a truck appears over a hill in the distance. 

You communicate this quickly, keeping your voice hushed so as to not startle the men on the other end of the ear pieces. Right behind the first appears another… and a third. In total, 6 armored trucks are now headed their way. At your back, just far enough down a hill to be hidden, lay three motorcycles to act as your in and out, quick, easy to hide, and good for splitting up and therefore weakening your enemies by spreading them thin… but certainly no match for 6 hardened steel plate and bullet-resistant glass bunkers on wheels. 

Steve swears under his breath and then he and Bucky send back their affirmative at the same time. You knew going into this mission that it was risky. The building had one way in and one way out, and this would be their first time getting eyes on the inside so Steve and Bucky didn't even have the luxury of a windows/vents floorplan for backup escape and hiding routes. But with the speed of those trucks, even with you giving your warning as quickly as you did, set your teeth on edge. You shift up onto your elbows, measuring your breaths and consciously unclenching your jaw. 

Your eyes bounce in between the cars and the door, counting off every 30 yards the trucks eat in your head at first, then out loud as more and more seconds slip past without any sight of either of your boys. Finally Steve says, in a peeved voice, “We’re having trouble finding the exit, be prepared, this may come to a firefight.”

Taking another steadying breath, you pull your sniper rifle into position. Sure, you have as many fancy hydra gifts as the next person, but picking them off at a distance would certainly be much safer for everyone. Well, except the targets, which by your calculations make up about 90% of the people involved. So not everyone, not even close, really just safer for Steve and Bucky. But they’re the ones who count. 

The trucks arrive at the gates, and there must be some sort of fancy sensor because the 12ft tall gates Steve and Bucky had to climb over simply slide open for the trucks. To your mounting anger and fear, both the boys are failing to respond to your warnings now, telling you they are too busy arguing about how to get out of this situation. Hopefully they at least are hearing your warnings, if not responding to them, because the trucks are parking and 3 men begin to spill out of each of the cars, all carrying very large guns and decked out in combat gear. So Steve and Bucky definitely set off some sort of alarm or sensor, and just didn’t know it, cause this is not a casual security detail. 

The majority of them head right for the only entrance, while 3 hang back to begin walking the perimeter of the building, probably in search of a lookout. Jokes on them, you’re 50 yards away in desert camo that matches the print of the sniper rifle you have following their every move. You pick off all three stragglers before one of the men near the back of the pack notices. Then there’s shouting and scrambling. 

“Aw shit,” You mutter as you try to reposition the rifle as they all dive for cover. You speak your next words into your headpiece. “3 down, 15 up, all aware of my existence. Backup would be greatly appreciated, gentlemen-” and then you hear the telltale whizzing noise of a bullet passing by you. Aw shit indeed. 

You duck behind your gun, refocusing your attention down the scope even as Steve begins to speak into your ear. You take out one, two, three- and then the door bursts open, distracting them. Immediately the scene escalates as the two super soldiers abandon all pretenses of sneaking in exchange for kicking ass. If bullets weren’t still flying your way you might have used your scope to admire the sleek suits and flexing of hard muscle. You shoot one of the three ganging up on Bucky, and then a glint of the sun is reflected right into your scope, blinding you in your dominant eye. 

You wince back, hissing and rubbing the eye, and it doesn’t take a genius to realize that shit was on purpose. When you look back up, two of the men have broken away to pursue you. And they’re moving fucking quick. Like unnaturally quick, super soldier quick. Holy shit. These men are super soldiers. 

How had it taken you this long to notice? How had you not been warned in debrief that you might be facing super soldiers on the field? If Tony had known, that would have been included in the debrief. That’s not something you casually lean out. So what, on top of being arms dealers these guys now peddle super soldier serum? 

You pull a tight leash on your whirling thoughts. There would be time for asking questions later when two super soldiers weren’t barreling towards you. You leap back behind the sniper rifle, aiming it at one of them only for them to begin fucking zig-zagging. 

“Alright, I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way.” You mutter to yourself, sarcastically, and abandon the sniper rifle in lew of grabbing the two pistols from your shoulder holsters as you jump to your feet. But of course nothing is easy and you’re only (a heavily genetically modified) human so the lack of water, food, and air conditioning hits you like a fucking truck. Black dances in your eyes and your balance wavers even as you plant your feet and square your shoulders, aiming at the two men who are now within a dozen yards, separated to come at you from both angles. You don’t have the time or sturdiness of knees to run for the bikes. You’re gonna have to finish this the old fashioned way. 

In the end, which could come ten seconds or ten minutes or ten hours later, you can’t be sure, both the men are dead, your power is unused, and there’s a bullethole in your fucking ribs. The fucking bastards had to make you do it the hard way. You’re wondering if you could reach the bullet with your fingers or if you should go at it with a knife when you hear your name being called by a familiar, angelic voice. You look up to see a familiar sight, two muscular and towering men racing towards you, only this time it’s Steve and Bucky. Thank god you don’t have to shoot them cause your head is spinning like a top. 

The closer they get the more you realize the angle at which you’re looking at them is strange, and that’s when you look down to see your knees have in fact given out and you’re kneeling in the grassy sand. Blood bubbles under your fingers, dribbling down your hands and clotting in the sand. You contemplate picking it back up and stuffing it back in your body. You really need that blood, you could die if you don’t have enough blood. It’s leaving far too quickly for comfort, and the bullet is still inside you, you can feel it. You swear you can feel the lump of metal tearing you open with every shift, searing heat radiating from the wound in waves. You had thought the sun was too hot but turns out the sun has nothing on a fucking bullet wound, it should be taking notes. 

There are hands, twin pairs of black gloves dusted yellow, touching you, your face, your wrist, your back. The hands move you until all you can see is pale blue sky and wispy clouds. That one’s kinda shaped like a really long lizard. You almost giggle at the idea, but the movement of your chest shapeshifts that searing heat into pain that has you screaming. Why does it hurt now, it didn’t hurt before? Is this what shock feels like? Are you in shock? No, it hurts too much. You were in shock, not anymore. You need water. You need more blood. You need to get this bullet out so you can use your freaky ass hydra powers and not die. 

A cry rips itself from your throat, your back bowing despite all protests from your ribs as something digs into the wound and you can feel the metal, you knew it had been there, being pulled from you. And then something liquid, water, being poured over the wound to wash away the sand irritating the torn flesh.

“You need to heal yourself-” The voice is familiar, soft like cotton, but edged with something you hadn’t heard in it before. Steve’s face comes into view, just behind him Bucky. Their eyes are wide, mouths set into grim lines. Steve’s eyes are so wet, making the blue in them shine even as their faces are cast into darkness by the sun behind their heads. Halos appear behind them, splintering outwards like the heat, the pain in your chest. 

“Baby, you need to listen to me.” Callused hands cup your face, bare of gloves, skin to skin in a firm, grounding touch. “You need to heal yourself.” Steve urges. Bucky whispers your name, a plea. Healing, right. You’ll have to do this part yourself, Steve and Bucky can’t help you with this as much as you know they wish they could. 

You allow your eyes to slip past the men to the sky beyond, and you focus on the heat and the pain even as it becomes nearly unbearable and tears wash away the dust clinging to your cheeks. You force yourself to feel every inch of skin and tissue deep into the wound, till its end, and then you take hold of the ragged strands and pull. You pull and pull until they stitch together, up and up till it’s just your skin left and then that’s stitched back together too and all that’s left is blood and tears and the gasping rise and fall of three chests in sync. 

When Steve and Bucky decide you can stand, after they force you to drink all of the water left in their canteens, they help you to your bike. They have a hushed conversation about you riding with one of them that ends when you insist you can't abandon your motorcycle here, a gift from Bucky, and if they’re that worried they can just ride on either side of you, the road is broad enough either way. They don’t argue after that. Either they agree you’re the smartest person in that desert and think your idea revolutionary, or they can hear the exhaustion in your tone and realize you need to get back to the safe house sooner rather than later. 

Your mind is buzzing with a mantra of foodwatershower as you throw your motorcycle into park and stumble into the safehouse. The boys don’t let you get far, Steve herding you into a chair at the table while Bucky disappears into the fridge and returns with water. Steve makes you down it, and then he’s helping you out of your armor when Bucky comes back with a sandwich. And then he leaves again. Where the fuck does this man keep going. When he comes back, it’s with pain meds. Thank you Mrs. Barnes for your glorious contribution to this earth.  The injury may be gone, but the pain will remain like an ache for a while, as you just forced your body to go through a process that would usually take weeks in a matter of seconds. 

“Ya know, I would consider that an overall success.” You finally speak in a light hearted tone, your previously dry, sand filled throat soothed by the cool water, “We took out all the assailants, I only had to use my healing power, and-”

“You nearly died.” Bucky deadpans. You glance over your shoulder to the other super soldier who hovers behind you, hands white knuckling the back of your chair. Okay, so it’s a little soon for light hearted optimism.

“Nearly being the key word.” You murmur, shuffling lower in your seat with the weight of two sets of blue eyes piercing your soul. “Still alive, evidently alive enough to get a talking to.” 

Steve sighs, and then leans down, brushing his lips against your shoulder, then your cheek as he curls his towering frame over yours. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and gives your arm a squeeze as he whispers against your cheek, “Not talking to. For now.” he pulls back, then offers a hand to help you stand. “A shower first. You’re covered in sand.”

You let him lead you into the bathroom. It’s not that far of a walk across the one room shack, but you drag your feet all the same. Sure, Steve would carry you if you ask, but that would mean admitting to how weak your body still feels and that would only worry both the boys more. He helps you undress, his hands nearly clinical in their respectfulness, even as you shamelessly ogle the plains of defined muscle still suffocated by his suit. You don’t even feel ashamed, after getting shot, you deserve some eye candy in the form of your handsome, built boyfriend. 

When he’s started the shower, but instead of stripping himself simply offers a hand to help you over the lip, you frown at the man. 

“You aren’t joining me?” You mean to add a little bit of seductiveness to it, but it comes out smaller and more plaintive, like a kitten sad it’s been denied a saucer of milk. 

He worries his lip for a moment, eyes scanning your face, then down over your naked frame. You decide he needs a little incentive, and you find the zipper hidden in the front of his suit with well practiced ease. You drag it down slowly, half to allow him to stop you if that’s what he wants, and half to let him feel every moment of the teasing brush of your knuckles through the white tanktop underneath. He meets your eyes, not stopping you even as he looks concerned, until the suit reaches his hips. The moment you begin to bend and continue to drag the suit down, he guides your hands away and takes over. 

You watch him undress the rest of the way, shedding his suit, then his tanktop and boxers, with a small smile. He sets them neatly aside on top of his boots, unlike how you had carelessly thrown your own clothes into a heap, and then he’s lifting you into the shower. 

You can’t help the low moan of approval as the water hits your sun parched skin, leaning back into the warm chest behind you. Steve places fleeting kisses across the top of your head, neck, and shoulders as he runs his hands across your skin, wiping away all traces of sand and blood and gunpowder. When he reaches your thighs, he spends extra time there, massaging the supple, sensitive, inner skin, until you’re squirming and sighing and tilting back your head, only for him to move on. 

Catching you off guard, in a gentle but swift movement he pushes you back against the wall, falling to his knees in front of you. You stare, rapt, as he lifts one leg, wiping it clean with his hands before he presses kisses from ankle to the pinnacle, stopping just shy of where you begin to ache for him. He whispers into the skin there, promises of safety and pledges of his heart, kissing back down to the knee before dropping the leg and repeating the same action on the other leg. When he’s deemed your skin free of dust, he begins the whole process over again, only this time with a washcloth and soap. 

You reach out to touch him, running needy fingers over his biceps and then his pecs, down across his abdomen and the sinful v, skimming nails through the golden-brown trail of hair at the center- and then you’re stopped and your hands pushed away with care before they can claim what you want most. You can’t help but pout, but Steve kisses it away until you’re breathless and every inch of your fronts are molded together, and you’re worried you may leave a you shaped dent in the wall, and he may leave a cock shaped dent in your stomach. 

He pulls back from the kiss just long enough to beg against your lips, and you feel the sinful words more than you hear them, with the blood pumping in your ears and the water thundering above you. 

“Please, doll, I need to taste you. I just- please baby, I need this, let me have this, let me have you-” Large hands claim your waist, squeezing as he presses his forehead to yours. You try to imagine a universe where you deny him and you can’t think of a single good fucking reason so you force your throat to work harder then the wanton moan boiling there and give him your verbal consent. 

That’s all he needs and then Steve Rogers is beneath you, pulling your legs up and over his shoulders until you’re balanced there. The hands previously on your waist snake down and bare you to him so he can lick from opening to clit in one fell swoop. 

You release the moan then, letting it rattle your chest and arch your back with its intensity, trusting the man devouring you with relentless licks and sucks and rolls of his tongue to hold you up. And he does. His grip on your never wavers, holding you steady against the wall as he divides his attention between your swollen, throbbing clit, and your leaking entrance. Your head snaps back at particularly firm suction of your bud between puckered lips, followed by a soothing lave with the flat of his tongue, and as you look blearily past the spray of water you realize something. Neither you or Steve has shut the door.

It stands half open, revealing the living space beyond in nearly a full scope. The beds, the dining table, a good portion of the kitchen, and there, perched on the bed in the far corner that he had claimed last night is Barnes. He sits precariously on the edge, head down in his hands and fingers in his hair as his leg bounces. He glances up as you stare open mouthed, and meets your eyes. His are already wide, the blue swallowed by black, his expression heated in something you had only ever seen on Steve before. His recently cut short hair is tousled by restless hands, his lips plumped by worrying teeth, as pink bleeds from the collar of his tactical suit. He looks like a mess. A horny mess. 

He shoots to his feet, hands clenching at his sides. The tent of his crotch is large enough to even be obvious in the compact, black tactical pants, even from this distance. Saliva builds in your mouth at the sight, just as Steve performs a beautiful and very distracting maneuver with his tongue. Your attention is returned to the devoted man between your legs. 

Steve’s eyes are shut, droplets clinging to long lashes and dripping down his face, but never does he falter in his pursuit of your orgasm. You feel him shift, one of his hands dropping, and when you see the bicep begin to rhythmically flex you realize he’s fisting his cock. The sheer desperation of Steve touching himself as he eats you out, so eager to finish with his tongue buried inside you and your cum coating his lips, has your eyes fluttering shut and your head lolling. 

When you reopen your eyes, they flicker from Steve’s face, up to the doorway. Bucky is closer now, hovering near the doorway. His eyes are rapt on Steve, though he must not be able to see much from that angle, and you feel the urge to put on a little bit of a show for the man. You begin to roll your hips, languid and unworried as Steve easily keeps you upright, letting you fuck yourself on his face without losing the rhythm of his tongue or the grip of his hand. By the slick sounds mixing with the water falling, he doesn’t lose rhythm with his other hand either. 

God you wish you could watch him touch himself as he eats you out, but that’s logistics you’ll have to work out another time. There will certainly be plenty of times in the future where Steve will want to eat you out, this is far from the first time the man has begged to dine between your thighs. 

You realize then that maybe you should try to signal Steve somehow, he seems very wrapped up in his task and may not even realize they have an audience. One hand skates up to brush over a taut, sensitive nipple, while the other falls to Steve’s hair, gathering the wet strands and pulling in what you hope is just hard enough to get his attention but not hard enough to hurt. Your hopes are dashed when the man unleashes a rumbling groan into your cunt, and begins to snap his hips to meet his hand. Maybe you should have seen that coming, he loves it when you grab a hold of his hair. 

You see movement out of the corner of your eye, your heart jumping into your throat as you think maybe Bucky has found his bravery, but instead you’re met with the sight of his quickly retreating back. Admittedly, the well earned muscle of his shoulders, delicate curve of his lower back, and the ample ass that follows, are a pleasant sight but you feel worry and disappointment curl in your gut. 

It doesn’t get to last for long, when you feel Steve’s shuddering sigh, and you look down to see his hips slow till they halt all together. Then, warm, sticky fingers skate up your inner thigh and slip inside you, the way lubed by your own arousal and the slickness of Steve’s cum. His fingers crook expertly, the sensations coupling with the knowledge that Steve is fucking his cum into you bringing you closer and closer until all thoughts are lost but the tension in your abdomen that snaps like a rubber band. Pleasure swamps you, sending tingles up your spine and through your limps, drawn out as he continues to press soft kisses to your over sensitive clit, his fingers not moving but staying as deep in you as he can reach, tips curled against that spot. 

With a shuddering sigh you gently pat the back of his head, signalling for him to  disentangle himself and rise to meet your lips in a salty, heady kiss. It’s long, drawn out, with curls of his tongue that mimic the ones he gifted your pussy only moments before and you let yourself get lost in it until strength returns to your legs. 

You pull back, and he follows, eager to revel in the afterglow, but you stop him by whispering “Bucky-” against his lips. He sighs, resting his forehead to yours as he relents. “Yeah, he’s probably itching for a shower-”

“Babe, the door is open. He watched us.” You cut him off to clarify. His head snaps up and over his shoulder to see the truth in the old rickety wood. 

“Well shit.”

“Language.” You tease, half-heartedly, that worry returning to sour your afterglow. 

He pats your ass firmly, cupping it and lifting you to your tip-toes until he can press kisses up your nose and across your cheeks. He seems largely unconcerned, but you just can’t shake it. 

“We made eye contact, I thought he was gonna join us and then he just… left.” You say, your eyes drifting past Steve to look at the empty room beyond. “Maybe the open door was too far? What if he doesn’t want us, and he’s angry and thinks we’re disgusting perverts-”

Steve hums, soothing your worries by cupping your face in his hands and brushing his thumbs along your cheekbones. “Everything’s gonna be okay, sweetheart. He wants us. He just…” Steve sighs, a contemplative look on his face, before his eyes harden just slightly with a look of determination. “Buck just needs to know he’s allowed to want it. And we’re gonna show him just that.”

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Fandom: Marvel (ABO AU)

Pairing: Chubby!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky is an Alpha, but can never seem to find someone who wants him to be their Alpha. Until he finds you, a Beta, who’s as firey as an Alpha, yet also tender-hearted like an Omega.

A/N: ***smut 

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 | Part 14*** | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17*** | Epilogue***

Taglist for this series is CLOSED.

[ms-raina]

I've had this in my drafts since before the epilogue was posted, probably about time I hit that reblog button for real.

[kellyn1604]

Summary- Professor! Steve Rogers sees a lot of potential in a new student. One that he would like to explore, but professional and societal expectations have ways of keeping us from what we want. 

Warnings- This is a grey story. Although I think it turned out a lot softer than I originally thought it would. Lol. There will be some D/s relationship dynamics. There will be explicit smut in future chapters. This is as close to a slow burn as I have ever gotten. Some angst but (spoiler) a happy ending. Inspired by the movie Secretary.

Part 1 

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4 

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Epilogue

[aquaticmercy]

Jackass

Summary : Everyone is horrified that Bucky is flirting with a married woman, but then they realise there's a reason why. 

Pairing : Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x florist!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Secret wife trope. Cursing, Injury. Featuring the Thunderbolts*. Bucky kinda gaslights the entire team. Fluff!!!!

Word count : 3k

Note : The next chapter of spoils of war is almost here, but I just need to go over a couple of paragraphs! In the meantime, enjoy!

The Thunderbolts knew a few undeniable truths about Bucky Barnes.

One: He was grumpy.

Two: He was a private person.

Three: He never, ever let anyone see where he lived.

That last one bothered them the most. They’d pieced together the general area; a quiet neighborhood with old brick buildings, modern cafés, and just enough charm to make it feel… vintage. But no one had ever set foot inside his home, no one had even seen him unlock the door to his sanctuary, since he dodged every casual suggestion to hang out at his place with a variation of “I got plans” or another. And, curiously, every time they stopped for coffee in this part of town, Bucky would mysteriously slip into the tiny flower shop beneath a brick apartment building.

That was odd. No one would’ve guessed that Bucky Barnes even liked flowers.

What was even odder was that this infinitely grumpy, emotionally constipated, “I hate people” supersoldier — would be capable of flirting.

With the florist.

With you.

“Are we seeing this right?” Yelena whispered, elbowing Alexei as they peered through the shop window after Bucky made them wait outside. 

They watched as Bucky stood by the counter, leaning in ever so slightly, a charming grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you wrap a bouquet.

“He’s smiling,” Alexei muttered, horrified.

Inside, Bucky reached for the bouquet you were tying up, his gloved fingers brushing against yours. You playfully smacked his hand away, laughing. He laughed, too, and that was enough to send Yelena spiraling into an existential crisis.

Yelena squinted. “He’s flirting.”

Alexei frowned. “Bucky does not flirt.”

“I know. That’s why I’m freaking out.”

They watched as you handed him the bouquet, and in return, Bucky gave you a wink. And then he turned, walking out like he hadn’t just transformed into a different person.

That was when Yelena, utterly horrified Yelena, caught a flash of gold on your ring finger. She squinted her eyes. It was unmistakable. “Wait a second—”

As soon as he got back to them, Alexei folded his arms. “You were flirting.”

Bucky scoffed. “I was not.”

“She’s married!” Yelena accused, pointing dramatically. “She had a ring! You flirted with a married woman!”

Bucky didn’t even blink. He simply shrugged, tucking the bouquet carefully under his arm. “I didn’t see a ring.”

“She was literally wearing it—”

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky insisted, tugging absentmindedly at the chain around his neck— the one that held his dog tags, hidden under his shirt.

Yelena and Alexei exchanged a deeply disturbed look.

Bucky Barnes was flirting with a married florist.

What was the world coming to?

—

Bucky knew he’d fucked up the second he stepped back into Thunderbolts HQ. 

Alexie had just looked confused, while Yelena had been simmering the entire walk back, her arms crossed so tightly over her chest it was a miracle she hadn’t snapped a rib. 

She lasted exactly two seconds before she exploded. “You are jackass, Barnes!”

Bucky barely had time to sigh before she stomped closer.

“What’s so wrong with what I did?” he muttered, placing the bouquet of flowers in an empty vase

Yelena let out an incredulous laugh, pacing in front of him like a caged tiger ready to strike. “What’s wrong?” she echoed, her accent thickening with rage. “You flirted with a married woman! I should punch you in the face on principle!”

From the lounge, John Walker looked up from whatever government-issued nonsense he was pretending to read. His brows immediately furrowed, his eyes twisting into the signature disapproving dad look he’d perfected. “Wait, what?”

Ava, who had been drinking tea in the corner, raised an eyebrow. “This is scandalous,” she murmured, eyes brightening with intrigue.

Alexei, who was now plopped on the couch like some washed-up, Soviet-era king, said, “If a man had flirted with my wife like that, I would have hunt him down and mount his head on wall.” He crossed his arms, nodding to himself in approval. “As is tradition.”

Bucky scowled. “I wasn’t flirting.”

“Oh?” Yelena snorted, “So you were just undressing her with your eyes for fun, then?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “That’s just how I look at people.”

Alexie shook his head. “So you look at us like that?”

Bucky opened his mouth. Then immediately shut it.

Yelena’s hands curled into fists. “Yeah. Thought so.”

John’s arms crossed over his chest in that holier-than-thou stance that he was so famous for. “Look, man, I’m married. And if someone flirted with my wife, we’d have a problem.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys are making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Nothing?” Yelena threw up her hands. “She’s married, Bucky!”

“Okay, even if I was flirting,” Bucky turned to her, exasperated— “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s hands flew to her head, fingers digging into her scalp like she was resisting the urge to rip out her own hair. “You probably chose to look away!”

John sighed like a disappointed youth pastor. “This is unbelievable.”

“No,” Bucky still insisted, “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped. “It was a thick gold band, Barnes. How could you not see it?”

Ava, who was clearly enjoying the drama more than anyone, sighed. “That is inappropriate behaviour, Barnes.”

Alexei shook his head again, “You should apologise.”

“I’m not apologising,” Bucky scoffed, “Because I did nothing wrong.”

His fingers toyed absentmindedly with the chain that led to his dog tags, and Yelena immediately locked onto the movement. Every person has a tell, a habit they did when they were nervous. And being a super spy, Yelena knew this was his.

She narrowed her eyes. “You are gaslighting us,” she muttered, pacing again like she was mentally weighing the pros and cons of strangling a super soldier.

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky repeated, his voice steady.

“You’re lying,” she snapped.

He shrugged, maddeningly casual in all of this chaos. “Guess we’ll never know.”

Ava laughed cynically. “I can’t tell if you’re a complete scumbag or if this is just really fun for you.”

Bucky just popped a beer from the fridge, flicking the cap off with his metal hand. “Why not both?”

He took a long sip of his beer, completely unbothered.

And maybe, he looked a little bit too smug.

—

Three weeks later, Bucky led Yelena and John on a mission to take down a high-scale arms dealer.

And, as always, the mission had gone sideways.

It was too late for any shops to be open, too late for anyone with a shred of common sense to be out on the streets. 

Yelena was bleeding, pressing a torn scrap of fabric against a deep gash on her arm. John had a busted lip and a slight limp. Bucky was sporting a few cuts and bruises himself, but nothing he hadn’t shaken off a thousand times before.

“Guys,” Yelena managed a grunt, shifting her grip on her makeshift bandage, “we need to get ourselves patched up before one of us drops dead.”

“We ran out of antiseptics back at HQ,” John reminded them.

Yelena groaned, throwing her head back in despair. “So what are we supposed to do?” She gritted out, “Just bleed out in the street like sad little orphans?”

John scowled. “That’s a little dramatic.”

Yelena turned and glared at him. “Your face is dramatic.”

Bucky let out a deep breath through his nose, running a hand along his damp hair. He glanced around the street, making sure they weren’t being followed before whispering to himself, “Guess we’re doing this now.”

Yelena tilted her head. “Doing what?”

Instead of answering, Bucky turned on his heel and started walking.

John and Yelena gave each other a wary look.

“I don’t like when he does that,” John said.

“No one does,” Yelena agreed, but they both followed anyway. 

It didn’t take long for them to recognise the route— ​​It was the neighbourhood where the team usually got coffee.

But Bucky wasn’t heading to the café.

They rounded the corner, and suddenly John stopped dead in his tracks.

It was a closed florist—the very one where Bucky had, allegedly, been trying to charm his way into a married woman’s bed.

To John’s absolute horror, Bucky walked right up to the door and knocked.

“Bucky.” He said, voice strangled. “What the hell is this?”

Yelena blinked. “I don’t think we need to seduce a married florist to get medical supplies.”

Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting this decision. He turned to them, leveling them both with a look. “Alright, listen up,” he said through gritted teeth. "The secret’s out now, so you two gotta keep your mouths shut.”

John’s brows furrowed. “What secret?”

Before Bucky could answer, the door to the flower shop clicked open.

And there you were, standing in the doorway, wrapped in one of Bucky’s hoodies, looking exactly how he’d expected: exasperated but unsurprised. He knew you’d still be up, cataloguing the latest floral shipment for tomorrow’s arrangements.

The second your eyes landed on a bruised and bloodied Bucky, and flanked by two wounded Thunderbolts, no less—you let out a sigh.

“James,” you said knowingly, your voice laced with fond irritation. “What did you do?”

Yelena and John froze in their tracks.

James?

James?

No one called Bucky by his first name. No one. Not unless they had a death wish.

Bucky, unfazed, just stepped inside. “We ran out of antiseptics, honey.”

Yelena and John exchanged a wide-eyed look.

Honey?

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Again?”

Bucky shrugged like this was a perfectly normal Thursday night occurrence.

You muttered under your breath, “I should’ve known this would happen when I married an ex-assassin.”

Oh.

Yelena’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Married.” she repeated

John blinked rapidly. “This is why we can never go to your place?”

Bucky could only shrug. Of course it was— they would have seen the evidence of how much love in his home was carved out for just you.

John let out a wheeze.

Yelena pointed between you and Bucky, motioning erratically. “Wait. WAIT. So—so she’s your wife? She married you?”

Bucky nodded. “Yup.”

“Like—actually married?”

“Mhm.”

Yelena gasped, clutching her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. In a way, she had. “And no one knows?”

Bucky thought for a second. “Sam does.”

“And Joaquin,” you added, trying to be helpful.

Bucky nodded. “Right. Joaquin.”

“Oh, and Isaiah and Elijah Bradley.”

“Yeah, they were at the wedding.”

“A teenager knew about this,” John’s eye twitched, “—and we didn’t?”

Bucky could only nod again.

Yelena rubbed a hand down her face, “You gaslit us,” she accused, jabbing a finger at Bucky. “You let us believe you were a homewrecker for weeks—when you were married the whole time?!”

You snorted, glancing at Bucky, who had the audacity to look smug. “Yeah, that sounds like my husband.”

Yelena let out a string of very creative Russian curses.

John looked like he was about to have a stroke. 

“All secrets aside,” you said, welcoming the two disoriented Thunderbolts in and locking the door behind you, “It’s good to finally meet you both.”

John still looked like he was buffering. Yelena, on the other hand, was vibrating with adrenaline, looking like she was trying to solve a conspiracy theory in real time.

“This is—this is insane,” she muttered, pointing aggressively at Bucky, then at you, then back at Bucky. “You’re—you’re so normal.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’d like to think so.”

Bucky just hummed. “She’s perfect.”

Yelena actually sputtered like an old car engine.

John made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh. This was all too much.

But there wasn’t time to let them spiral further. Bucky, gently nudged you toward the others. “Take care of them first, darling. They’ve got worse injuries.”

You frowned, wanting to protest—because, really, Bucky should always be your first priority—but your husband was nothing if not stubborn. You knew better than to argue when he had that look in his eyes— you knew that fighting him on this would only drag things out longer, and right now, time was precious.

You turned your attention to Yelena and John, motioning for them to follow you deeper into the shop. The scent of lavender, roses, and freshly cut stems—clung to the air as you led them toward the back, where your little work table stood tucked in the corner.

Years of practice had made you quick. You moved with quiet efficiency, gathering supplies from neat shelves: you cut and split an aloe vera plant for burns, grabbed bandages, and a mix of balms you’d perfected over your time tending to Bucky. It wasn’t the kind of sterile, military-grade first aid they were used to, but it would have to do for now.

You started tending to Yelena’s arm, gently dabbing the wound with fresh aloe. She hissed through her teeth before narrowing her eyes at you.

“So how long has this been a thing?” she demanded. Bucky, now leaning lazily against the counter with his arms crossed, barely spared her a glance. “A while.”

John scoffed, “A while?”

You bit back a grin as you smoothed a bandage over Yelena’s arm, “Three years.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped.

“Three—” She turned to Bucky so fast it was a miracle she didn’t give herself whiplash. “You’ve been married for three years?!”

John let out a long, defeated groan,This was simply too much to process. “Fuck’s sake.”

Yelena shook her head. “I thought you were a loner who hated people."

Bucky only shrugged, unbothered. 

You chuckled as you pressed the last piece of medical tape into place on Yelena’s arm. “Alright, you’re done.” Then, glancing at John, you motioned for him to sit. “Your turn.”

John sighed but still plopped down. You took his hand gently, turning it over to examine his bruised knuckles before moving to his busted lip.

Meanwhile, they kept peppering you with questions, barely giving you room to breathe.

“How did you meet?”

“How do you put up with Bucky’s brooding?”

“Does he ever actually smile?”

At that last one, you paused, dabbing at John’s lip carefully. “He smiles all the time.”

John let out a scoff. “No, he doesn’t.”

You glanced over at Bucky, knowing he showed that part of him to you and no one else. “Oh, he does.”

And then, finally, it was Bucky’s turn.

You turned to him, your brows knitting together as you studied the little cuts on his cheek, the dried blood near his brows. He looked a little tired, a little worn around the edges. 

Your fingers found his chin, tilting his face toward you as you inspected the damage. Your touch was so featherlight, so incredibly careful. There was no missing the way your thumb brushed over his cheekbone— how incredibly gentle it was.

“You should’ve let me do you first,” you murmured, half-scolding, half-concerned.

Bucky’s lips curved into a small smile, a flicker of mischief lighting his tired blue eyes. “That’s exactly what you said last night, sweetheart.”

John choked.

Yelena groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow from the nearest chair and hurling it at Bucky’s head. “You two are disgusting.”

Bucky caught the pillow effortlessly, giving her a smug grin before setting it aside. When his eyes found yours again, his shit-eating grin turned… lovely. The tension in his brows eased as you dabbed gently at his cut. 

For all the blood, for all the bruises, you handled him like he was glass.

And then, without thinking, you leaned in.

It was meant to be a brief kiss— a quick reassurance, a way of saying I’ve got you. But the moment your lips brushed his, you couldn’t help but linger.

Your fingers curled instinctively against his chin. His hand found your waist without hesitation, as if he needed you closer. As if the world shrank down to just the two of you. 

John and Yelena exchanged a look, the previous horror of their teammate hiding a secret wife momentarily forgotten because this was… weirdly cute.

You giggled as you pulled away, seeing Bucky looking at you like you hung the moon for him. 

“Anywhere else?” you asked, brushing your thumb over his lips.

Bucky hesitated just for a second. Then, a little sheepishly, he said, “Got a cut on my ribs.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. Of course he did. Before he could argue, you reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged.

“Off,” you said simply.

Bucky huffed but didn’t fight you. He lifted his arms, letting you strip the fabric from his skin, and goddamn.

Bucky, half-naked, was unfairly, ridiculously beautiful. Even now, even after all this time, seeing him like this still knocked the breath from your lungs. His body was a roadmap of battles fought and survived, scars carved into the expanse of his chest and ribs that told stories only he could say. 

John made a strangled sound, somewhere between “Jesus Christ” and “I need to leave the room,” but you ignored him completely. Yelena let out a dramatic sigh and whispered “they are one second away from sucking each other’s face off,” to herself.

You tuned them both out, fingers dragging carefully over Bucky’s ribs, searching for the wound. When you found a thin jagged cut just below his ribs— you sighed softer this time and reached for the aloe.

“You need to stop getting hurt, my love,” you said, smoothing the cool gel over his skin.

Bucky’s voice came quieter. “Lucky I have someone to take care of me, then.”

And that’s when Yelena finally noticed it.

The thin chain around Bucky’s neck—one she’d always assumed was just for his dog tags—held something else, too.

A ring.

A simple wedding band that matched yours, worn from years of resting against his skin.

She blinked, realisation hitting her like a freight train. Oh.

That’s why he always played with it.

Every time Bucky was nervous, every time he was uncertain, his fingers would move to that chain—not just to fiddle with his tags, but to remind himself of you.

Maybe he wasn’t a complete jackass after all.

-end.

Note: Hope this doesn't bite me in the ass when the movie comes out.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

[artficlly]

── this is (not) okay

── marvel au ✿

bucky x personal assistant!reader personal assistant rules: don’t crush on bucky barnes. definitely don’t misinterpret a flower purchase and spiral into silent heartbreak, and absolutely never ever get stuck alone with him in an elevator.

── tags ✿

18+ content minors dni, smut, oral (f receiving), public (ish) sex?, wall sex (?), okay they fuck in an elevator guys, kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, insecure/self-conscious reader undertones, reader is an overthinker, reader is horny lol, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

word count: 9.1k

── authors note ✿

hi, hopefully this will keep you all fed while i work on part five to lessons in lovemaking. finally getting around to some of these requests in my inbox. this one is based off this request, but i changed it up so the reader is a PA instead of an avenger. lmk your thoughts thanx for reading <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

── main masterlist ⋆˚✿˖°

You’d never pegged Natasha as the type who enjoyed flowers.

No, she struck you more as the encrypted-flash-drive-on-a-park-bench type, the kind of woman who appreciated mysteries with teeth. A custom leather jacket, stitched with the same precision she used to dismantle a glock. One of those sleek, low motorcycles. Not daisies. Not peonies. And definitely not whatever soft, pastel nonsense Bucky was currently handing over cash for.

You stood a few feet away, halfway hidden behind a sidewalk sign advertising oat milk lattes and gluten-free muffins, clutching a cardboard drink tray and a bag full of vegan pastries in a death grip. The barista had spelt ‘Bruce’ as ‘Broose’ again, and under any other circumstance, that would've made you laugh, but now it felt like the most irrelevant thing in the world.

You liked Natasha. You respected her. You just didn’t think she had it in her to giggle over roses like the girls in those sappy rom-coms Clint insisted he hated (right before he would watch three in a row, a beer in each hand). But there Bucky was, brushing pollen off a bouquet of pale pink ranunculus, face soft in a way you’d never seen during mission briefings or sparring sessions.

And suddenly, you were building a list in your head of all the things you were sure Natasha Romanoff would rather receive as a romantic gesture: a knife, balanced perfectly for throwing, an expensive bottle of vodka, a vintage chess set with hand-carved pieces, a bottle of expensive ink and a fountain pen with a sharp nib, cookies—messy ones—overloaded with chocolate chips, or simply just black coffee, straight from the pot, no sugar, no cream. Yet, as Bucky handed it over to the redhead, she smiled. Smiled. And suddenly you felt like you were witnessing a scene you were not welcome to. 

Truthfully, it stung. Maybe it stung a little more than what was appropriate. You’d been harbouring a quiet crush on the dark-haired, sullen supersoldier from the moment he joined the team. Fresh out of Wakanda, new vibranium arm in tow, and god, he was handsome. Not in the polished, television commercial way Steve was, but in a way that made your pulse skip and your thoughts stall mid-sentence. He had the kind of face you didn’t know how to look at for too long, sharpened jaw, stormy-blue eyes, and a mouth that always looked on the verge of saying something he’d regret.

There was something electric about his stillness. Like if you leaned in close enough, you’d hear the hum of danger beneath his skin. He walked like a man who never quite trusted, drifting through the tower like he expected a fight around every corner. He barely spoke, but when he did, his voice was low and gravel-worn, something that settled right in your gut and made its home there.

He never smiled. Not really. But sometimes—sometimes—you’d catch a flicker of it when Sam teased him, or when Steve nudged him just right, and it was devastating.

And yeah, maybe you had a soft spot for broken things trying to heal.

As the Avengers’ personal assistant, it was your job to keep everyone comfortable, informed, and running like clockwork. You were a one-person organisational machine, constantly juggling the chaos that came with managing a tower full of enhanced individuals with the emotional range of a brick wall to a nuclear reactor. Your days were a blur of colour-coded schedules, back-to-back briefings, and the never-ending group chats.

You coordinated mission debriefs, booked international flights with military clearance, and handled press requests that would make most people cry. You endured complaints when Thor overloaded the power grid again, trying to make toast, and even replaced the mugs he shattered before anyone noticed. You wrangled Clint’s kids when they came to visit, sourced obscure snacks from remote parts of the world because Sam liked those protein bars, not the other ones, and Steve wouldn’t touch anything processed. You replaced a record number of coffee machines, hunted down whatever special detergent could get oil out of Tony’s designer shirts. You knew which brand of muscle balm Banner preferred and how to order it without triggering a random Homeland Security check.

And then there was Bucky.

With him, it was always a little extra, whether he noticed or not. His schedule came first in your Monday morning rounds. You made sure the pantry was stocked with the Eastern European tea he liked but never asked for, and remembered the exact setting he preferred on the tower’s training room temperature controls. You adjusted group plans so he’d be paired with Steve or Sam, just in case the crowds and questions became overwhelming. When he disappeared for a few hours, you didn’t ask questions, but you made sure no one came looking. You even swapped out the scratchy tags in his mission gear with soft ones, because he never complained, but you noticed the way he fidgeted with them.

Every day, you’d beam at him like some hopelessly love-struck idiot when you handed over his usual coffee—black, two brown sugars, just the way he liked it—and in return, he’d offer little more than a grunt. A low, barely-there sound that most people wouldn’t even register as a greeting. But you did. Somehow, that grunt became the highlight of your day.

So yeah, maybe seeing him hand over flowers to Natasha broke something in you. Not just a hairline fracture, but a quiet, splintering break that left your chest aching in places you didn’t know could hurt. Still, you understood. Natasha belonged to his world, effortlessly cool, all smoke, shadows and secrets. Yet she was kind. Not cold or unapproachable, just… carved from something rarer than you. The kind of woman who didn’t need to try to be extraordinary, she just was.

And you? You were the sweet, well-meaning assistant who made people laugh in the kitchen, who fetched dry cleaning and remembered everyone’s birthdays. You were the one who labelled tupperware and chased down Clint’s kids with bandaids. You were an afterthought, the background noise in the buzzing hive which was the Avengers Tower. 

So maybe you could justify feeling jealous, but angry? No. Not really. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. And it wasn’t their fault that you’d let yourself hope.

Two weeks later, and you timed it perfectly, like you always did.

Just as the door to Bucky’s apartment clicked open, you rounded the corner—folder in hand, clipboard tucked tight to your side. The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of ventilation and the soft thud of your heels against the carpet. Bucky stepped out, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair tied back, and his hoodie sleeves shoved up just enough to show the gleam of vibranium. Predictable. It was routine, every morning just before six he would meet with Steve in the gym. On Mondays, you’d catch him just as he exited his apartment, unload the details for the week, a freshly printed schedule and all. 

“Morning,” you said lightly, handing him the week’s itinerary. His reply was his usual, a grunt. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just Bucky. That gruff, barely-there sound that once felt like a small victory. The kind of grunt that used to warm your chest when he followed it with a question, even if you knew the answer was printed in the folder you’d triple-checked. You always answered anyway. You liked having his attention, even just for a few seconds.

You used to dress the folders up with care, multicoloured sticky notes marking key tasks (blue for meetings, yellow for reminders, red for anything urgent and green for personal events). You’d highlight sections like traffic lights, add stickers you thought might make him smile, sometimes even scribble little crooked cartoons in the margins with cheesy encouragements—seize the day! 

The folder looked rather sad today, just a plain manila folder packed with stapled papers. No colours. No stickers. No effort. Just the essentials. You didn’t let your fingers dawdle when he took it. Didn’t smile like you used to. Just handed it over and kept your gaze somewhere past his shoulder.

Bucky took it slowly, eyes flicking down at the cover like he was trying to spot something that wasn’t there. His brow pinched, barely, but enough for you to notice. His fingers lingered on the edge of the folder, like he thought maybe he’d missed a note tucked inside.

You nodded and turned to leave, forcing yourself to shift your mind to your next chore mentally, restocking med supplies in the Quinjet, cross-checking Clint’s revised travel forms, hunting down the coffee machine Tony had threatened to ‘repurpose as target practice’. You’d have to order a replacement before the morning debrief. Double-check everyone’s dietary preferences. Update Steve on the tech room schedule. Get maintenance to repaint the lines in the training room because someone (probably Thor) had scuffed them again.

You stayed busy. It helped. Kind of.

But the guilt still trailed you like a shadow.

It was probably obvious how abruptly you changed. The way your voice had lost its warmth. The way your gaze dodged his like it might burn you. You wondered if he noticed, if he thought you'd simply grown tired of him. Maybe he had. That was better than the truth that you couldn’t stand to be near him, not when every glance felt like pressing fingers to a bruise you’d caused yourself. 

You had made your choice, professionalism. The kind of cool, curated detachment you admired in Natasha, only it felt all wrong on you, like an ill-fitting coat. You knew it was for the better, not mixing up work and matters of the heart. You’d already let your little crush spiral too far, thinking maybe—just maybe—if you tried hard enough, you’d earn more than a grunt. That he might see you as something more than the charming assistant with her clipboard and her stupid stickers. But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t. And that was fine. It had to be.

You couldn’t afford to fall apart over a man who had no idea he’d broken your heart.

But it was Bucky’s voice, soft and unsure, that startled you from your thoughts. “Hey.”

You paused mid-step and turned, forcing a tight smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes as your fingers curled against the clipboard. “What’s up?”

He shifted his weight, clearly caught off guard by the fact that you stopped walking at all. He was rather devastating to look at when he grew all shy and unsure, fingers fidgeting against the edge of the folder like he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t quite meet your eye as his weight shifted nervously, like he hadn’t thought before he called out. 

“Uh. Nothin’. Just—” He raised the folder slightly, an awkward gesture. “You usually give me the rundown. Y’know… what everyone’s doing. Who’s where. Who I’m stuck with.”

You swallowed. Of course, he’d noticed. Of course, he’d grown used to your chatter about meetings and mission rosters, about who was off-world and who was due back, like it was the weather. The casual, effortless way you used to tell him what movie was playing, who cheated at Monopoly the night before, or which team member had stolen the last protein bar. You’d always done it to help, keep him grounded, and make him feel like part of the team, like he belonged. 

But after what you’d seen two weeks ago, you were sure he didn’t need that from you anymore. Natasha would look out for him now. She’d keep him balanced, keep him fed, keep him from slipping through the cracks.

“Nothing interesting’s happening,” you shrugged. “Just the usual.”

He didn’t move. “Well… there’s that dinner. On Friday.”

You gave a curt nod, tone clipped. “Yes.”

“Wanda’s dinner,” he added, as if you hadn’t already acknowledged it.

“Correct.”

He hesitated again, brows drawing together in a faint crease of worry. You could see him floundering, stuck in some internal scramble. It made your chest ache because you knew that look. You’d helped talk him down from that look more times than anyone else in the tower probably realised.

You sighed quietly through your nose, against your better judgment, against every wall you’d tried to build in the past week, you caved. He looked five seconds away from spiralling.

“It’s in there,” you offered gently, nodding toward the folder. “On your schedule.”

“Right. It’s just… for me, you usually…” His voice trailed off, frustration and uncertainty knotting in his brow. “Sorry. You’re probably busy—”

That felt like a punch to the gut. 

You shook your head and, before your pride could stop you, your feet were already moving back toward him. His eyes dropped as you reached into your pocket for a pen, scribbling ‘Wanda’s Dinner – Friday’ on a green sticky note. Green for personal events, always. You hesitated, then added a smiley face underneath. You peeled it off and stuck it neatly onto the folder in Bucky’s hands. 

His eyes dropped to it, finger brushing over the paper like he didn’t quite understand why it mattered so much. “Thanks.”

You just nodded, already stepping back, spine straight, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your throat.

“She said…” Bucky cleared his throat, clearly not done with the conversation. “Wanda said she’s going to do curry.”

You paused, unsure what to do with the information. Why was he telling you that? Why was he still talking?

“That’s nice,” you said carefully, not sure what to do with this strange, lingering version of him.

“Are you going?” he asked suddenly, and you frowned.

“I wasn’t invited—” You began, already covering from the invasive thoughts, already working to mask the sting. You didn’t want to imagine them next to each other over curry, leaning close, whispering in the way people did when they thought no one else was watching. It would only make the crack in your chest worse.

“You should go,” Bucky said quickly, cutting across your thoughts. “I’ll tell Wanda you’re coming.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll be busy that night anyway…” You lied through your teeth, heart thumping hard against your breastbone as Bucky’s face crumpled a bit. You cut in before he could argue any further.  “You’re going to be late. For the gym. It’s nearly six.”

“Right, shit, yeah. Sorry, I just…” He trailed off again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. I’ll… I’ll see you around.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, unsure if you were more confused or stunned by his sudden jitters.

Before the whole flowers incident, you made it your unofficial mission to ‘accidentally’ bump into Bucky as many times as humanly possible in a day. Now? It was the opposite. Every hallway was a trap to avoid, every room a potential ambush. Navigating the Tower had turned into something between a tactical stealth op and a personal game of hide-and-seek.

Unfortunately, your strategy for quiet withdrawal hadn’t gone unnoticed.

In fact, Bucky had picked up on your sudden cold shoulder almost immediately. The folder debacle had only been the first of many increasingly awkward run-ins.

There was the time you’d practically sprinted away from the elevator when the doors slid open to reveal him standing inside, a brow raised and coffee in hand. Or when you turned a corner too fast and walked straight into him, muttering a rushed apology before disappearing again like you were being hunted. Then there was the silent, painful breakfast you’d shared at the communal kitchen counter, where you busied yourself with peeling an orange for ten minutes straight while he sat beside you, occasionally glancing over like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to begin.

You’d even pretended to be asleep on the common room couch when he walked in one evening, piles of paperwork scattered, laptop still open, only for him to drape a throw blanket over you before quietly leaving again.

And yet, instead of giving you space like you’d expected and hoped for, he seemed to find any excuse to be around you. He trailed after you like some misplaced puppy whenever he wasn’t buried in a mission or holed up in a meeting.

You’d assumed that the moment you stepped back, he’d naturally gravitate toward spending more time with Natasha. It made sense. Why wouldn’t he want to be around her? They were obviously dating, even if they hadn’t made it official yet. Maybe it was one of those quiet, close things kept just between friends, like Steve and Sam. Who were you to come barreling in and expose their secret entanglement? You expected Bucky to be relieved to no longer be on the receiving end of your babbling, your perfectly-timed coffee deliveries, or the not-so-subtle gifts you littered around. 

But if anything, Bucky seemed determined to figure you out. Like your sudden shift had become his new pet project, and he was personally committed to cracking the case.

You’d taken the back hallway, the long, winding route that steered well clear of the gym on your way to the shared office. High-traffic areas were too risky now—too many chances to run into him. But clearly, Bucky had caught onto your little detours, because as you turned the corner, there he was, headed straight toward you.

You froze for half a second, pulse quickening. Turning around would be too obvious. Suspicious. He’d know exactly what you were doing, and then your carefully-constructed avoidance strategy would unravel entirely. If he suspected anything now, you were one panicked backpedal away from confirming it.

It was a nightmare. And a daydream.

A part of you, some soft, hopelessly romantic piece, ached at the sight of him, at the quiet way he seemed to look for you, worry always etched into his brow like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. But the rational part of your mind, the part that had dragged you into this self-imposed emotional lockdown, screamed that letting him get closer again would only undo all the fragile healing you’d managed to piece together.

So you steeled yourself.

Shoulders squared. Laptop and paperwork clutched like a lifeline. Eyes locked on an imaginary point just past his shoulder. If you kept walking and moved quickly, calmly, maybe he’d let you go. Perhaps he’d pretend not to notice how your pace picked up and your gaze carefully avoided his.

You nearly made it.

But of course, he noticed.

“Hey, wait—”

His voice was hesitant, just enough pressure to pull you to a stop. Your footsteps faded into the hush of the corridor, your spine straightening instinctively as you turned. Bucky stood a few paces behind, one hand lifted halfway between reaching and retreating, like he’d almost grabbed your arm but lost the nerve. 

He looked sheepish. Timid, even. It killed you.

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

He scratched the back of his neck, boots scuffing lightly against the floor. “Did I… forget to grab my coffee this morning? Or… did you not bring it?”

A pause. Too long. You could feel the beat of your pulse behind your sternum as you forced a casual shake of your head.

“No, sorry. That’s on me. Slipped my mind.”

The lie didn’t sit well in your mouth.

It hadn’t slipped your mind, in fact, it was still sitting on the corner of your desk, cooling beside a stack of unfinished paperwork. You’d brewed it, as always. Even used the brown sugar he liked. But then you’d walked away from it, deliberately, like some idiotic breadcrumb trail you hoped he might follow.

God, you were pathetic.

Your stupid fucking brain couldn’t even decide what it wanted anymore. One half of you was charting escape routes through the tower to avoid him, the other was fantasising about him pinning you to the nearest wall. From the way your thighs pressed together now, breath catching as his voice brushed over you, maybe the answer wasn’t distance at all. Perhaps you just wanted to taste him—

He didn’t move. Just stood there, one brow lifted, faint worry creasing the edge of his expression.

“You’re usually down by the gym by nine,” he said, his voice low. “It’s eleven.”

“I’m running a bit behind today.”

“You usually text me if you’re running behind.”

“Well,” you said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, “I didn’t this time.”

He paused, the silence between you laced with something dangerously close to concern. “Is everything alright?”

You forced a small laugh, trying to shake off how his low, worried voice made heat pool in your gut. “Yeah. Why?”

“You seem off.”

There it was. Soft, plain and far too knowing. He said it in that maddeningly sincere way that only he could manage. Like he actually gave a damn. Like this wasn’t unravelling you by the day.

Your shoulders tensed. “Off?”

“Yeah,” he said gently. “Just… I dunno. You’ve been quiet lately.”

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know about the hours you spent spinning in your head like a lunatic, trying to compartmentalise this crush until it shrank into something survivable. About the way you’d stared blankly at Tinder profiles, your phone clutched in your hand, wondering why no one else ever came close, why none of them were him.

Why you couldn’t stop thinking that if you’d just told him—confessed that stupid crush before Natasha did—maybe you wouldn’t be standing here now like some stray mutt, sniffing around for scraps of attention.

Maybe then he’d be yours.

Maybe then you wouldn’t be fantasising about quitting just to put yourself out of your own misery like some lame racehorse.

“I’ve just got a lot on my plate,” you finally mustered, tone strained. “Tony’s soirée. The fittings. Admin crap. Didn’t even have breakfast today.”

His brows furrowed further. “That’s not good.”

“I’ll survive.”

Would you, though?

Would you survive the heat that flared low in your stomach every time he got too close? Would you survive the ache that gnawed behind your ribs every time he glanced over at Natasha like you didn’t exist? Would you survive the constant, desperate craving to be touched by him? To be looked at like she was looked at?

He didn’t speak for a second, and for a moment, you were sure he could smell the reek of desperation on you.

“The oranges in the fridge are gone.”

You blinked. “What?”

“And the tea. The fancy one,” he added. “The one with the dried raspberries in it. You’re the one who always restocks them, aren’t you?”

You looked down, fingers clenching around your folder. “I’ll add it to the list.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, stepping forward a half-inch, enough to make your breath hitch. “I just… I didn’t realise it was you. Doing all of that.”

Of course, he hadn’t because you’d made it invisible. Seamless. That was the kind of care you practised—silent, anticipatory, never asked for, never returned. You had cared for him with a thousand tiny efforts, but he never noticed until you stopped.

You looked up, and the hallway felt suddenly too narrow. His face was open in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. Gentle, confused, like he was trying to work you out and couldn’t quite bear not knowing.

You dropped your gaze. “I said I’ll do it.”

He paused. You could feel him thinking again.

Then, to your disappointment, he slowly nodded. “Okay.”

But he didn’t move. Not right away. He lingered like someone who hadn’t yet decided if leaving was the right call, like he was caught between concern and curiosity. 

“I’ll leave you to it, I guess.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just nodded and turned, walking away quickly before he could see your face fall, before he could catch the naked want in your expression, the way your heart was clawing against your ribs, screaming for you to turn around and ruin everything.

If time travel were an option, you'd gladly launch yourself into a wormhole and strangle your past self for being stupid—no, lovesick—enough to organise this little errand. You deserve it, really. A swift kick to the gut from future-you for being this hopeless.

It had all started a month ago, when you, like a fool, volunteered to collect the tailored suits and dresses for some little soirée Tony Stark had decided to throw. Of course, in true Tony fashion, what was pitched as a ‘casual get-together’ had evolved into a full-blown, black-tie spectacle. The first warning sign? Tony footing the bill for everyone to have custom outfits made to their specifications. Translation…this was going to be a thing.

You’d spent weeks wrangling Avengers into fitting appointments, helping them choose fabrics and cuts, managing last-minute alterations and tracking shipments. It was exhausting but under control…until the catch. The aggravating, absurdly attractive, brooding catch currently sitting across from you in the tailor’s waiting room, his knee bounced like it was transmitting a detailed morse code manifesto on every possible way he planned to ruin your day.

The plan had been simple: grab an Uber, pick up the garments, pressed, stitched, and boxed to perfection and head back to the tower. But then you got the call. The one that told you Bucky Barnes had missed his final fitting, and that his suit needed some last-minute adjustments...

Of course he did.

Of all your perfectly laid plans, it only took one missed appointment to bring it all crashing down. Now here you were, stuck waiting beside the man who occupied far too much of your brain lately, silently praying the tailor would finish quickly so you could escape before your sanity, or your dignity, completely unravelled.

“I really am sorry,” Bucky said for what felt like the fiftieth time.

Between the brooding and the nervous leg tapping, he’d spent the last five minutes watching the side of your face with an expression so guilty it was practically carved into him.

“Like I said, it’s fine.” You replied, though it came out a little too tight, a little too forced, like you were speaking through clenched teeth. Which, maybe you were. Not that it mattered. Not when you could smell his cologne from how damn close he was sitting. God, you wanted to lean over and bury your face in his chest and just inhale—

You straightened abruptly, shoulders stiffening as the tailor entered the room, and mentally reacquainted yourself with the concept of boundaries.

It had been an hour—sixty minutes of waiting while Bucky’s suit got its final adjustments. An hour of you trying to distract yourself with work emails and unanswered texts, pretending the man beside you wasn’t single-handedly causing your emotional stability to nosedive. At least when he’d stepped away to get re-measured, you could breathe without risking spontaneous emotional combustion.

This wasn’t like you. You weren’t usually this wound up. Maybe it was the exhaustion, days of juggling your regular duties with Tony’s ever-growing list of soirée demands. Perhaps it was the heartbreak. Or the missed meals. Or the fact that you genuinely had no idea what day it was anymore.

“Would you like to try it on before we package it up for travel?” the tailor asked, her voice gentle. A measuring tape hung loosely around her neck, her pinned bun fraying slightly at the edges.

Bucky looked at you again, eyes flicking toward yours like he needed permission. You swallowed what was left of your pride and gave him a slight, strained nod.

“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Go on.”

“I’m sorry—again—this is probably eating into your whole afternoon, I know how busy you are—”

“It’s fine. Really. Just go.”

He offered a sheepish smile before disappearing behind the velvet curtain, tugging it closed with a rustle. You pressed your fingers to your temples, let your head drop into your hands, and exhaled through your nose like it might stop your heart from trying to break out of your chest.

Across the counter, the tailor glanced up at you with a sympathetic look as she readied the boxes for the other garments. “Long day?” she asked gently.

You lifted your head, managing a tight smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Only going to get longer.”

You were still nursing the tail end of your sigh when the velvet curtain swished open again.

And then your brain stopped working.

Bucky stepped out in full formal attire, sharp navy suit, tailored within an inch of its life. The cut of it hugged his frame perfectly. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, long legs. A deep navy waistcoat peeked out beneath the jacket, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching the light just enough to look expensive without being flashy. His tie was already perfectly knotted, like he’d done this a hundred times, and the sleeves of his shirt revealed just enough of the polished metal edge of his vibranium arm to make your mouth dry.

He cleared his throat softly, tugging at one cuff. “How’s it look?”

You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it again.

Words? No. Words were gone. Your vocabulary had packed up and left the building.

Bucky shifted his weight, clearly mistaking your slack-jawed silence for disapproval. “It’s weird, right? The waistcoat maybe doesn’t work, I told her I wasn’t sure about it—”

“No,” you said quickly—too quickly. “No, it’s… It’s perfect. You look… great. Seriously.”

His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his face. Relief, maybe? 

“Yeah?” he said, glancing down at himself, tugging slightly at the jacket hem. “I feel better about it now. The sleeves fit properly this time. Thanks for waiting.”

The tailor beamed from behind the counter, clearly proud of her work. “Wonderful. I’ll box it up immediately once you’re out of it.”

Bucky nodded, but the tailor turned to you with a friendly smile before he could disappear again.

“And for you, would you like to try your gown on as well before I pack it away?”

You blinked, suddenly snapped out of your holy-shit-Bucky-hot-hot-hot haze. “My what?”

She gestured toward the row of garment bags. “Mr. Stark sent over your measurements earlier this month. There’s a gown here for you.”

You frowned. “That must be a mistake. I’m just the assistant. None of those are for me.”

The tailor hesitated. “I don’t think so… He was very clear. Your name was attached to the order.”

Before you could argue, Bucky cut in smoothly, like he’d seen this train coming and stepped in to redirect it.

“Tony probably just wanted you to look the part, too,” he said, voice low and casual. “You’ve done all the work, he probably figured you deserved to enjoy the night a little. Might as well try it on, just in case.”

You glanced at him, but he didn’t look smug or teasing. Just… earnest. Calm. Like he meant it. Which made it all the harder to protest.

“Fine.” You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face. “Just to check it fits.”

The tailor clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. It’s a beautiful gown, I promise.”

You gave Bucky one last side-eye before following her toward the changing rooms, the fabric bag already in her hands.

From behind, you could hear him chuckle under his breath.

“Just wait 'til you see her,” the tailor murmured to herself, and you weren’t sure whether to be flattered or deeply, deeply nervous.

The gown was heavier than you expected. Luxurious fabric slipped off the hanger like water, pooling in your arms as she handed it over with the kind of reverence usually reserved for wedding dresses.

“I’ll give you a minute,” she smiled, disappearing to finish boxing up the suits.

Left alone in the changing room, you peeled out of your clothes, letting the gown slide on over your hips, your waist, up past your ribs. It clung like it had been sewn directly onto your body, the bodice snug, the neckline just daring enough to make you blush. 

You twisted to try to reach the zipper at the back, fingers fumbling and straining, but the angle was impossible. You spent the better part of five minutes twisting in the mirror like a lunatic, trying to reach the zipper that refused to budge. Your arms ached. The corset bodice was half-fastened. You were flushed, annoyed, and far too aware of the sliver of bare spine still exposed.

You were about to peek your head out and ask the tailor for help when a low voice cut in behind the curtain.

“Need a hand?”

You flinched, fabric clutched to your chest. “Jesus, Bucky! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was rougher than usual, like he’d just cleared his throat. “Heard you cursing. Tailor said she’d be a minute out back.”

You hesitated, and your voice came out thin. “Yeah. I—I can’t get it up.”

“Okay,” he replied, oddly determined. “Turn around.”

You cracked the curtain open a pinch. He ducked inside, too broad for the narrow space, his frame practically filling it. He was careful not to look at you directly, at least at first.

You turned slowly, presenting your back. “Just the zipper,” you murmured, barely trusting your own voice.

“Sure,”

A single fingertip, cold metal, dragged up from the base of your spine to the dip between your shoulder blades. It barely touched the skin, but you shuddered from the sensation. Bucky wasn’t even fastening yet, just tracing the line the zipper would follow. The sound you made was too soft to catch. 

The zipper came up slowly. Agonisingly. His knuckles brushed your skin every inch of the way, not by accident. No, this was too slow, too precise, to be innocent.

He was savouring it.

His other hand steadied you, palm ghosting just over your hip. His breath fanned warm against your shoulder.

“You’re trembling,” he commented.

You swallowed hard, unable to muster a response. 

When he reached the top, his hand didn’t fall away. Instead, he swept your hair off your shoulder completely, fingertips grazing the line of your throat as he let it fall over one side.

He leaned in. Not touching, but close. Mouth just behind your ear. The heat of his breath against your neck. 

“Should’ve let me help sooner,” he whispered, voice like a purr. “Would’ve had you dressed in seconds.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your lips parted slightly, breath caught somewhere halfway as your lungs deflated in shock. And maybe it was the gown. Or the silence. Or the way your thighs pressed together of their own accord, but you didn’t move. You didn’t step away.

You leaned in.

Only a fraction. Just enough.

He noticed.

You could feel it in the slight shift of his stance. The faint sound of him exhaling a chuckle through his nose. The way his hand brushed ever-so-slightly along the small of your back before falling away.

And then he was gone.

He stepped back like nothing had happened. Like the tension wasn’t choking the air between you. You turned toward the mirror in a daze.

The dress shimmered in the soft light. Deep, elegant, form-fitting. The neckline exposed the curve of your breasts, the slit at your thigh scandalous enough to make you self-conscious.

You caught his reflection in the mirror. He was watching you, but not with the restrained professionalism you were used to. It was only the sudden reentrance of the tailor that made him hesitate in whatever words were forming on his tongue. He stepped aside, finally giving you space to exit. And you did—legs shaky, palms sweating—like a deer walking straight back into the forest fire, pretending it wasn’t about to burn.

Your plan to avoid Bucky after the tailor incident had gone off without a hitch, maybe a little too well. You'd buried yourself in helping Tony pull together the final touches for his ‘soirée’ (which, if you were honest, was less soirée and more ‘black tie circus in a penthouse’).

You'd been so laser-focused on your tasks that you'd almost managed not to think about Bucky in that goddamn changing room. His fingers ghosting up your bare spine like a spark setting fire to dry kindling. You’d folded instantly. Your body betrayed you instantly while your brain screamed to keep it together. Pathetic.

The moral implications of whatever that moment had been were filed away for another day. Were you the other woman? Was Natasha going to slit your throat in your sleep? What was Bucky doing, touching you like that—in a public changing room, no less—when he had a bombshell redhead waiting for him back at the Tower?

No time for that now. Not when Tony’s precious ‘soirée’ was already in full swing upstairs and the caterers had somehow forgotten an entire section of the food. You’d scrambled together an emergency order from some overpriced restaurant Tony swore he was ‘basically family’ with, and by some miracle, they came through in the nick of time.

Now you were in damage control mode, hauling three boxes of overpriced canapés up to the penthouse. Your heels bit into your feet with every step, your dress clung too tightly to bend properly without your tits spilling out, and your patience was hanging on by a single goddamn thread.

You pressed the elevator button with your elbow and exhaled as the doors slid open.

Drop off the food. Grab a free drink. Drown your Bucky-related sorrows. Maybe, just maybe, keep the beast between your legs from waking at the mere sight of him.

The doors began to close. You shifted your weight, careful with the boxes balanced in your arms—

Then someone slipped through at the last second.

Him.

Bucky fucking Barnes.

Tall and devastating as usual in his dark navy suit, his tie loosened just enough to suggest mischief, or maybe carelessness. You weren’t sure which one made you feel worse.

Your breath hitched. Instinctively, your gaze dropped to the floor, feigning sudden, all-consuming interest in the stability of your precarious tower of hors d'oeuvres. But teetering stacks of overpriced finger food or not, Bucky didn’t seem inclined to play along with your avoidance act. Not now. Not when the elevator doors had sealed you in together, finally, and you were without escape.

You winced at the sound of his sharp inhale, the question already pressing past his lips before the elevator even jolted into motion.

“Did I do something to piss you off?”

You didn’t look up. Eyes fixed firmly on the floor, you muttered, “What?”

“I just…” His voice was rough. Tired. “It feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”

Shit.

He stepped forward slightly. Not enough to be invasive. Just enough to make your stomach flip.

“You hardly talk to me anymore,” he continued. “Won’t even look at me unless it’s about work. And even then, it’s like you’re somewhere else. Did I do something to offend you? Hurt you? Just tell me what I did so I can fix it.”

The elevator hummed to life beneath your feet, gliding upward smoothly. You shifted your weight, bracing against the cool metal rail, eyes stubbornly fixed on the buttons, anywhere but his maddeningly perfect face.

“You haven’t done anything,” you said quietly, the words tasting sour the second they left your mouth.

“Then why are you doing it now?” he asked, eyes searching yours. “Why won’t you even look at me?”

“Bucky…”

“Please. Just tell me.”

You hesitated. His hand twitched like he meant to reach for your arm, then faltered, falling back to his side. Your grip tightened on the containers, your fingers slick with sweat. “It’s not you,” you murmured. “It’s me… I just…”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me the truth.”

And that was what did it. The tremor in his voice. The way his brow creased like he couldn’t stand not knowing. Something broke open inside your chest, raw and unhealed. The dam cracked, split, then gave way completely, and the truth came spilling out before you had the chance to swallow it back down. You were exhausted. Wound tight. Running on fumes and nerves and far too many feelings. You’d tell him, you decided. Then drop off the canapés, quit on the spot, and flee the country if necessary. Stark would write you a killer reference. You’d survive.

“Okay,” you said, breath hitching as a nervous laugh bubbled out, half-bitter, half-resigned. “You want the truth? Fine. You’re going to think I’ve completely lost it.”

He stayed quiet, letting you spiral.

“This is so stupid,” you muttered. “I like you, Bucky. There. I said it. I like you. And it was fine—manageable—until it wasn’t. Until I started imagining things. Thinking maybe… maybe you liked me too.”

His eyebrows lifted, surprised but unreadable.

“I’ve had this massive, embarrassing crush on you since the moment I met you. And I know it’s weird, and probably unprofessional because you’re kinda my boss, but not. Technically, Tony’s my boss, but I basically manage everything around here, and—ugh, I’m rambling.” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I like you. And I’ve been avoiding you because it was getting out of hand. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And it felt wrong. Especially since you’re dating Natasha, which just made everything worse—”

“What?” he interrupted, voice sharp. “I’m not dating Natasha.”

Your eyes snapped open. “That’s what you took from all of that?”

“No, I—wait. You think I’m dating Natasha?”

“Yes!” you burst out, cheeks flaming. “I saw you! At the Sunday market about a month ago with the flowers—”

His brow furrowed. “What flowers?”

“The bouquet you gave her.”

“I didn’t give Natasha flowers.”

You let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “I saw you. It was that dumb little market Tony makes me go to for those overpriced vegan pastries Pepper loves—”

Bucky stared at you, confused. And then, slowly, understanding clicked into place. His face contorted like he’d just remembered he’d left his stove on.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “The flowers. Those weren’t for Natasha. They were for Wanda.”

Your heart stuttered. “What?”

“Vision,” Bucky groaned. “It was their anniversary. He was stuck on the phone trying to get a fancy reservation and begged me to pick them up. Natasha tagged along because she was hunting for jewellery for Maria’s birthday. That’s all it was.”

You blinked at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Bucky replied earnestly. “I didn’t know you thought that. I swear, I’m not with Natasha. I never was.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh god.”

“Hey—”

“No. No-no-no.” You squeezed your eyes shut, wanting to sink straight through the floor. “This is mortifying. I literally thought you were in a secret relationship. I’ve been avoiding you like the plague. I’ve been thinking about moving cities. I googled how hard it is to change your name legally.”

He snorted. “You’re not serious.”

You opened your eyes, and the horror must have been plain on your face because Bucky’s expression melted into something far too amused. “Oh, you are.”

“I might never recover from this,” you mumbled. 

“Hey, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”

“I confessed my undying crush and accused you of being in love with someone else in the span of like, sixty seconds.”

His mouth twitched, lips threatening a smile. “You’re kind of adorable when you’re spiralling.”

“I’m going to chuck these hors d'oeuvres at your head.”

As if mocking your attempt at dignity, the elevator gave a slight mechanical whirr, nearly at the top floor. The distant hum of the party pulsed just beyond those sleek doors.

You straightened suddenly, panic creeping into your chest. “Okay, I’m going to deliver these and then I’m leaving. Possibly forever. Please never speak to me again.”

But Bucky, ever faster than you, stepped in.

And before you could react, he pressed the emergency stop button.

The elevator jolted to a halt. The tower of overpriced hors d'oeuvres wobbled dangerously in your arms. “Oh my god,” you gasped, teetering.

Bucky was already moving, steady hands catching the top box before it could topple, plucking the rest from your shaking grasp. He crouched to stack them on the floor carefully, then rose slowly, smirking as you stood frozen, mouth agape in pure horrified disbelief.

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”

“No more running,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

You could barely breathe. “You stopped the elevator?”

“Didn’t want to risk the doors opening and you disappearing into the night,” he said, a little too pleased with himself.

“I hate you,” you whispered, eyes wide.

He leaned in, just close enough for you to feel his breath. “No, you don’t.”

You were going to die right here in a metal box. With your dignity in ruins and the man of your dumb, desperate daydreams giving you that look.

And somehow, somehow, you didn’t even want to stop him.

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t shut down. Please.”

You glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes and immediately wished you hadn’t. They were dark. Hungry. That gaze alone could melt you to the floor.

He stepped closer again. And again. Until his frame caged in you, his arms braced on either side of your head, the heat of his body swallowing you whole.

“I like you too,” he said, low, rough, like it was pulled from deep inside. “Christ, I was so blind. I didn’t see it. It didn’t click until that day at the tailor, until I saw you in this damn dress.”

Your breath hitched.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured. “I’ve been looking for excuses just to be near you. I keep the notes you leave me with the stupid little drawings. I like looking at them. Thinking about you.”

Your heart felt like it might crack your ribs.

“I smelled every shampoo at the store one day,” he confessed, almost sheepish, almost proud. “Hoped I’d find the one you use. Because you smell so fucking good. It’s been driving me crazy.”

“Bucky…”

“I don’t know. You make me feel special. Seen. Like I’m not some monster, like I’m normal. And then one day you were just… gone. I didn’t realise all the little things you did for me that I never noticed.” He groaned, somehow pressing closer. “I missed the sound of your voice… and it made it hurt even more… I lie awake at night, every night, thinking about you and how much I want to kiss you—”

“Bucky.” You interrupted, and he looked back at you with a barely contained hunger. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

And then his mouth was on yours.

Hot. Messy. Desperate.

You gasped into it, and he swallowed it whole, groaning as he pressed harder, deeper, hands sliding down to your thighs as he grabbed one and hitched it up around his waist. You clung to his shoulders, lips parted as he slotted himself between your legs, guiding you up until your ass was perched on the elevator’s handrail bar.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “Tell me that you want this, tell me that you want me.”

Your head fell back against the wall, lips swollen, breath shaking. His mouth travelled to your jaw, your throat, hands digging into your hips.

It was dizzying. Chaotic. Perfect. 

“I want you, Bucky.” You panted.

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered again, but this time it was different, lower. Hungrier.

His hand slid along your thigh, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your dress. You panted as he kissed across your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. His hands settled on your knees, then slowly, deliberately, he spread them apart.

“Bucky—” your voice was barely more than a whisper, a tremble of anticipation and disbelief.

But he didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees.

Right there. In the goddamn elevator.

You almost came on the spot at the sight, lips swollen and slick with saliva, pupils blown, the slight smudge of your lipstick on his chin. His hands slid up the back of your calves, kneading into the flesh like he was savouring the shape of you. Your dress inched upwards, his mouth suddenly pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.

Your breath hitched. Your hands shot to the railing behind you, clutching tight.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice wrecked with want, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with something dangerous. Devotion, desire, something molten and drowning. Then his mouth moved higher.

Another kiss. Inner thigh this time. Then another, and another, slow, lingering, like he was memorising you. He disappeared until the fabric of your skirt, only the back of his head, dark locks messy peaking out from between the slit. 

You moaned, soft and involuntary, your hips twitching at the heat of his breath through the thin fabric of your panties. He nuzzled in close, his nose brushing against you, and his hands pressed firmly to your thighs to keep you spread.

“I’ve thought about how you’d taste,” he muttered, lips grazing the soaked lace. “How you’d sound.”

You whimpered.

And then, he peeled your panties to the side.

The groan that tore from him was obscene.

“Jesus,” he hissed, voice muffled. “You’re fucking perfect.”

And then, his mouth was on you.

Hot. Wet. Relentless. You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in it as his tongue licked into you with precision, with hunger, with something close to worship. He devoured you like he was starving. Slow circles, then quick flicks, his mouth dragging across your clit with maddening rhythm. You writhed against the rail, your leg still wrapped around his shoulder, the other trembling against the elevator wall.

“Oh my god—Bucky—fuck—”

Your words slurred together, breath coming in ragged gasps as he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. One of his arms snaked around your thigh, pinning you in place, as if he thought you might try to escape. As if he’d let you.

His tongue slid down, dipping into you, then back up, his mouth latching onto your clit with a filthy, wet sound that made your spine arch. You were unravelling, fast, dizzy, overwhelmed.

He pulled back just enough to pant. “I could stay here all night.”

His mouth was merciless. His grip was unrelenting on your thighs, mouth working you over like a man possessed—

Bzzzzt.

A shrill, sudden buzz sounded from the elevator’s emergency panel, followed by a crackling voice.

“Hello? This is Tower Maintenance. We’re registering an emergency stop on lift three. Is there an issue?”

You froze. Every muscle in your body went rigid, as if someone had cracked open your spine and poured ice water down it. Dread spread like frost through your veins. Your heart thudded painfully in your throat, threatening to climb up and out entirely.

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

This was it. This was how you died—legs spread, Bucky between them, and Tower Maintenance on the fucking line.

Bucky, in sharp contrast, did not freeze.

He groaned softly with wicked glee, his mouth still very much between your legs. The sound vibrated against the most sinful part of you, and then he doubled down. Mouth and hands working with infuriating, diabolical precision, like he’d just taken the intercom as a challenge.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, the other shaking as you reached blindly for the emergency call button, trying not to sound like you were seconds away from being ruined.

Your voice came out like a panicked squeak. “Hi! Uh—h-hi, yes, sorry! Must’ve been a—a small electrical fault. I’m fine! Everything’s… fine!”

Bucky nipped at your thigh in response.

There was a pause. You could feel the suspicion through the line.

“Ma’am, we’re not showing any electrical inconsistencies in that shaft. Did you press the stop button?”

You shot a wide-eyed glare down at the man currently devouring you.

Another wave of pleasure threatened to knock the air from your lungs. You were barely holding it together, every nerve ending aflame, skin flushed, thighs shaking. The cool metal of the elevator wall against your spine did little to ground you.

You cleared your throat, struggling to piece together something—anything—resembling human speech. “Oh. Oh, that—um, I must’ve bumped it. With my elbow. While holding a tray. It’s, uh—crowded. In here.”

Bucky chose that exact moment to suck hard, and you slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the helpless sound that nearly escaped.

A longer pause. You could practically hear them frowning.

“…Right. Well, we’re releasing the stop now. Please remain calm.”

The line disconnected.

The elevator jolted slightly as it roared back to life.

Bucky gave a dark chuckle. “Crowded, huh?” Then—with zero mercy—he sped up.

“Bucky,” you gasped, head falling back against the wall, “I’m—I’m gonna—”

You shattered.

It hit hard, hot and blinding. You cried out, thighs clamping tight around his head as he groaned against you, mouth not stopping for a second, drawing it out, milking every twitch, every whimper. You barely had time to breathe, let alone moan, your hands flying to steady yourself just as the elevator dinged cheerily and the doors slid open.

Right into the penthouse. Packed full of people, who by some miracle, were utterly oblivious to your predicament. 

You staggered slightly as Bucky stood smoothly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, one arm slipping around your waist to steady you while the other casually reached down and grabbed the stack of forgotten canapés off the floor like he hadn’t just—

“Evening,” he greeted a passing staff member, utterly unbothered.

You were glowing crimson, pupils blown, lips parted, trying hard to fix your face. Bucky guided you forward, his hand warm on your back, keeping you between him and the crowd as your legs trembled. You barely managed to set the tray on the nearest table before someone whistled.

“Well, damn,” came Sam’s voice from the drinks bar. He gave you both a once-over, a wicked grin spreading. “Buck, next time you’re gonna eat face in the elevator, maybe wipe the lipstick off your chin first.”

Bucky only smirked and licked his bottom lip slow, on purpose, you were sure of it.

You nearly combusted on the spot.

“Bathroom?” he murmured into your ear, low and gravelly.

You nodded quickly and wordlessly.

He guided you with all the smugness of a man who had no regrets, his hand just a little too low on your back to be innocent.

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[magical-reid]

The Soldier and His Mission

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Word Count: 1K

Summary: When a trigger sends Bucky back into the grip of the Winter Soldier, he shadows you with an unyielding protectiveness that leaves the team on edge, though he doesn't harm anyone. After days of tension and careful steps, Bucky finally breaks through the icy barrier, returning to himself in a quiet, tender moment, finding solace in your presence.

You should’ve known something was wrong the moment Bucky went still.

One second, the mission was wrapping up—just another Hydra facility wiped off the map, just another set of goons taken down. The next, something triggered him. A phrase muttered in Russian over a radio, the faintest crackle of a long-dead handler’s voice. You saw the shift in his posture before he even turned around, the telltale tightening of his jaw, the blankness overtaking those usually warm blue eyes.

Bucky Barnes was gone.

The Winter Soldier stood in his place.

And yet—he didn’t hurt you.

Not when he turned to face the team, his body language bristling with danger. Not when Steve hesitated before stepping forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. And certainly not when you cautiously called his name, your voice softer than the others.

Instead, the Soldier moved between you and everyone else.

A shield.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Back at the Tower, you thought the episode would pass. That maybe, after a few hours, after enough familiar sights and sounds, Bucky would shake it off like he always did.

But the Soldier wasn’t leaving. And he had decided you were his mission.

Not to eliminate.

To protect.

At first, it was just hovering. You moved—he followed. You sat—he stood at your back, ever watchful. The others gave him space, exchanging worried glances when they thought you weren’t looking. Steve was tense, obviously trying to figure out how to break through, while Tony was less patient about it.

“This is a problem,” Stark declared after the first few hours, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter. “I mean, I hate to be the one to say it, but we have a fully armed, brainwashed assassin in the Tower again, and we all know how that went last time.”

“He’s not attacking anyone,” Natasha pointed out.

“Yet,” Tony shot back.

You ignored the argument as best you could, focusing instead on cooking something for Bucky—something normal, something familiar, something that might ground him. His eyes tracked you the entire time.

Then you miscalculated the heat on the stove.

The oil in the pan hissed and spat, and a second later, you hissed too as a sharp sting bloomed across your palm. You barely had time to react before there was a sudden blur of motion.

Bucky was on you instantly.

His flesh hand gripped your wrist, his metal one hovering protectively over the stove, as if it had personally attacked you. His face was unreadable, but his grip was firm, his hold gentle as he examined the burn.

“I’m okay,” you assured him, but he wasn’t listening.

Instead, he took the cold pack you hadn’t even reached for yet and pressed it carefully to your palm, his jaw tight, his brows furrowed in focus. You exchanged a look with Steve over Bucky’s shoulder, and the Captain exhaled, something like relief flashing in his eyes.

He was still in there.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Soldier continued shadowing you for the next two days, much to Tony’s frustration. But as Natasha had pointed out—he wasn’t hurting anyone.

Unless they posed a threat to you.

That was something Steve learned firsthand during a sparring session. You had barely landed a hit before Bucky, watching from the sidelines, had moved. The next thing you knew, Steve was on his ass, blinking up at the ceiling, while Bucky stood between you like a human wall, eyes cold and calculating.

“For the record,” Steve grunted as he sat up, rubbing his ribs, “I was letting her win.”

Bucky wasn’t convinced.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It wasn’t until you needed a medical checkup that things really came to a head.

“Barnes, I have to actually examine her,” Dr. Cho said patiently, eyeing where Bucky stood between you and the med bay’s equipment.

“No,” he replied flatly.

“Bucky—” you tried.

“The room is secure.”

“That’s not the—”

“She does not require assistance.”

“I do require assistance,” you corrected. “Because I burned my hand and twisted my shoulder thanks to a certain super soldier overreacting in the gym.”

Bucky didn’t move.

You exhaled slowly.

“Okay,” you said, shifting tactics. “Then stay.”

That got his attention.

“If you want to make sure nothing happens to me,” you reasoned, “then you can stay here. But you have to let the doctor check me out.”

His expression was unreadable for a long moment. Then, after what felt like an eternity—

“…Understood.”

Progress.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

When it finally broke, it wasn’t dramatic.

There was no grand trigger, no huge revelation.

Just a moment of quiet.

You had fallen asleep on the couch, exhaustion finally winning after two days of Bucky’s overprotective hovering. When you woke up, it was to warm hands gently brushing over your wrist—both flesh and metal, but softer this time, as if relearning the feeling of touching you.

And then you heard it—his breath hitching.

A tiny, barely-there sound, but one filled with something raw.

You blinked sleepily, looking up.

Bucky was staring at you. Not the Soldier. Bucky.

His face was pale, his jaw tight, his eyes wide—his real eyes.

“…Doll?” His voice cracked over the word, like it had been caught in his throat.

You smiled sleepily, shifting so your fingers curled around his. “Hey, Buck.”

His exhale was shaky. His shoulders sagged. And when you tugged him down to you, he didn’t resist.

He just buried his face in your neck and held on.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“You scared the hell out of me, you know,” you murmured later, your fingers absentmindedly running through his hair as he rested against you.

“I know,” he admitted, voice rough.

“You threw Steve like a ragdoll.”

“…Yeah.”

“…Kind of hot, not gonna lie.”

A laugh. Quiet, but real.

And just like that, Bucky Barnes was back.

[unificsation]

merry crush-mas! 𖠰𖥧˚

bucky barnes x reader, 4.7k

james buchanan barnes still hasn’t warmed up to you, and you don’t know why. funny how the coldest season of the year is when the winter soldier starts thawing… or: bucky has a crush and doesn’t know how to handle it.

🎄 WARNINGS/TAGS: my first ever tower fic!!!, everyone is alive au, canon typical violence, references to other fandoms, mentions of alcohol consumption but no intoxication

🎁 READER WARNINGS/TAGS: afab!reader, reader is part of SHIELD/avengers, reader is able-bodied and has hair

🎅 AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is dedicated to @firingstars!!! when i drew your name for this fic exchange i was so damn happyyyyy (insert the jumping cat here) yari you've been such a great friend. you are welcoming and kind on the get-go and i am so grateful for you—not just because of the things you do for our community, but also for who you are and the joy you bring us ❤️❤️❤️

ALSO you're a genie ass with the wishlist and i hope i did it justice! here are the things i tried to include: bucky doesn’t know how to be romantic anymore and has a violent crush on you; partners in crime; neighbors and enemies to lovers (not quite, but i tried sprinkling it a bit 🥀)

i love you to bits princess, i hope your holiday season is everything you want it to be!!! mwah 💋

thank you @iamthatonefangirl for organizing ily! <3

The air hisses.

The Quinjet bridge lowers, metal whirring to meet the ground with a thud. Cool breeze and colorless sky rush to flood your senses while you and the rest pour out of the deck: soldiers, high-strung, knots slowly untangling as you free yourselves from a sealed space.

The reality of a mission accomplished only sinks at the sight of the Avengers compound.

“Great job out there,” Natasha pipes up from behind you, footsteps gaining until you’re walking side by side. “That control room must’ve been, what, six hostiles? All packing?”

“Seven.” You fiddle with the thumb drive, the mother lode of that sweep. A small thing with big secrets that cost so many bodies.

Well. At least they were bad bodies.

“Didn’t know you were counting.”

“Only because someone else is,” the redhead replies.

He merges in the trek towards the base, seamlessly catching up to Nat and you. You glance at the handsome shadow wrapped in black leather and Wakandan steel.

James Buchanan Barnes.

A man to the team, a mystery to you.

For one second, it’s quiet except for three pairs of boots on tarmac. Then Nat cocks her brow and Bucky reluctantly coughs out the answer to a question not asked for with words.

“Ten.”

She lets out a dry laugh. “You win.”

“What’s the prize?” you ask.

“Bragging rights, obviously,” Nat volleys.

You click your tongue. “That arm is basically a cheat code.”

Sam enters stage right, smiling at you as he takes his visors off.

“'Y’all are acting like Legolas and Gimli.”

How sweet; he’s picked a reference Bucky can understand. Bucky, whose face scrunches up like he had a taste of lime.

“…What?”

“You know, the two dudes from Lord of the Rings?” you offer playfully—like he never made it clear he read The Hobbit before it was cool.

He shoots you a deadpan look, bluest eyes drawling yeah, no shit. You bite back a small grin.

“I mean, all that friendly competition?” Sam again. “Sickening, but kinda cute.”

At this point Nat falls back to speak to one of SHIELD’s, probably something to do with the mission manifest. Now it’s just the Falcon and the Winter Soldier to your right and left—the angel and devil on your shoulder.

Or is it the devil and his other devil friend with a staring problem?

“For the record, he’s Gimli, right?” you tease, thumb pointing at Bucky. Sam barks out a laugh so free, you feel the fight fading further into the past.

Bucky’s reply proves he’s the flattest argumentator in the world.

“Gimli’s a great character.”

“Who asked a lady to give him a strand of her hair,” you quip.

“Way to take it out of context, doll.”

The nickname lands on you with the weight of an uppercut that’s not entirely unpleasant. Sam holds up both hands in the air like it’s a stick-up.

“Hey, I’mma take myself out of this conversation.”

“You started it.”

It’s both your voice and Bucky’s. Same syllables, same time.

You freeze: it’s dangerous how a little coincidence like that can trigger a powerful stutter in your chest.

But then someone calls out your name right as you enter the shade of concrete structures—Agent Hill—and you’re pulled right out of the moment.

“See you boys later,” your feet sidetrack from the shared path, grateful for a chance to escape. You wave the drive in your hand. “Hell hath no fury like Fury with encrypted secrets.”

The Falcon gives you an easy salute, while Bucky just stares and puts his hands in his pockets.

As you follow Hill to a different part of the compound, you miss the look in Bucky’s eyes.

Sam doesn’t.

“Ten?” he starts, a handsome grin on his face. “You’re overcompensating back there, and it’s not hard to figure out what for.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucky murmurs.

A hard clap slaps Bucky’s back. He doesn’t lurch, just blinks slowly at the best thorn-on-his-side he calls a friend. Annoyance with a touch of don’t you even dare think about it, and a hidden not now.

“Whatever, lover boy. Just don’t get hurt tryna impress her.”

Then Sam’s gone, probably off to bother Steve about how the mission went without a Captain to order the team around. How his old buddy Bucky swung too hard at too many bad guys for a dame.

Don’t get hurt. Bucky contemplates those words and the impossibility of it.

There’s no way it won’t hurt. It’s called a crush for a reason.

A slow-crawling loading bar floods the screen’s pixels. The program runs its course while your mind does the same, tired eyes shifting to a point in the green beyond glass walls.

The mission is done and dusted, but you’re still unsettled.

Why is Bucky like that around you? He’s fine with the rest of the team: Steve, Nat, and Sam most of all. Doesn’t talk much, but friendly enough to take a joke.

With you?

It’s quick ducks out of whatever room you step in. Jaws lock the moment you get paired up for a recon. Missions are laced with a rivalrous undertone: he gets to the scene faster, hits a little meaner. Afterwards, on the jet or in the debrief, his tone is still clipped, voice low.

Like the red zone is a radius centered around you.

As much as you don’t want it to bother you, it kind of does. Especially after you’ve seen him with the others.

He bickers quietly with Tony. Makes small talk with Wanda about Eastern European tea blends. One time, you saw him and Nat train together at the gym, fighting on the mat. Limbs sweaty, chests heaving. She puts him in a headlock with her thighs and he chokes out a laugh.

Stop, you scream to yourself, rapidly blinking away the poisonous, vaguely green thought.

That’s an emotion you have no clearance to.

You desperately grab your focus by the neck, dragging it back on the screen.

Still 24%.

Can’t this stupid program work any faster? It needs to stop giving you time to spiral.

Because you’re thinking about how it’s not the age gap—he’s literally a century old—and it most certainly isn’t the gender gap, either.

Running a hand through your hair, you sigh.

Some people you meet in life just rubs you the wrong way. This is completely normal and happens from time to time—except this time, you’re the one that he has a problem with.

It triggers too many thoughts for your tastes. Thoughts that don’t have anywhere to go, like did I do something wrong?, or should I not have compared him to Gimli?

But answering those questions is like decrypting a code with the wrong key: misleading and dangerous.

Which is why you do what you’ve always done.

Blame it on the hormones, use your job as a distraction, and try not to think about whether you’d be so bothered if this were about any other guy.

The latter is the hardest to do, because it just so happens that this particular guy shares a wall with you.

It’s early November and Bucky is stewing under his skin.

The compound quarters are private enough, but it doesn’t help quell the heat that comes from having you as a neighbor.

Because he bumps into you in the hallway while you wear nothing but shorts and an oversized tee, eating spring rolls from a plastic plate. You’d say “want some?” and he’s suddenly working up a sweat despite the 40-degree weather.

He’s seen you in skin-tight tac suits, soundless when you move. Backless dresses and stilettos at some glittery gala. You’re more than beautiful enough to ruin him without touch, and yet pajamas are his downfall.

It doesn’t take much to admit he’s attracted to you. Not out loud, at least.

The first thing that ensnared him was your voice during movie nights he got coerced into joining. Whispered jokes that made Natasha snort. Then he heard your laugh next, twinkling and sweet, at which his mind’s eye conjured your sleep shirt and shorts. Errant imagination twisted that innocent laugh into another sound that’s just as ecstatic—

That made him grit his teeth and adjust the way he sat. For the first time after everything that’s happened to him, he remembered what teenagehood felt like.

Ever the disciplined soldier, he pushed those thoughts away every time.

They get worse after each shove.

The more things he unearths about you, the more endeared and damned he is. You rain bullets to the layers of polycarbonate and glass around his heart. The hit that made a crack was the first time he saw you fix a strand of hair behind your ear.

It was during a brief. A far-from-private event, with five other pairs of eyes in the room. Instead of paying attention to Steve or the open packet in front of him, he was busy being jealous of your fingers for being allowed to touch. Busy schooling his own hand to not twitch in impatience and curiosity—because what would your hair feel like, could he please find out?

He was dangerously close to reaching over and doing it for you.

So yes, he’ll take the blame for not knowing how to act around you.

Because you exist and he can feel himself be physically pulled into your orbit. Feet point to wherever you stand. Eyes follow you like he’s on an assignment. Hands curl into fists, holding back how much they want to say hello to your waist.

Like right now.

You saunter into the lounge, making a beeline towards the water dispenser for a glass. Heads are turned, and of course they are: you’re in a nice dress, light makeup, and kitten heels. That outfit on you is the perfect balance between professionalism and playfulness, more devastating to him than the sin that is your exposed back in ballroom lighting.

“Going out, pretty?”

Of course it’s Nat who says that, all sultry voice and bold words.

You look back, still filling up that tall glass with water. Strange, because you’re a tall glass of water—

“Yeah, actually,” you say, tone light, but the confirmation sinks like a weight in his stomach.

Sam’s eyebrows scrunch from his spot on the couch. “Like, out out.”

“Uh-huh. Out out.”

Nat’s lips curl into a smirk. “Hinge or Tinder?”

You scoff out your offense. “Doesn’t matter. He was funny, and he didn’t send a single dick pic in our one week of talking.”

“Whoa whoa whoa, miss ma’am,” here comes Sam’s big-brotherly crash-out, “first of all, you been talking to a guy without telling us, and now you’re going out on a date with him… just because he didn’t send you a dick pic??”

“I don’t know if I’d call it a date, Sam,” you reply from behind the rim. Where Bucky should feel reassurance, he feels the beginnings of dread. Because what is it if it’s not a date? A one-night-stand?

Sam’s hand on Bucky’s shoulder snaps him out of it.

“Bar’s real low these days, huh, Buck?”

Bucky’s blue eyes watch as you blink back at him, which is when he realizes he’s sitting on the common room couch, cleaning a fucking dagger on a Friday night.

Call him a lethal loser.

“Uh, yeah,” is his unintelligent reply, glancing back down onto the black blade in his grip.

But damn your gravity, because he can’t resist looking up at you again.

You shoot him a small smile, then shift your gaze to Sam and Nat as you exit.

“I’ll let you guys know if he’s a dick.”

“You’ll let us know about his dick?” Nat calls out, feigning care about what’s on the television. Sam cackles. Bucky gets the urge to stab his thigh.

“You heard me!” Your voice trails outside and disappears. So does your form.

Just like that, you’re no longer in his periphery, out of reach despite sleeping in the room next to his. Off to go on a not-date with some guy who was ‘funny’ and ‘didn’t send you dick pics’.

That can’t be all it takes for you to say yes. He can be funny, can’t he? In his own, uh, unique way?

He can feel his friend’s eyes are on him without looking. Can sense the teasing lace the air like lightning before it strikes. The way he sandblocks the knife is a silent response, too-forceful scrapes sounding like unspoken threats.

The blade is already more than clean.

“Careful, buddy, that’s sharp,” Sam says.

It is sharp—the weapon he’s tending to, but also that sensation in his chest when you leave. He gets it now, why it’s so frustrating when you are or aren’t around.

Because he’s fought so hard to belong again, but you make him feel different just by existing.

You’d think criminals would give themselves a break as the calendar inches closer to Christmas, but maybe this is their version of a holiday rush.

Heightened hostility means more missions. You get paired with Bucky on a bunch of them.

Underneath the cold and cruel December, something brews whenever the two of you are together.

Like last week at that repurposed HYDRA base in the outskirts of Minsk (good to know the villains are into reduce-reuse-recycle). The two of you spent seventy seconds bickering into the public comms about the plan for a possible shootout… while said possible shootout was already happening.

“I said I’d handle the three on the right!” he barked between shots.

“They were right there! Did you want me to ask for permission?!” you shouted, firing a round at another enemy agent.

They replied with the barrel of an assault rifle.

You ducked behind a concrete wall, parallel to where Bucky took cover, eyes wide. Casings of ricocheted bullets clinked noisily onto the floor.

Then at the quiet reload, Bucky huffed, rounded the corner, and bled his gun dry.

After the smoke lifted, he stared at you like he wanted you to admit his plan was better.

You murmured a quiet “thank you” to placate his spirits. He let the matter go immediately.

The brush of his fingers when he passes a spare magazine to you felt illegal. That hitch in your heartbeat wasn’t just adrenaline. You felt his gaze like touch when he gave you a once-over, nodded at the low “you good?” like it didn’t trip up your breathing.

Diverging professional tactics and… whatever this is aside, you and Bucky made a good team. Enough for you to be made an independent unit.

Which naturally meant more bonding time.

Said bonding time?

Being locked in a barehanded brawl inside of a ship container, out of all places (don’t ask), five people above its usual capacity of zero. Three of them are men out to deliver a death that’s more humiliating than the kind brought by a gun. More painful, too, judging by the bodybuilder frame one of them sported.

Two of them are you and Bucky. Lucky for you, your partner’s strength probably evens out the match.

It’s a blur of movement inside a 9×9 feet box. Of course the largest guy lunges at you, ready to fracture ribs and break a skull like it’s a football game. You roll to the side just in time. A disc flies from your right wrist to his chest, then bright blue flashes in the dark interior as the thug’s form spasms with a yell.

You use the sting to time the twist you deliver to his arm, a strong yank at an impossible angle till it cracks! and he yells in pain.

Then a hit to the back of his neck and he chokes on his own breath, before collapsing to the ground with a loud thud.

You make a mental note to thank Natasha for lending you that nifty taser.

The two other men crowd Bucky, but he dodges as if he’s read their movements in today’s papers. He ducks from a punch swung behind him, then bobs up to hit the one in front of him square on the face. There’s a loud oof followed by weight hitting the steel floor, echoing like a punctuation.

That guy doesn’t get back up. Probably won’t for a while.

“Does your man know what you do for work?” Bucky asks out of the blue, eyes focused on the last villain standing. This one’s a little harder to read, skirting and circling with speed that reminds him of boxing rings. Wilier than the musclehead whose arm you broke.

“It’s implied,” you answer, zip-tying Bucky’s most recent casualty that’s groaning on the floor, half-conscious. You try not to let the surprise show—why would your mission partner ask about this, and why now?

“And he’s not my man.”

A swift hook lands on Bucky’s side—the bad guy got him, but he doesn’t flinch. Because he uses it as leverage, hand gripping the offending wrist to thwack a mean uppercut—vibranium versus jaw. Jaw loses with a loud crack.

But the opponent still stands. Your soldier evades a counter-attack, backs up into a smooth weave, still finding the time to speak.

“Did he finally send you a dick pic?”

Your hands frantically dig into the pockets of the fallen ones, searching for the mission objective.

“Worse,” you pant, “he ghosted me.”

Something about that shifts the fight. It was all tiptoed advances—until Bucky swipes at the man’s ankle before sending a decisive jab across the face. It sounds like a broken nose. Dark red drips on the ground where the man’s form slumps, motionless.

Your fingers find the outline of a keycard inside a leather jacket. The not-musclehead had it. You fish it out.

At last, the three stooges are out of commission.

Now it’s just you and Bucky, chest heaving.

“Feels bad fighting for a guy’s attention, so I didn’t do it,” you declare, handing him the keycard.

His warm fingers brush yours when he takes it. “Between fighting for him or fighting him, he should be grateful either way.”

You laugh on the walk towards heavy-duty swing doors, pretending the air isn’t charged with leftover electricity from the taser.

He watches your back like he’s ready to punch and thank the man that was stupid enough to leave you alone.

The Christmas party at Stark Tower is an excuse to dress up and get drunk—Tony’s words, not yours. Designed to be lavish to the point of hedonism just because he can, and he’s him. You’d think the billionaire holds a secret grudge for skipping frat life at MIT.

There’s an open bar with mystery shots: if you’re lucky, you get the one laced with Asgardian mead. A part of the penthouse got turned into a dance floor with a DJ in one corner. You see agents willingly put their arms up in the air, surrendering to sensual basslines. There’s chatter from the sofas and laughs from upstairs. Stories told and traded.

After an hour of non-stop socializing, you slip out to the balcony for some fresh air. As fresh as the twenty-fourth of December can get, at least—it’s freezing, but at least that sobers you up quick. You’re no longer half-tipsy on fancy cocktail.

The city looks so alive underneath you.

White-gold lights twinkle, almost a perfect reflection of the decorations inside the Tower. If you listen closely, you can hear the honks of traffic. From here, you witness New York’s pulse, lives streaming in transit. The bigger picture looks beautiful.

You hear footsteps behind you, then the sliding glass door closes.

He joins you on the balcony.

“What are you running away from?” you ask before you even turn to see him.

When you do, your feet freeze.

You’re not a blind woman. Bucky always looks good, but tonight he looks even better.

The suit is a deep navy instead of his usual black, which in and of itself is a miracle. Then there’s everything else: the top button of his shirt is undone, revealing hints of a silver ball chain from which you know his dog tags dangle; his hair moving in the slight breeze. Generous warm light from the party spills from behind him, creating a soft halo around his outline.

“They’re playing truth-or-dare poker,” he announces, voice quiet.

“What even is that?”

Bucky shrugs. “Not sure. Don’t really care about… whatever’s happening inside there.”

He looks straight at you when he answers, and you swear your mind makes up the rest of that sentence. What about what’s happening out here? That and the gaze nearly flusters you, so you peek at the scene past him.

“Thor’s topless,” you note. “So it’s just strip poker?”

“I want to say he got dared, but knowing Thor...”

You can’t help but smile, leaning against the railing. Something to anchor your spine to, despite the risk a thousand-foot fall to the bone crush.

“You’re not joining him?”

Bucky smiles back. “A man should know when to be humble.”

Maybe it’s the self-deprecating look in his eyes. Or the alcohol that’s loosened your knots. Or the pretty Christmas lights in the background. A secret part of you wants to ask if he looks at you the way you look at him. Instead, you force out something that’s less dangerous while still being entirely honest, wrapped in an attempt at cool.

“You sure? I’ve seen you—you’re not half bad.”

He looks down, still smiling.

“You saw me topless with a six-inch gash on my right rib.”

“What doesn’t kill you makes you hotter, or whatever,” you grin in response.

Then he chuckles. You do too.

A gust blows and you’re too late to mask the shiver that wracks you. The next thing you know, he’s shedding his jacket. You feel the wool twill warm your shoulders and back.

“Wouldn’t want you to get sick,” he says, giving you a once-over.

You’re made aware of two things: your dress of choice, and the tips of his shoes pointing right at yours, close enough to touch.

“Thank you,” is the response you manage to muster. “You’re gonna be okay like that?”

It’s just him and his dress shirt now. You watch him roll the sleeves up.

“I’m used to the cold.”

Those blue eyes are on you again. You recognize the look as one of remembrance: he wears it when studying codes and control panels.

You’ve never been on the receiving end.

He breaks the silence first.

“You look... really beautiful.”

His voice, low and husky, joins his jacket in wrapping around you. You find yourself warming up.

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” you offer. It’s meant to sound light. Instead, you sound lost.

Standing in front of him without targets to neutralize feels like being compromised. Letting him see you in a party makes you feel naked—and you’ve worn less around him.

You swear his hand was about to do something when your name is called. Both your heads snap to the source at the same time. It’s Tony Stark.

“Inside, lovebirds. Chop chop!” Tony’s voice is muffled by glass.

“He sounds like a prissy headmaster,” you murmur.

Bucky wipes something—or nothing—off his nose. “Don’t want to anger the host.”

The two of you walk inside, mourning a lost moment. The air shifts when the doors slide open, cold on your back, warm on your face as you reenter the threshold of riches.

Something whirs mechanically overhead. You and Bucky look up at the same time.

It’s a mistletoe, real and red-ribboned, hanging from the most unnecessarily automated extension that makes itself known from a hidden compartment in the wall above the door. A traditional decoration made robotic.

“How’d that get there?” you ask, too calm for the speeding rhythm of your heartbeat.

“This room is booby-trapped with mistletoes in eighteen other locations. A project I started especially for you.”

Tony replies from the truth-or-dare couches, swirling his glass of vice. In that vicinity are people who look too pleased and not at all surprised at the turn of events.

Nat looks like a cat that got the cream, while Steve and Sam wear smug smiles. There’s a childlike glee in Thor’s eyes and a bit of secondhand embarrassment in Banner’s. Hill and Barton are at the open bar a few feet behind, watching the scene like it’s a late night show.

“You can run but you can’t hiiide,” Tony sings.

Bucky calls out. You can’t tell if he’s playful or serious.

“You’re clinically insane, Stark.”

Tony smirks back.

“Crazy recognizes crazy, baby.”

You ignore the way your heart’s rhythm snags when Bucky looks back at you. A mile-long list of ways to escape this run through your mind, all of them either downright offensive or completely revealing of the emotions you don’t want to admit you have.

You settle for a route that’ll break the least amount of hearts but devastate yours—something polite and forgettable.

Leaning in, you press a soft kiss on Bucky’s cheek.

His cologne wafts more than his jacket around your shoulders allowed. Blue eyes are already watching as you pull back, your movements so slow it’s almost imperceptible.

Or is it time that chooses to slow itself down? God knows the relativity of it is made worse whenever you’re together.

Your whisper is quiet enough to stop you from saying more, loud enough for only him to hear.

“Merry Christmas, Bucky.”

He hears your heel clack once on marble floors. The sound echoes, almost ominous, like a death knell to something that wasn’t given a chance to bloom. You’re walking away again.

You keep doing that. It hurts every time.

But something takes a hold of his gut, the place below where pain flares. It’s a sensation that reminds him of war and the brace before impact, but stronger. More purposeful.

Something like determination.

He doesn’t let you take two steps before catching your wrist in his grip, almost yanking you back into place. There’s a gentle pull. Your eyes widen, feet spinning back to him. His gravity cancels your centrifuge. Then he steadies you with a hand on your waist—oh, so that’s how you fit, like home—before he leans.

The kiss is deep.

“Mm—”

He traps you in his grip. You can’t run, but most importantly, you don’t want to.

You don’t want anything else but this.

When your body relaxes into Bucky’s and your eyes close, whoops and hollers fill the room. The sounds fade away, as does the grip on your wrist. That hand moves to cup your jaw, slanting his face over yours. You slip a hand onto his chest.

The slotting of a perfect puzzle piece.

He’s all you see when you part. The party doesn’t exist. At least not now.

“So,” you whisper, still breathing his air, “how long have you wanted to do that?”

“Too long,” he murmurs back.

His fingers and yours tangle, half warm, half vibranium.

“Gotta thank Santa for granting my wish this year,” he smiles.

The admission makes you blush—you’re his Christmas wish. His nose bumps yours. There are obnoxious oohs that you try to block out: you can berate Thor and Tony later. Your voice finds itself again.

“I kind of thought you didn’t like me.”

“Only didn’t like how clueless I was around you.”

“The ‘friendly competition’ wasn’t exactly clueless.”

Bucky studies your face, his own looking slightly sheepish.

“I just wanted to keep you safe,” he replies. “You have any idea how terrifying it is to watch you run into a room with guns waiting on the other side of the door?”

A thrill of hope and you feel the worth of the wait pay itself off.

“Like you don’t throw yourself into the fire,” you chide. It comes out loving.

He doesn’t respond. Only watches your eyelids flutter, blue eyes tracking every shift in your expression. You blink like you’re still processing reality, lips parted as if you’re slowly waking up from a daydream. Everything else is a low buzz in the background. The whisper between your lips is a confirmation.

“You kissed me.”

“I did,” he nods, “and not just because it’s tradition.”

“Kiss her again, tin man!”

The two of you ignore Sam’s bellow from fifteen feet away.

“Need more convincing?” Bucky smiles. You nod once, already looking at his lips.

Then he kisses you again.

As your eyes close, you vaguely hear Natasha saying “you owe me twenty dollars, Rogers” in the background. The party bursts into celebration, while you find stillness between his lips, steadiness with your hands on his chest.

His fingers fix your hair, tucking the strands behind one ear.

Finally.

(what if this was my only christmassy fic. what then. 😭) bucky barnes masterlist · main masterlist

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Sit Down, Doll

✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on a03!✦ ✦pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!reader✦ ✦Author's Note: Request from an anon! Also this one is dedicated to @daddymaster21 because it's Mafia!Bucky coded. I know that's your jam girlie. This one's for you✦

You’ve been lingering at the door for an hour. 

Bucky’s noticed. He always notices. If it’s about you, there’s not a single thing that slips his attention. You could so much as breathe a little too shallow, and he’d be cancelling meetings and falling to his knees to take care of you. 

And when you linger, he knows you want something. 

First, he lets it slide. You’ve gotten better about dropping in on him, and not believing it to be bothering him. 

He hasn’t gotten you to stop calling it bothering him yet. But the victory lies in the grand total of two times you’ve shuffled into the study and shifted on your feet. Asked for his attention softly, so sweetly unaware that it—like he himself—had been completely devoted and committed to whatever you wanted since he first saw your shadow under the door. 

And now, that same shadow passes once. Twice. A third time. Outside, you pick your nails and smooth your shirt, trying to weigh if it’s something that really needs his attention. There’s no blood. No mayhem. 

You just miss him. 

That doesn’t seem a good enough reason. Not with how busy a man Bucky is. And he ate you out this morning. Kissed your cheek before he left. Called you for an hour during lunch. Sat at dinner with you, eating when you glared at him. He even took the hot chocolate you made him, into his study. 

Kissed you before he closed the door. He’d tasted like the chocolate. 

Then Bucky had smiled at you, kissed your nose, and invited you in with him. 

You’d turned him down. Which, literally and metaphorically, had closed the door. He was probably focused, now. He didn’t need you bothering him. Didn’t need you sticking your nose in. So you should just walk away. He’ll crawl into bed in a few hours, and you’ll get him back. 

You just need to walk away. 

You take a half step. Another.  

Shuffle back, and place your hand on the doorknob. 

He’s busy. He’s probably busy. And he doesn’t need you bothering him. 

Another little dance. A step away. A step back. 

You’re really going to walk away this time. This time. This time-

Bucky says your name from the other side of the door. You can hear the smile in his voice.

“Just come in, doll. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

You flush, and push open the doorknob. He’s smiling at you from his chair, papers strewn across the desk in front of him. 

“Hi.” You whisper, and his smile grows. 

“Hey, pretty girl.” Bucky extends an arm, wheeling back in his chair. “Come here.”

You shuffle across the room, and this is the way it always goes. You linger. Bucky notices, and insists you join him. 

For a moment, you stand between his legs, fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. Mumbling something about not wanting to bother him. He reminds you he hates it when you use that word. You shrug. He asks you to look at him. 

You do. His blue eyes are magnetic, and you can’t look away. 

“Say you know.” He mutters, dragging his palm around your waist. “That you’re never bothin’ me.” 

And you do. Sometimes it takes a few tries. But you say it. 

Bucky kisses your hand, and pulls you straight into his lap.  

He dips his hand under your shirt. Big, warm fingers splay against your stomach, tugging you a little further back into his chest. You tip your head back against his shoulder, letting your eyes flutter close. It’s safe, like this. With the heat and deep, rich smell of him all around you. He’s told you nothing will ever hurt you, as long as he’s around. 

You’ve believed him, like you’ve never believed anyone else. 

He never says it like you’re a diamond to be possessed, or a delicate bird to be handled and caged. 

Bucky tells you he’s yours like you’re the moon. Like he can’t believe he gets to be the man that you glow for. Like it’s a sacred privilege, to hold you this close. 

And you’re close. You can feel every flex of his muscles, when he shifts. His arm tightens slightly around you, when you roll your hips. You’re really just trying to adjust. To be a little more comfortable, because you know you’re probably about to fall asleep here. 

Bucky knows better. He feels your core drag against his thick thigh. Your ass pressing into his crotch, and the slight hitch in your breath, when his hand wanders a little higher. 

“Your fingers are cold.” You murmur, voice soft from sleep. 

He smiles, and kisses your shoulder. “They get like that, when you aren’t here.”

You turn your face into his neck. “Flirt.”

“Only for you, sweet girl.”

You don’t hear the roughness, in his voice. Don’t realize what you’re doing to him, because you never do. Your lips brushed sensitive skin, on his throat. You’re pressing right against him, molding perfectly into his arms, and he can’t think about the damn books anymore. Can’t think about how Steve’s already reminded him he’s supposed to be this intimidating, quiet, cold creature of the dark. How Steve thinks you’re great, but Bucky can’t keep blowing off the job just because you fluttered your lashes. 

Bucky isn’t blowing off the job. Stevie just doesn’t like that Bucky made him do the mean shit last week. It ain’t like the man doesn’t know how to put a bullet through a traitor’s head. He just doesn’t like to. 

But Steve would be making the same choice Bucky was, if Steve had you. 

So Steve’s anger can wait. 

As you sigh happily in Bucky’s arms, he decides. He’s got better things to attend to. 

And it’s not as if he doesn’t know how to multitask. 

He grunts, as he shifts beneath you. Just enough to make you notice it. 

You do, with the most adorable little squeak. Pretty, glossy eyes lock onto Bucky’s. Your mouth falls open, and you grab his hand against your body. 

“Bucky…” You whisper, and he smiles at you. 

Rolls his hips up. The motion presses his thick, proud cock right into your ass. The fabric of his pants isn’t doing much to cover it. 

You swallow, and he leans down. Takes your mouth into a sloppy, open kiss as he presses you down against him.

“Please, doll?” He rasps, and you can’t do anything but nod. It’s too good an offer. Too tempting a torture. 

To stare at Bucky, as he guides your legs up. Pulls down your bottoms, before tugging himself out of his slacks. 

You moan loudly, as he slides himself into your dripping, hungry pussy with one movement. Bucky hisses as you flutter around him, thumb sliding down to draw tight circles on your clit.

“Relax, babydoll.” He mutters, lips hot on your throat. “Takin’ me so well, always fit so fuckin’ tight and good-“

He cuts himself off with a groan, as he bottoms out. Your nails dig into his forearm, as you try to ground yourself from the pleasure. 

“So big.” You mumble, trying to keep your breath even. “James, it’s- Too big-“

“Never too big, sweet girl.” He mutters, kissing your neck. “You whine every time, but then-“ He pets your clit, then smacks it lightly. 

Your eyes fly open, at the electric shock. Your back arches, trying to move on him. Ride him, let him drag on every needy spot, suck him in deeper to your greedy pussy, because it’s so good-

Bucky chuckles as you writhe, but keeps you trapped tight in his lap.

“You always adjust.” He sucks a small spot on your throat. “Just gotta give it time.”

Fuck.

You know what that means. That’s what Bucky says before he holds you in his lap for hours, his cock buried deep inside of you the whole time. Refusing to move until you’re almost sobbing for him. Maybe just brushing a feather-light touch over your clit, and watching as you cum around him with a scream. Pressing his face into your neck, as your vision goes white. 

Still not moving after. Just keeping you there, until he decides he’s ready and fucks you within an inch of your life. You pass out still shaking with pleasure, right after. Bucky kisses you awake in the morning, and makes you breakfast himself because you’re never able to walk—for at least two days after—and he doesn’t need staff to take care of his girl. 

Sometimes he gets on his knees, after. Shoves his face between your thighs, and tastes the mess he left there last night. 

When he gets home from work, he carries you into his office and holds you in his lap again. In case you need anything. 

The cycle continues, until you pass out before he can get inside of you. 

Sometimes even then, if you talked about it before, he brings you back to bed and fucks you until you wake up with a blissful call of his name. 

And at the thought, you clench around him despite yourself. 

“Just- Shit-“

“Bucky-“

“Stay still.” He grunts, and you slump back into his chest. He sighs, kissing the top of your head. “Good girl.”

“Come on...” You try to wiggle. His grip tightens. “James- Don’t do this, please-“

He raises his brows, grabbing your chin. Forcing you to meet his penetrating gaze, as he fills you up so deep you can feel him along every nerve in your body. 

“That what you really want, doll?” He asks. “To get off?”

You flush, and shake your head. Just a tiny motion.

But Bucky sees it. Just like he sees the hunger in your eyes. 

Just like he sees everything else, when it’s you. 

“Alright.” He kisses you lightly. Teasing. Barely a brush of lips. “Then stay here, and take it.”

And you do. 

Because this is why you linger. 

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[phoenix-in-writing]

𑣲 eyes don’t lie

Pairing: CEO!Bucky Barnes x Assistant!Female Reader Summary: You saw the picture, you looked at the pairing, we all know why you're here. But, incase it's not obvious... As the assistant to CEO Bucky Barnes of Alpine Industries, you're tasked with helping keep his life on track. As CEO of Alpine Industries, Bucky Barnes is meant to be running a multimillion dollar corporation. Not fantasizing about his assistant. Warnings/Tags: 18+ MDNI, porn literally zero plot, like...none. daddy kink (but are we surprised?). age gap. power imbalance. ceo!bucky is kind of a perv, but it’s fine. ceo!bucky talks you through it, oral f!receiving. spitting. unprotected p in v (i'm not even going to bother telling you to wrap it, i'd baby trap him too idc). no use of y/n. no descriptors for reader at all. the pictures in the mood board are just for the aesthetic <3 Word Count: 4k Chirps: I don't even know y'all. I blacked out and somehow this (and...other things) were on my screen. I swear it must've been the wind. Sebastian if you're seeing this, 1. Please DO NOT click read more. 2. I really do need to work on my kinkmas fics so if you can just not make an appearance until the end of November that'd be great. you're really getting me off track my guy. Not beta’d or proofread, if you see mistakes no ya don’t. I’m so sorry y’all have to witness me being a whore. DT: @barnes-babydoll and @sassandscribbles who caught me being horny on main Masterlist | AO3 Now, Alexa, play Freak by Doja Cat

Bucky Barnes, CEO of Alpine Industries, had a problem. And it wasn't one he could get rid of by money or negotiation like any other issue in his life.

It was you. His much younger assistant that had shown so much intellectual promise when you completed your internship with his company. He offered you the job as soon as you graduated college; contributing to furthering your education if you wanted and all but promising you whatever position at the company you desired once there was an opening.

And yes, while you did make everything in his life better and easier, you had him questioning every single moral fiber in his body and testing his restraint at every turn.

Encouraging you to call him 'sir' was a giant mistake. One that cost him his sanity every damn day. Because every time those three god damn letters slipped past those perfect lips of yours he could feel the tension rising in his body and the blood rushing to his cock.

Eventually all he imagined when he looked at you was how he could easily bend you over whatever piece of furniture you were closest to while you shuddered and clenched around him. Your mouth parted, eyes rolling back in your head while you gasped nonsense. Until he would lightly tap your cheek and make sure you said 'sir' just as …

"Mr. Barnes?" you called sweetly, pushing into his office with a file in your hand. It's lucky your eyes were preoccupied so he could situate his lap further under his desk.

You seeing how hard he was at the mere idea of claiming you would not have been appropriate.

"Bucky," he corrected you. Hearing his last name slip between your lips was almost as bad as 'sir'.

"Oh! Right, sorry sir, Bucky," you continued entirely unperturbed and oblivious to his current predicament. "Here's the forms I need you to sign, plus I have your schedule for the charity gala tomorrow."

You leaned over the desk using two freshly manicured fingers to slide the paperwork towards him. Your other hand had wrapped along the edge of the desk for balance. Bucky briefly had a vision of what your hand would look wrapped around something else entirely while you begged him to…

His thoughts were cut short as you held a pen in his vision. His eyes snapped up to your small saccharine smile…and then they betrayed him by dipping to the v-neck of your blouse where your perfect tits were sitting so elegantly in what he could only assume was a pushup bra designed for temptation. Your necklace disappearing between the valley of your breasts was basically begging for him to lift a finger and pluck it free.

He really needed to enforce a dress code. Maybe full length nun robes may quell these flashes of desire.

"Thank you, sir," you said, gathering the now signed forms.

"I'd like for you to attend the gala as well," Bucky suddenly found himself saying. The schedule looked dreadfully boring, as they all were, and at least your company would preoccupy his mind during whatever long winded speeches the other benefactors would give.

Your eyes turned wide as you adjusted the papers in your arms. Oh what he wouldn't give to see you with that expression on your knees with your mouth open and…

"I don't, uh…I didn't prepare to attend so I don't have anything appropriate to wear," you stuttered out, dragging Bucky's attention back to reality. Your posture going rigid when you realized you failed to meet an expectation.

So eager to please, here you were endearingly nervous at the mere thought of disappointing him.

Bucky produced a sleek black card from his wallet holding it in the space between you. "Go get yourself something."

Your fingers reached out hesitantly, plucking the card from his grasp. In doing so, you grant him the rare pleasure of feeling your smooth skin as your hand brushes his. You take a step back, heels clicking on the tile floor unsteadily. Your thumb is brushing along the black metal when Bucky can tell you're about to protest.

He shut it down before you could even start. "Just say thank you and go shopping. I trust you not to get too carried away."

Your mouth snaps shut, teeth dragging across your bottom lip before you whisper a quiet, "thank you, sir." You turn slowly and make your way back out of his office. He's momentarily entranced by the subtle sway of your hips in that damn skirt you just insisted on wearing, the only thing breaking him from the hypnotic spell is when the door clicks and you're on the other side of it.

At this point he's sure you're some kind of temptress disguised as the picture of innocence. Because he just handed over his no limit American Express card without hesitation, his dick was still achingly hard, and all you had to do was get a little flustered and bat your eyelashes.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, tapping his fingers along his jaw as he glanced back at the door. "Fuck it," he grumbled, undoing his belt and palming his erection.

He wasn't going to be able to focus on his next conference call if all he could think about was replacing his cock with that damned necklace of yours.

The following afternoon, the tailor pulled a pinstriped three-piece suit from a garment bag. “This is the one, Mr. Barnes.”

His name didn't sound as good coming from the elderly man as it did from you…

Speaking of you, once he dressed, he snapped a picture and sent it off. You had orchestrated the fitting after all, and he wasn't even sure if this is what you had chosen.

'Does this look right?'

Your phone buzzed just as you were putting the finishing touches on your makeup. In a chain reaction of events you certianly weren't prepared for when you picked your boss's outfit out months ago, your mouth went dry, the brush in your hand went clattering into the sink, and your knees threatened to give out.

Did it look right, you scoffed internally. In theory yes, that was the correct suit. In all actuality, you had several other answers lined up.

It would look better on the floor.

That tie would look great around your wrists.

His hand would look better wrapped around your throat instead of that phone.

You rolled your shoulders back, the heat already rising in your body did not bode well for the fact that you were about to spend the rest of the night next to him. No matter, you could let your imagination run wild when you got home still smelling of his cologne.

You quickly typed back 'yes, sir' and went back to the task at hand: making yourself presentable enough to spend a night surrounded by glitz and glamour.

The phone nearly dropped from his grip when he saw your response. Surely…surely you had made a mistake. A typo somehow.

But what an error for it to be.

The words 'yes, daddy' were branded across the screen in response to his question.

It should not have felt like you poured gasoline on the fire simmering under his veins. But now…now Bucky's imagination was running faster with those eight letters, wondering how you would sound saying them in the throes of pleasure while pressed into a mattress. Your breasts bouncing with each thrust while he held your thighs open, your back arching as your pussy…

"Is that the correct suit, sir?"

Bucky cleared his throat, nodding his thanks. When was he ever going to get to finish a thought around here?

He looked back down at his phone to make sure he hadn't imagined the words. And he hadn't. Which meant he had two choices. Leave it be for you to realize and handle the situation somehow, or him to draw attention to it.

His brain told him what the rational option was. Too bad his cock seemed to be calling for him to rectify this situation louder.

Bucky arrived to your apartment in a sleek, black town car, looking entirely out of place among your modest neighborhood. Once he got over the initial jolt of desire, he had decided to just let it go. The last thing he wanted to do was embarrass you, and drawing attention to your little faux pas would make for an embarrassing evening. It was better to just leave it.

But then you opened the door.

His credit card had seemingly delivered the final test of temptation on a silver platter, in the form of a deep red satin dress that hugged your curves in all of the right places. The strapless sweetheart neckline pushed the supple flesh of your breasts up in a tantalizing way that made it hard for Bucky to not to want to bury his face between them.

The A line skirt accentuated your waist and hips, pouring down your body like molten lava that matched the rising temperature in his very being. A daringly high slit was cut in the fabric, showing off more of your leg than he'd ever seen before.

"Is it not okay?" your voice sounded panicked as your hands timidly smoothed over the bodice.

It was perfect. So perfect, Bucky was having a hard time not saying fuck it to the charity gala, pushing you back into your apartment, and ripping it off of you with his teeth.

But he couldn't say that.

"It's…no, you look great," Bucky cleared his throat offering his arm.

You ducked your head, but he didn't miss that proud smile at the compliment as he led you to the waiting car. Nodding politely at the driver, he held the door open and watched you gracefully slide in.

The car pulled away from the curb when you were both situated. Bucky hit a small button causing a dark privacy partition to slowly slide up, separating the both of you from the driver and isolating you in a bubble of heat and Italian leather.

Working beside him and coming into his office was vastly different than sitting here in an enclosed space. And you were sure you were just imagining the heat behind his gaze as he glanced over at you while city lights flickered past your features.

You reached for your phone, needing something to preoccupy your hands and mind. Instead of pulling up an app or going over his schedule, your heart stopped and what felt like ice flooded your veins.

Right there, encased in pixels under his name in the messages app: "Yes, daddy."

Not "sir." Not "Mr. Barnes." Hell, not even "Bucky." Daddy.

Something you really only called him in your private daydreams or nighttime rituals. There was no talking yourself out of this one.

You were sure you were fired and would likely have to pay for this dress from your last paycheck. How humiliating. You'd be out of a job, and have nothing to show for it except a red satin reminder of your Freudian fuck-up. Your hand scrambled for the car door handle, desperate to put space between you and the shame that was slowly filling the car.

But just as you were about to push the door open at a stop light, Bucky moved faster. Caging you against the sleek leather seats as his arm grabbed the door and held it closed.

He wasn't even sure what he was about to do, just that he was not about to let you run away when you looked like the embodiment of every single sinful thought he'd have had.

"You have daddy issues, sweetheart?" Voice low and amused. Almost dangerous underneath the tone that always made your thighs clench involuntarily.

You blink up at him, first surprised at the sheer power rolling from his frame, then at the pet name that had warmth flooding into your lower belly, then the fact that he clocked you so easily. He didn't look angry. He looked…curious.

Lamely all you could do was nod, because yeah, your dad not being present in your life had kind of fucked up any relationship you'd ever had with older men with any sort of authority over you. To your surprise Bucky's mouth quirked up into a teasing grin before he leaned in closer so his mouth was right by your ear.

"Do you want me to help you work through those issues?" his voice was a rough whisper, a shadow caressing along every dark thought in the deepest corners of your mind. The intent in his words dripping with honeyed lust.

Your breath hitched feeling the stubble of his beard skate across your skin, sending even more want through your body.

This was so wrong. You shouldn't want this; sleeping with your boss who was nearly double your age couldn't end well. The fact that it was happening after some subconscious slip of a nickname you'd never called any man before, let out alone your own father, was just morally reprehensible. So why was your body aching like you had already said yes?

There was a brief blink and you'd miss it moment where you debated saying no. But then his hand drifted from the door to your thigh. Heat and electricity traveled through the fabric of your dress, settling low in your belly until you found yourself drifting towards it. And then you realize this very may well be your only chance to see if he's as skilled as your fantasies about him are.

You meet his gaze finally, seeing the bold hunger in those blue irises that are almost swallowed by the black of his pupils. Your heart skips every other beat while you lean into the warmth of his touch.

All you can really do is nod, not trusting your voice to come out as anything more than a strangled noise.

He smiles like a wolf who has finally cornered its prey. And you were ready to be devoured.

His lips claim yours, soft at first, while his fingers slipped under the slit of your dress, warm and exploratory traveling directly for what he had been dreaming about since he hired you. You sigh into it, letting shaky hands drift up his chest and under the suit coat.

A hand came up to cup your jaw, a commanding thumb unhinging it so he could deepen the kiss. His tongue slid in, greedy and hungry, leaving you whimpering and completely at his mercy.

"You always take such good care of me, sweetheart, always know what I need," he murmured, when he pulled away just enough for his lips to brush yours with every word.

Your heart leapt into your throat, the mind melting realization that oh, he does indeed talk you through it had your legs parting on instinct to make room for his large body.

He took the invitation, turning you gently in the cramped space of the backseat. The cool window kissed your shoulder as you settled back on the door, the red material of your dress bunching around your hips as Bucky wrapped your thigh around his waist.

Just as he commanded a boardroom, he didn't ask for permission. He just started to claim. Hands already traveling up your bare thigh until they reached the lace edge of your panties that were doing very little to conceal the pool of your desire.

"Fuck you're soaked, sweetheart," he growled against your neck as his thumb swiped along your clothed center. The light touch sent sparks through every limb, your fingers scrambled to hold onto the expensive leather seats, hoping something would ground you against the way he was already pulling you apart.

"I haven't even properly touched you and you're trembling."

He pushed the lace fabric aside as his mouth continued its assault on your neck and shoulder. Two large fingers stroked one long swipe through your arousal before settling into an easy circular rhythm on your clit.

Your mouth fell open on a moan, nails clawing into the leather as heat built in your belly with every slow stroke.

"There you go," he hummed in approval, pulling back to watch pleasure crest over your features. "Does that feel good?"

"Yes sir," you managed to breath out, just as a finger pressed past your entrance. The stretch had you arching into his touch, body begging for more before you had a chance to think about it.

You were so fucking perfect. So pliable under his touch. And he hadn't even needed to ask you to call him that. You just did it.

"Such a good girl, always knowing exactly what I need," he cooed, adding in a second finger. "You know what I need right now? Need you to let me taste that pussy and see if it's as sweet as you are."

Your eyes flew open just in time to see him already ducking his head, using the hand that wasn't already preoccupied he pushed your skirt out of the way. He withdrew enough to slide the ruined lace down your legs, a whimper leaving your throat at the sudden absence.

"Such a pretty little thing," Bucky mumbled against your inner thighs as he settled between your legs. "I'm going to fucking ruin you."

His tongue ran one broad swipe between your folds just as his fingers had, a deep groan vibrating against your core as he finally tasted what he'd been dreaming about for months.

His movements were precise; circling the bundle of nerves, laying his tongue flat until it curled and sucked your clit between his lips.

Your hips jerked at the sensation, thighs clamping around his head as a moan that may have been his name spilled from your mouth. Even as the car rounded a corner, he held you steady in the small space, not even reacting to the movement. It seemed he was solely intent on seeing just how loud he could get you to moan his name.

Your back arched off the leather, fingers tangling in his hair that had once been perfectly coifed as another shaky whine broke from your throat. Loud and shameless, you could only hope the partition was also soundproof or you'd never be able to look the driver in the eye for awhile after this.

"That's it, let me have it baby," Bucky groaned against your cunt. "Be a good girl and come for me."

The coil in your belly snapped, pushing you over the edge, and you came with a brutal shudder and his name on your lips.

Bucky pulled back, his salt and pepper beard messy with the evidence of your ruin. He moved to hover over your body again, confident and steady, hair mussed from where your fingers had been.

"Taste," he ordered —tilting your mouth open with his thumb on your chin. You didn't have time to react before he spat in your mouth, your slick mixing with his saliva in a cocktail that had you drunk before you swallowed it.

"Good girl," he praised. Smoothly, he sat back against the seat, hands guiding your hips to follow until you were straddling his waist.

"You have no fuckin' idea how often I jerked off in my office to the thought of burying myself in your tight cunt. Always bet myself you would feel like heaven," he directed your arms to hold onto his shoulders before he moved to his belt, freeing his thick and flushed cock. "Let's see if I can fuck my way past the pearly gates."

You weren't sure if you were rendered more speechless from the sight of his length; hard and leaking just for you, the words he was saying over the steady hum of the car around you, or the way he was already lifting you and positioning the tip at your entrance like he owned you.

"Tell me what you want sweet girl," he said, letting you sink down slowly, eyes locked on your face as he split you open. "Want me to fuck those issues right outta you?"

"Yes," you moaned, wanton and undiscerning, tears pricking at your eyes, the stretch almost too much.

"Yes, what?"

Your throat worked around another stuttering noise of pleasure once you were fully seated. "Yes daddy."

"Christ," Bucky whispered, cock already twitching against your tight walls. Your grip only constricted as you moved on instinct, hips rolling in a languid pace as he let you take control for once.

His hands roamed along your body, wishing he could see what else this dress was hiding. He'd have to settle for the delicate way the tops of your breasts bounced as you fucked yourself on him. No matter, he'd rip the dress off you as soon as this damn event was over and he got you alone again.

He settled his grip on your waist, not wanting to ruin your hair more than it already was. "Just needed a real man to take care of you, didn't you baby?"

You nod as your movements become messier, chasing the drag of his cock against every nerve ending.

"Gonna take real good care of you, don't you worry." His hands slid down to your hips, taking over. He thrust up into your tight heat, your muscles clenching hard around him every time he tried to pull out.

"C'mon sweet girl, we're almost at the gala and I need to fill this perfect pussy up so you can feel me dripping out of you until I can have you again."

Your head fell forward, burying your nose in the crook of his neck while you let him move your body how he needed. "Harder," you managed to whimper. The scent of his expensive cologne coupled with the feeling of a suit worth thousands of dollars had a deep seated want to be completely ruined bubbling to the surface.

"Ask me like I know you want to," Bucky growled, wrapping his muscular arms around your waist, one holding the nape of your neck steady as he slowed down. Like he was going to deny you until you gave him what he wanted. And after all, this all started for one reason.

"Harder daddy, please," you breathed into his ear, already bracing a hand against the head rests. They creaked against the stress as his thrusts got rougher, more desperate, angling your body so his cock nudged impossibly deeper.

"That what you wanted, angel? Want me to make you forget how to walk and have you stumbling around all cockdrunk at this damn thing?"

"Yes, sir."

You were rewarded with his thumb going to where you were joined; rubbing quick and practiced circles along your clit. Your orgasm came crashing down not a second later, the sensations too much on nerve endings that had already been wrecked by his mouth.

"That's my girl," Bucky groaned, and with one final thrust up you felt his release spilling from his pulsating cock; covering your still fluttering walls.

In a stark contrast to how roughly he just manhandled you, he ever so gently lifted you off his lap and into the seat next to him. The car pulled up to the hotel the gala was in not a moment later.

"Pull yourself together, sweetheart, can't let everyone know how hard I ruined you." His thumb gently swiped at where your lipstick was smudged as the door opened.

You smoothed your dress as best you could, kicking your ruined panties off your legs and stepped onto the curb with his assistance. "Yes, sir."

"Good girl."

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After Chirps: OH, you're still here? Well, how'd you enjoy the porn? Good? Bad? Don't tell me, keep your secrets. Either way, I don't know when this became a WHORE HOUSE yet here we are. Now that this is outta my system, I can focus on Mentor!Bucky...as long as there are no more distractions. ꨄ︎

[mcrdvcks]

sweet nothin'

summary: You're a simple Brooklyn florist when Bucky Barnes enters your shop and changes your life forever. word count: 34.1k+ pairing: mafia!bucky barnes x fem!reader notes: DON'T ASK HOW IT'S 34K WORDS I DON'T KNOW HOW THAT HAPPENEDDDDD this is technically the prologue to he was chaos, he was revelry, but you do not have to read that to understand this! i merely liked that short fic i wrote and wanted to write more of them warnings/tags: no use of y/n, mafia au, sweetheart!reader, shy!reader, bucky is the mafia boss and rich, fluff, slow burn - once again i am who i am you can pry slow burn out of my cold dead hands, reader may be shy be she is not someone who bucky can just control or claim as his, mentions of blood but no violence, bucky is soft only for you, possessive!bucky, yearning!bucky, so much fluff

The bell above the shop door chimed, the sound bright and ordinary against the quiet hum of the rain outside. You glanced up from the counter, half-expecting to see one of your regulars—Mrs. Kowalski with her weekly lilies, or the young man who always bought roses on Thursdays.

But instead, a stranger stepped inside. He didn’t look like he belonged here. The small, cozy flower shop was all pastel blooms and the faint scent of lavender soap, but the man at the door was sharp black and steel. Broad shoulders filled out a tailored suit, dark hair slicked back from a face that looked carved from stone. One gloved hand tugged the door shut behind him, the other slipped casually into his coat pocket.

His eyes swept the shop once, quick and assessing, before they landed on you. You froze under the weight of his stare. He wasn’t handsome in the way movie stars were handsome. He was… something heavier. Older. His presence pressed at the air like thunder waiting to break.

“Hi,” you managed, your voice smaller than you wanted it to be. “Welcome.”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Just watched you from across the shop with those sharp blue eyes, as if you were the only thing in the room worth noticing. Then, slowly, he stepped forward. The sound of his boots against the wood floor was too loud, even over the rain.

You forced yourself to smile, tucking your hands against your apron. “Looking for anything in particular?”

His gaze flicked to the flowers around him—the rows of tulips, daisies, carnations—but came back to you almost instantly. “No.” His voice was low, rough-edged. “Just looking.”

Something about the way he said it made your stomach flip. You nodded quickly, reaching for the small bouquet you’d put together that morning—bright daisies and sprigs of baby’s breath, wrapped in soft brown paper. You always kept a few by the counter, little gestures for the shy customers. “Here,” you offered, holding it out. “On the house. For the rain.”

He stared at the bouquet like it was a puzzle he couldn’t solve. Then at you. The silence stretched until your hand began to tremble, and you almost pulled it back—when he finally reached out. A black leather glove brushed your fingers as he took the flowers from you, and you had to bite down on a startled gasp. “Thank you,” he said, the words careful, deliberate. He pulled a roll of bills from his coat pocket and slid one across the counter. A hundred-dollar bill for a five-dollar bouquet.

“Oh, no—you don’t have to—”

His gaze cut into yours again, silencing you. Not cruel, not harsh. Just… final. “Take it.”

Your throat tightened, and you nodded, tucking the bill away quickly. “Alright. Thank you.”

He didn’t move for a moment. Just stood there, flowers in hand, watching you like he was committing every detail to memory—the tilt of your head, the nervous twitch of your fingers, the way you couldn’t hold his gaze for long. Finally, he gave a small nod, turned, and left. The bell chimed again, the rain swallowing him whole. You stood frozen for a long time, the shop suddenly too quiet, the hundred-dollar bill burning in your apron pocket. You thought it was a one-time thing. Just a stranger passing through on a rainy afternoon.

---

The bell chimed again the next morning, bright against the quiet rustle of petals you were arranging on the counter. You looked up—and nearly dropped the stems in your hands.

It was him.

The man from yesterday. The one who’d filled the shop with his thunderstorm presence, left with daisies and a hundred-dollar bill. He stepped inside like he owned the space, though he said nothing at first. His suit was different today—charcoal instead of black—but the gloves were the same. His eyes swept the shop in that same quick, assessing way before settling on you. You found yourself smiling automatically, though your voice wobbled. “Hello again.”

He nodded once, moving closer. “Morning.”

You fiddled with the ribbon in your hands. “Back for more flowers?”

His mouth twitched, just barely, like the question amused him. “Something like that.”

The air felt charged. You cleared your throat and reached for a bouquet of tulips. “These are fresh today. Spring colors. They’re lovely.”

He didn’t even glance at them. His eyes stayed on you, steady and unreadable. “I’ll take them,” he said.

You wrapped them quickly, fingers fumbling with the paper under the weight of his stare. He laid another bill on the counter—another hundred—for a bouquet worth maybe fifteen.

Your cheeks burned. “Sir, this is too much—”

“Keep it.” His voice left no room for argument.

You tucked the bill away, heartbeat quickening, and slid the bouquet toward him. “Alright. Thank you.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Just stood there, flowers in hand, gaze lingering on you. It was different from yesterday—less curious, more deliberate. As if he’d come here with a purpose, and the tulips were only an excuse. Finally, he asked, “what’s your favorite?”

You blinked. “Favorite?”

“Flower.”

“Oh. Um…” You glanced around the shop, suddenly flustered. “Gardenias, I think. They’re… simple, but beautiful.”

He nodded once, filed it away. You could see it in the set of his jaw. Then he turned and left, the bell chiming in his wake. You stared after him, unsettled but oddly warm. The next morning, there was a box of white gardenias sitting on the shop counter when you arrived, no note. But you already knew who had left them.

---

The gardenias weren’t the end. They were the beginning. The next time he came in, he didn’t go straight for the counter. He lingered. Walked slow between the rows of flowers, hands clasped behind his back like he was inspecting something delicate.

You pretended to be busy, fussing with the stems in a vase, but your eyes kept drifting back to him. He didn’t look like anyone else who came through here—too sharp, too dangerous, too… magnetic. He stopped at the counter at last, resting one gloved hand on the polished wood. “You like gardenias.”

You startled a little. “I do.”

“They suit you.”

Your cheeks warmed. “They’re… simple.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, as though he didn’t agree with the word. But he didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned in just a little, his presence heavy and steady. “What else do you like?”

You blinked. “What else?”

“Food. Music. Where you go when you’re not here.”

Your stomach flipped. The questions weren’t casual, not the way he asked them. His voice was too low, too intent, as though he planned on remembering every answer. You swallowed. “Um… I like reading. I usually just go home after work. I’m… not very exciting.”

Something flickered in his eyes then—something sharp, almost dangerous. “Good.”

You frowned softly. “Good?”

“Means you’re not wasting your time on people who don’t deserve it.” He pushed a bouquet of pale roses toward you. “These. Wrap them.” You obeyed, fingers fumbling with the paper, conscious of his eyes on you the entire time. He paid, again far too much, and lingered a second longer before he finally said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And he did. The days bled into weeks. He became part of your routine, though you never said it out loud. You’d unlock the shop in the morning, set out the displays, and brace yourself for the moment that bell chimed and he walked in.

Sometimes he bought flowers. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he just stood there, leaning against the counter, asking you quiet questions about your day. And slowly, the questions became instructions.

“Don’t walk home alone tonight.” “Eat more than just a muffin for lunch.” “Don’t talk to the men who loiter outside.”

You told yourself he was just being kind. Just looking out for you. But when you spotted his black car parked across the street one night, headlights off, and realized he was watching—waiting until you got safely into your apartment—your chest tightened with something you didn’t want to name. The scariest part wasn’t that he was watching. It was how safe you felt knowing he was there.

---

The office smelled like you. Not you exactly—he wasn’t that lucky—but the flowers you touched every day, the ones you told him you loved. Gardenias, roses, tulips, bundles of wild lavender tied up in neat twine. They crowded the corners of his office, spilling over in vases and pitchers, climbing along windowsills that used to be bare.

It was ridiculous. He knew it. The head of the Barnes Syndicate didn’t decorate with flowers. His men were already whispering, smirking behind their hands when they came in for orders and found the place looking more like a garden than a war room.

But he didn’t care. Every stem reminded him of your hands. The way you handled them so gently, trimming, arranging, never rushing. He’d caught himself staring more than once, smiling faintly as if the flowers were your private secret. He wanted to burn the image into his skull.

“Boss?” Bucky glanced up from the papers on his desk. Natasha stood in the doorway, sunglasses hooked on her shirt, one brow raised. Her eyes flicked over the room—the gardenias on the shelf, the tulips by the window, the roses near his chair. “You planning on opening your own shop?” she asked dryly.

“Shut up.” He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple with his metal hand.

Natasha smirked, stepping inside and dropping a file on his desk. “You’re getting soft. All this for a girl who sells daisies.”

His jaw tightened. “Careful, Romanoff.”

“I’m not saying it’s bad,” she countered, folding her arms. “I’m saying you’re obvious. Half the crew knows you’ve got a flower girl now.”

He stilled. The words hit something sharp in his chest. “She’s not—” He stopped. His voice dropped low, darker. “She’s mine.”

Natasha tilted her head. “Does she know that?”

His eyes narrowed, blue hard as ice. “She will.” The room went quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside.

Bucky reached over, plucked one of the gardenias from the vase, and turned it slowly in his fingers. He remembered the way your face lit up when you told him they were your favorite. That soft smile. The little stammer in your voice when he leaned too close.

The world was chaos, betrayal, blood. He’d spent his whole life building walls of steel and shadow. But you—your shop, your quiet, your kindness—were untouched by it. And he wasn’t about to let anyone, anything, change that.

“Make sure the shop’s covered,” he said finally, voice flat with command. “No one bothers her. Not a single soul.”

Natasha studied him for a long moment before nodding. “Understood.”

When she left, Bucky leaned back in his chair, the flower still turning in his hand. He should’ve felt stupid, surrounded by petals and stems. But all he felt was calmer, steadier, knowing some piece of you was in his world now. He wanted more. He’d take more.

---

The bell chimed, right on time. You were bent over the counter trimming stems when his shadow crossed the shop. You didn’t even need to look up anymore—you knew the weight of his presence, the way the air seemed to shift when he walked in. “Morning,” you said softly, glancing up with a small smile.

His eyes warmed just enough for only you to notice. “Morning, doll.” The nickname slipped out as if it had been waiting on his tongue. You blinked at him, surprised, but didn’t correct him. That alone sent something hot curling in his chest.

He moved toward the display of carnations but didn’t so much as glance at them. He was looking at you—always you. The flowers were a thin excuse by now, and you both knew it. “What’d you eat for breakfast?” he asked suddenly, voice low, casual only on the surface.

You hesitated, trimming another stem. “Just… coffee.”

He frowned, a line cutting between his brows. “That’s not breakfast.”

“It’s fine—”

“No.” His voice had that edge again, quiet steel that brooked no argument. He leaned on the counter, closer than before. “You need more than that.”

You bit your lip, looking down at the stems. “I wasn’t really hungry.”

His jaw flexed. He straightened, pulling out his phone. “What do you like? Pastries? Eggs?”

“Bucky, you don’t have to—”

“I asked what you like.” His tone softened, but it was no less insistent.

You murmured something about croissants before you could stop yourself, and he was already typing. Ten minutes later, a man you’d never seen before slipped inside, dropped off a white bag with a bakery logo, and left without a word. Bucky nudged it toward you. “Eat.”

You blinked. “You… you just had someone bring this—?”

“Of course I did.” His eyes softened again, watching you like you might vanish if he looked away. “You think I’m gonna let you starve?”

Your cheeks burned. You opened the bag and pulled out a still-warm croissant. His gaze followed every movement as you took a shy bite. “Good girl,” he murmured, almost to himself, but you heard it, and the rest of the day, you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Later, in his office, Natasha raised an unimpressed brow when another delivery came in—this time boxes of delicate pastries stacked beside the flowers. “You feeding her now too?” she asked, smirking.

Bucky didn’t look up from his paperwork. “She doesn’t eat right.”

“You checked?”

“I asked.” His pen stilled. He glanced at the gardenias on the windowsill, the new croissant bag on his desk. His voice dropped, quiet, certain. “She’s mine to take care of.”

Natasha leaned against the doorframe, lips twitching. “You sure it’s not the other way around?”

But Bucky didn’t answer. He was already reaching for his phone again, thumb hovering over your number he hadn’t even asked for—but had anyway.

---

The bell had barely gone silent when you heard it: the click of heavy footsteps against the wet sidewalk. You turned the shop’s sign to closed and reached for your keys, glancing out through the window. He was leaning against a lamppost across the street, hands in his coat pockets, suit jacket darkened slightly at the shoulders from the drizzle. Your breath caught. Bucky didn’t wave. He didn’t call out. He just waited. The way a mountain waits—immovable, unbothered by the storm.

You stepped outside hesitantly, locking the door behind you. “Are you… waiting for someone?”

“For you,” he said simply, pushing off the lamppost.

Your fingers tightened around your keys. “Bucky, you don’t have to—”

“Doll,” he interrupted, falling into step beside you before you could finish. “It’s dark. You think I’m gonna let you walk home alone?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the weight of his presence swallowed the words. He wasn’t touching you, but somehow he filled the space around you completely. The streets were quiet, rain slicking the pavement. You tried to ignore the way his stride matched yours, the way his eyes scanned every shadowed alley and passing car like they were threats only he could see. “Do you do this often?” you asked softly.

“Do what?”

“Walk women home.”

His jaw tightened. “No. Just you.”

Your heart skipped a beat. At your building, you fumbled with the keys, aware of his eyes on the back of your neck. When you finally got the door open, you turned to him. “Thank you. But really… you don’t need to go out of your way.”

He leaned one hand against the doorframe, caging you in without touching. His gaze held yours, steady and unyielding. “This is my way,” he said quietly. “You’re not out here without me again. Understand?” The words weren’t loud. They weren’t even harsh. But there was no mistaking them for anything but a command. You swallowed hard, nodding before you could think better of it. His eyes softened then, the steel melting to something warmer. He dipped his head, brushing his lips against your temple, a ghost of a kiss. “Good girl.”

And just like that, he stepped back into the rain, leaving you breathless in the doorway, your heart pounding too hard to ignore.

It became a ritual. You didn’t even question it anymore—when the bell above your shop chimed closed for the night, he would be there. Always. A dark figure leaning against the lamppost, waiting to fall into step beside you. He didn’t ask if you wanted the company, and you didn’t ask why he bothered. The silence between you was enough.

That night, the rain had stopped, leaving the streets slick and glowing under the yellow streetlights. You walked side by side, the only sound the steady rhythm of your footsteps and the occasional hiss of tires on wet pavement.

You tried not to look at him too often, but it was impossible not to notice the way his hand would occasionally flex at his side—as if itching to touch you but holding back.

As you passed a small boutique on the corner, something in the window caught your eye. You slowed without meaning to, gaze snagged by the display: a delicate glass lamp, its shade painted with tiny pressed flowers. Soft light glowed inside, warm and golden, spilling petals and stems across the glass like a garden frozen in time.

It was beautiful. For half a second, you let yourself imagine it on your nightstand. The way the light would spill across your room, soft and comforting. The way you could fall asleep beside it, safe. But the thought made your chest ache. You dropped your gaze quickly and kept walking, quickening your pace until you matched him again. He said nothing, just glanced once at the boutique window before his eyes slid back to you.

At your building, he stopped as always, waited until you were safely inside. You whispered a soft “goodnight,” and he lingered a moment longer before vanishing back into the shadows.

You thought nothing more of it. The next morning, when you opened your shop, the lamp was waiting on the counter. The exact same one. You froze in the doorway, keys clutched in your hand. There was no note, no explanation. Just the lamp, plugged in and glowing faintly in the early light, casting warm petals across the shop walls.

Your breath caught, throat tight. The bell chimed, and he walked in. Calm. Steady. Like he hadn’t done anything at all. Your eyes snapped to him. “Bucky… did you—”

He set a paper bag on the counter. You caught the smell before you even peeked inside—croissants, still warm. He leaned one hand on the wood, watching your face. “You liked it,” he said simply. Not a question. A fact.

Your cheeks warmed. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” His eyes softened, but there was steel in them too—an unwavering certainty that made your heart stutter. “You want something, doll, you get it. That’s how this works.”

You swallowed hard, glancing at the lamp again. Its soft light seemed to fill the whole shop with a kind of warmth you didn’t know how to accept. “I can’t just—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice lowered, a command wrapped in velvet. He reached across the counter, brushing his fingers against yours just long enough to make your pulse trip. “Don’t hide from me. If you want something, I’ll know.”

He left you standing there, the lamp glowing at your side, the croissants still warm in the bag, your heart pounding too loud for the quiet shop. And you realized something terrifying and undeniable, he was watching. Always watching.

---

The lamp glowed soft and golden on the counter, petals painted across its glass shade, when you finally found the courage to speak. He was there again, leaning his weight into the wood as if the whole shop belonged to him. His gloves were off this time, thick hands resting easily against the surface, blue eyes pinned to you in that steady, unblinking way that always left you a little breathless.

But today, the warmth in your chest twisted into something sharper. “You can’t keep doing this.”

His head tilted just slightly. “Doing what, doll?”

“This.” You gestured to the lamp, to the bag of pastries he’d brought without asking. “Showing up every day. Buying things I didn’t ask for. Acting like…” Your voice wavered, but you forced it out. “Like you own me.” Silence dropped between you, heavy and sudden.

No one ever told him no. No one ever raised their voice to him, not his men, not the people who feared his name. He could see your fingers trembling where they gripped the counter, but you still held his stare. The corner of his mouth twitched—something between amusement and disbelief. “Own you?”

“Yes.” Your throat felt tight, but you pushed on. “You don’t ask me out. You don’t… talk to me like a normal person would. You just decide things. You decide to walk me home. You decide I don’t eat enough. You decide I want a lamp. And I—” You swallowed hard. “I didn’t agree to any of it.”

For the first time since he’d stepped into your life, he looked caught off guard. Just for a flicker of a second, his eyes widened, like the ground beneath him had shifted. Then the surprise hardened into something else. His voice dropped, low and even. “You think I don’t know how to ask? You think I don’t know how to take a girl to dinner, buy her flowers, wait for her to say yes?”

You opened your mouth, but he cut you off, leaning closer, his gaze like ice and fire all at once. “I don’t do that with you because I don’t want to give you the option to say no. I don’t want you to walk away. I couldn’t stand it if you did.”

Your breath hitched. He exhaled slowly, raking a hand back through his hair. For a moment, he looked almost… raw. “You don’t get it. You’re already mine. Always were, the second you looked at me with those soft eyes and handed me daisies like I wasn’t a monster.” His gloved hand brushed the lamp, a subtle reminder. “You think I do all this because I don’t know how to court you? I do it because I can’t stand the thought of you needing something and not having it. Because I want to see you safe. Fed. Smiling.” His voice broke on that last word, just barely.

Your heart pounded so hard you swore he could hear it. You should’ve been terrified. And maybe you were. But under the steel in his voice was something else—something aching and desperate. Still, you held your ground, even if your voice shook. “Then ask me. Like a person. Not like… this.”

The room went still again. He studied you for a long, tense beat, and you could see the war in his eyes—control versus obsession, command versus care. Finally, his lips curved into something softer, almost rueful. He leaned in close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek. “Fine, doll. I’ll ask.” His voice was rough, but there was a flicker of something new in it. “Dinner. Tonight. With me.”

The way he said it still didn’t sound like a question, but for the first time, you knew he was trying. And that unsettled you more than anything else.

---

Dinner with Bucky wasn’t what you expected. He came to the shop just before closing, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, his hair combed back, his usual gloves on. He didn’t wait for you to lock up—he did it himself, sliding the key from your fingers with a quiet, “I’ll take care of it.”

The car waiting outside wasn’t the same sleek black one you’d seen lurking near your building before. This one was even darker, windows tinted, the kind of vehicle that made people cross the street when it pulled up. He opened the door for you, and his hand lingered on your lower back as you climbed inside.

The restaurant was one of those places you’d only seen in magazines—low lights, white tablecloths, the quiet murmur of money in every corner. The maître d’ didn’t even ask for a name; he bowed and led you straight to a private table at the back.

You shifted uncomfortably as you sat, smoothing the fabric of your dress. You hadn’t had time to change, still in the simple sundress you wore to work. Compared to the glittering couples around you, you felt out of place. But Bucky leaned back in his chair, eyes on you like there was no one else in the room. “You look perfect.”

Your cheeks warmed. “You didn’t even let me change.”

His mouth curved in that faint, dangerous smile. “Didn’t want to give you the chance to run.”

You frowned, half-playful, half-serious. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not? It’s the truth.” He poured you a glass of wine himself, ignoring the hovering waiter. “If I let you walk away, you’d start thinking too much. You’d talk yourself out of me. And I can’t have that.”

You looked at him, really looked. The way his metal fingers tapped lightly against the stem of his glass. The way his eyes stayed fixed on you, hungry and unblinking. “Bucky…” you whispered. “You don’t even know me.”

His jaw tightened. “I know enough.”

“That’s not the same.”

He leaned forward then, voice dropping. “I know you hate crowds but love little kids buying flowers for their moms. I know you hum to yourself when you sweep up the petals at night. I know you wear that same sundress every Wednesday because it makes you feel put-together.”

You blinked, startled. “You—”

“I pay attention.” His gaze softened, but the edge in his voice stayed. “More than anyone else ever has. Tell me I’m wrong.” You opened your mouth, closed it again. Your pulse raced under your skin. He reached across the table, taking your hand gently but firmly in his, thumb brushing across your knuckles. “I might not have asked the right way before. But I’m asking now. Let me have this. Let me have you.”

Your breath caught once again. The waiter appeared with menus, but Bucky didn’t even look at his. His eyes stayed on you, unwavering, as if the answer was the only thing that mattered. “Order something,” he said, tone clipped, smooth, the way he probably gave orders to his men.

You blinked, lowering your gaze to the menu. “You could say please, you know.”

His brows furrowed slightly. “I just did.”

“No, you told me,” you said quietly, the edge of a shy smile tugging at your mouth. “Telling isn’t asking.” That made him still. His head tilted, studying you as if you’d just spoken in another language. No one corrected him. No one pushed back. Certainly no one teased him. You turned a page in the menu, forcing your shoulders to stay loose, though your pulse hammered. “If you want me to do something, maybe try asking. Like a normal person.”

For a long beat, his eyes stayed locked on you, the muscle in his jaw ticking. You thought you’d pushed too far—until the corner of his mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “Normal, huh?” His voice dropped low, velvet-dark. He leaned across the table just slightly, one hand resting near yours. “Alright, doll. What would please you tonight? Salmon? Steak? Or do you want me to ask sweeter?”

Your cheeks heated instantly. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Sure it is.” His thumb brushed across your knuckles, light but deliberate. “You want me to say the words. ‘Please, sweetheart, pick something so I can watch you enjoy it.’ That what you want?”

You swallowed hard, caught between flustered and indignant. “It wouldn’t kill you to try it.”

For a long moment, he just watched you, silent, eyes burning into yours. Then, softly, deliberately, “please, doll. Order something. For me.”

Your lips parted in surprise. The weight of the words, the fact that he’d said them—not barked, not commanded—hit you harder than it should have. You ducked your head quickly, hiding your flush in the menu. “Okay,” you murmured, finally pointing to something on the page.

His grin widened, wolfish, triumphant. He sat back in his chair, content now, as if coaxing that small concession from you meant more than anything else on the table. But you caught the way his eyes lingered, sharp and possessive, even when his voice had softened. Like no matter how politely he phrased it, he still thought the end result was the same: you, bending to him. And part of you wondered if you minded as much as you should.

The dinner stretched on in a haze of soft light and low voices. The waiter came and went, but Bucky barely acknowledged him—every ounce of his attention stayed fixed on you. He did try, though. You could see it in the way he caught himself before giving another clipped order, the way he reshaped his words into something that almost sounded like a request. “Try the wine, doll,” he started to say, then stopped himself. His eyes softened, a little sheepish for once. “Would you… please try the wine?”

You bit your lip to hide a smile, lifting the glass to your lips. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

He chuckled low in his chest, shaking his head. “Don’t get used to it.”

But he kept doing it. Through dinner, through dessert, through the awkward-lovely rhythm of you teasing and him adjusting. He was clumsy at it, but he tried—for you. When the plates were cleared and the check was slipped onto the table, and ignored by him, you expected him to take you straight home. Instead, he offered his hand as you slid from your chair, steady and warm at the small of your back as he guided you out into the cool night. The city hummed around you—cars hissing down wet streets, neon signs buzzing faintly in the dark. You walked together in silence for a while, his stride matching yours, his hand never quite leaving your back.

Finally, you glanced up at him. “You really don’t ask for things, do you?”

He looked down at you, brow furrowing slightly. “I do now.”

“You tell me what I’m eating, what I’m wearing, when I should go home—”

“Because you don’t look after yourself the way you should,” he cut in, voice steady, but softer than usual.

“That’s not the same as asking,” you insisted, your tone gentle but firm. “You keep saying I’m yours. But you never asked me if I wanted to be.”

That stopped him cold. His steps slowed, then stilled entirely. He turned to face you fully, the glow of a nearby streetlamp carving hard shadows across his jaw. No one ever pushed him like this. Not his men. Not his enemies. And yet here you were, standing there in your simple dress, looking at him with those soft eyes that had undone him from the start—and daring to tell him no.

For a moment, he didn’t speak. His jaw worked, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. Then, slowly, he reached for your hand. His voice was low, rough-edged, but stripped of command. “Do you?”

You blinked. “Do I what?”

“Want to be mine.”

The words were plain. Honest. Asked, not ordered. Your heart lurched, caught between fear and something warmer, heavier. You didn’t answer right away, and you saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his grip on your hand tightened as if bracing for rejection. But you didn’t pull away. You held on. “I don’t know yet,” you admitted softly. “But if you keep asking instead of telling… maybe I’ll figure it out.”

The silence between you stretched, charged and alive. Then, for the first time in longer than he could remember, Bucky let out a breath that wasn’t weighted with control or calculation. He brought your hand to his lips, kissed your knuckles once, reverent. “Then I’ll ask,” he murmured. “As many times as it takes.” And when he walked you home that night, he didn’t touch your back, didn’t cage you in with his presence. He just walked beside you, his hand holding yours, as though that was enough.

The walk back to your apartment was quieter than usual. His hand stayed in yours, heavy, grounding, but he didn’t say anything more after that promise. The city’s neon glow flickered across the wet pavement, painting the silence in color. At your building, you stopped at the door, fingers brushing the keys in your pocket. He didn’t reach for them this time, didn’t lean against the frame and cage you in. He just stood there, watching you. You hesitated, then looked up at him. “Are you… coming in?”

His jaw worked once. You saw the war in his eyes—possession urging him to say yes, control telling him to wait. For the first time, he looked almost… uncertain. “I want to,” he admitted, voice low, rough. “But I’ll ask. Do you want me to?”

Your chest tightened. The way he said it—like the words were foreign, dragged out of him against instinct—made something inside you ache. You shook your head gently. “Not tonight.”

For a flicker of a second, you thought he’d argue. That steel-blue stare locked on yours, intense enough to burn. But then he nodded once, sharp and deliberate, like it cost him something. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Not tonight.”

You slipped inside, heart pounding, and leaned against the door after you closed it. His shadow lingered on the other side, unmoving, until you heard his footsteps retreat down the hall.

The next morning, the bell chimed right on time. You looked up from the counter and there he was again—sharp suit, gloves, eyes only for you. But there was something different about him. The usual possessive certainty was still there, but now it was tempered, measured. He set a small bundle on the counter—gardenias again, perfectly fresh. But this time, he didn’t say take them. Instead, he watched you closely, voice low. “Do you want them?”

Your lips parted. You blinked, then smiled softly, shy but certain. “Yes.”

His shoulders eased, just barely. He nodded once, satisfied, though the glint in his eyes still promised he’d never stop wanting to give you more than you asked for. And as you placed the gardenias in a vase by the window, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. He was still the storm hovering over your quiet life—but now he was learning how to ask before he struck.

---

The bell chimed when you left the shop that Sunday morning, keys tucked into your pocket and your bag over your shoulder. The sun was out for once, the kind of warm golden light that made the city feel softer, less sharp around the edges. You’d planned on wandering down to the farmer’s market, picking up fresh bread and maybe some fruit for the week.

You weren’t surprised when you felt him before you saw him. Bucky fell into step beside you like he always did, hands in his coat pockets, eyes scanning the street. He didn’t say he’d been waiting, but he didn’t have to. “Going somewhere?” he asked, voice low and even.

“The farmer’s market,” you said. “Do you… want to come?”

It slipped out before you could stop it. You weren’t sure why you offered—maybe because it felt strange to keep pretending you didn’t see him watching you. Maybe because part of you wanted to see what he was like outside your shop, outside dim restaurants and shadowed sidewalks. His lips twitched, just slightly. “Yeah. I’ll come.”

The market was buzzing with people—kids tugging at their parents’ hands, couples wandering between stalls, vendors calling out prices. The air smelled of warm bread and herbs, the kind of scent that made you feel like the city wasn’t so heavy after all. Bucky stuck close, but not in the looming, possessive way he usually did. Today he just walked beside you, his broad frame making space for you in the crowd. He looked… normal. Or as normal as a man like him could look.

You stopped at a bakery stall, eyeing the fresh loaves stacked high. “These are always gone by the afternoon,” you explained, pulling a bill from your bag. Before you could hand it over, Bucky passed cash to the vendor instead, his gloved hand steady.

“Bucky—”

“Don’t argue,” he said softly, almost smiling. “Consider it me asking.”

You rolled your eyes but accepted the bread, and his smile deepened like he’d won something. At the flower stall—of course there was a flower stall—you noticed his gaze linger on you as you inspected the bouquets. For once, you didn’t feel self-conscious. You just let yourself enjoy it. Then you spotted a row of little jars at another table a few stalls away—local honey, the labels hand-painted with tiny bees. Without thinking, you grabbed his arm, tugging him along. “Come on, look at these—”

You let go as soon as you reached the stall, too focused on the honey jars to notice the way he froze for half a second when your hand touched him. His gaze dropped to where your fingers had been, his jaw tightening. He didn’t comment. Didn’t tease. But the weight of that touch lingered in his chest, hot and heavy, long after you’d pulled away. You picked out a jar, holding it up with a little smile. “Isn’t this cute?”

He nodded slowly, but his eyes weren’t on the honey. They were still on you, watching the way your face lit up in the sunlight, the way you smiled without thinking. And for once, he didn’t feel like the man everyone feared. He just felt like a man walking through a market with a girl who made him want things he’d forgotten he could have.

The market felt different with him beside you. Normally, you drifted through the stalls without much notice—just another face in the crowd—but with Bucky there, people stepped out of the way. Vendors straightened. Conversations dipped quiet for a moment before picking up again. You pretended not to notice, but you did. And so did he. His hand brushed the small of your back once or twice, subtle but guiding, as though keeping you in his orbit. At a food stall, the scent of frying dough pulled you in. You lingered over the handwritten sign—fresh fritters dusted in sugar—and before you could even reach for your bag, Bucky was already paying. “You don’t have to keep buying everything,” you said, exasperated but a little amused.

He handed you the warm paper bag, eyes steady. “I know. I want to.”

You bit into a fritter, the crunch giving way to soft, sweet warmth. A smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. Bucky’s eyes softened. He didn’t take one for himself—he just watched you, like the sight of your smile was enough. You found a bench near the edge of the market, shaded by a tree. Sitting side by side, you let the crowd blur into background noise. For a while, neither of you spoke. Then you glanced at him, curious. “So… what do you do?”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Why?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ve been… spending time together. You know a lot about me, but I don’t know much about you.”

His jaw tightened, as if weighing how much to say. Finally, he leaned back against the bench, gaze fixed on the crowd instead of you. “I run things. Businesses. Keep people in line.”

“That’s… vague,” you said carefully.

He huffed a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Yeah. Vague’s safer.”

You studied him for a moment, the sharp set of his shoulders, the way he scanned the people moving through the market like he was cataloging threats. “You don’t have to tell me everything. Just… something. Something real.”

His eyes flicked back to you then, and for a beat, the weight of his stare pinned you in place. “Something real?”

“Yes.”

He was quiet for a long time, then finally said, “I don’t sleep much. When I do, I keep the lights on. Always have.”

You blinked, surprised at the intimacy of the admission. He hadn’t given you facts about his work, but he’d given you something raw instead. Something closer to the truth. You nodded softly. “That’s… real.”

His shoulders eased, just slightly. The silence stretched again, but it felt different this time—warmer, less guarded. You shifted, brushing sugar from your fingers, and without thinking, offered him the last fritter from the bag. He didn’t take it right away. He just looked at you, eyes flicking down to your hand, then back to your face. Finally, he reached for it, his fingers brushing yours deliberately. “Thank you.” The words were simple, but they carried weight.

As you sat there together, sharing sugared dough in the sunlight, you realized this felt almost like a normal second date. Almost. And though you didn’t notice it, he did—the way your shoulders leaned just slightly toward him, the way your knee brushed his. To anyone else, it was nothing. But to Bucky, it was everything.

The walk back from the market felt easier than you expected. Maybe it was the sunlight softening the edges of the city, maybe it was the paper bag of warm bread under your arm, or maybe it was simply that Bucky wasn’t looming as much as usual.

He carried most of the weight without asking—jars of honey, bundles of herbs, a carton of fresh eggs balanced in one hand. He hadn’t made a show of it; the moment you’d started to juggle too many things, he’d quietly relieved you of them. “You don’t have to carry everything,” you said, hugging the bread close to your chest.

“I want to,” he answered simply. Then, with the faintest curve of his mouth, “besides, you’re terrible at hiding how heavy it is.”

You ducked your head, a little embarrassed, but the teasing softened the moment instead of sharpening it. The streets thinned as you left the crowded stalls behind. For once, he didn’t rush you. He let you stop to admire the painted mural on a corner building, the stray cat curled in a sunbeam on the stoop. His gaze followed everything you touched with your eyes, memorizing it silently. “You seem… different today,” you said after a while, glancing at him.

“How so?”

“Less…” You searched for the word. “Commanding. More like…” You gestured at the bags in his hands. “This. Normal.”

He was quiet for a beat, then let out a low breath. “Maybe I just wanted to see what it feels like. Doing this with you.”

You blinked. “Feels like what?”

“Like I’m not who I am,” he said, eyes straight ahead. “Like I could just… be a man walking home from the market with his girl.”

Your steps faltered. He noticed immediately, his head turning, sharp blue eyes locking onto you. But he didn’t backtrack. He let the words hang there, bare and heavy. You didn’t know what to say to that, so you didn’t. Instead, you shifted the bread under your arm and kept walking. As you reached your building, you touched the edge of his sleeve lightly, without thinking, to slow him. “Thank you,” you said softly.

“For what?”

“For coming with me. For trying.”

His gaze softened, more than you’d ever seen. He leaned down just slightly, his voice quiet, meant for you alone. “I’d try for you, doll. Always.”

He didn’t kiss you. He didn’t push. He just pressed the bags into your hands and waited until you were inside, standing guard in the shadow of your building until the door closed. And though you couldn’t see him, he stayed there for a long time, staring at the place where your fingers had brushed his arm, replaying it like a man clutching his first breath after drowning.

---

The weeks passed quietly, the rhythm of your little flower shop unchanged in all the familiar ways and altered in one very specific one. The bell still chimed at odd intervals, children still pressed coins into your palm for bouquets for their mothers, and old women still lingered at the counter to gossip. But now, James “Bucky” Barnes was a fixture.

He came every day. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes at closing, sometimes both. At first, he’d only bought flowers. Now, more often than not, he was simply there—watching, asking you questions in that low voice of his, or taking up a quiet corner of the shop where his looming presence managed to make the whole space feel smaller.

What surprised you most was how quickly he adapted to your routines. One evening, as you were dragging a heavy bucket of water toward the back room, you heard a faint scrape. When you looked up, Bucky was already carrying it with one hand, like it weighed nothing. “You’ll hurt yourself,” he said when you frowned at him.

“I’ve been doing this for years,” you reminded him.

“Not anymore,” he replied, setting the bucket down and fixing you with that firm stare that made arguments slip off your tongue.

After that, he just started doing things. Sweeping up petals after closing. Refilling water vases. Straightening displays. The strangest sight of all was him in his immaculate suit, sleeves rolled to his elbows, carefully trimming stems with the clumsy concentration of a man who had never held shears before. You caught yourself smiling one evening when he leaned too hard on the broom and nearly knocked over a pail of carnations. “What’s funny?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at you.

“You’re… bad at this,” you admitted, covering your mouth with your hand.

His lips twitched as though fighting a grin. “Maybe. But I don’t mind being bad at something if it’s for you.”

That made your chest tighten. Later, when he tried to lock up the shop himself, you shook your head. “You can’t just decide things, Bucky. You have to ask.”

He paused with the key in his hand, blue eyes sharp on yours. “Ask?”

“Yes. Like a normal person.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, silent. Then, with the barest hint of a smile, “may I lock up for you, doll?”

You blinked, heat rising in your cheeks, before nodding slowly. “Yes.”

He turned the key with a satisfied twist, and though he said nothing more, the look in his eyes told you he was storing that moment away, filing it under things he would never forget.

And that became the new pattern. The man everyone else feared—the man you still didn’t fully understand—swept floors and carried buckets in your flower shop. Not because you asked him to, but because he wanted to. Because it meant being near you, being part of your world, even if it meant stumbling through tasks that had nothing to do with his.

---

The idea came to you while restocking vases one quiet afternoon. Bucky had settled himself on the stool by the counter, jacket draped over the backrest, sleeves rolled up as he trimmed stems with more concentration than skill. It was still strange seeing him like that—this man who radiated danger, carefully adjusting the angle of scissors to keep a daisy neat. “You’re free tomorrow, right?” you asked, keeping your tone casual.

His head lifted, blue eyes narrowing slightly. “Why?”

You hesitated, fingers brushing water from your palms. “There’s an exhibit at the museum. I thought… maybe you’d like to go with me.”

Silence. You felt suddenly foolish. Of course a man like him wouldn’t want to wander through quiet halls, looking at paintings. You opened your mouth to take it back, but he spoke first. “When?”

You blinked. “Noon?”

He nodded once, decisive. “I’ll pick you up.”

The museum was quieter than the farmer’s market, but no less alive. Families moved from gallery to gallery, tourists snapped photos, students sat on the floor sketching. You bought tickets at the front desk, and when you glanced over, Bucky was already scanning the lobby like it was a threat he had to neutralize. “You don’t have to look so suspicious,” you teased gently.

“I don’t like crowds,” he admitted, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “Too many hands. Too many eyes.”

You offered him a small smile. “Then just look at me instead.”

Something flickered across his face at that—something raw and unguarded—before his expression smoothed again. He followed you into the first gallery without a word. The space was filled with soft light and framed canvases, oil paintings that stretched from floor to ceiling. You paused before one, studying the brushstrokes, and realized after a moment that he wasn’t looking at the painting. He was watching you. “You’re supposed to look at the art,” you said, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.

“I am,” he replied.

Heat crept up your neck, and you busied yourself reading the plaque beside the painting. As you moved from gallery to gallery, he stayed close, his hand brushing your back whenever the crowd grew too thick. He didn’t say much, but when he did, it surprised you. He had opinions—sharp, quiet observations about color, about shadow, about how one painting seemed “lonely” while another looked like “noise trapped in a frame.” His voice was low, thoughtful, nothing like the clipped commands he usually gave.

You stole glances at him while he studied the paintings. He didn’t fidget, didn’t check his watch or his phone. He looked, really looked, the same way he looked at you in the shop—like he was memorizing every detail.

At one point, you wandered ahead into a side gallery where a massive sculpture stood under a skylight. You stopped, tilting your head, trying to make sense of the twisting stone form. A moment later, his shadow fell across yours. Without thinking, you reached back and caught his hand, tugging him closer. “What do you think this is supposed to be?”

His hand stayed in yours, warm and steady. He didn’t pull away, didn’t tease. He just let you hold him, his gaze dropping briefly to where your fingers curled against his before answering. “Doesn’t matter what it’s supposed to be,” he said quietly. “Matters what you see in it.”

You didn’t even realize you were still holding his hand until you let go to gesture at the sculpture, your cheeks heating. He didn’t comment, though his eyes lingered on you a moment longer than necessary. By the time you stepped back into the sunlight outside, the afternoon was waning. He carried the museum’s little pamphlet in one hand, folded neatly, like it was something precious. “Thank you,” you said, hugging your arms around yourself. “For coming.”

He studied you for a long moment, then nodded. “You ask, I’ll come.” And though his voice was steady, you couldn’t miss the way his fingers twitched at his side—like he was resisting the urge to reach for yours again.

The walk home after the museum felt different than any other evening you’d shared with him. Maybe it was the soft glow of the setting sun bouncing off the buildings, or maybe it was the quiet between you—comfortable, not weighted the way it usually was.

You carried a little bag from the gift shop, a postcard print of your favorite painting tucked inside. He’d insisted on buying it when you lingered too long at the rack, ignoring your protests. Now it swung lightly from your fingers as the two of you turned down your street. He stayed close, as always, scanning shadows and corners. But he wasn’t tense. Not like usual. His shoulders looked looser, his jaw softer, as if he’d finally let himself breathe for once. At your building, you stopped at the door. He reached for the key the way he always did, but this time you didn’t hand it over. Instead, you turned it yourself, then hesitated. When you looked up at him, he was watching you, waiting. “Do you…” You bit your lip, suddenly nervous. “Do you want to come in?”

For a flicker of a moment, something raw crossed his face—surprise, then hunger, then something softer. His eyes searched yours as though trying to find a trick hidden there. “You sure?” His voice was low, almost rough. He was asking, not telling.

You nodded, stepping inside and holding the door open. He followed, quiet as a shadow, and the door clicked shut behind him. Your apartment wasn’t much—small, cozy, smelling faintly of lavender and bread. A few books stacked on the coffee table, a blanket draped over the couch, a vase of flowers by the window. His eyes swept the space once, but not with the sharp calculation you were used to. This time it looked like he was… curious. Taking in the pieces of your life he hadn’t been able to reach until now. You slipped off your shoes and gestured awkwardly. “It’s not much, but… it’s home.”

He stepped further in, silent for a moment, before his gaze found the vase by the window. White gardenias, still fresh, but starting to droop a little. “You kept them,” he murmured.

“Of course,” you said softly.

Something shifted in his expression then, subtle but undeniable. His shoulders eased even more, and when he finally sat down on the couch—careful, as if he didn’t want to disturb anything—he looked almost human. Almost ordinary. You brought him a glass of water, and he accepted it with a quiet, “thank you,” fingers brushing yours deliberately. The lamp he’d given you glowed faintly in the corner, casting its warm petals of light across the room. He noticed, of course. His eyes lingered on it for a long moment before he turned back to you. “Feels like you,” he said.

You tilted your head. “What does?”

“This place. The light. The quiet. All of it.” He leaned back into the couch, watching you with that same intensity he always did, but softer now. “I like it.”

Bucky didn’t sit like a guest. He sat like he belonged there, broad shoulders sinking carefully into your couch, his hand resting heavy on his knee. The lamplight painted him in soft gold, blunting the sharpness of his jaw, but nothing could dull the intensity of his eyes. They tracked you as you moved—setting the bread on the counter, tidying the little bag from the museum gift shop, fussing with nothing at all just to give your hands something to do.

You finally settled across from him, tucking your legs under yourself. He was too large for your space, all dark edges against your quiet home, and yet… he didn’t look out of place. Not anymore. “You’re quiet,” you said softly.

“I like it here,” he answered simply. His gaze flicked around the room again—the flowers on the sill, the stack of books on your table, the blanket folded neatly over the back of a chair. “Feels like you.”

Your lips curved, though you tried to hide it. “That’s because it is me. It’s my space.”

He studied you then, blue eyes sharp but not unkind. “You let me in.”

The weight of those words settled heavy between you. He didn’t sound surprised. More like he was… marveling at it. Testing the shape of the truth on his tongue. “I trust you,” you admitted before you could stop yourself.

His jaw tightened. His hand flexed once on his knee. “You shouldn’t,” he said, voice low, raw. “Not with me.”

The honesty in his tone chilled you, but it also pulled at something deeper. You leaned forward, resting your arms on your knees. “Then tell me why.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking, like he was deciding whether or not to let you see past the walls he kept so carefully built. Then he shifted, elbows on his thighs, leaning closer. “Because I don’t stop. Once I want something—once I want you—I don’t let go.”

Your breath caught, heat rising to your cheeks. But instead of recoiling, you held his gaze. “Then maybe you should ask me if I mind.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Do you?”

You hesitated, heart pounding, before whispering, “no.”

The silence that followed was thick, humming with unspoken things. He leaned back slowly, the tension in his body still coiled tight, but his expression softened—just barely. “Good,” he murmured.

You didn’t know what possessed you then, but you rose and crossed to the kitchen, pouring him another glass of water, setting it down beside him like it was the most natural thing. He accepted it without breaking eye contact, his metal fingers brushing yours deliberately.

The night stretched longer, the city outside dimming into quiet. At some point, you found yourself curled in the chair across from him, head resting against your hand, listening as he told you little things—not about business, never that, but about the food he liked, the places he couldn’t stand, the way he hated the sound of clocks ticking. Small truths, but truths nonetheless.

When he finally stood to leave, it was later than you realized. He lingered at the door, one hand braced against the frame. “Next time,” he said softly, “I’ll stay.”

You didn’t argue. When the door closed behind him, your apartment still felt full. Heavy with his presence. And when you went to bed, the lamp he’d given you cast its warm glow across the room, reminding you that letting him in once meant you’d never be rid of him again.

The next night, he didn’t wait on the street. You closed up shop, locked the door, and there he was—already leaning against the brick wall, arms folded across his chest. The way he looked at you made the air feel heavy, like he’d been waiting for this moment all day. “Come on,” he said quietly, falling into step beside you.

The walk to your apartment was silent, but not tense. His hand brushed yours once or twice, and though he didn’t take it, you felt the weight of restraint in every step he took. When you unlocked your door and pushed it open, you hesitated. He didn’t ask this time. He didn’t have to. The question was in his eyes, and the answer was already in yours. “Stay,” you said softly.

Something uncoiled in him at that word, something he’d been holding too tightly. He stepped inside without hesitation, shedding his jacket and draping it over the back of your chair like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Your apartment filled with him—his size, his presence, the faint spice of his cologne. You made tea because it gave your hands something to do, and when you handed him a mug, his fingers brushed yours deliberately, lingering just long enough to make your pulse trip. He sat beside you, close enough that your knees touched. He drank the tea like he wasn’t used to it, sipping carefully, his eyes never leaving you. “Feels different,” he murmured after a while.

“What does?”

“This. Here. With you.” His gaze flicked around the apartment, then back to you. “It’s quiet. No one watching. No one waiting on me. Just… you.”

Your chest tightened. “Is that what you want?”

His jaw flexed. He set the mug down, metal fingers tapping once against the porcelain. “Yeah. More than I should.”

The silence stretched. You shifted under his stare, then finally leaned back against the couch, letting your shoulder brush his. He stilled at the contact, then eased, as if the world had just given him permission to breathe. The hours slipped by. You talked about nothing—books, music, the weather—and sometimes you didn’t talk at all. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, warm, almost domestic. When the clock ticked past midnight, you stifled a yawn. His head turned instantly, eyes narrowing. “You’re tired.”

“I’m fine,” you said, though your voice was drowsy.

He stood, towering over you, then offered his hand. “Bed,” he said.

You arched a brow, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Excuse me?”

His mouth curved faintly. “To sleep, doll. I’ll take the couch.”

You hesitated, then nodded, leading him toward the small bedroom. He didn’t linger, didn’t push. He just pulled the blanket up to your chin once you were settled, his hand brushing your cheek in a gesture so gentle it made your throat ache. “Sleep,” he murmured.

You closed your eyes, the glow of the lamp warm against the walls, and the last thing you felt was the weight of his presence just outside the door—silent, steady, keeping watch.

The smell of coffee pulled you awake before the sunlight did. For a moment, you thought you were dreaming—the rich, dark aroma, the soft clink of ceramic from your kitchen—but when you sat up, the lamp still glowed faintly on your nightstand, and the blanket tucked under your chin smelled faintly of his cologne.

You padded quietly to the doorway, pausing when you saw him. Bucky stood at the counter, broad shoulders hunched slightly as he poured steaming coffee into your favorite mug. His jacket was still draped over the back of the chair from last night, his sleeves rolled up again. On the counter beside him was a loaf of bread you’d bought at the market, neatly sliced into even pieces, and butter softening in a small dish. It looked… domestic. Almost ordinary. And it made your chest ache in a way you weren’t prepared for. “You don’t have to do that,” you said softly, leaning against the doorframe.

He looked up instantly, sharp as always, but his expression softened when he saw you. “Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted. “Figured I’d make myself useful.”

You smiled faintly, stepping closer. “You’re really bad at pretending this is normal.”

“Maybe,” he said, setting the mug in front of you. His voice lowered. “But I like pretending with you.”

The warmth of the cup seeped into your palms. You took a sip, humming at the taste—it was stronger than you usually made it, but good. He watched your reaction like it mattered more than anything else. “See?” he said, almost smug. “Better than what you usually drink.”

You narrowed your eyes at him playfully. “You think you can just take over my kitchen now?”

His grin widened, wolfish but soft around the edges. “If you let me.” For a long moment, you stood there, sipping your coffee while he leaned against the counter, watching you like the morning belonged to the two of you alone. When you finally set the mug down, he reached past you, brushing your wrist deliberately as he moved the butter closer to the bread. “Eat something,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes but picked up a slice anyway. “You know, most people say ‘please’ when they want something.”

He chuckled low, the sound warm and rough. “Please, doll. Eat something for me.”

You laughed then, quiet but real, and he looked at you like he’d just won a war without firing a single shot. And as you sat at your tiny kitchen table, him across from you with his coffee, you realized you weren’t just letting him into your apartment. You were letting him into your mornings, your routines, your life. He seemed to realize it too. Because when you reached for another slice of bread, he leaned back in his chair, eyes soft and possessive all at once, and said quietly, “get used to this. I’m not going anywhere.”

You thought he’d leave after breakfast—slip out the way he usually did, shadow heavy but fleeting. Instead, he stayed, long after the last crumb of bread was gone and your coffee had cooled. He didn’t hover, not exactly. He followed you with his eyes as you moved around your apartment, tidying plates, straightening cushions, feeding the little plant on your windowsill. Every small domestic motion seemed to hold his full attention, as if he were cataloging it all for later.

When you bent to pick up a book that had slipped under the table, he was suddenly there, crouched beside you. His metal fingers brushed the spine before yours could reach it. “Got it,” he murmured, handing it over. His eyes lingered on the cover—an old paperback, spine worn soft. “You like this one?”

“It’s a favorite,” you admitted, hugging it to your chest. “I’ve read it more times than I can count.”

He nodded slowly, eyes sharp, as though he were etching the title into his memory. You retreated to the couch, curling into the corner, and he sat at the other end—close enough that your knees brushed when you shifted. He leaned back, stretching an arm along the top of the couch, watching you like you were the only thing worth seeing. “You’re different here,” you said quietly.

“How?”

“Quieter. Softer.” You hesitated. “Like you’re not carrying the whole world on your shoulders.”

For a moment, something flickered across his face—something raw, almost vulnerable. “Maybe it’s because I’m with you.”

Your cheeks warmed. You turned your gaze toward the window, pretending to fuss with the flowers on the sill. “You say things like that too easily.”

“I don’t say anything easily,” he said, voice low, firm. “Not unless I mean it.”

The air grew heavier, thick with unspoken things. To break it, you stood and gathered the empty mugs. “I should wash these.”

“I’ll do it.”

Before you could protest, he was already in your tiny kitchen, sleeves pushed up, broad frame bent over your sink. The sight of him there—dangerous and untouchable to the rest of the city, carefully rinsing soap suds from your favorite mug—sent a strange ache through you. “You really don’t know how to act normal,” you teased gently, leaning against the counter.

He glanced at you, lips curving faintly. “This is normal. For me. If you let it be.”

You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how easily he was weaving himself into your space, your life. When the mugs were clean and drying on the rack, he returned to the couch, looking far too at ease in your home. As though the line between visitor and resident had already blurred. And when you finally told him, half-awkward, that you needed to open the shop soon, he only nodded, standing slowly. His eyes swept the room one last time before settling on you. “I’ll see you tonight,” he said, not as a command but as a promise.

And when the door clicked shut behind him, your apartment still felt full.

The second time he stayed, it felt less like a choice and more like inevitability. He didn’t even ask if it was alright—he simply slipped off his jacket, folded it neatly over the arm of your couch, and stretched his long frame across it like it was a habit he’d been keeping for years.

You went to bed with the lamplight still spilling warm gold into the hallway, the faint hum of the city outside, and the comforting knowledge that he was only a few steps away. It was deep into the night when you woke. Thirst pulled you from sleep, groggy and heavy-limbed. Padding into the living room, you found him still on the couch, blanket pushed low around his waist, one arm draped over the edge.

For a moment, you thought he was sleeping peacefully. His chest rose and fell, steady. But then you noticed the twitch of his fingers, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the low, almost inaudible sounds escaping his throat—half-formed words, broken whispers.

You froze. A nightmare. Your first instinct was to leave him be, let him fight his shadows alone. But something in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his breath hitched, made your chest ache. “Bucky,” you whispered, stepping closer. “It’s alright. You’re safe.” You reached out, intending only to brush your fingers across his shoulder, to anchor him in the present. But the instant your skin touched his, his metal arm snapped up, lightning fast, clamping around your wrist.

The pressure was startling, firm enough to hurt, and you gasped softly. His eyes flew open—wild, unmoored, glassy with panic. For a heartbeat, he wasn’t here with you. He was somewhere else. Then recognition hit. His grip loosened instantly, his chest heaving. “God—doll—” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

You sank down onto the edge of the couch, cradling his arm with your free hand, your voice low and steady. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You didn’t mean to.”

But he was already shaking his head, his flesh hand scrubbing hard over his face. “Shouldn’t—shouldn’t touch you. Not when I don’t know where I am. Could’ve hurt you. Could’ve—”

You caught his wrist before he could pull further away. “You didn’t. You didn’t hurt me.”

His metal fingers trembled against your skin, so different from the usual deliberate steadiness you knew. He kept repeating it, almost under his breath, like a mantra breaking apart. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” you whispered, sliding closer, resting your other hand lightly against his chest. His heart thundered beneath your palm. “Look at me.” It took a moment, but his eyes finally lifted to yours—blue and raw, stripped of every layer of command and control. “You’re here,” you said softly. “With me. You’re safe.”

The tension in his arm eased by degrees, until his grip was nothing more than a loose circle around your wrist. He swallowed hard, his breathing uneven. “You shouldn’t have to… deal with this.”

“I don’t mind,” you whispered. And you didn’t. Not when it was him.

For a long time, you just sat there, your hand still against his chest, his breath slowly steadying under your touch. When his grip finally fell away completely, it wasn’t because he pushed you—it was because he let go, trusting you not to move. You didn’t. You stayed.

And when he drifted back into sleep, your wrist still tingled from the weight of his arm, but it wasn’t fear that lingered. It was the way his voice had broken on your name, the way he’d clung to your presence like it was the only thing anchoring him in the world.

By the time the apartment grew quiet again, you hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You’d sat there with him, your hand still resting over his chest, listening as his breath evened out beneath your palm. You told yourself you’d move once you were sure he was settled.

But your eyes grew heavy. The couch was warm beneath you, his body warmer still, and before you knew it, you were sliding sideways, cheek pressed against his shirt. His heart was a steady thrum beneath your ear, his arm—flesh, not metal—loosely draped over your back as though even in sleep he couldn’t help but hold you close.

The couch was small, too small for the both of you, but you didn’t notice. Not with the weight of him grounding you, not with the lamp’s glow painting soft gold across the room.

When you woke, morning light was spilling through the curtains, pale and thin. It took a moment to realize where you were—why your pillow was too firm, why your blanket smelled faintly of his cologne. You shifted, groggy, and felt his chest move beneath you. He was awake. His breathing was shallow, controlled, the way he sounded when he was trying not to disturb you. “Morning,” you whispered, voice rough with sleep.

His chest rumbled under your cheek with a low, uncertain sound. “You shouldn’t… have stayed here.”

You lifted your head just enough to meet his eyes. They were sharp, but not cold. There was guilt there, deep and quiet. “Why not?”

“I could’ve hurt you,” he said. His metal hand flexed once against the blanket, as though the memory of gripping your arm was still burning through him. “I did hurt you.”

You shook your head, propping yourself on your elbow. “You didn’t. You scared me for a second, but… you didn’t hurt me.” His jaw worked, but he said nothing. You studied him for a moment—his hair mussed from sleep, the faint shadows under his eyes, the way he looked so much younger like this, stripped of the armor he wore in daylight. “Bucky,” you said softly, “I wouldn’t have fallen asleep here if I didn’t feel safe with you.”

That silenced him. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes flicking away for a moment as though he couldn’t bear the weight of what you’d just given him. Slowly, carefully, he brushed his knuckles across your cheek, his touch light, reverent. “You shouldn’t trust me that much.”

“Maybe not,” you whispered, leaning into his hand. “But I do.”

For the first time in longer than he could probably remember, his mouth curved into something almost fragile, almost grateful. You stayed like that for a long moment, the morning wrapping around you both like a secret. The couch was still too small, your neck was already sore, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move. Because for the first time, you weren’t sure if you were comforting him, or if he was comforting you.

---

The bell chimed as usual when he stepped into your shop, but today felt heavier somehow. Maybe it was the memory of the night before, of waking up in his arms on your too-small couch. Maybe it was the image of his wide, haunted eyes as he whispered apology after apology, and the way your chest had ached to soothe him.

You’d been thinking about that all morning. About how much he gave you—his presence, his protection, his steadiness—even if he never admitted it aloud. And for once, you wanted to give him something back. So you’d worked quietly before he arrived, hands steady even as your heart raced, trimming stems and tying ribbon. Now, as he approached the counter, you wiped your palms on your apron and brought the bouquet out from behind you.

It wasn’t like the ones you usually sold. This one was deliberate, personal. Deep blue delphiniums, soft cornflowers, pale forget-me-nots woven together in layers, all tied with a silver-gray ribbon. The colors matched his eyes perfectly—sharp and striking at the center, softer and gentler around the edges. You held it out shyly. “For you.”

He froze. For a man who seemed to always know what to do, what to say, he looked completely undone in that moment. His eyes flicked from the flowers to your face and back again, as if he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing. “You made this… for me?” His voice was rough, low.

You nodded, your fingers twisting the edge of your apron. “You’ve brought me so much. I just thought—maybe you’d like to have something, too.”

He reached out slowly, almost reverently, and took the bouquet from your hands. His metal fingers brushed the ribbon with surprising gentleness, as though afraid he might crush the delicate stems. For a long moment, he just stared at it. Then his jaw worked, his throat bobbing with a swallow. “No one’s ever…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. “No one’s ever given me flowers before.”

Your heart clenched. “Then I’ll just have to make sure it’s not the last time.”

His eyes snapped back to yours, something raw burning in them. He set the bouquet carefully on the counter, then reached across with his flesh hand, curling his fingers around yours. “Thank you, doll,” he said, voice unsteady. “You don’t know what this means to me.” But from the way he held your hand, from the way his thumb brushed slowly across your knuckles like he was memorizing the feel of you, you thought maybe you did.

Bucky carried the bouquet back with him, cradled more carefully than the files his men handed him daily. When he entered his penthouse, the first thing Natasha noticed wasn’t the flowers themselves—it was the way he set them down gently on his desk, like they were priceless.

She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “Boss, if you keep this up, you’re gonna need a bigger office. Between the vases and bouquets, it’s starting to look more like a conservatory than a headquarters.”

He shot her a sharp look, but it lacked real heat. Instead, his gaze drifted back to the bouquet, fingers brushing over the ribbon like he still couldn’t believe it was real. “You got a problem with flowers, Romanoff?” he asked, voice low.

Natasha’s smirk softened into something almost approving. “Not with flowers. Just with you hiding in here behind them.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’m not hiding.”

“You’ve skipped the last three meetings,” she countered, stepping further into the room. “You can’t keep pushing them off. People are starting to notice. And this next one—you can’t get out of it.”

His eyes darkened, steel sliding back into his expression. “When?”

“Tomorrow night.” Her tone left no room for argument. “Seven o’clock. You’ll be there, and you’ll sit through it, whether you like it or not.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. His metal fingers tapped once against the desk, the sound sharp in the quiet room. Then he let out a slow breath, eyes flicking back to the blue bouquet. “Fine,” he said. “Tomorrow night.”

Natasha tilted her head, studying him. “You’ve got her making bouquets just for you now?”

His lips curved faintly—dangerous, but softer than usual. “Yeah. She did.”

Natasha’s brows lifted. “And you’re going to tell her where you’re going tomorrow?”

His gaze sharpened again, voice dropping low. “No.”

“Bucky—”

“She doesn’t need to know.” His eyes lingered on the flowers, something fierce burning beneath the calm. “Not yet.”

Natasha studied him for a long beat before finally sighing. “One of these days, Barnes, you’re gonna realize she’s not just another thing you can keep in the dark.”

But he didn’t answer. He was already reaching for the bouquet again, his hand steady, his mind already far from the meeting Natasha had chained him to.

The following evening, Bucky was restless. He’d shown up at your shop like he always did, the bell chiming as he stepped in, but his presence felt heavier than usual. He leaned against the counter, silent, eyes fixed on you while you arranged fresh stems in a vase. His gloves were still on—he hadn’t even rolled his sleeves the way he sometimes did when he helped close up. “Long day?” you asked, glancing up.

His jaw flexed once. “Not finished yet.”

Something in his tone told you not to press. But you noticed the way his gaze lingered on you a little too long, as though he were memorizing everything about you—the slope of your shoulders, the curve of your hands as you tied ribbon.

When you locked up for the night, he was there as usual, walking you home. His stride was slower, though, deliberate. Like he didn’t want the walk to end. At your door, instead of leaving with his usual “goodnight,” he lingered. His eyes traced your face with an intensity that made your heart race. “You’ll stay in tonight,” he said softly.

You blinked. “I was planning to, yes. Why?”

He exhaled, the faintest flicker of relief passing across his features. “Good. I need…” He hesitated, words sticking like they were foreign in his mouth. “I need to be somewhere. But I don’t want you worrying.”

Your brows furrowed. “Where?”

His eyes softened, but the steel never left them. “Not a place you need to know about.” It stung, a little, but before you could respond, his flesh hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing lightly along your skin. His touch was warm, but his grip was firm, almost desperate. “Promise me you’ll stay here tonight,” he murmured. “Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone but me.”

You swallowed hard. “Bucky—”

“Promise me.” His voice was low, commanding, but under it was something raw. Fear.

Your heart twisted. “I promise.”

Only then did his shoulders ease, just slightly. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your temple, lingering there longer than usual. When he pulled back, his eyes burned with something unspoken. “I’ll be back,” he said simply. And then he was gone, melting into the shadows of the city.

You stood in your doorway long after he’d disappeared, the bouquet you’d given him still fresh in your memory. Whatever world he was going back to tonight, it wasn’t one you were part of—not yet. But the way he’d looked at you before he left made you wonder how long he could keep the walls up.

It was late when the knock came—so late the city outside had gone quiet, even the hum of traffic muted. You woke with a start, heart pounding, blinking against the faint glow of the lamp in your bedroom.

For a moment, you thought you’d dreamed it. Then it came again, firmer this time. Three heavy knocks that rattled the wood. You slipped from bed, pulling a sweater over your shoulders, bare feet whispering across the floor. When you peered through the peephole, your stomach dropped. Bucky. He stood close to the door, shoulders squared, hair mussed, suit rumpled. His jaw was tight, his eyes burning with something fierce and unsteady. And his knuckles—flesh and metal both—were streaked with blood.

You unlocked the door quickly and pulled it open. “Bucky.” He exhaled your name like a prayer, his chest rising and falling hard. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he stepped inside, filling your small apartment with his presence, the door shutting behind him with a dull thud. You reached for his hand automatically, the blood stark against your skin. “What happened?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said roughly, pulling back just enough to keep the mess off you. “It’s done.”

“Bucky—”

“I didn’t want you to see me like this.” His voice cracked low, raw, like he’d used up every ounce of steel at that meeting and had nothing left to shield himself with now.

You guided him toward the couch anyway, ignoring his protest. “Sit.” He hesitated, then obeyed, sinking down heavily. His shoulders were still tight, coiled with tension, his fists flexing and unflexing as though he hadn’t yet come down from whatever storm he’d just walked out of. You fetched a cloth and warm water from the bathroom, kneeling in front of him. He tried to take the rag from your hand, but you shook your head. “Let me,” you said softly.

For once, he didn’t argue. He let you cradle his hand, your smaller fingers working gently over the bloodstains. His skin was rough under your touch, his palm scarred, but you treated it like something fragile, as if the violence hadn’t seeped into the lines of his hand at all. He watched you in silence, blue eyes intent, following every stroke of the cloth. “You shouldn’t…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “You shouldn’t want to do this for me.”

“Maybe I want to anyway,” you whispered.

The corner of his mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed dark. “You’re gonna ruin yourself, doll. Being close to me.”

You wrung out the cloth, wiping gently at his other hand, this one colder, harder. His metal fingers twitched under your touch, then stilled. “Maybe you don’t get to decide that,” you murmured.

His chest rose sharply, his eyes snapping to yours. The intensity there was almost unbearable—possessive, desperate, aching. “I came here,” he admitted finally, voice hoarse. “Because after it was over, all I wanted was you. Just… you.”

You finished cleaning the last smear of blood from his knuckles, then set the cloth aside. Without thinking, you reached up and pressed your hand against his jaw, tilting his face toward you. “I’m here,” you said simply.

And for the first time that night, his shoulders dropped, the fight bleeding out of him. He leaned into your touch, eyes closing, as though your palm was the only anchor he had left.

You didn’t let go of him right away. Even when his shoulders eased, when the fury and tension in him finally started to drain, you kept your hand at his jaw, kept your body close enough that he could feel your steadiness. When you finally shifted to stand, he caught your wrist—not tight, not desperate, but firm enough to stop you. His eyes opened, and there it was again: that raw, unguarded fear. Fear of you walking away. “Stay,” he murmured.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said softly. “But you need to rest. You can’t keep carrying all of this on your own.” You tugged gently until he let you go, then stood and gestured toward your bedroom. “Come on. You take the bed tonight.”

His eyes narrowed immediately. “No.”

“Bucky—”

“I’m not putting you on the couch in your own home,” he said sharply, rising to his feet. “I’ll take it. Always.”

The finality in his tone made you hesitate, but then you stepped closer, meeting his intensity with your own. “You came here for comfort, didn’t you? Then let me give it to you. Please.”

The word hung between you. You almost never asked him for anything. His jaw worked. He glanced at the bedroom door, then back at you, his expression caught between resistance and something almost… longing. Finally, he exhaled slowly. “Fine. But only if you stay too.”

Your breath caught. “Bucky—”

“I won’t sleep otherwise,” he admitted, voice low, hoarse. “Not without you.”

The ache in your chest deepened. You nodded once, quietly, and guided him into the bedroom. He moved carefully, stripping off his bloodstained shirt and leaving it folded on the chair before slipping under the covers in just his undershirt and slacks. He looked out of place in your small bed, too large, too coiled with silent tension.

You slid in beside him, the lamp’s glow soft across both of you. At first, he kept to his side, stiff and deliberate, as though terrified of crowding you. But when you reached out—just the lightest brush of your fingers over his wrist—he shifted closer, inch by inch, until his forehead rested against yours. “Sorry,” he whispered again, the word barely audible. “For last night. For tonight. For all of it.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” you whispered back, eyes closing. “Not with me.”

His breath stuttered against your cheek, and then his arm—warm, heavy, trembling slightly—wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest. It was a long time before his breathing evened out, before the tension bled from his body completely. But when it did, he slept deeper than he had in years, anchored by your presence.

And you stayed there with him, awake for a long while, listening to the steady thrum of his heart and wondering if maybe, just maybe, he was learning how to let someone share the weight he carried.

---

You woke to the sensation of warmth. Not the sunlight—though that was spilling pale and soft through the curtains—but the solid weight of the man beside you. His arm was still around you, heavy and steady, his chest pressed to your back. For a moment you stayed perfectly still, afraid that moving would shatter the fragile quiet that had settled over him in the night.

Eventually, you stirred, stretching carefully. His arm slipped away immediately, as if he’d been awake already, holding himself too tightly so as not to trap you. “Morning,” you murmured, rolling to face him. He was lying on his side, head propped on his hand, blue eyes fixed on you. His hair was a little mussed, his undershirt wrinkled. But his gaze was sharp, searching, as though he were trying to read the truth in your expression. “You slept,” you said softly, surprised by how certain you were.

“Because of you,” he admitted.

Something in your chest squeezed. You brushed your thumb lightly across the back of his hand. “I’m glad.”

But he didn’t relax. His eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw flexing. “You don’t regret this? Letting me stay?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “No. Why would I?”

“Because you saw me last night.” His voice was rough, low, like he hated the words even as he forced them out. “Bloody. Angry. A mess. That’s who I am, doll. That’s what I do when I leave you here. And I don’t…” He trailed off, eyes flicking away for a moment. “I don’t want you to look at me different because of it.”

You pushed yourself up on your elbow, leaning closer, catching his gaze. “Bucky. I saw you. And I still asked you to stay.”

His throat bobbed, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “You shouldn’t have to comfort me.”

“Maybe I want to,” you whispered, echoing the words you’d spoken when you cleaned his bloodied hands.

The silence stretched, heavy but not unbearable. His hand lifted, brushing lightly over your head, fingers catching gently at the nape of your neck. “You’re not afraid of me,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You shook your head. “Not even a little.”

His eyes closed briefly, as though the weight of that truth was too much to hold. When he opened them again, they burned with something softer than you’d ever seen in him, something dangerously close to hope. And though he didn’t say the words, you could feel them in the way he held your gaze, in the way his fingers lingered against your skin.

For once, he wasn’t just the man who haunted your shop, who walked you home, who carried storms in his chest. For once, he was just Bucky.

---

The day had been quiet, the steady hum of your little shop wrapping around you like a familiar blanket. You were working at the counter, arranging fresh lilies into a tall glass vase, humming softly under your breath. Bucky had slipped into the back earlier, muttering something about moving crates that were too heavy for you, though you hadn’t asked him to.

You balanced the vase carefully in your hands—just a little too tall, a little too slick with condensation—and then it happened. The glass slipped. You gasped, a sharp sound breaking the quiet as the vase hit the floor and shattered. Water splashed across your shoes, stems splayed in every direction, and shards of glass glittered in a jagged circle around your feet.

“Doll?” His voice was immediate, sharp, and then he was there, bursting from the back with all the force of a man expecting the worst. His eyes swept the scene in an instant—the water, the flowers, the glinting glass around your shoes—and then locked onto you.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, holding your hands up like surrender. “I just—”

“Don’t move,” he snapped, the command biting. But his eyes softened a heartbeat later, voice lowering. “Please. Don’t move.” You froze, biting your lip. Shards glittered dangerously close to your ankles, one sliver already catching at your sock. Bucky’s chest rose hard with a deep breath. Then he stepped closer, gaze flicking up to yours. “Do you trust me?”

The question startled you—so direct, so weighted. But your answer came without hesitation. “Yes.”

In one smooth motion, his hands found your waist, strong and steady, and he lifted you up out of the circle of broken glass. You startled, legs instinctively tightening around him as he held you against his chest, the strength in his arms effortless and certain.

Your heart hammered, breath catching as the world tilted. You could feel the hard lines of him through his shirt, the steady thrum of his heartbeat pressed to your chest. For a moment, you were frozen, caught in the intensity of his eyes as he looked at you—so close, so intent, like you were the only thing in the world. Then, before you could stop yourself, a quiet giggle slipped out. You ducked your head against his shoulder, cheeks warm. “You’re… really strong.”

The corner of his mouth curved, slow and dangerous, but softer than you’d ever seen it. His grip tightened just slightly at your waist, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you how easily he held you. “Damn right I am,” he murmured, voice low against your ear. “Strong enough to carry you as long as it takes.”

Your breath caught, the teasing words laced with something heavier, deeper. You clung to him just a little tighter, not because of the glass scattered on the floor, but because of the way he said it—as though he meant more than just this moment.

And when he finally set you down on the counter, out of harm’s way, his hands lingered at your waist, eyes locked on yours like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. His hands lingered at your waist even after he’d set you safely on the counter, his eyes locked on yours like he was trying to convince himself you were unharmed. Only when you shifted slightly—cheeks warm, fingers fiddling with the hem of your apron—did he finally step back. “Stay there,” he ordered softly. It wasn’t harsh, but it brooked no argument.

You opened your mouth to protest, then caught the flash in his eyes, the steel under the softness. You nodded instead, watching as he crouched to gather the scattered stems first, setting them aside with almost comical care before he tackled the glass.

He worked in silence, broad shoulders bent, muscles shifting beneath his shirt as he swept every shard into a neat pile with practiced efficiency. He didn’t let you come near—every time you shifted on the counter as if to hop down, his gaze snapped to you, sharp as a warning. “You’re acting like I nearly lost a limb,” you said lightly, trying to break the tension.

“You could’ve cut yourself,” he muttered, scooping the last of the glass into the dustpan. “Slipped, fallen—”

“Bucky, it was a vase.”

He dumped the shards into the bin and straightened slowly, eyes narrowing. “Doesn’t matter. Anything that touches you—anything that could hurt you—it matters to me.”

The words hung in the air, heavy, possessive. Your heart thudded in your chest. When he finally crossed back to you, he brushed his hands down, metal glinting faintly in the shop’s light. Then, to your surprise, he reached out and gently lifted your ankle, checking your sock, then the other. His touch was careful, almost reverent, like he needed proof with his own eyes that you were unscathed. “I told you I was fine,” you whispered, heat curling in your chest.

“I had to see for myself,” he murmured. His hand lingered at your ankle, thumb brushing lightly against the bone, before he finally let go.

You giggled then, nervous and shy, but unable to hold it back. “You really are strong, you know. Picking me up like that…”

His lips curved into something sharp and slow, a smile that was equal parts dangerous and softened just for you. “You liked that?”

You ducked your head, embarrassed, but nodded faintly. “Maybe.”

His grin widened, eyes darkening as he stepped closer, caging you gently where you sat on the counter. “Good. Because I’m not done showing you how strong I am.”

The words made your breath hitch, your pulse skittering wildly. And though he didn’t touch you again, though he only lingered there in your space, the promise in his voice wrapped around you like a second heartbeat.

The shop closed later than usual that evening—the broken vase had set you behind, and you insisted on mopping every last drop of water yourself while Bucky loomed nearby, pretending to help while really just watching you like a hawk.

By the time you stepped out into the cooling night, the streets were already washed in shadow. He fell into step beside you, as always, but tonight felt different. The air between you was warmer, charged, still echoing with the memory of his hands lifting you clear of the glass, your legs around his waist, your breathless little laugh against his shoulder.

You stole a glance at him as you walked. His jaw was set, his gaze sharp on the street ahead, but there was something softer in the curve of his mouth, something unspoken simmering in his eyes when they flicked toward you. “Thank you,” you said quietly, breaking the silence.

He turned his head slightly. “For what?”

“For earlier. For making sure I didn’t… get hurt.” You smiled faintly, shy. “And for carrying me. Even if it was just across a puddle of glass.”

The corner of his lips curved, slow and wolfish. “I’d carry you farther than that, doll. Anywhere you wanted.”

Your heart thudded, and you ducked your gaze to the pavement. When you reached your building, you turned to face him, suddenly reluctant to let the night end. He stood close, close enough that the heat of him brushed your skin, close enough that the city noise faded into nothing. He studied you for a long moment, blue eyes intent, then lifted his hand. His knuckles brushed along your cheek, light as a whisper, before he leaned down. The kiss wasn’t on your lips. It was at the corner of your mouth, feather-light, lingering just long enough to steal your breath. When he pulled back, his gaze was burning, fierce and possessive but softened in a way you’d never seen before. “Goodnight,” he murmured, voice low and rough.

You managed a quiet, flustered, “goodnight,” before slipping inside, leaning against the door once it clicked shut. Your pulse was still racing. The ghost of his touch still lingered on your cheek. And you knew, with startling clarity, that something between you had shifted again—deeper, closer, and far harder to resist.

---

The last customer had barely left when you flipped the little sign on the door to closed. The shop was quiet, petals scattered on the counter, the air still thick with the mingled perfume of roses and lilies. Bucky was already there, leaning against the wall near the register, sleeves rolled up, watching you sweep the last of the day’s mess into a neat pile.

It was almost habit now—him staying until you locked up, walking you home like a shadow no one could shake. But tonight, as you tied off the trash bag and wiped your hands on your apron, you found yourself blurting something out before you could second-guess it. “Do you… want to come grocery shopping with me?”

His head lifted, eyes narrowing as though you’d just offered him something strange and dangerous. “Grocery shopping?”

You nodded, a little shy. “Yeah. Just the corner store, nothing big.”

For a moment, he just studied you, unreadable. Then his mouth curved, the faintest tug at the corner of his lips. “You’re asking me on a date to a grocery store?”

Your cheeks warmed. “Not a date. Just… normal. Something normal.”

That seemed to strike something in him. The teasing faded, replaced with that sharp, focused look he always gave you when he was paying too much attention. Finally, he pushed off the wall, slipping into his jacket. “Alright. Let’s go.”

The store was half-empty when you arrived, aisles humming faintly under fluorescent lights. You grabbed a basket, but before you could even step forward, Bucky plucked it from your hands, carrying it himself without comment. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said, same as he always did when you tried to argue.

You shook your head with a smile and wandered down the first aisle. The ordinary act of choosing bread, fruit, milk felt almost surreal with him beside you. People glanced your way—some because of his presence, some because of his sheer size—but he ignored them, his attention fixed entirely on you. You paused at the shelf of pasta, biting your lip as you compared prices. He frowned. “What’re you doing?”

“Deciding which one to get.”

“Just grab both,” he said flatly.

You laughed under your breath. “That’s not how grocery shopping works.”

He arched a brow. “When I’m here, it does.” And before you could protest, both boxes were dropped into the basket.

A few aisles later, you spotted a display of apples, glossy and red under the lights. You reached for one, but he plucked the apple from your hand. “Too bruised,” he muttered, discarding it for another. Then another. Until finally he chose one and handed it to you, his expression deadly serious.

You bit back a giggle, putting it into the basket. “You’re very picky.”

“I don’t want you eating anything that isn’t good enough for you,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Your heart gave a little squeeze.

At the checkout, the clerk gave you both a curious look, eyes flicking from the man built like a soldier to the flowers still faintly clinging to your apron. Bucky ignored it, pulling out a roll of bills before you could reach for your own wallet. “Bucky—”

“Don’t,” he warned softly, sliding the cash across the counter.

You sighed, but your lips curved despite yourself. When you stepped back into the night, bags in hand, he shifted most of them to his own arms, leaving you only one light sack to carry. As you walked back toward your apartment, you realized your chest felt strangely full—like the simple act of buying apples and bread with him meant more than any extravagant gift could. And when you glanced up at him, his eyes already on you, you wondered if he felt the same.

The bags rustled quietly between you as you and Bucky made your way back to your apartment. He carried almost all of them, his broad frame cutting through the dim streetlight glow like a shield. Every so often, you’d catch him glancing down at you, his gaze lingering on your smaller bag as if he were annoyed you had any weight at all to carry.

By the time you reached your door, he was already fishing the key from your pocket—something he’d made a habit of, though tonight he looked at you first, waiting. You smiled faintly and gave him a nod. He unlocked the door, nudging it open with his shoulder, and followed you inside.

The apartment felt warmer with him in it, crowded but not in a way that unsettled you. He set the bags on the counter, already rolling up his sleeves like this was second nature. “You don’t have to help put everything away,” you said, slipping off your shoes.

“Not letting you do this alone,” he countered, already unpacking a bag.

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You’re terrible at letting me do anything.”

“Only because you deserve better than doing it by yourself.”

The simple certainty in his tone made your chest flutter. You busied yourself with the pantry shelves while he stacked cans and jars, his movements precise, almost military. Every so often, he paused to ask where something went—not in his usual commanding tone, but softer, quieter, like he wanted to get it right. When you turned to find him awkwardly holding up a carton of milk, brows furrowed, you giggled. “That goes in the fridge, Bucky.”

He smirked, shaking his head as he set it inside. “Not my strong suit, doll.”

You tilted your head, teasing. “And here I thought you were strong at everything.”

His eyes flicked to yours, sharp and knowing, but softened quickly. “I am. Especially when it comes to you.” Heat crept up your neck. You ducked back toward the pantry, pretending to fuss with the bags.

When the last of the groceries were tucked away, he leaned against the counter, watching you tie the bags into a neat bundle. His presence filled the small kitchen, his eyes steady and unreadable. “This is…” He paused, exhaling. “Nice.”

You glanced at him, smiling softly. “It is.”

“I could get used to this,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Your heart skipped. You didn’t answer, not with words. Instead, you brushed past him on your way to the sink, your arm grazing his, a tiny, wordless acknowledgment. The evening stretched out lazily, the two of you lingering on the couch after the groceries were tucked away. You’d made tea, steam curling faintly between you, and at some point your head had drifted to the back cushion, eyelids drooping while Bucky sat beside you, quiet and watchful. “You’re falling asleep on me,” he said after a long silence, his voice low and almost amused.

“M’not,” you mumbled, even as your head tilted a little to the side, threatening to nod off completely.

His lips curved, subtle but there. “Doll, go to bed.”

You groaned softly, rubbing your eyes, and gave a small pout. “Don’t wanna move. It’s too far.”

The faintest laugh rumbled from his chest. “Too far? It’s ten steps.”

You cracked one eye open, playful despite your exhaustion. “Then carry me.” You hadn’t expected him to take you seriously. But before you could blink, his hands were at your sides, sliding under you with practiced ease. You let out a startled little gasp as the world tilted, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. He gathered you up without effort, cradled securely against his chest in a full bridal carry. Your breath caught, a laugh bubbling out as your cheek pressed against his shoulder. “Bucky—”

“Don’t pout at me if you don’t mean it,” he murmured, his voice quiet but edged with satisfaction.

He carried you through the small apartment like you weighed nothing, each step steady and sure. You didn’t protest—you couldn’t, not with the warmth of him surrounding you, not with the way he held you like you were something precious. By the time he set you down gently on the bed, pulling the blanket up over you, your heart was racing too fast for sleep. He lingered at your side for a moment, his eyes soft in a way they rarely were. “Better?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, cheeks warm, your voice a sleepy whisper. “Much.”

He exhaled slowly, almost like relief, before straightening. “Sleep, doll. I’ll be right outside.” And as you drifted off, you could still feel the phantom weight of his arms around you, carrying you like you were the only thing in the world worth holding onto.

---

It started with a lightbulb. You were balancing on the edge of a chair, stretching on tiptoe to reach the fixture above your counter when Bucky walked in. He froze in the doorway, eyes narrowing like he’d caught you dangling off a cliff. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Changing a bulb,” you answered, squinting up at the socket. “It burnt out last night.”

He stalked forward, plucking the box from your hand. “Get down.”

You turned your head, giving him a pointed look. “It’s just a lightbulb, Bucky.”

“Get down,” he repeated, voice soft but firm, like the sound of a lock clicking shut.

You sighed dramatically but stepped down, brushing dust off your apron. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re reckless,” he shot back, climbing onto the chair himself. It creaked under his weight, but he made quick work of the fixture, replacing the bulb in seconds before hopping down. He set the empty box on the counter like he’d just conquered something monumental. “See? No problem,” he said, smug.

You rolled your eyes, though your lips twitched. “You act like you saved me from falling off a building.”

His gaze softened as he brushed a speck of dust from your shoulder. “Doesn’t matter how small it is, doll. I don’t like seeing you in danger.”

The habit stuck after that. A loose hinge on your cabinet? Bucky fixed it before you even realized it needed repairing. A crack in the paint near your window? He brought in supplies and patched it one evening, sleeves rolled and shirt clinging to his back while you tried not to stare too obviously. And it wasn’t just repairs. One night you came home with groceries, and before you could even set the bags down, he was unloading them, stacking cans with soldier-like precision. He held up a carton of tea, frowning. “You drink this?”

“Yes?” you said slowly, tilting your head.

He dropped it into the cupboard. “Not anymore. I’ll bring you something better.”

You crossed your arms, trying to look stern. “You can’t just replace my tea without asking.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Then I’ll ask. May I replace your tea with something that won’t taste like dishwater?”

You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand. “Fine. You win.”

But the moment that stayed with you came later, when you offered something back. You’d picked up a box of his favorite pastries—something you’d noticed he always lingered over when you passed a certain bakery. When you handed it to him shyly at the shop, his expression faltered. He blinked down at the package, then at you, as if the gesture didn’t compute. “For me?” he asked, voice quiet.

“Of course,” you said, suddenly nervous. “You’re always helping me. I thought… you might like them.”

He opened the box, stared at the neat row of pastries, then at you again. His jaw worked, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost reverent. “No one does this for me.”

You reached out, brushing your fingers over his wrist. “They should.” His eyes darkened, burning with something fierce, something hungry—but instead of pulling you closer like you half-expected, he only nodded, as if committing the moment to memory.

---

It happened on an ordinary night, the kind where the city felt half-asleep and the shop was already dark behind you. Bucky walked you home as usual, his hand brushing lightly at your back whenever the sidewalk narrowed. The streets were quiet, the glow of the lamps stretching long shadows across the pavement.

You were telling him about a customer who’d come in earlier, half-laughing at their confusion between carnations and camellias, when your foot caught on an uneven crack in the sidewalk. You stumbled, breath catching as your balance tipped forward.

Before you could even react, his arm was around your waist. It wasn’t just a steadying touch—it was a full, protective pull, yanking you against his chest so hard your breath whooshed out. His other hand splayed across your shoulder, holding you there, shielding you as if the cracked pavement had been a bullet. “Careful,” he rasped, voice rough, too sharp for the small stumble.

Your heart raced, half from the fall, half from the intensity in his eyes when you looked up. He wasn’t just steadying you. He was possessing you, holding you so tightly you couldn’t have slipped away if you tried. “I’m fine,” you whispered, though your voice wavered.

He didn’t let go right away. His grip stayed firm, the muscle in his jaw ticking as though he was fighting some deeper instinct. Finally, slowly, his fingers loosened, but his hand stayed at your waist, lingering even as you stood straight again. “You scared me,” he admitted, voice low. The honesty in it startled you more than the stumble.

You swallowed hard, shy under his gaze. “It was just a crack in the sidewalk.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, the words sharp but weighted with something else—something you couldn’t quite name. “Anything that could hurt you… I won’t let it.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. The silence stretched, heavy and electric, until you finally let out a small laugh to ease it. “Bucky,” you teased softly, “you act like you’re my personal bodyguard.”

His lips curved faintly, but his eyes never softened. “Maybe I am.” You didn’t argue. Not when your heart was still racing from the feel of his arms around you, not when the memory of his grip lingered like fire on your skin. And for the rest of the walk, his hand stayed at your waist, steady and sure, as if he didn’t trust the world not to trip you again.

---

It was late when you noticed it. The soft scrape of the couch, the low creak of springs shifting—quiet, but not quiet enough. You blinked awake in your bed, the faint glow from the lamp spilling into the hall. For a moment, you thought maybe you’d dreamed it. But then you heard the sound again, the unmistakable weight of someone moving restlessly.

You padded out into the living room, bare feet whispering on the floor. Bucky sat on the couch, shoulders hunched, elbows braced against his knees. His hands were clasped together so tightly the tendons stood out, and his jaw worked as though he was chewing back words. The blanket you’d given him earlier was pushed aside, rumpled like he’d tried to settle under it and failed. He looked up sharply when he heard you. His eyes softened, but only a little. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you whispered. You took a step closer, watching him carefully. “Nightmare?”

His throat bobbed. He didn’t answer, but the silence was loud enough. Your chest ached. You crossed the small space and lowered yourself beside him. For a long moment, you just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, letting the quiet settle. Then, slowly, you leaned into him, resting your head against his arm. He went very still. You could feel the tension thrumming through him, the way his breath hitched, the careful restraint in the way he didn’t move. “You don’t have to do this alone,” you murmured.

He exhaled, a shudder slipping out despite himself. His arm shifted—hesitant at first—then wrapped around your shoulders, drawing you closer. You let him, curling instinctively against his side, your body fitting against his with surprising ease. The silence stretched. His breathing steadied, slow and deep, but you could still feel the echoes of the storm lingering in him. So you stayed, quiet and warm, letting your presence do what words couldn’t.

At some point, your eyes grew heavy again. The steady rhythm of his chest beneath your cheek, the weight of his arm holding you—it was too much comfort to resist. Sleep pulled at you until you gave in, drifting off curled against him.

When you stirred again, it was to the strange awareness of being shifted. His arms were around you, lifting you easily. Your head lolled against his shoulder, and you blinked blearily up at him. “You should be in bed,” he murmured, voice low and rough, though his eyes softened when he saw you awake.

“M’fine here,” you mumbled, not fully conscious of the words.

His lips curved faintly, but he didn’t set you down. Instead, he lowered himself back onto the couch, letting you settle against him, your cheek pressed to his chest this time. His hand brushed down your arm, steady and grounding. You drifted again, half-asleep, your last hazy thought the realization that he was calmer now—his heartbeat steady, his breathing even—as though holding you was the only anchor he needed.

---

The first thing you noticed when you woke was warmth. Not the blanket—you realized quickly it had slipped down in the night—but the steady heat of a chest under your cheek, the quiet rise and fall of someone breathing. It took only a blink to remember where you were, who you were on top of.

The early light from the window cut across the room, spilling soft gold on his face. His head was tipped back against the couch, lashes low, jaw unshaven and rough. He looked younger like this, stripped of the sharp edges he carried in daylight. Vulnerable.

You shifted slightly, the motion enough to stir him. His arm—still heavy across your waist—tightened instinctively, pulling you back before you could move away. His eyes cracked open, blue and still hazy from sleep, but the moment he realized where you were, they sharpened. “Morning,” you whispered, your voice catching at how close you still were.

His gaze searched yours, careful, guarded. “You’re still here.”

You smiled faintly. “Of course I am.”

He swallowed, his throat working, but he didn’t release you. His fingers brushed lightly along your side, almost tentative, as if waiting for you to flinch. “You don’t… mind this?”

Your heart skipped. You shook your head, whispering, “No.” The silence that followed was thick with things neither of you were saying. You could feel his pulse against your palm where it rested on his chest, steady but a little too quick. He was waiting—waiting for a crack, a sign that you’d regret what happened. Instead, you curled closer, nestling against him. “You slept,” you murmured, half teasing. “Didn’t even wake me this time.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. “That’s ‘cause you were here.”

The words landed heavy, unpolished and raw, and for a moment neither of you breathed.

You didn’t say anything, didn’t break it. You just stayed there, your cheek against his chest, his arm secure around you, until the sounds of the waking city crept through the window and the day forced you to move. But even then, when you finally pushed yourself up, he let his hand linger at your wrist, reluctant to let go.

The morning moved slowly, like it didn’t want to let go of the quiet night before. You padded into the kitchen first, hair mussed, blanket still slung around your shoulders. Bucky followed a moment later, barefoot, his undershirt clinging faintly to his chest. He looked out of place and yet so settled, as if he’d been here a hundred mornings before.

You went for the kettle, but his hand slid past yours, already reaching for it. “Sit,” he said simply. You gave him a look, but he was already filling it with water, movements efficient, deliberate. You sank into a chair at the table, hiding a smile as you watched him. His broad shoulders bent under your too-small cupboards, his frown of concentration as he searched through your cabinets until he found the tea. He set it down with a grunt, muttering under his breath about “organizing this better next time.”

By the time he brought you a mug, he’d also sliced a piece of the bread you’d bought together, setting it on a plate with a seriousness that made you bite back a laugh. “You don’t have to take care of me every second,” you teased, wrapping your hands around the warm mug.

“Yes, I do,” he answered without hesitation, pulling out the chair opposite you.

You blinked, heat rising to your cheeks. “That’s not very normal, you know.”

His gaze sharpened, then softened again, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I don’t want normal. I want you safe. I want…” He trailed off, jaw tight. “…I want mornings like this.”

The honesty in his voice stilled you. Your throat felt tight, but you smiled anyway, shy and warm. “Then I guess I’ll let you keep making tea.”

For a long while, you just sat together in the small kitchen—the hum of the kettle, the creak of the chair under his weight, the soft sound of his breathing across the table. Ordinary, but not. Intimate in ways that left your chest aching. When you finally stood to rinse your mug, he was there instantly, taking it from your hands. “I said sit,” he reminded, his mouth curving faintly.

You rolled your eyes but went back to the table. Watching him wash the single mug at your sink, sleeves rolled, shoulders filling the space, you thought that maybe—just maybe—this was what he meant when he said he wanted mornings like this. And you thought, maybe, you did too.

--

It was one of those nights where the air felt restless, heavy with the promise of rain. The shop had closed hours ago, but Bucky lingered like always, walking at your side while the streets shimmered under the faint orange glow of the lamps. The first drop landed on your cheek just as you rounded the corner to your street. You brushed it away, glancing up at the dark sky. “Looks like we’re about to get drenched.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked upward, then back to you. “We’ll be fine. It’s not far.”

But by the time you reached the halfway mark, the drizzle had turned steady, cool drops soaking through your clothes. You let out a startled laugh, clutching the bag you carried tighter to your chest. “So much for fine.”

He caught the sound—the way you laughed, bright and unbothered—and something softened in his face. “You think this is funny?”

“A little,” you admitted, tilting your head back to the rain. “Feels kind of… freeing.” He watched you for a long moment, his jaw tight, his shoulders tense. The city blurred around you, people darting for cover, but he stayed rooted, unmoving, his eyes fixed only on you. “Bucky?” you asked, blinking the rain from your lashes.

He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, until his hand lifted—hesitant, almost reverent—and cupped your cheek. The rain beaded across his glove, slid down his wrist, but his palm was warm, steady. You froze, heart hammering. “I shouldn’t…” His voice was low, strained, like he was fighting himself. “But I can’t keep pretending I don’t want this.”

Before you could answer, his mouth was on yours. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t demanding. It was slow, careful, almost cautious, as though he was giving you every chance to pull away. His lips were warm against yours, tasting faintly of rain and something darker, something entirely him.

For a moment, you were too stunned to move. Then you melted into him, your hand curling lightly into his shirt, your body leaning closer without thought. His thumb brushed along your jaw, grounding, steady, while his other arm slipped around your waist, drawing you nearer.

The world narrowed to the rhythm of the rain and the steady thrum of your pulse, the rest of the city fading away. When he finally drew back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath ragged, eyes burning through the thin veil of water between you. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me, doll,” he murmured, voice rough and reverent all at once.

Your lips curved, trembling but sure. “Maybe I do.” He huffed a quiet, disbelieving laugh, brushing another kiss—softer, fleeting—against your lips before tucking you firmly against his chest. The rain poured harder, but you barely noticed. Not with his arms around you, not with the weight of that kiss still lingering between you.

The walk back to your apartment was quieter than usual, but it wasn’t the silence of strangers or awkwardness. It was charged, heavy with something unspoken—like every step still echoed with the kiss you’d just shared.

Bucky kept you tucked firmly against his side, his arm secure around your waist as though the rain or the night itself might try to take you from him. His head bent closer than usual, his hair damp and curling at the edges, his jaw tight with something you couldn’t quite read.

You caught him looking at you more than once. Not in the way he always did—observant, calculating—but softer. Like he couldn’t believe you were real, that you’d kissed him back, that you hadn’t pulled away.

By the time you reached your door, the rain had soaked through your clothes, dripping onto the floor as you fumbled with the lock. His hand covered yours, steadying, guiding the key into place. When the door clicked open, you stepped inside, turning back to him.

For the first time since you’d met him, he hesitated on the threshold. His shoulders were squared, his expression composed, but his eyes betrayed him—something raw flickering there. “You should get dry,” he said at last, his voice low, almost hoarse.

“So should you,” you countered softly. “Come in.” For a beat, he didn’t move. Then he stepped inside, the door shutting behind him with a soft finality.

Inside, the apartment felt smaller than ever, the air thick with rain and warmth and the weight of what had just happened. You peeled off your damp sweater, tossing it over the back of a chair, and glanced up to find him watching you, his own jacket hanging heavy in his hand. Neither of you spoke for a long moment. Finally, you whispered, “Bucky…”

He crossed the space in two strides, his hand lifting again to your cheek. You froze, heart hammering, as his thumb brushed a drop of rain from your skin. “I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he murmured, though his voice betrayed no regret.

You tilted your face toward his palm. “But you did.”

His lips curved faintly, a hint of something dangerous and tender all at once. “And I’ll do it again if you let me.”

You didn’t answer with words. You rose on your toes, closing the small space between you, your lips meeting his once more. This kiss was different—hungrier, deeper, the careful restraint from before crumbling under the weight of what you both had been holding back. His arm wrapped tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him, while his other hand cradled the back of your head like you were something breakable.

When you finally broke apart, both of you breathless, he rested his forehead against yours, murmuring your name like it was a vow. And in that moment, with the rain still dripping outside and his heartbeat thrumming against your chest, you knew something had shifted for good.

The rain had stopped by morning, leaving the city washed clean, the air sharp and cool when you cracked the window above your sink. Your apartment, though, was warm—warmer still with the weight of what had happened the night before. You padded into the kitchen, hair mussed from sleep, still in the oversized shirt you wore to bed. The smell of coffee hit you before you even saw him. Bucky was already there.

He stood at your counter like he owned the space, sleeves rolled, steam curling from the pot he’d set on. His jacket hung neatly on the back of the chair, his damp clothes from the night before draped over the radiator to dry. He glanced up when you entered, and for the first time in all the mornings he’d lingered here, his gaze softened in a way that made your breath catch. “Morning, doll,” he murmured.

You sank into a chair, watching him pour a cup. “You’re getting comfortable.”

He set the mug in front of you, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Maybe I am.”

You wrapped your hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into your fingers. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was weighted, thick with everything that had changed between you. Every glance lingered a beat too long, every brush of his hand near yours deliberate. When you finished your coffee, you stood to rinse the mug, but his hand caught your wrist lightly. “I’ll do it.”

“You don’t have to,” you said, smiling.

“I want to,” he countered, voice steady, his thumb brushing once across your skin before he released you.

Later, you opened the shop as usual, but the rhythm of the day felt different with him around. He stayed longer than he usually did, claiming a spot in the back to “keep out of the way” but emerging whenever he thought you needed him—hauling a box, adjusting a display, even holding the ladder steady when you climbed up to reach a high shelf. “You know I’ve done this before,” you teased, glancing down at him.

“Not on my watch,” he muttered, knuckles white on the ladder. By the afternoon, he’d drifted closer, sitting on the counter while you arranged a bouquet for a customer. His eyes tracked every motion of your hands, and when you tied the final ribbon, he murmured, “blue suits you better than those roses.”

You blinked up at him, flustered. “That wasn’t for me.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice low. “You’d make it look better.” Your cheeks warmed, and you quickly turned back to the flowers.

That evening, after you locked the door, he walked you home again. The air was still damp, the sky clear now, but his hand stayed at your back the entire way. At your door, instead of pulling back like usual, he lingered. “Let me in,” he said softly. Not a command this time, not quite. You hesitated only a moment before opening the door. Inside, you both shed your coats and shoes, the small apartment wrapping around you in its familiar warmth. He stood close, too close, his gaze locked on yours with an intensity that made your heart stutter.

For the first time, you didn’t look away. And though he didn’t kiss you again right then, you both knew it wasn’t because he didn’t want to. It was because the night before had changed everything—and you were both still learning how to live in that new space.

---

The first time he left, it felt strange. Bucky had woven himself into your days without question—closing the shop with you, carrying groceries, claiming the corner of your couch like it was his by right. He didn’t linger on the edges of your world anymore; he stepped directly into it.

But then one morning, he kissed your forehead at the door and said quietly, “I’ve got business I can’t put off any longer.” His eyes lingered on you like he hated the words coming out of his mouth. “I’ll be gone a while.”

You didn’t ask how long. You’d learned by now that some answers weren’t yours to demand. You only nodded, letting him go. When Bucky walked back into his penthouse, the silence struck him like a fist. It was too still, too immaculate, the air faintly cold from being shut up for days. Natasha was already there, perched on the arm of a chair like she’d been waiting. “Thought you’d moved out,” she said dryly, arching a brow.

He shrugged off his coat, dropping it onto the back of the sofa. “Didn’t realize you were keeping tabs.”

She tilted her head, eyes flicking toward the fresh bouquets lined along the window ledge. Some were old—petals curling, stems leaning—but the colors still painted the room in soft life. Your flowers. “Hard not to notice,” she said. “Your fortress looks like a greenhouse.”

Bucky’s gaze lingered on the fading blooms, something tight twisting in his chest. He’d meant to bring them home, to replace them, to keep them fresh—but the shop, the walks, your laugh, your soft hands pressing tea into his grip… it had been easier to stay in your world than return to this empty one. Natasha’s voice pulled him back. “The meeting last week—you missed it. Again.”

He grunted. “Send them my apologies.”

“You don’t have apologies big enough for the people you’re brushing off.” She stood, crossing her arms. “You’re slipping, Barnes.” He shot her a look, sharp enough to silence most. But Natasha only raised a brow, unshaken. “What happened to you?” she asked, quieter now. “You used to live for this. Now I have to drag you back here by the collar.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He poured himself a drink instead, his eyes drifting once more to the flowers. One in particular caught his attention—a small blue bloom tucked into a vase. You’d given it to him, shy and smiling, saying you’d picked it because it matched his eyes. His jaw tightened, fingers curling around the glass. “I’m not slipping.”

“Then what do you call it?” Natasha pressed.

He looked at her then, his expression sharp, dangerous—but his voice was low, certain. “I call it finally having something worth more than this.”

Natasha studied him for a long beat, then huffed a quiet laugh. “God help her if she doesn’t know what she’s getting into.” Bucky said nothing. His eyes lingered on the blue flowers, softer now, before he turned back to the empty penthouse.

Bucky didn’t last the night. He’d tried—sitting in the penthouse office, staring at the stack of reports Natasha had dropped on his desk, the kind of paperwork he used to burn through without blinking. But the silence pressed in, suffocating. The city sprawled below him, restless and alive, but all he could think about was the warmth of your little apartment. The way your voice softened when you teased him, the way your hand lingered on his wrist when you passed him tea, the way you’d kissed him in the rain.

He set the pen down, unfinished page abandoned, and leaned back in his chair. His eyes found the vase on the windowsill again—the flowers you’d given him. The petals were curling now, the blue fading, but the sight of them punched straight through the cold shell he wore in this place. “Fuck this,” he muttered. Ten minutes later, he was gone.

It was well past midnight when the knock came at your door. You blinked awake, heart thudding, but you knew who it was before you even checked. The weight of his presence pressed through the wood like it always did.

You opened the door to find him there—damp from the mist outside, hair mussed, eyes burning with something fierce and restless. He didn’t say a word at first, just looked at you, drinking in the sight of you like he’d been starved. “Bucky?” you whispered, confused but soft. “It’s late.”

“I couldn’t stay away,” he admitted, voice rough. The honesty in it knocked the air right out of you.

You stepped aside without thinking, and he slipped in, shutting the door quietly behind him. He stood in your living room like he was both too big for the space and yet exactly where he belonged. His jacket hung heavy on his shoulders, but his gaze was only on you. “I thought you said you had business,” you murmured.

“I did.” He exhaled, a sharp sound, shaking his head. “But none of it mattered. Not when all I could think about was you.”

Your breath caught, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to hide the warmth creeping up your chest. “You came all this way in the middle of the night… just to see me?”

His jaw tightened, but when he spoke, his voice was steady. “I came because I needed to know you were here. Safe. Real.” The vulnerability under his words left you starstruck. For once, the weight he carried wasn’t hidden behind commands or possessive glares—it was just him, raw and unguarded, standing in your apartment like the man he didn’t show the world. And when you stepped closer, reaching out to brush the damp from his sleeve, his hand caught yours, holding it against his chest like an anchor. “I don’t care how late it is,” he said, voice low. “If you’ll have me, I’ll come back every night.”

The clock on your wall ticked quietly, the only sound filling the space between you. Bucky still hadn’t let go of your hand, his thumb brushing absently against your skin as though he couldn’t stand to stop touching you. His presence was steady, grounding—but you could see the faint lines of exhaustion etched into his face, the way his shoulders slumped despite his stubbornness. You rubbed at your eyes, fighting the pull of sleep. “Bucky,” you whispered, your voice small, rough with drowsiness.

He tilted his head, gaze softening instantly. “Yeah, doll?”

“Carry me back to bed?” The words slipped out before you could second-guess them, half a murmur, half a plea.

For a heartbeat, his expression flickered—surprise, something darker, something warmer. Then his mouth curved, slow and deliberate, into the kind of smile that always made your heart stutter. “You got it.” Before you could say anything more, his arms were around you. He scooped you up easily, strong and certain, bridal style once again. You gave a sleepy little sound of protest, more out of instinct than anything else, your arms looping around his neck as you curled against him. “You like makin’ me do this, don’t you?” he murmured, voice low, almost teasing as he carried you through the dim apartment.

“Maybe,” you whispered, smiling faintly against his shoulder.

The bedroom door creaked open, and he nudged it wider with his foot. The room was still warm from earlier, the blankets rumpled. He lowered you onto the mattress with infinite care, like you were something fragile that might break if he wasn’t gentle enough.

But when you caught his wrist before he could pull back, your voice soft but certain, his entire body stilled. “Stay with me?”

His eyes flicked to yours—blue, burning, conflicted—and then he nodded once. “Always.”

He toed off his boots, shed his jacket, and slid onto the bed beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight, the space between you vanishing when his arm slipped around your waist, pulling you back against his chest.

You sighed, nestling into him, your hand curling around his forearm where it lay heavy across you. His breath was warm against your hair, steady and sure, but you could still feel the tension in him, the way he held you like he was afraid you might disappear. Sleep tugged at you again, and just before you slipped under, you whispered, “feels right… when you’re here.”

He pressed his lips to the back of your head, a kiss so soft you almost missed it. “Good,” he whispered. “’Cause I’m not going anywhere.” And for the first time in a long time—for both of you—you fell asleep without a trace of fear.

The morning crept in soft and unhurried, sunlight spilling across your bedroom in pale strips. You stirred slowly, awareness tugging at you in waves—the warmth pressed against your back, the steady weight of an arm looped around your waist, the faint tickle of breath brushing against your hair. For a moment, you simply lay there, cocooned in the quiet. Bucky’s chest rose and fell against you, solid and reassuring, his arm heavy but comforting, like he couldn’t bear to let you go even in sleep.

When you shifted slightly, he made a low sound in his throat, not quite awake but not fully asleep either. His arm tightened, pulling you closer, his face burying against the curve of your neck. The bristle of his jaw grazed your skin, and you bit back a laugh. “Bucky,” you whispered, your voice still husky from sleep.

“Mm,” he rumbled, voice low, heavy with drowsiness. “Stay still. Too early.” You smiled into the pillow, letting yourself melt into him. But when you wriggled again—just to tease—he huffed, pressing a kiss against your shoulder, lazy and soft. “Thought I told you to stay put,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin again, this time slower.

Your breath caught, warmth spreading through you. “You’re not usually this… affectionate in the morning,” you teased, your voice barely above a whisper.

He gave a faint laugh, the sound vibrating against your back. “Don’t usually get mornings like this.” Another kiss followed, lower along your shoulder. Then another, featherlight at the back of your neck.

You giggled quietly, tucking your chin as if you could hide from the press of his lips. “That tickles.”

“Good,” he murmured, nipping lightly at your skin just enough to make you squeak. His arm tightened again when you shifted, holding you flush against him. “You’re not getting away.”

Your cheeks warmed, but you let out a breathy laugh, turning your head slightly to glance back at him. His eyes were half-lidded, blue softened by sleep but burning with something tender. The sight made your stomach flip. “You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, smiling despite yourself.

“Maybe,” he said easily, brushing his nose against your hair. “But you’re mine.”

The words should’ve sounded possessive, but in his voice—low, almost reverent—they were softer, gentler, like a confession instead of a claim. You didn’t argue. Not when his lips found yours a moment later, lazy and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to kiss you. And for once, maybe he did.

The lazy morning stretched long, unhurried, as though the world outside had decided to pause just for you. Bucky didn’t let you go right away. Every time you shifted like you might get up, his arm cinched tighter, his lips brushing your temple in silent protest. Eventually, though, your stomach growled loud enough to make you both laugh. “Fine,” he muttered, finally loosening his hold. “But only because you’re hungry.”

You padded into the kitchen barefoot, tugging him along behind you by the hand, which he allowed with surprising docility for a man who barked orders at everyone else. He leaned against the counter while you rummaged through the cupboards, watching with that intent gaze that always made you feel both flustered and oddly cherished. “Eggs, toast… maybe fruit?” you mumbled.

“I’ll do it,” he said, already reaching for the pan.

You tried to argue, but he shot you a look over his shoulder—the kind that dared you to push back. You rolled your eyes but smiled, sinking into a chair as he worked. He wasn’t polished, but he was efficient, moving with the kind of quiet precision that said he’d cooked for himself far too many times in silence.

When he set a plate in front of you—scrambled eggs, toast buttered just the way you liked—you blinked, warmth spreading in your chest. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he cut in, his voice soft but firm.

The meal wasn’t fancy, but you couldn’t stop smiling as you ate together at your tiny table. He asked about your week, listened with rapt attention as you rambled about flowers and customers, and even smirked when you teased him about hogging the pepper.

The rest of the day unfurled lazily. You cleaned the shop’s ledger at the table while he stretched out on the couch, half-reading, half-watching you. At some point, he disappeared into the kitchen and came back with tea, setting the mug by your elbow without a word. Later, you both ended up tackling laundry, and you laughed when he insisted on folding with military precision. “You’re ridiculous,” you teased, holding up a perfectly squared shirt.

“Efficient,” he corrected, lips twitching.

By mid-afternoon, sunlight spilled through the windows, and you both ended up back on the couch. You leaned into him, your head resting against his chest while his arm draped lazily around your shoulders. He pressed the occasional kiss to your hair, to your temple, slow and lazy, as though he couldn’t help himself. One kiss landed just behind your ear, ticklish enough that you giggled, turning to nudge at him. “Bucky…”

He smirked faintly, kissing you again, this time softer, lips lingering against your skin. “What?”

“You’re… distracting.”

“Good,” he murmured, nuzzling lightly against your hair before kissing you again, this time catching your lips in a slow, lazy press that left your cheeks warm.

You tried to hide your smile against his chest, but he felt it anyway, his thumb brushing lazy circles over your arm. The day melted into evening like that—quiet, ordinary, yet threaded with something so tender it made your chest ache.

Evening settled gently, the last of the sunlight fading from your windows, and for a while it felt like the day might slip into night without disturbance. You and Bucky lingered on the couch, your head nestled on his shoulder, his arm looped comfortably around you. His thumb traced lazy arcs against your arm while your favorite show played faintly in the background.

It was quiet. Too quiet, maybe, because the knock at your door startled both of you. Bucky’s arm tightened around you instantly, his body going taut beneath your cheek. The easy warmth that had colored the whole day dropped from his face, replaced by sharp alertness. “Stay here,” he murmured, voice low, already rising to his feet.

You frowned, but before you could protest, he’d crossed the room. He opened the door a crack, blocking the entrance with his body. Natasha’s voice slipped in, calm but cutting. “You’ve been hard to reach.”

Your brows shot up, but you stayed where you were, listening. Bucky didn’t move aside, didn’t open the door further. “Not an accident.”

“You’re expected tonight,” she said, and though her tone was casual, there was no mistaking the weight behind it. “You’ve dodged the last two. That’s not an option anymore.”

“I said I’d handle it,” Bucky bit out, jaw clenched.

From your angle on the couch, you could see Natasha tilt her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You can’t handle it from here.”

The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable. For the first time, you realized just how little you knew about what “business” meant in his world. Bucky’s body blocked you from the door, but the tension in his shoulders told you enough. “I’ll come,” he said finally, voice clipped. “Tomorrow night.”

Natasha arched a brow, then glanced past him toward you. Just for a second, her eyes softened with something unreadable before she nodded once. “Tomorrow,” she confirmed, and then she was gone.

Bucky shut the door with a quiet finality, leaning against it for a moment before turning back to you. His expression had softened again, but not all the way. There was still a shadow there, still a reminder of the part of him you didn’t see when he was folding laundry or kissing your shoulder in the morning. You sat up a little, hesitant. “Was that… work?”

He crossed the room, his jaw tight, and sank back onto the couch beside you. His hand found yours almost instinctively, like he needed the contact to ground himself. “Yeah,” he said at last. “Work.”

You studied him, unsure whether to push, but the look in his eyes stopped you. Not because it was cold—but because it wasn’t. It was protective, desperate, like he’d do anything to keep you from the parts of his life that led Natasha to your door.

So instead of asking, you curled against him again, letting your fingers twine with his. “Tomorrow,” you murmured softly, repeating his promise. His arm wrapped around you tightly, his lips brushing your temple. “Tomorrow,” he echoed. But the way he held you, fierce and unwilling to let go, told you that if it were up to him, he’d never leave your apartment again.

The night he finally went, the shift in him was immediate. You’d gotten used to a certain softness around him—the lazy mornings, his arm around your waist as you drifted through the farmer’s market, the way his mouth curved when you teased him. But when he stepped out of your apartment that evening, dressed sharp and dark, there was nothing soft about him. His jaw was set, his eyes hard, his whole body coiled tight like a man walking into battle.

You tried not to worry. He’d promised he would be back. Still, when you finally drifted to sleep on the couch, the clock ticking toward midnight, the sound of a knock at your door jolted you awake. You knew it was him before you even opened it.

Bucky stood in the hall, shoulders broad, coat collar turned up against the chill. His hair was damp with mist, but it wasn’t the weather that made your heart lurch—it was his hands. His knuckles were split raw, streaked with blood, some dried, some fresh. His face was drawn, exhaustion and something darker carved deep into his features. “Bucky,” you whispered, reaching for him before you could stop yourself.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, brushing past you into the warmth of the apartment. But the words rang hollow.

You shut the door quickly and followed him into the living room. He dropped heavily onto the couch, elbows braced against his knees, head bowed. For a moment, he just breathed, the weight of the night settling on him like armor he couldn’t shed. You crouched in front of him, your hand hovering near his without quite touching. “You’re not fine. You’re bleeding.”

His eyes lifted, blue and tired, searching yours. Something in them softened, cracked, and for a moment he looked less like the untouchable man everyone feared and more like the one who’d spent the morning teasing you with kisses. “Doesn’t matter,” he said quietly. “I’m here.”

“It matters to me.”

He closed his eyes, jaw tight, but he didn’t pull away when you reached for his hands. Carefully, gently, you guided them into your lap, your thumbs brushing over the torn skin. You fetched the first aid kit you’d kept tucked away since the first time you’d seen him like this. As you worked, dabbing at the blood, his gaze never left you. His eyes followed every movement of your hands, every soft touch, every careful breath. “You shouldn’t have to do this,” he murmured after a long silence.

You looked up at him, meeting his gaze steadily. “Maybe not. But I want to.”

His breath hitched, something raw flickering across his face. He leaned forward then, his forehead resting against yours, the distance between you vanishing. “Sweetheart…” His voice broke low, rough. “I don’t deserve this. Don’t deserve you.”

Your fingers tightened around his, careful not to hurt him but unwilling to let go. “That’s not your choice to make, Bucky.”

For a long moment, you stayed like that—forehead to forehead, his battered hands in yours, the room hushed around you. And though he never said what had happened out there, the way he clung to you told you enough.

Bucky was quieter than usual after you finished bandaging his knuckles. His eyes tracked every movement you made, like he was memorizing them, but he didn’t speak. Not when you cleaned up the kit, not when you coaxed him toward your bedroom. When you tugged gently at his hand, he followed without resistance. His shoulders looked heavier than they had all week, but the set of his jaw eased the moment you reached the bedroom door.

You crawled into bed first, expecting him to take his usual place at your side, but when you looked back, he was still standing there. His eyes softened, shadows clinging to the edges of his expression. “C’mere,” he said quietly.

You frowned. “I’m already here.”

He shook his head once, low and deliberate. He sat on the mattress, leaning against the headboard, legs stretched out. His hand patted his chest. “Here. Want you here.” Your breath caught, heat rushing to your cheeks. The request was tender, almost vulnerable, but it was also so very him—not asking, but needing, like the idea of you saying no had never crossed his mind. Still, you didn’t hesitate. You climbed up, settling carefully between his legs, your back against his chest at first. But when his arms wrapped firmly around you, pulling you closer, you shifted, turning just enough to lay half across him, your cheek pressed to the solid warmth of his chest. His heartbeat thudded steady beneath your ear, faster than it should’ve been for a man trying to rest. His chin dipped, lips brushing your hair as he murmured, “That’s it. Stay right there.”

You shifted shyly, your fingers curling lightly into his shirt. “You’re comfortable like this?”

His arms tightened, pressing you flush against him. “More than comfortable.”

For a long while, neither of you spoke. You just breathed together, your body melting into his, his warmth sinking into you until you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began. The tension in his frame slowly unwound, his muscles relaxing bit by bit as though your weight anchored him back to the earth.

When you tilted your head slightly, you found his eyes already on you, blue and intent even in the dim light. Without a word, he dipped down, his lips brushing yours in the gentlest, laziest kiss you’d ever felt—more a question than a demand, more a sigh than a claim. You smiled against his mouth, shy and soft, and he kissed you again, this one lingering, his thumb tracing idle circles at your waist. You giggled when his stubble scratched your cheek, and his lips curved faintly against yours.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, low and rough, “don’t giggle when I’m trying to kiss you.”

You flushed, hiding your face against his chest, and he chuckled quietly, his mouth pressing into your hair instead. It wasn’t long before your breaths synced again, the weight of the day pulling you toward sleep. But this time, when his body stilled beneath you and his chest rose and fell in the deep rhythm of rest, you knew he was holding you not out of fear, but because—for once—he could.

---

The fight started small—like most things between you and Bucky did. It was late afternoon, and you’d decided to run down the block to grab milk before closing the shop. Harmless, ordinary. When you returned, juggling the bag in one hand, Bucky was already waiting at the door, his expression sharp, his shoulders rigid. “Don’t do that again.”

You blinked, startled by the clipped tone. “Do what?”

“Leave without telling me.” His voice was low, edged, the kind that made most people freeze.

You frowned, setting the bag down on the counter. “Bucky, I was gone ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes is long enough for something to happen,” he shot back, stepping closer. “You can’t just walk out without me knowing where you are.”

Your chest tightened—not with fear, but with frustration. You’d had this conversation with him before. The way he framed things like orders, the way he seemed to assume he had the right to tell you what you could and couldn’t do. You drew in a breath, steadying yourself. “You didn’t ask me, Bucky. You told me.”

His brow furrowed, confusion flashing across his face. “So? I don’t want you at risk. I’m not gonna apologize for that.”

“That’s not the point.” You stepped closer too, your voice rising just slightly. “I’ve told you before—I need you to ask me. Not command me like—like I don’t have a choice.” For the first time, he faltered. His mouth opened, then shut again, his jaw tightening. You could see the flicker of surprise in his eyes, like he hadn’t expected you to push back this hard. Your heart hammered, but you pressed on, quieter now, more vulnerable. “If you want me to tell you where I’m going… then ask me. I’ll tell you. Gladly. But don’t bark orders at me, Bucky. That’s not how this works.”

The silence stretched, thick with tension. His hands flexed at his sides, metal fingers clenching once before he exhaled slowly. “No one talks to me like that,” he admitted finally, his voice rough. “No one pushes back.”

You softened, your frustration edged with something gentler. “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you need someone who will.”

His eyes locked on yours, something raw flickering there—anger, yes, but also respect. And maybe, just maybe, a trace of relief. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, careful. “…Will you at least tell me next time?”

You bit back a smile, though your cheeks warmed. “See? Was that so hard?”

His lips twitched, not quite a smile, but close. And though the tension didn’t vanish completely, you knew you’d broken through something important—that he’d actually heard you. And Bucky, for all his control, didn’t know what to do with that.

The shop was already locked for the night, the ledger closed, and the soft glow of your single lamp lit the room. You’d expected Bucky to be restless after your argument—brooding, maybe even distant—but instead he lingered in the doorway, watching you curl up on the couch with a book.

When you looked up, you caught that same flicker from earlier—the one that said he’d actually listened. He crossed the room slowly, sitting on the edge of the couch. For a moment he just sat there, silent, his hands flexing once on his knees. Then, in a voice quieter than you were used to hearing from him, he asked, “can I hold you?”

Your breath caught. The simple question, asked instead of commanded, made your chest warm. You set your book aside and smiled softly. “Yes.” Relief flickered in his eyes. He shifted back, opening his arms. You climbed into his lap carefully, your knees bracketing his thighs, your arms looping around his shoulders. He drew you in immediately, strong arms banding around your waist, pulling you flush against him like he’d been starving for this.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just curled into him, your cheek pressed against the solid warmth of his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. His breath stirred your hair, slow and deep, as though the tension had finally bled from him.

His hand slid up and down your back, not possessive now, but gentle, grounding. When he tilted his head down to press a kiss to your temple, you giggled quietly, shyer than you meant to be. “What?” he murmured, lips brushing against your skin.

“Nothing,” you whispered, though your cheeks warmed. “Just… it tickles.”

His lips curved against your hair. “Good.” He kissed you again, lower this time, at your cheekbone. “You’re sweet when you giggle.”

You hid your face against his shoulder, and his low laugh rumbled through his chest. “Don’t hide from me, doll,” he said softly, shifting to tip your chin up with his finger. His eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them. “I like seeing you happy.”

The moment stretched, warm and quiet, until your lashes fluttered and you leaned forward, brushing a quick kiss against his jaw. His arms tightened, his breath catching, but instead of claiming more, he held you steady, letting you settle against him again. And there, curled in his lap, you realized that maybe—just maybe—he’d heard you after all.

---

It was a quiet afternoon in the shop, the kind where the sun streamed lazily through the front windows and you could hear the faint hum of the city outside. You were trimming stems at the counter when Bucky walked in, his presence filling the room the way it always did—solid, steady, magnetic.

But instead of his usual lean against the counter or wordless offering of help, he paused. His hands slid into his pockets, his eyes scanning the flowers before finally settling on you. There was something different in his gaze—not sharp or commanding, but hesitant. “Doll,” he said quietly, and when you looked up, you noticed the faint tension in his jaw. “Can I ask you something?”

You smiled faintly, setting down the shears. “Of course.”

He shifted, almost like he wasn’t sure how to phrase it. “There’s a gallery opening. Tomorrow night. I was thinking…” He trailed off, then forced the words out, softer now. “Would you come with me?”

The question caught you off guard—not because of the invitation itself, but because of the way he asked. Not a command, not an expectation. A question. You tilted your head, curious. “A gallery?”

“Yeah,” he said, lips twitching faintly. “Art. Paintings. You like that kind of thing, don’t you?”

Your chest warmed. “You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered.” His voice was low, steady, but his eyes flickered away for a moment, almost shy. “It’s… not really my scene. But I figured maybe you’d like it. And I’d like to take you.”

Your heart skipped. For all his power, his control, this moment felt different. Vulnerable. Human. You stepped closer, brushing your fingers lightly against his sleeve. “I’d love to.”

Relief flashed across his face, subtle but undeniable. His hand covered yours, warm and solid, and he exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath. “Good,” he murmured. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow. We’ll make a night of it.”

The promise in his voice lingered long after, and for the first time, you realized this wasn’t just about keeping you safe or close. This was him trying—awkwardly, earnestly—to give you something that felt like a real date. Something normal. Something yours.

---

The night of the gallery opening, the city felt different—brighter, sharper, like it was holding its breath. Bucky picked you up just as he promised. You’d taken care with your appearance—clean lines, a favorite dress, a touch of perfume—but as soon as you stepped out of the car and saw the crowd, you realized it wasn’t the same kind of “dressed up.”

Everyone else glided past in tailored suits, glittering jewelry, gowns that looked like they’d cost more than your entire rent. The women’s heels clicked against the marble entrance, men’s watches caught the light, champagne flutes sparkled in elegant hands. They looked polished, untouchable. A different world entirely. And you? You felt… small. Pretty, yes, but simple.

You faltered just a little at the entrance, but Bucky noticed immediately. His hand slid firmly into yours, anchoring you. “You’re perfect,” he said, low enough that only you could hear. His eyes caught yours, steady and unflinching. “Don’t even think about it, doll. They’ve got nothing on you.”

Heat crept up your neck, but you nodded, letting him lead you inside. The gallery itself was stunning—high ceilings, gilded light fixtures, and walls lined with canvases that demanded silence. The crowd murmured in low, cultured tones, laughter muffled behind polite smiles. It felt like stepping into another universe.

You noticed quickly how people looked at him. Heads dipped in acknowledgment, eyes flicking toward him as he passed. A few men approached with polite greetings, their voices threaded with deference. Women gave him longer looks, curious, measuring.

You didn’t know their names, but you could feel it: he belonged here. Even if he stood a little apart from the crowd, he carried himself with an authority that made people move out of his way without realizing they had.

And then there was you, clinging to his hand. For a moment, you worried you looked out of place—until you caught him watching you. His gaze softened, his thumb brushing across your knuckles. The look in his eyes made you forget the polished crowd, the crystal chandeliers, the undercurrent of wealth and power humming through the room.

“This one,” you whispered after a while, pausing before a painting of blue-gray waves crashing against dark rocks. The colors pulled you in, fierce and haunting, yet strangely calm. “I like it.”

Bucky leaned close, his hand still around yours, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “Because it looks like my eyes?”

You flushed instantly, glancing up at him in surprise. The smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth told you he’d said it on purpose. “Maybe,” you admitted shyly, but your smile gave you away.

He chuckled softly, his arm sliding around your waist. And just like that, the crowded room, the expensive clothes, the stares—they all faded. Because no matter what world he belonged to, in that moment, he was looking at you.

The gallery opening stretched on, the crowd shifting like a tide of silk and crystal. Every so often, someone approached Bucky—men in sharp suits, women draped in jewels, people who clearly knew who he was. Their greetings were subtle, respectful, often accompanied by a dip of the head or the briefest handshake. You noticed how quickly their eyes slid to you afterward, measuring, curious, but no one dared to say much beyond polite murmurs.

Bucky’s arm stayed around your waist through it all, his touch steady, grounding. He answered their greetings in clipped tones, a man who knew he didn’t need to waste words. The difference between how they treated him and how you knew him in the quiet of your apartment made your head spin.

At one point, a server passed with a tray of champagne. You hesitated, unsure if you should take one, but Bucky plucked a glass easily and offered it to you, his lips twitching faintly at your shyness. “Go on, doll. You’re allowed.” You took it, fingers brushing his, and felt oddly proud when you managed a small sip without feeling out of place. He leaned down, his voice low and meant only for you. “You doing okay?”

Your heart fluttered—not just at the words, but at the way he asked them. Quiet, careful, not assuming. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m okay.”

For a while, you walked together through the halls, pausing before a few pieces of art. He didn’t say much about them, but you could feel his eyes on you as you spoke, listening as though your thoughts mattered more than the art itself.

And then, almost before you knew it, he was steering you away from the noise, out onto a balcony strung with soft lights. The city sprawled below, glittering, alive. Out here, the hum of conversation dimmed, replaced by the quiet night air. You set your half-empty glass on the railing, exhaling slowly. “They all know you,” you said softly, more observation than question.

Bucky glanced at you, his expression unreadable. “They know of me.”

The correction made your stomach flip. You turned toward him, searching his face. “And what should I know?”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. His hand reached for yours instead, fingers lacing with deliberate slowness. “Just that I wanted you here with me. That’s all that matters tonight.”

The way he said it—firm, certain, yet soft enough to make your chest ache—kept you from pressing further. You squeezed his hand, letting the quiet stretch between you, filled only by the glow of the city lights. When you finally left the gallery, his hand never let go of yours.

The car ride home was silent but not heavy. His hand rested over yours the entire drive, his thumb brushing absentminded circles against your skin, and every so often his eyes flicked to you, as if reassuring himself you were still there.

It wasn’t until he walked you upstairs, the city hushed around you, that he finally broke the silence. “You looked beautiful tonight,” he said simply, voice low, the words meant only for you.

Heat flooded your cheeks, but you smiled shyly, your fingers tightening around his. “Thank you for bringing me.” His lips curved faintly, and for once, the powerful, untouchable man from the gallery was gone. It was just Bucky—your Bucky—looking at you like you’d given him more than he’d ever thought to ask for.

---

Bucky’s office was dim, the blinds drawn against the daylight. Papers were stacked neatly on his desk, though a closer look would’ve shown smudges of ink on his knuckles where he’d signed contracts and notes. He’d spent the whole morning hunched over the desk, phone pressed to his ear, voice sharp and clipped as he handled one matter after another. The work never stopped; it simply waited for him to return.

Natasha leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, her gaze steady on him as he hung up the latest call. She’d been patient—quiet even—but her silence was its own kind of weight. When he finally looked up, she pushed off the wall. “You’ve been slipping,” she said, matter-of-fact.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’ve been managing.”

“Managing?” Her brow arched, cool and unimpressed. “You’ve been avoiding meetings. You skipped the last sit-down with the heads. You didn’t show up to the import check. That’s not managing, Bucky. That’s negligence.”

He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under the shift of his weight. “Everything that needed to be handled was handled.”

“Not by you.” Natasha’s tone sharpened. “And people notice. You can’t disappear into that flower shop every other day and expect them not to talk.” At the mention, his eyes flickered, a spark of something softer breaking through. Natasha caught it instantly. “There it is,” she said, quieter now. “You’ve been different. Lighter. Hell, even I noticed. But you can’t keep living in both worlds without one swallowing the other.”

Bucky’s hand curled into a fist against the desk. “She doesn’t know.”

“And she shouldn’t,” Natasha countered. “Not unless you’re ready to bring her in. Because if she stays in the dark, she’s a liability. Not because she’s weak—because she’s unprepared. And unprepared means vulnerable.”

He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. The thought of dragging you into his world, of letting you see the blood and steel behind the quiet moments you shared—it twisted something in his chest. He wanted to keep you untouched. Untouched and his.

Natasha’s voice softened, though it never lost its edge. “You’re at a crossroads, Bucky. Either you pull back, or you let her see who you really are. But you can’t keep her in the middle. That’s where it gets dangerous.”

His eyes narrowed, jaw working, but he didn’t argue. For once, he didn’t have an answer. Because she was right. The silence stretched, heavy as the air between them. Then finally, his voice came out rough, low. “I can’t let her go.”

Natasha tilted her head, unreadable. “Then you’d better figure out how to keep her safe. Before someone else decides she’s the best way to get to you.” The words hung in the room like smoke, impossible to ignore. And for the first time in years, Bucky Barnes felt something he didn’t allow himself often: fear. Not for himself, but for you.

That night, you noticed something was different the moment Bucky walked through your apartment door. Usually, when he came to you after a day of work, there was a rhythm—sometimes tired, sometimes sharp-edged, but always softened the moment he saw you. Tonight, though, he lingered in the doorway longer than usual. His coat stayed on, his posture stiff, his eyes shadowed in a way that made your chest tighten. “Hey,” you said softly, trying to draw him in. “Long day?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, his voice rough. He shut the door quietly, almost too quietly for a man who usually moved with certainty. His gaze flicked over you—like he was making sure you were really there—before he crossed the room.

When he pulled you into his arms, it wasn’t like before. Not just affection, not even just need—it was desperation. His grip was tight, almost crushing, his face buried in your hair. You froze for a moment, startled, before sliding your arms around him, holding on just as firmly. “Bucky,” you whispered, trying to lean back enough to see his face. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed against your temple, and you could feel his heart hammering through his chest. Finally, in a low rasp, he said, “you don’t understand how dangerous it is.”

Your breath caught. You’d always known, in some quiet corner of yourself, that there was more to him than the man who carried your groceries and folded your laundry with military precision. But hearing it now, in that tone—it was different. “Dangerous… for me?” you asked carefully.

“For you,” he confirmed, his hands tightening on your waist as though to prove his point. “Being with me… it paints a target on you. And if anyone ever—” His words cut off, sharp, like the thought itself was unbearable.

You stayed quiet for a moment, letting his words sink in. Then, softly, you said, “and if you left? If you pulled away?”

He finally lifted his head then, his eyes finding yours. They were raw, unguarded, and the sight of them nearly broke you. “I can’t,” he admitted hoarsely. “I’ve tried to think about it. Tried to imagine it. But I can’t, doll. I can’t stay away from you.”

Something in you cracked open at the confession, equal parts fear and tenderness. You lifted a hand, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing gently over the stubble there. “Then don’t,” you whispered. “Don’t stay away. Just… let me be here. With you.”

His breath shook, his metal hand lifting to cover yours where it rested against his cheek. He leaned into your touch like a starving man, his eyes shutting for a moment. When he opened them again, his voice was steadier, though still low. “If I do this—if I keep you close—it means you’ll see things. Parts of me, parts of my life… I’ve kept them from you on purpose.”

You swallowed hard but nodded. “Then show me. I’d rather see than be left in the dark.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, searching, as if weighing the truth of your words. And then, finally, he exhaled, pulling you back against his chest. “Alright,” he whispered into your hair. “But once you’re in, sweetheart… there’s no going back.”

And though his tone carried warning, his arms held you like he already knew you weren’t going anywhere.

---

It started with a question you hadn’t expected. A few days had passed since that night in your apartment—the night Bucky had admitted he couldn’t let you go. He hadn’t said much more about it, but you felt it in the way he hovered a little closer, in how often his hand found yours, in the quiet determination that lingered in his eyes.

So when he showed up at your shop one afternoon, leaning against the counter with that intent look of his, you thought he was there just to keep you company. Instead, he said, “there’s a gala this weekend. I want you to come with me.”

You blinked. “A gala?”

“Big one. Everyone who matters will be there.” He didn’t elaborate who everyone was, but the weight behind his words made it clear. Then, softer, “I want them to see you with me.” The warmth in your chest almost made you forget to breathe. Official. That’s what it sounded like.

He didn’t waste time. The next day, you found yourself swept into a world you’d never touched before. The tailor’s boutique looked more like an art gallery than a store—marble floors, velvet curtains, rows of gowns shimmering under soft lights. You hovered near the entrance at first, your fingers twitching nervously at your sides. The place smelled faintly of leather and perfume, expensive in a way that made you want to keep your hands tucked safely away.

Bucky, on the other hand, looked perfectly at ease. He guided you forward with a hand at the small of your back, his voice steady as he spoke to the attendant. “Something for her. For Saturday night.”

The attendant’s eyes widened just slightly, recognition sparking as she nodded quickly. Within minutes, you were being ushered into a fitting room with armfuls of gowns in every shade and style. The first dress was sleek, dark, clinging in ways that made you self-conscious. You stepped out hesitantly, smoothing your hands over the fabric. Bucky’s eyes lifted instantly. He didn’t blink. He didn’t even breathe for a moment. His gaze swept over you, slow and deliberate, before he finally said, “beautiful.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. “It’s… too much, maybe?”

“Not enough,” he countered smoothly, his voice rougher than usual.

You ducked back into the fitting room, your pulse racing. The next dress was brighter, softer, with delicate embroidery along the bodice. When you stepped out this time, he leaned forward slightly in his chair, his elbow resting on his knee as he looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. “This one’s good,” he said, but his tone wasn’t casual—it was thoughtful, assessing, almost protective. “But I want something that makes them stare.”

You bit your lip, trying not to smile. “That sounds… intimidating.”

“Good,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours. “They should be intimidated.”

By the third dress—a deep navy that shimmered when you moved—you felt the air change. Bucky stood this time, crossing the room in a few strides. His hand lifted, brushing along the fabric at your waist, not quite touching you, but close enough to make your breath catch. “This one,” he said, voice low and certain. “Matches your eyes. And when you walk in with me wearing this, no one’ll dare forget it.”

You giggled softly, nerves twisting with warmth. “Bucky… it probably costs more than my whole apartment.”

His lips curved faintly, but his gaze stayed steady. “You let me worry about that.” And in that moment, as the silk whispered around your legs and his hand hovered at your side, you realized: this wasn’t just a dress. This was a declaration.

The attendant had just whisked the navy gown away to be pressed and boxed when something caught your eye. Off to the side, away from the racks of shimmering evening wear, hung a small collection of lighter dresses—soft fabrics, airy shapes. The kind of thing you’d wear in the shop on a warm day, not at some glittering gala.

One in particular made you pause. A simple sundress, pale with little embroidered details along the hem. It wasn’t dramatic, wasn’t dripping with jewels or stitched with silk. It was… sweet. Something you could actually see yourself wearing, not just trying on for someone else’s world. The attendant followed your gaze. “That’s from a quieter line,” she explained with a professional smile. “Not evening wear, but if you’d like to try it, you can.”

You startled slightly, glancing back at Bucky, who was still flipping idly through a lookbook the attendant had left with him. He looked up at the hesitation in your posture. “Try it,” he said simply. Not a command this time, but a suggestion—an invitation.

You hesitated. “I couldn’t… it’s not—”

His brow arched, the faintest curve of a smirk playing on his lips. “Doll, if you want to try it, you try it.”

So you did. The fabric was soft against your skin, the cut loose but flattering. When you stepped out, you felt lighter somehow, less like you were playing dress-up in someone else’s world and more like yourself. Bucky’s gaze lifted immediately. For once, he didn’t move, didn’t speak right away. His eyes roamed slowly over the dress, then back to your face. You fidgeted under the weight of it, tugging gently at the skirt. “It’s simple. Too simple, probably. Not for…” You gestured vaguely to the opulent boutique around you. “This.”

Still, he didn’t say anything. Just stood, crossing the room with quiet steps until he was right in front of you. His hand reached out, brushing the edge of the fabric at your hip, his thumb pressing lightly into the material. “You look…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly, almost frustrated with himself. “You look like you.”

Your cheeks warmed. “That’s… good?”

“It’s perfect.” His voice was rougher than usual, sincere in a way that left no room for doubt. “The gala needs the navy gown. But this one? This one’s for me.”

Your heart fluttered, and before you could argue—before you could even tell him you couldn’t possibly afford something like this—he was already glancing over his shoulder at the attendant. “We’ll take both.”

Your mouth fell open. “Bucky—”

His hand lifted, brushing against your cheek, silencing the protest before it could fully form. His eyes softened, that steady, unyielding gaze fixed only on you. “Let me.”

And standing there, wrapped in a simple sundress in a boutique that reeked of money and power, you realized it wasn’t about the price. It was about him wanting you to have something that made you feel yourself, even in his world.

Bucky didn’t let you change out of the sundress. The attendant had neatly packaged the navy gown, slid it into a garment bag, and made a note of the transaction, but Bucky had waved her off when she offered to take the sundress back to the fitting rooms. “She’s keeping it on,” he’d said, casual but with the kind of finality no one ever argued with.

And so you found yourself leaving the boutique hand-in-hand with him, the evening air brushing against your legs as the hem of the simple dress swayed with each step. It felt strange—like you were supposed to be polished and expensive after a store like that, but instead you felt like yourself. More than that, you felt like his.

He opened the car door for you, but instead of giving the driver an address for home, he leaned down and murmured, “let’s take a walk first.”

The driver pulled away a few blocks later, leaving you and Bucky in a quieter part of the city. The streets were lined with little shops and cafés, the kind that glowed warmly in the evening. He guided you toward one tucked between a bookstore and a flower stall, the kind of place you might’ve gone with friends—if you’d had the time.

Inside, the café smelled like coffee and sugar, the hum of conversation gentle and low. No one looked twice at you. No one cared that you weren’t in glittering gowns or pressed suits. And Bucky—your Bucky, who had filled a marble-floored boutique like he owned the world—looked almost out of place here. His broad shoulders crowded the small table, his hands too large around the delicate porcelain cup. But the way he watched you, leaning forward as though you were the only thing that mattered, made the rest fade away. “You like it here?” he asked, his voice softer than the quiet jazz playing in the background.

You smiled, stirring your drink absently. “It feels… normal.”

“Normal,” he repeated, like the word was foreign on his tongue. His lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. “Guess I could get used to that.”

For a while, you sat together in that small café, talking about nothing and everything. He asked you about your favorite flowers—not the ones that sold best, but the ones you secretly kept for yourself. You teased him about how he never drank his coffee until it was practically cold. He listened, his hand finding yours across the table, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in steady circles.

And when you left, walking slowly down the street, he didn’t rush you. He let you stop at the little bookstore window, linger at the flower stall, laugh at the sight of a dog sticking its head out of a taxi. At one point, you tugged his hand without realizing, pulling him closer to something that caught your eye—a display of postcards painted with watercolor scenes of the city.

He didn’t comment on the gesture, but you felt the weight of his gaze as you flipped through them, your fingers brushing over the colors. When you finally slipped back into the car, the sundress soft against your skin and a paper bag of postcards in your lap, Bucky leaned close enough that his breath tickled your ear. “You looked beautiful in the gowns,” he murmured, his tone low, almost possessive. “But this? This is what I’ll remember.”

And you realized it wasn’t the marble floors, or the glittering chandeliers, or the navy silk that made the night feel important. It was him. It was this.

---

The gala was nothing like the gallery. From the moment you stepped into the ballroom, it was clear this was a different level of opulence entirely. Crystal chandeliers spilled golden light across the space, polished marble gleamed beneath your heels, and the air hummed with the low thrum of strings from a live orchestra. Guests glided past in gowns stitched with gemstones, tuxedos pressed to perfection, diamonds glittering at throats and wrists.

You’d taken extra care tonight, wearing the deep navy gown Bucky had chosen for you, the one that shimmered with every movement. It hugged you in ways that made you nervous at first, but when you saw the way his gaze lingered on you before you left your apartment—sharp, reverent, possessive—you knew you didn’t regret saying yes.

At first, you kept to his side, your fingers woven with his, your steps perfectly matched as he led you through the crowd. His presence was magnetic; people parted for him instinctively, their eyes darting toward you with open curiosity. Some smiled, others whispered, but all of them looked.

The first introductions came quickly—men with quick, firm handshakes, women with perfectly painted smiles. They greeted Bucky with respect, almost deference, and then turned their attention to you. The questions came in polite tones—your name, how long you’d been in the city, whether you enjoyed the gala.

You answered as best you could, but each new set of eyes made your chest tighten. You weren’t used to being the center of attention, and in a room like this, the stares felt heavier than silk gowns and diamond necklaces combined.

So you inched closer. It was subtle at first—your hand tightening on Bucky’s, your shoulder brushing his arm as someone else struck up a conversation with him. He didn’t move, didn’t draw you in, just let you settle where you wanted. But as the night stretched on and more people gathered, you found yourself tucking yourself closer and closer into his side.

By the time he was cornered by a trio of older men discussing investments, you were practically pressed to him, your arm sliding around his. His body was solid against yours, steady in a way that kept you grounded. He shifted slightly then, not pulling you in but adjusting just enough that you fit more comfortably against him. You realized you were hiding. And that he was letting you.

Between conversations, he leaned down just once, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmured, “you okay, doll?”

Your breath caught, but you nodded quickly, whispering back, “Just… a lot of people.”

His hand slid down, resting against the small of your back, warm and firm. “Stay close, then.” And you did. Through introductions, through polite laughter, through glasses of champagne that you barely sipped. You stayed tucked into his side, your cheek brushing his shoulder once when you leaned in to whisper something shyly, and his answering smirk told you he didn’t mind in the slightest.

It was overwhelming, yes. But the whole night, Bucky’s presence wrapped around you like armor. You weren’t just there as a guest—you were there as his. And judging by the way people looked at him, then at you, that message was loud and clear.

The gala bled into night, the golden chandeliers giving way to the hush of the city as you and Bucky slipped into the car. The door shut, muting the noise behind you, leaving only the soft hum of the engine and the faint rustle of your gown as you shifted against the seat.

For the first time in hours, you exhaled, your shoulders slumping slightly. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding yourself until now. Bucky’s hand found yours almost immediately, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a steady rhythm. “You did good,” he murmured, his voice quiet but certain.

You smiled faintly, though your cheeks warmed. “I didn’t really do anything.”

His eyes slid to you, blue and intense even in the low light. “You were with me. That’s everything.”

The words settled heavy in your chest, warm and strange, like they meant more than you knew how to hold. The car turned, and instead of heading toward your apartment, you noticed the streets getting sharper, quieter, the buildings taller and glinting under the city lights. You glanced at him, curious. “This isn’t the way home.”

He didn’t look away, didn’t let go of your hand. “No. I want to show you something.” When the car pulled up to a gleaming tower, you felt your breath hitch. This was the kind of place you’d walked past before but never imagined entering. The doorman nodded the instant Bucky stepped out, opening the door like it was second nature. No questions, no hesitation. Just respect.

He offered his hand to help you out of the car, steady and sure, and guided you inside. The lobby was marble and glass, understated yet impossibly expensive. The kind of wealth that didn’t need to shout. The elevator ride was silent except for the low hum of the machinery and the sound of your heartbeat thudding in your ears. His hand stayed at the small of your back, grounding you. When the doors opened, you stepped directly into his penthouse.

It was breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across one entire wall, the city sprawled out beneath like a living map of light. The furniture was sleek, dark, carefully chosen—luxury without clutter. A bar lined one side of the space, glassware gleaming faintly under soft recessed lighting. There was a piano, too, its polished surface reflecting the skyline. You turned slowly, taking it all in. “This is… yours?”

“Mine,” he confirmed simply, watching you carefully as you moved further inside.

It felt surreal, like stepping into the part of him he’d kept hidden. The part that wasn’t coffee shops and farmer’s markets, but glass towers and quiet power. You drifted toward the windows, resting a hand against the cool glass as you looked out over the city. Behind you, you heard his steps, deliberate and steady, until his reflection appeared beside yours. “Why tonight?” you asked softly. “Why show me now?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Because after tonight, there’s no pretending. Everyone saw you with me. They’ll keep seeing you. And I don’t want you walking into this blind.”

You turned, looking up at him. The shadows in his eyes were still there, the weight of his world, but so was something else—something softer, rawer. “I told you I’d rather see than be left in the dark,” you whispered.

His hand lifted, brushing lightly against your cheek, his thumb tracing your jaw. “I know,” he murmured. “That’s what scares me.”

And then, before you could answer, he bent his head and kissed you. Not the shy, tentative kisses of your apartment, but something deeper, firmer, threaded with everything he hadn’t said aloud. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him as though he needed to remind himself you were really there. The city stretched endlessly below, but in that moment, all you could feel was him.

Bucky didn’t stop at the kiss. When he finally drew back, his forehead resting against yours, his hand slid down to lace with your fingers. “C’mere,” he murmured, tugging you gently away from the windows. “Let me show you around.”

The penthouse unfolded like something out of a dream. He guided you first through the living space—sleek lines, soft lighting, and a bar stocked more like a high-end lounge than a home. Past that was a dining area, the table long enough for ten but polished to a shine that suggested it wasn’t often used.

Then he took you down the hall to the master suite. The bedroom was spacious but not ostentatious, anchored by a bed large enough to swallow you whole. It was softened by details you hadn’t expected—heavy curtains, a worn leather chair in the corner, books stacked neatly on a nightstand. Not the kind of impersonal room you imagined in a man like him.

But it was the closet that stopped you cold. The space was larger than your entire bedroom at home, walls lined with dark wood shelves and neatly arranged clothing. His suits, pressed and orderly, filled one side. On the other, though—where you expected emptiness—were rows of neatly folded soft fabrics in your size. Pajamas. Sweaters. Undergarments in delicate lace and cotton, still with tags. Even shoes, flats and slippers and a pair of heels you knew you hadn’t bought. Your steps faltered. “Bucky…”

He watched you carefully, his hands tucked in his pockets, his jaw tight. “I didn’t want you to come here and not have anything.”

You turned slowly, looking at him. “You… bought all this?”

“I had someone pick it up,” he admitted, shrugging one shoulder like it was nothing. But the way his eyes never left your face told you it wasn’t nothing. Not to him.

Your throat tightened. It wasn’t just that he’d thought of it—it was that he’d prepared for the possibility of you being here long before you ever were. You smiled softly, shy but earnest. “Thank you.”

His shoulders eased just slightly, and he stepped closer, brushing his knuckles along your arm. “Just want you comfortable, doll. Always.”

Before you could answer, a voice carried from down the hall, low but sharp. “She’s here, then?”

You turned, startled, as Natasha appeared in the doorway. She was different from how you’d pictured—tall, poised, her red hair a striking curtain around a face that gave nothing away. She leaned casually against the frame, though her eyes, green and assessing, flicked over you in a way that made you straighten unconsciously. Bucky didn’t flinch. “Yeah. She’s here.”

Natasha’s gaze lingered on you another beat before she gave the faintest of nods. “Good. Better she’s here than in the dark.”

You weren’t sure what to say, so you offered a small, polite smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Her lips curved, just barely. “We’ll see if you still think that later.” Then, with a glance at Bucky, “she’ll need to know more. Sooner rather than later.”

Bucky’s jaw worked, but he nodded once. Natasha’s gaze softened—if only slightly—before she slipped away as quietly as she’d come. The silence left behind felt heavier than the closet full of clothes, heavier than the glittering view outside. But when Bucky turned back to you, his eyes softened, grounding you once more. “You okay?” he asked. And this time, he phrased it like a question.

You let out a shaky breath, smiling faintly. “Yeah. I think so.”

Once Natasha’s footsteps faded, he tugged you gently back into the hall, his hand warm and steady around yours. “C’mon,” he said, softer now. “There’s more.”

The penthouse was larger than you’d realized. He showed you the kitchen first—polished stone counters, state-of-the-art appliances, cabinets so tall you wondered if he ever actually used them. But there were signs of him here too: a coffee mug left out near the sink, a half-empty bottle of scotch on the counter, a dish towel folded with military precision.

From there, he led you to a smaller sitting room, tucked away from the sweeping skyline. It felt more lived in than the main space—cozier, with a blanket folded across the back of the couch, a chessboard set up mid-game. You wondered if he played with Natasha, or if the board had been waiting for an opponent he hadn’t found until you.

He showed you a study too, lined with dark shelves and heavy books, the scent of old paper lingering faintly. A few leather-bound journals lay stacked neatly on the desk, a fountain pen resting perfectly parallel beside them. You didn’t ask, but part of you wondered what he wrote in them.

By the time you circled back to the master suite, the nerves that had knotted your stomach earlier had softened into something else—curiosity, warmth, and the quiet awe of realizing this was his space. And now, in some way, yours too. He paused at the bedroom door, his eyes flicking to you. “You should get ready for bed. The pajamas are in the closet.”

You bit your lip, shy but smiling, before disappearing into the walk-in again. The set you chose was simple—soft cotton, a pale color trimmed with delicate lace. It fit perfectly, hugging you without clinging, comfortable in a way that made your breath catch. He hadn’t just guessed. He’d known.

When you padded back into the bedroom, barefoot, tugging self-consciously at the hem of the pajama top, Bucky was already waiting. He sat at the edge of the bed, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, the city lights spilling across him through the windows. His gaze lifted the moment he heard you. And it lingered.

You froze for a moment under the weight of it, heat rushing to your cheeks. “They… fit,” you murmured.

His lips curved faintly, but his eyes stayed intent, almost reverent. “Told you. I just want you comfortable.”

You crossed the room slowly, and when you stopped in front of him, he reached for your hand, pulling you gently between his knees. His metal thumb brushed over your knuckles, his touch careful, grounding. “Stay here tonight,” he said quietly. Not a command. A request.

You nodded, your chest tight, your heart racing. “Okay.”

He exhaled softly, his hand sliding to your waist as he pressed a kiss against your stomach through the thin cotton. Then he looked up at you, his eyes blue and raw. “You look like you belong here.” And for the first time, standing barefoot in silk-soft pajamas in his penthouse bedroom, you believed him.

---

The bed was cold when you rolled over, your hand brushing against rumpled sheets where Bucky should’ve been. For a moment you thought maybe you’d imagined it—the weight of his arm around your waist, the warmth of his chest pressed to your back—but the faint indentation in the mattress told you he’d only slipped away recently.

You sat up slowly, tugging the pajama top tighter around you, and padded out into the hall. The penthouse was hushed, the city beyond the windows muted in its endless glow. You followed the faintest sound—paper rustling, a pen scratching—to the study.

There he was. Bucky sat behind a heavy desk, sleeves rolled up, a lamp casting sharp shadows across his face. Papers were spread across the surface, neat columns of numbers, ledgers, notes scrawled in his firm hand. He didn’t look up at first, but the moment your bare feet padded against the rug, his gaze lifted. “Doll,” he murmured, his voice softening instantly. He set the pen down and held out a hand. “C’mere.”

You crossed the room, shy but certain, and when you reached him, he tugged you gently onto his lap. You settled sideways across his thighs, your head resting against his shoulder. His hand smoothed along your back, slow and steady, grounding you. “You should’ve eaten first,” he said, brushing his lips against your temple. “I’ll text Natasha, have her send something up.”

You hummed, your voice muffled against his shirt. “I didn’t come looking for food.”

His brow furrowed slightly as he angled his head to see you. “No?”

You shook your head, cheeks warming. “…I missed you. In bed.”

For a moment, the silence stretched. Then his chest rumbled with a low exhale, almost a laugh but not quite. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice rough. “You’re gonna kill me saying things like that.”

You smiled shyly against him, and after a moment, curiosity tugged at you. You shifted just enough to glance at the papers scattered across the desk. Numbers, neat rows and totals, some underlined, some circled. “What’s all this?”

“Work,” he said simply, but when you didn’t look away, his mouth softened. “Keeping track of everything. Shipments, money in, money out. Making sure it all balances.”

You blinked, surprised. “You do the books yourself?”

“Trust’s hard to come by,” he said dryly, though his thumb traced idly over your hip. “Don’t like letting anyone else touch the numbers.”

Your lips curved faintly. “I do my shop’s books too. Every night before I close.”

That earned you a glance, one brow raised, a flicker of amusement breaking through his guarded expression. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s not as complicated, but… numbers don’t lie. You can see the whole picture if you know where to look.”

His smirk deepened just slightly. “Smart girl.” He tapped one of the ledgers with a calloused finger. “Wanna help me, then?”

You looked at him in surprise, then back at the papers. The idea of being folded into this part of his world, even in something as simple as numbers, made your heart beat faster. Slowly, you nodded. “Alright,” you whispered. “Show me what you’ve got.”

And for the next hour, you sat curled on his lap while he walked you through the ledgers, his voice low and steady, his arm always around you. It was strange—intimate in a way you hadn’t expected. Not just the touch of him, but the trust of it.

Bucky’s voice had become a low murmur in your ear, patient as he explained the rows of numbers. You tried to keep up, scribbling a few notes in the margin of his ledger, but the warmth of his chest and the steady rhythm of his hand tracing circles over your thigh slowly lulled you. Your head grew heavier until it finally settled against his shoulder. He noticed the shift instantly. Your pen slipped from your hand, rolling across the desk. Bucky caught it without looking, setting it aside, his gaze softening when he realized your breaths had evened out. You’d fallen asleep on his lap, curled up like you belonged there.

For a while, he just let you rest, one arm wrapped around you protectively, the other turning pages with a deliberate quiet. Every so often, he brushed his thumb over your side or adjusted the blanket he’d pulled down from the back of the couch. A knock broke the silence. Sharp, precise. He didn’t even raise his voice when he answered, “come in.”

The door opened, and Natasha stepped inside, a tray balanced in her hands. Steam rose from a pot of tea, plates neatly covered. Her sharp gaze flicked over the scene in front of her—you asleep, Bucky’s arm wound firmly around you—and her lips curved just slightly. “She’s out,” she said softly, setting the tray down on the corner of the desk.

“Mm,” Bucky grunted in agreement, his hand still smoothing idly along your back.

Natasha straightened, crossing her arms. “You should put her in bed.”

His jaw tightened, and he shook his head once. “She’s fine here.”

The redhead studied him for a beat longer before nodding. “I’ll leave you two, then.” She turned to go, but paused at the door, glancing back with a raised brow. “You’re softer than I thought you’d be, Barnes.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He just shifted slightly, holding you a little closer, his gaze fixed on your sleeping face. Natasha’s faint chuckle followed her out of the room. The penthouse grew quiet again. He leaned back in his chair, eyes tracing the curve of your cheek against his chest. His hand stilled over your side as he bent to press the gentlest kiss to your hair. “Sweet girl,” he whispered, so quiet you didn’t stir. “I’ll keep you safe. Always.”

The breakfast tray sat untouched on the desk, the tea growing cooler by the minute. But Bucky didn’t care. You were warm, you were breathing steady, and you were here.

And for him, that was enough.

everything taglist: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005

bucky barnes taglist: @harleycao @wkhannah @star-yawnzzn @baguwagu @averyhotchner @umbreoni

@sleepysongbirdsings

[letslearnhangeul]

젓가락 [Korean Chopsticks]~

(2/∞)

[A Brief History]

As you all may or may not know (or at least, will know now), chopsticks were first invented in ancient China about 4,000 - 5,000 years ago before spreading across the continent and essentially all of Asia. With the spread of this technology, the size, shape, and cultural functions differentiated slightly across ethnic boundaries. Chinese chopsticks tend to be longer as accustomed to the tradition of having lots of food on larger dishes that longer chopsticks are better for reaching. Japanese chopsticks tend to be the shortest due to the custom of bringing the bowl closer to the mouth when eating.

[Korean Chopsticks]

Korea’s own version of chopsticks were invented about 1,000 - 2,000 years ago. If Chinese chopsticks are long and Japanese chopsticks are short, Korean chopsticks tend to be (literally) of “medium” length and are the only ones made of metal. This originated from the chopsticks that the royal family used which were made out of pure silver. The silver would change color when it came into contact with poison serving a dual function of being aesthetically pleasing and protective. The people wanting to emulate the royals turned to metal chopsticks and the metal was thought to be more hygienic. Thus, today we see the modern stainless steel chopstick! Innovative!

Hope you enjoyed and happy studying!~

[invisibleanonymousmonsters]

All Men Have Limits - VII

Character: Dick Grayson x Reader x Bruce Wayne

Summary: A certain bat believes that Y/N is in way over her head, that she’s too naive to act in her best interest. So, whether she wants it or not, the vigilante family is going to help and protect her before she gets herself killed.

Word Count: 3,500+

Warning: Mention of domestic violence

Previously on…

“The Court is holding session two weeks from now,” Y/N announced to the group.

“How do we know they’re going through with it after all the recent attention?” Damian challenged.

“They haven’t missed one in over over 20 years.”

“So, what’s the plan?” Dick asked.

Y/N took in a deep breath, “We need a diversion.”

“Diversion?” Jason asked.

She nodded. “The Court has two kinds of protection: the Talons and then the protection they either buy or blackmail. The Talons are at every meeting, making sure nothing goes down and protecting The Court.”

Y/N eyed all of them before continuing – except for Bruce. The two of them hadn’t spoken since their argument, and Y/N hadn’t so much as acknowledged him.

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[invisibleanonymousmonsters]

All Men Have Limits - VIII

Character: Dick Grayson x Reader x Bruce Wayne

Summary: A certain bat believes that Y/N is in way over her head, that she’s too naive to act in her best interest. So, whether she wants it or not, the vigilante family is going to help and protect her before she gets herself killed.

Word Count: 3,600+

Warning: Mention of sexual assault 

Previously on…

“Going along with this plan seems rather unlike you,” Tim finally pointed out to Bruce.

It was the two younger boys and Bruce sitting in the cave. 

“Without her help, we would have never been able to get the evidence we need to take down The Court of Owls,” Bruce sighed as he looked up at the screens.

“Yeah, but like you said before, we never use our own as bait,” Tim countered.

“Y/N knows what she’s doing.”

Tim and Damian shared a look.

“Are you certain things have not gone too personal, father?” Damian finally asked.

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[invisibleanonymousmonsters]

All Men Have Limits - IX

Character: Dick Grayson x Reader x Bruce Wayne

Summary: A certain bat believes that Y/N is in way over her head, that she’s too naive to act in her best interest. So, whether she wants it or not, the vigilante family is going to help and protect her before she gets herself killed.

Word Count: 2,800+

Warning: Violence, Mentions of past domestic abuse

Previously on…

A WEEK LATER…

Of course it had to be raining the night they needed to execute their plan. 

Y/N didn’t know if she was shaking because she was freezing or because she was so nervous. Even with all the layers and her knit hat, she couldn’t seem to warm up.

Y/N had been walking around for half an hour. They’d mapped out her route so her face would get picked up by as many street cameras as possible. If The Court was as sinister as rumored, they’d be watching.

“Scratch your nose if you’re doing alright,” Dick said in Y/N’s ear.

The whole family had explained how imperative it was for Y/N not to speak. They had to assume that Y/N was being watched the moment she left the manor. And if her lips moved, the Talons would know something was up.

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