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Takarad (Part 2)

Rating: Mature Relationship: Male Lion Beastman/Female Human Additional Tags: Exophilia, Furry, Beastman, Lion Beastman, Arranged Marriage, Tsundere, Age Gap Relationship, Size Difference, Boss/Employee Relationship, Height Differences, Marriage of Convenience Content Warnings: Sexual Assault, Unwanted Sexual Touching, Discussion of Sexual Assault, Abusive Parents, Abusive Family Words: 4356

Upon hearing about the reader's struggle to escape her family, Takarad suggests marriage to him in an attempt to evade her fiance, who has appeared to take her back home. Please reblog and leave feedback!

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You were silent for a good long while, taken fully aback by the suggestion. Was he serious? You were quite sure he didn’t even like you. 

“It was just a thought,” He said hastily. “Put it out of your mind if ya ain’t keen on it.” 

“You would really marry me?” You asked. “Really?” 

“Well… sure,” He said slowly, still faced away from you. “If it’ll help ya out, then…” 

“But… don't you hate me?” 

He spun around on his heel and looked affronted. “Whoever said such a thing? Sure, I’m a mean old grump who don’t know how to be nice to folks, but that don’t mean I hate ya.” 

“Oh,” You said, stunned. You wondered how he treated people he did hate, then. “Will you… come here and talk to me about this? It’s not something that can be decided on a whim. Marriage is a serious thing.” 

“I know that full well,” He said, though he did put down his knife and wipe his hands, coming over to sit on one of the stools. It creaked under his weight. “Look, I ain't never had a mind to marry. To be honest, I was a mean little shit when I was a boy, and I ain’t gotten much better with age. Women tend to be scared o’ me, so I ain’t never been close to none. I ain’t the sweet, affectionate sort, if ya couldn’t tell. I’m old now, and I expected to die without ever getting hitched. If you marry me, you ain’t riskin’ nothin’, and if you’ve a mind to stick with me 'til the end to fend off your pa and this baron asshole, then you’ll be free of me when I die. Shouldn’t be that long, I figure.” 

You frowned. “I don’t find that particularly comforting.”

He stood up off of the stool and knelt in front of you a little awkwardly, but he looked you straight in the eye. “If you do decide to go through with it… marryin' me, I mean… I don’t know what kinda husband I’ll be to ya, since I ain’t never been married before, but I can promise I won’t ever hit ya or beat ya, and I won’t touch ya if ya don’t want me to. You can still work here, and I’ll still pay ya a wage. If you decide to split with me after a safe amount o’ time, you can save up for when ya strike out on your own, or whatever you decide to do.”

You sniffled and blinked rapidly, on the verge of tears again. “You’d really do that for me?” 

“Well, sure,” He repeated. “If it’ll help ya out.” 

“That’s just about the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me,” You said. 

“You must not know all that many good folks, I wager,” He said seriously. 

You lowered your gaze. “Not really.” 

“Hmm,” He hummed. He sat down on the ground from his kneeling position and rested his elbow on the stool. “What made ya think I hated ya?” He asked in curiosity. 

“You were pretty mean to me when I first came here. You’re not all that nice now.” 

“I’m pretty mean to everyone, not just you,” He said dryly. “To be blunt, I didn’t feel any type o’ way towards ya when I first met ya. If anything, I was impressed ya didn’t turn ‘round and leave as soon as ya saw me. First one who didn’t, actually. My sunny disposition doesn’t suit most folks, ya know, but I never hated ya.”

“You didn’t do much to reassure me to the contrary,” You said. 

“I didn’t owe ya nothin’,” He sniffed. 

You laughed a little, but sobered. “It’s just that… the way you behaved at first… it reminded me of my father. He hates me, of that I am certain.”

“Or are you just assumin’ that, like you did with me? How do you know he hates ya?” 

“He’s told me,” You said in a small voice. “He tells me all the time. He’s never told me why, but I assume it’s because of my mother, because he hated her, too. Their marriage was arranged, which he seems fine with, but there was something about her he simply couldn’t stand, and I must have inherited it. Maybe I look too much like her, I don’t know. All he ever tells me is what a burden I am to him and how he can’t wait to marry me off and get me out of his house. He’d have had me married off much sooner, but he wanted to be sure he’d find someone who treats me just as badly as he does.”

“Shit, girl,” He said softly.

"When I was little…" You said slowly. "I thought he was just a cruel person who was mean to everyone, but when he remarried my stepmother and my half-siblings were born… he’s like a different person to them. He’s kind to them, he smiles at them. I don't know what I did to make him hate me, but I would have done anything to fix it when I was growing up." You sighed heavily. “I don’t know why he’s so obsessed with my misery. It would have been far better if he were just indifferent towards me. At least then he wouldn’t enjoy my suffering so much.” 

“Who could call such a man a father?” He mumbled, sounding taken aback.

You looked down at him where he sat. “What was your father like?” 

“Dunno, never met him,” He said. “I grew up in an orphanage.” 

“The one in Coleville?”

He shook his head. “Nah, the one I was at don’t exist no more. All for the better, really; it was a shitty place. You had to grow up mean to survive it.”

“That explains a lot,” You said with a smile. 

He snorted. “I guess… if I had to say… the man who gave me this tavern would be the closest thing I had to a father. I didn’t meet him till I was in my late thirties and had lived a hard life as a mercenary, but he gave me a new purpose when I lost this.” He motioned at his missing right eye. “About the only person who ever thought I was good for anythin’.”

“He sounds like a good person,” You said, smiling fondly. 

“Aye, he was,” He agreed. He fell silent after that, looking into the middle distance and seeing something you couldn't.

“Do you think… he’ll be back?” You asked, nodding toward the door.

“Not if he knows what’s good for ‘im,” Takarad said with a sneer. “I’m more concerned he’ll have that papa o’ yers in tow if he does.” 

“Trust me, I’m worried about that, too,” You admitted, frowning. “I genuinely hoped to never see either of them again.” 

“Well… for now, don’t you go worryin’ that curly little head o’ yers,” He said, poking the corner of your down-turned mouth with his thick pointer finger, and you smiled. “We’ll handle it if it comes. No sense getting your knickers in a twist about it right now.” 

“You’re right,” You told him, taking a large breath.

"So… whatcha think?" He asked slowly. "About my offer."

You smiled shyly. "If it wouldn't be too much of an inconvenience to you, I'd like to accept. Thank you."

"S'fine," He replied. He stood up and went back behind the bar, the conversation apparently over. “Ya oughtta go to bed. We got a full day tomorrow.”

The next day, the first proper cold day of winter, the two of you went down to the magistrate’s office to file for a marriage license. It was the first time the tavern was closed during the breakfast rush in many years, but there was nothing for it. 

Marrying Takarad didn't take long at all, it turns out. All you needed to do was sign two copies of a marriage license and verify that you consented to marry Takarad, as in you weren't being coerced into doing it, in front of everyone at the magistrate's office, which was quite a few people since it was in town hall. Takarad seemed uncomfortable with so many eyes on him during the affair, and seemed anxious to leave. He was given one of the marriage licenses to keep, and the two of you went back to the tavern to open up.

When you arrived at the tavern, there was a letter nailed to the front door addressed to you. Takarad yanked the nail out of the wood and handed the letter to you. You stared at it, but put it in your bag without reading it. Takarad grunted but said nothing.

The work day went by slowly but uneventfully, and at the end of it when the last patron left, Takarad bolted the door and turned to you.

"Didja read the letter?" He asked.

You shook your head. "I know the contents are probably unpleasant. I didn't want to be upset while I was taking orders."

"That's fair," He replied. "Are you gonna read it? 'Cause I'd recommend just chuckin' it, myself. No reason to let the bastard ruin your weddin' day."

You smiled softly. "It is my wedding day, isn't it?" You said. "I hadn't thought of it like that." You sighed and cracked the wax seal on the letter. "I might as well. It may be the last words I ever receive from my father."

Takarad leaned against the bar with his arms crossed. "If you say so."

The letter read:

To my delinquent daughter,

You are the product of your irksome mother, so I suppose I shouldn't be surprised you decided to cause me trouble at the very moment you were to be the most useful to me. You owe me for feeding and housing your disagreeable personage for all your miserable years, and you will do your duty as my daughter or I will ensure you regret ever having been born, do you understand?

Baron Bronwyn has been gracious enough to take someone as plain and contrarian as you as his wife in exchange for your dowry, and I get access to the land he owns. Bronwyn is under-utilizing the resources he possesses, and needs me to guide him to his fortune. Not only will you be the daughter of the most wealthy baron in the country, but you will also be the wife of the second most wealthy baron in the country. This is a perfect opportunity for you to make up for the deficiencies of your birth, and you've decided to squander it. While I knew you to be a fool, I did not imagine you would be this stupid.

Be useful for once in your godforsaken life and return. If you do not, then you are of no use to me and you might as well be dead. Goodness knows I'd be at ease, were that the case. If you cannot perform your role as a noble child, do both of us a kindness and exit this world of your own accord.

Return with Bronwyn and marry him as I command. Or just die. Either way, you'll no longer be my problem.

Signed,

Baron Corbin Ronnel By the time you were finished reading, you were sobbing uncontrollably. Takarad yanked the letter out of your hands and read it, scowled blackly, and tore it to shreds, flinging the pieces into the cooking fire.

"God," He said. "I didn't really believe your pa was as bad as you said, but he certainly proved me wrong."

"He's always been like that," You said. "If I wasn't confined to my little room in the attic, I was dragged before him so he could complain loudly at me. That letter is about what I'd expect. Except…" You sniffled. "I didn't expect him to tell me to kill myself. I knew he hated me, but that's a level I couldn't have imagined."

You wept into your hands for a little while as Takarad stood awkwardly nearby, watching.

"Look," He began uncomfortably. "He can't make you do nothing. You're hitched. Him and that Bronwyn prick are shit outta luck. He's just lashin' out at you because he's pissed off you aren't being the good little slave he raised. You're safe right now. Right?"

You nodded. "I understand."

“If you get it, then stop fuckin' cryin'!” He shouted.

You took an instinctive step backward, shrinking and lowering your head. The tone in his voice caused more tears to gather in your eyes. “I'm sorry.”

“No, I… fuck,” He said, and when you looked up again, he was scrubbing his face with his hands. “I didn't mean to snap at ya, s’my fault. Sorry. I just… dunno what to do when women cry. It makes me uneasy.”

“Could you… hug me, maybe?” You suggested boldly, surprising yourself. 

“Aye?” He replied, equally surprised. “Would that help?”

“Immensely,” You said. “No one has held me since my mother died. It always made me feel better when I was little. And your fur looks soft. I was curious what it felt like.”

“You won’t feel odd, huggin’ a stranger like me?” 

“You’re hardly a stranger,” You reminded him. “I've known you half a year already. And you’re my husband now, right? We’re married. You're the only person I could ask.”

“I s'pose that's so,” He said quietly, contemplative, and knelt down, opening his arms. “If you're sure… C'mere, then.”

You approached him and stepped into his arms, putting yours around his neck and burying your face in the fluff of his mane. His hands went around you cautiously, as though he'd never embraced a woman before, and settled around your back.

“Is this better?” He asked.

“Yes,” You replied. “This feels nice. Thank you.”

“If it helps,” He said, muffled against your hair. “I don’t mean to be like this all the time. The yellin’, I mean. I’m just… a loudmouth and don’t think things through before I open my big yap. I’m not used to comfortin’ folks or bein’... friendly-like."

You chuckled. "I'd never have guessed."

He snorted into your ear. "Bein' an asshole has been enough to fix all my problems in the past, even if it caused the problems in the first place, and I s’pose I don’t know how to stop. Been one all my life and it suited me pretty well. Til’ now, I guess.” 

You snickered. “That’s alright. You said sorry. No one’s ever told me they were sorry before. And you can learn how to be nice, you know.”

“I dunno,” He said with a laugh in his voice, or the closest thing to a laugh you’d heard him make. “I’m an old cat now and I don’t know how open I am to learnin’ new shit, but I could try. I don’t think there are too many folks I care all that much about comfortin’, to be frank. Just you, maybe.”

“That’s alright, too,” You told him, cuddling him in tighter. “Granted, I’m not all that familiar with how to do it either, but I know what feels bad. I can teach you not to do those things. If you like, I mean. We are going to be married for a while, after all. At the very least, we could be friends, right? It would make sense if we could actually support and take care of each other, even if it's just an arrangement of convenience.” 

“Sounds alright to me,” He said, pulling away a little. “Feelin’ better now?” 

“Yes, much. Thank you,” You told him, releasing him.

“S’fine,” He said, and a shadow of a smile creased the sides of his mouth. “What’s a husband for?” 

You flushed a little. “If we want to sleep before the breakfast rush, we better get this place cleaned up.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Takarad said, standing straight and reaching for the broom. “After you.” 

Tidying didn't take much time, and when you were done, you made to go down into the basement and sleep, but he stopped you.

"It's… uh…" He began slowly. "It's the first day of winter and it's gonna be really cold tonight. Maybe you should… come upstairs… and sleep in my room."

You looked at him in shock, briefly at a loss for what to say.

"I won't do nothin' to ya!" He said, holding up his hands hastily. "I promised I wouldn't touch ya, and I meant it. I just thought… well… that cellar gets freezin' in the wintertime. It wouldn't be good for ya to sleep down there when it's real cold 'cause there ain't no hearth or nothing to keep you warm. Like you said… we're married now… so sharin' a room shouldn't be no problem. You can put your bedroll down on the floor or you can sleep in the bed with me, whichever suits you. The bed'll be warmer, but it's your choice."

"I think I'll just put the bedroll down, if that's alright," You said.

"Sure, sure, that's no trouble," He said, scratching his neck. "Be quick-like. I'm tired."

"Alright," You replied, and rushed to bundle up your bedroll and take it upstairs to the only bedroom there was.

Inside was small but comfortable. There was a wide bed, a table with a single chair, and a very small, unlit fireplace that Takarad was fussing with. There were two windows on either side of the room, both with curtains that were due for a wash. The light wood made the room seem bright, even at night. It reminded you a lot of your attic room, the only safe place in your father's house. You smiled.

Takarad lit the fireplace and a warm light filled the room. You lay the bedroll out next to the bed, close to the fireplace but not so close that the fabric would catch fire.

"You only got your coat for cover?" He asked.

"Yes," You replied.

"Ain't you cold?"

"The fire will warm me well enough," You said, laying down. "I've made do with worse."

He frowned and grunted, but said nothing.

"Goodnight, Takarad," You said as you closed your eyes.

"Yeah," He said, getting into the bed. It creaked a little as he settled into it. Within a few moments, he was snoring softly. You smiled and slept.

The next morning, you opened the tavern as normal. The news that the two of you had married must have spread through the town overnight, because a couple of patrons congratulated you and Takarad, inviting Takarad to share a pint with them. Takarad didn't respond, merely grumbled under his breath. You knew him well enough by now to know that he was feeling shy and embarrassed, and you thought it was kind of sweet.

You were pleasantly surprised when a couple of women from town, one older and one younger, came in and gave you some wedding gifts, a whole quilt and some knitting supplies, which you weren't expecting at all. They told you to come and have tea with them sometimes when you had a moment to yourself, and you were taken aback. You hadn't even considered the possibility of having female friends before. You felt yourself blush shyly and you thanked them profusely, and they smiled kindly at you. They introduced themselves as Mary and Tyana, and told you that you were welcome in their homes anytime.

After they left, you turned to put the gifts away and found Takarad watching you, a strange, soft expression on his face. When you caught him staring, he straightened and turned back to the stove, busying himself awkwardly. You grinned and took the gifts upstairs, laying the quilt over the bed and putting the knitting supplies on the table.

That night, you went up to the bedroom and found Takarad looking at the quilt on the bed, frowning.

"Shouldn't you use this?" He asked.

"It looks better on the bed," You said.

"It was for you," He insisted.

"It was for us," You replied. "You should have it. It's already nice enough of you to sacrifice your time to marry me and to let me sleep in your room. You should use it."

"My time ain't as grand as all that," He said with a scowl. "Nor is this room. There's no point in puttin' yourself out like this just 'cause I did one or two nice things for ya."

"I'm not putting myself out," You said. "This is already much better than the cellar, after all."

He shifted uncomfortably. "I… shouldn't've made you sleep down there in the first place. It weren't… appropriate-like."

You laughed. "All I asked for was a dry place to sleep. You gave me that. If not for that, I'd have been sleeping on the doorstep. This is fine."

He growled. "Well… if you insist, I won't keep fightin' ya on it. But… if you get too cold, take the quilt. Or jump up in the bed. I won't mind neither."

"Of course," You said with a smile, laying down in the bedroll. "Goodnight."

"Yeah… 'night," He said, getting into bed.

The next morning, before dawn and before the tavern was due to open, there was a knock on the door. Your heart jumped into your throat and you backed up into the bar, holding a tray tightly against your body. Takarad glanced at you and went to the door, opening it.

"Didn't I tell you not to come back here?" You heard him say.

"I want to talk to you," Someone outside replied. You recognized the voice immediately as Bronwyn. "Man-to-man."

"I don't see a man in front of me," Takarad said evenly. "I see a dog who can't keep his hands to himself."

"I can touch my fiancee however I like," Bronwyn retorted.

"She's not your fiancee," Takarad told him. "She's my wife." He fished something out of his vest pocket and handed it to Bronwyn. You couldn't see what it was from this vantage point, but you assumed it was the license.

There was a pause. "You're lying!" Bronwyn shouted. "You commoner bastard! You can't marry a noblewoman! It's against the law! The crown will invalidate your marriage as soon as they catch wind of it!"

"So?" Takarad said, unbothered. "As far as I'm aware, her pa is the one who'll be at fault if she was to marry outside of the nobility, not me. I ain't got no reason to fear the crown's judgment. And I've already taken her chastity. She's mine. You really gonna try and claim another man's woman?"

"You fucking pig!" Bronwyn exclaimed. "You know what? I don't care if that whore laid with another man. I touched her first, she was already used goods before you put your dirty hands on her. Annul the marriage and let her return with me and I'll reward you handsomely. Enough to buy you a hundred shitty taverns."

"Not interested," Takarad said, folding his arms. "I don't care about your money, or her pa's money. There ain't enough coin in the world that'll replace a good woman. That's not something I'd expect some rich, dandy git like you to understand."

"You'll regret this," Bronwyn said. "I'll make sure of it."

"Sure, whatever you want," Takarad said, slamming the door in Bronwyn's face. He turned to look at you, shivering against the bar with a tear on your cheek, and came close.

"You… uh… you want a hug?" He asked.

You smiled and nodded. He knelt again, like he'd done before, and pulled you against his chest.

"Thank you," You mumbled. "For not taking his offer."

"I ain't go no use for that prissy asshole's money," He said simply. "And I don't wanna look for another barmaid, truth to tell."

You laughed and stepped back. "Thank you all the same."

"Sure," He replied. "Hopefully he got the message and will take it back to your pa. You'll be disowned, if you're lucky."

"Let's hope," You said. "I worry about what Bronwyn will do. He's the type to hold a grudge forever."

"I assumed as much," Takarad said. "I'll deal with it."

You heard through bar gossip that the man in the fancy clothes had left town a few days later. Relieved, you put him out of your thoughts. You assumed he'd be back at some point, but you hoped he'd bring the news of your marriage to your father and he would officially write you out of the family book.

Time passed peacefully.

One night, mid-winter, you woke shivering to find that the fire had gone out. You got up to relight it, only to find the firewood stack empty. The idea of going outside to pull more in made you shudder. You looked over and saw Takarad snoozing calmly in the bed, looking extremely warm. His fur was likely very cozy to sleep against. You stood there in the cold room, debating whether or not to just swallow your pride and ask to sleep in the bed.

"Takarad," You called softly, reaching out to touch him. He snorted awake instantly and his hand shot out, grabbing your hand.

"Shit, girl, I coulda decked you," He said. "What's the problem?"

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. The fire has gone out," You said.

"Oh," He said, rubbing his eye. "Do you need me to relight it?"

"No," You said. "There's no more firewood. I don't want you to have to go to so much trouble. I was wondering… does the offer to sleep in the bed with you still stand? We won't need to use so much firewood, if that's the case."

He searched your face. "You sure?"

You nodded.

"Well… yeah, if you want…" He said, scooting over in the bed and lifting the covers. "Get in."

The bed linens were blessedly warm and you groaned with delight when you got under the covers.

"Dammit, girl, you're freezin'!" Takarad said, inching away from you. "Stay over there!"

You laughed. "Sorry. Thank you for sharing the bed."

"Yeah, s'fine," He said. "Go to sleep."

You snuggled into the bed, sighed, and slept.

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Drive You Home

Pairing: Taxi/Cab Driver!Bucky Barnes x Passenger!Female Reader

Summary: You’re Bucky’s favorite passenger. He knows your schedule by heart. The same day, time, and location. You’re kind. You talk to him like he’s more than just the man behind the wheel. You always tip well.

He can’t help but fall for you.

But he’s just a cab driver. You deserve better than that. Better than him. So, he keeps things professional… until you lean on him one fateful night when the world feels too heavy.

He doesn’t just want to drive you home anymore.

He wants to be someone you can come home to.

Word Count: Over 12.2k

Warnings: Pining, mutual pining, slow(ish) burn, a bit of idiots in love, hurt/comfort, angst with comfort, slight jealousy, flirting, emotional breakdown, crying, insecurities, sick family member, Bucky Barnes (his POV and he's a warning, okay?)

A/N: @tavners suggested Bucky as a cab driver ages ago and the Barbie Dreamhouse helped bring him to life. Huge thanks to @miraclediviner for putting it together and for being patient and letting me submit this late and @stantastic-association for letting me participate. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Dividers by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

The city sky was still light as Bucky pulled onto your street, a smile touching his lips briefly. Every week for the last three months he picked you up to take you to your brother’s apartment. Same time, same day without fail. He knew the route by heart. Could do it in his sleep. 

Thursday had become his favorite day of the week thanks to you. 

His favorite passenger. 

Someone bright and soft during his long shifts and rough nights. 

He came to a stop in front of your building, making sure he adjusted the heat so you wouldn’t be too cold. There was a blanket in the back just in case it wasn’t enough. He also changed the radio station to something he knew you’d enjoy but kept it low enough in case you wanted to talk. 

He liked it when you talked to him. 

“Do I look okay?” he asked himself, checking his hair in the mirror before he chuckled. 

Bucky didn’t dress up a lot since he drove a cab for a living, but he tried to take a bit of pride in his appearance. Clean clothes and a subtle amount of cologne. Beard and hair kept neat, too, even with the bit of gray showing more in his chestnut strands these days. 

He liked to think it gave him a refined look. 

Something you might notice.

The steady hum of the engine grounded him as he looked at the door, his breath catching when you stepped outside. You paused on the top step, your gaze sweeping along the street as you adjusted the bag on your shoulder. Something warm bloomed in his chest when you spotted him and gave him that familiar soft wave and smile. He wanted to believe that smile was reserved just for him. 

Get it together. You’re just her driver. Nothing more.

It didn’t stop him from hoping. 

He straightened up when you made your way to the car and opened the door. 

“Happy Friday Eve, Buck,” you said, sliding into the backseat. 

The corner of his lips twitched at the familiar greeting. Not “driver” or “sir” or anything like that. Just Buck. Steve was the only other person who called him that. 

It sounded right coming from you. 

“You mean Friday Junior,” he teased, trying hard not to make a show of breathing in your scent.

There were plenty of passengers who practically bathed themselves in colognes and perfumes. It was enough to choke on before he aired out the cab. But not you. You always smelled so nice. So sweet. 

Jesus fucking Christ. Get a grip. 

“Same thing,” you teased back, slipping your shoes off and tucking your legs beneath you. 

The first time you asked if it was okay for you to take your shoes off, he almost laughed. It surprised him more than anything that you cared enough to ask. Like you cared about his space and him. He didn’t mind as long as you were comfortable. 

He always wanted you to feel comfortable and safe in his presence. 

“We made it through another day,” you sighed. 

“And your prize for making it through another day is spending time with me,” he joked.

You laughed, a soft sound like music to his ears. “Lucky me,” you said without a hint of sarcasm. 

He cleared his throat, his heart skipping a beat. “Blanket back there and the heat’s on.”

“Thanks,” you said, adding above a whisper, “You’re so good to me.”

Bucky opened his mouth and closed it. “Just doing my job,” he said, the words bittersweet on his tongue. 

“Well, I appreciate it.” You hummed a little as you dug through your bag. “And… I got something for you.”

He already knew what it was.

“Protein bar?”

“Protein bar,” you confirmed. 

He made an offhand comment in the beginning about his favorite brand. 

You surprised him by giving one the following week, and you have brought him one every week since then. 

Part of him wanted to save the wrappers, but Sam shut that down by saying it was serial killer behavior. 

Your fingers brushed his when he reached back to grab, a jolt running through his body and settling deep in his chest. “I think you’re too good to me,” he said. 

It was a thoughtful thing for you to do. 

“Just being a good passenger,” you said casually, but he caught the hint of affection there. 

Something soft… and real.

Bucky glanced at you in the mirror, his gaze lingering longer than it should’ve when you covered yourself with the blanket and settled into the leather with a sigh. His chest puffed out a little, a sense of pride filling him since you used the blanket. He picked the softest and warmest one he had. 

You looked completely at ease, like you belonged there. 

“Heading to your brother’s place, or you gonna switch it up on me?”

“Same trip as always,” you replied. 

Of course.

A visit to your older brother’s place on the other side of the city. Dinner. Helping your sister-in-law with some chores. Spending quality time with your niece and nephew. 

Every Thursday.

He knew about your routine more than he probably should, but he couldn’t help but pay attention. It was nice knowing that you had family close by. Nice that you got to spend time with them.

Some nights though, you looked a little worn down by the time he brought you home. 

He carefully pulled away from the curb and glanced in the mirror again, catching your eye. “How was your day?”

Bucky was polite to his passengers, but didn’t typically initiate small talk. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the people he transported. He did. But his job was to get people where they needed to go, not force them into conversations to fill the silence. If he sensed that they wanted to talk, he’d engage. Most were glued to their phones anyway. But not you. 

Never you. 

You groaned, your head falling back against the seat. “Work was a pain today. Short-staffed. Didn’t really get a full break. You know how that goes.”

He hummed sympathetically. “Sorry you had to deal with that.”

“Don’t be. Not your fault,” you said with a small shrug. “On the plus side, we’re close to the weekend, and I can relax once I get home.”

“Glad you can still see the bright side,” he said. 

It wasn’t always easy to do that. 

“I try.” You lifted your head with a soft smile. “How are you?”

He swallowed hard. It was nice to have someone outside of his normal circle ask him sincerely how he was doing. “Not too bad. Some guy tried to correct my driving.”

You sat up straighter. “Are you kidding me? You’re the best driver in the city.”

Warmth bloomed in his chest from how fiercely you defended him. You stated it like it was a fact. He wasn’t one to brag, but he was an excellent driver.

“I want his name,” you added, narrowing your eyes. “I’ll handle him.”

He laughed. “Oh, you’ll handle him, huh?” he asked, turning his blinker on. 

“Oh, yeah,” you answered, his heart racing faster. 

“I appreciate that,” he said above a whisper. 

You really were something.

“And if I can’t, Alpine can scratch him up for me,” you mused lightly. 

A wide smile broke out on his face. “Al’d make sure he never messed with anyone ever again.”

Alpine, his beautiful white cat. He found her in an alley when she was just a kitten, trying to stay warm on a chilly day. One look in her blue eyes and he knew he couldn’t leave her there. 

“My place isn’t much,” he warned her when he crouched down. “But it’s warm and I have milk.”

She curled right in his arms and tried to burrow her face in his leather jacket. 

She became his partner-in-crime from that day forward.

The feline flourished in his apartment, making herself right at home and sticking by his side whenever he was around. He admittedly spoiled her with toys and such, but she deserved it. She was also protective of him, quick to hiss at anyone who got too close, and could imitate his grumpy stare well. He knew she’d adore you.

He certainly talked about you enough to her.

He talked about you with his younger sister, too. 

“Becca messaged me a bit ago, too,” he said, smiling a little. “You know how she likes to check in and make sure I’m not living off just protein bars and stubbornness.”

Becca didn’t live as close as your brother did, but he visited when he could. She visited, too, between work and her new boyfriend. She seemed happy, and that made him happy. 

“And here I am giving you protein bars. I hope she doesn’t mind.”

“Not at all,” he promised. “She knows one extra bar a week won’t hurt.”

You smiled softly. “She cares a lot about you, doesn’t she?”

“Yeah,” he said warmly. “She does.”

And she liked that he had someone like you who cared, even when he tried to argue that you were just being nice. 

“She isn’t just being nice, big brother. She cares.”

He liked to think so.

“Hey!” you said suddenly, leaning forward in your seat. “You know what I just realized?”

“What?”

“This is the thirteenth Thursday that you’ve driven me around.”

“Is that right?” he asked softly, knowing full well exactly how many Thursdays he had seen you.

Because he had been counting.

“That is right.” You settled back into your seat with a smile. “Feels like ages… and not long at all.”

It seemed like only yesterday to him.

He remembered the exact shade of blue you wore on the first ride, something pleasant against the harsh city lights. How you shivered when you slid into the car, and the smile you gave him when he turned the heat on. You were so beautiful. And kind. 

The kindest passenger he had that day.

“Thanks for getting me here safely, Bucky! Happy Friday Eve!” 

“Friday Junior,” he’d called after you like an idiot.

“Same thing!” 

He was a goner.

Every week his crush grew stronger.

But every week he told himself he was just your cab driver and nothing more. 

“Thirteen Thursdays,” he said. “That why you look so nice today?”

Your gaze flickered to your lap, smiling. “You think I look nice?” you asked gently. 

His heart hammered in his chest. “Yeah. You always do,” he said honestly, willing himself to concentrate on the road.

Don’t make it weird. Don’t make her uncomfortable. 

“Thanks, Buck,” you whispered.  

He should’ve left it at that, but he didn’t.

“You sure I’m taking you to your brother’s and not some date?” he blurted out.

The air thickened in the cab, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. Something uncomfortable twisted in his gut. He paid enough attention to know that there wasn’t a ring on your finger, and you hadn’t mentioned having a boyfriend. 

Not once. 

But what if there was someone? What if one day you dressed up for someone else? What if you gave some other man that soft smile you always gave him?

His jaw clenched and he was thankful you couldn’t see his expression. 

I have no reason to be jealous. She isn’t my girl. She can see whoever she wants. 

I just wish it was me.

“A date?” Your laughter made its way to his ears. “Please. I’m very single.”

For a moment, all Bucky could hear was the sound of his heart slowing to a steady rhythm, effectively blocking out the moving vehicles around him. His next breath was easier, his grip loosening. It shouldn’t have been such a relief to hear that, but it was.

Single. Good. That’s good. Stay single. Stay away from bad guys. Stay… here. With me.

…I’m in deep. 

“Haven’t dated in months,” you added.

That made him pause. 

“Months?” he repeated. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, it’s true,” you said, quieter than before and gazing out the window. “Guess I haven’t caught anyone’s eye.”

Your words wiped out his relief. You didn’t have to say out loud that you were lonely. He sensed it. Recognized it. 

It just didn’t make sense to him that you were alone. You were a catch. How were guys not lining up down the block to ask you out?

Your words also weren’t true. Because he was there and he saw you. Wanted you.

“Or… maybe you have,” he said carefully. “And they just haven’t said anything yet.”

A beat passed. “Maybe,” you said. 

He tapped the wheel when he stopped at a red light.

Say it. Tell her. Tell her that she caught my eye. Tell her that she’s…

He sighed to himself, the cab feeling smaller than usual. He wanted to admit how he felt, but he couldn’t like this. It wasn’t right when he was in the driver’s seat and you were back there. 

“And what about you?” you asked, turning away from the window. “You seeing anyone?”

He huffed out a laugh. “No.”

Women weren’t exactly fighting to date a cab driver. 

“My ‘date’ nights are me, a book or a movie, and Al,” he told you. “That or kicking the guys out of my place once the pizza and beer are gone.”

You smiled. “Those sound like good nights to me.”

“They’re not bad,” he said casually.

As if the idea of a date night with you wasn’t painting a picture in his mind.

“You know,” you said, snuggling into the blanket more. “If you ever need anyone to critique your book or movie choices, I’m available.”

He didn’t think it was possible for his heart to trip over itself, but it did. “Yeah?” he asked, keeping his voice even.

“Yeah,” you said casually, but your eyes flicked to the mirror. “I mean, I’m sure you have great taste, but it doesn’t hurt to get my own confirmation.”

Bucky swallowed hard. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You smiled. “You better.”

The cab fell into a comfortable silence after that, but something shifted. You had given him an opening that would’ve been easy to take. But maybe you were just being nice. Maybe it didn’t mean anything at all. 

Or it might mean everything.

He eased the car to a stop at your brother’s building minutes later. “Here we are.”

You slipped your shoes on and folded the blanket as best as you could. “Thanks,” you said, holding out the cash for him. 

He reached back automatically to grab it, feeling that spark again when your fingers touched. He didn’t need to count it to know it was all there, along with a nice tip. You were generous. 

Always. 

“Anytime.”

You lingered when you opened the door. “Hey, Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“You look nice today, too,” you said.

It was a simple compliment, but it hit him square in the chest. 

“Yeah?” he managed to ask. 

“Yeah,” you said, smiling softly. “You always do.”

It was an echo of his own words to you. 

Before he could respond, you slipped out and tapped the roof twice. “See you later. Drive safe.”

“See ya,” he whispered.

He didn’t leave right away. He watched as you made your way inside safely, his hand still clutching the cash. Glancing at the protein bar on the seat beside him, he exhaled. 

You said he looked nice. Offered to watch a movie with him. Kind of. 

But he was just your driver. 

Nothing more. 

“I’m in trouble,” he muttered. 

By the time Bucky pulled back up to your brother’s building later that night, things felt quieter. But his mind didn’t. It was too busy racing with thoughts of you and wondering how long he could keep his line drawn in the sand. 

You waved to him when you stepped outside, your steps a little slower. Your smile wasn’t as bright as earlier, but it was still soft and easy. It made sense. Family time after a long work day was tiring, even if it was nice. 

“Hey,” he said once you got in. 

“Hey,” you echoed, settling in. 

“Good night?” he asked, easing back into the road. 

“It was,” you replied, laughing a little. “But those kids wear me out.”

He smiled to himself. No way they didn’t adore spending time with you. “Sounds about right.”

“Did you have a good night?”

It was the best night because he got to see you again. 

“Not too bad,” he answered. 

You checked something on your phone and put it away. “Random, but I have a few extra dollars in my account, so I may do takeout for dinner tomorrow as an end of the week treat for myself.”

You could have takeout with me.

“Get those noodles from the place you like on 5th,” he suggested instead. “The number seven, right?”

Why did I say that?

“That’s right.” You giggled. “Am I that predictable?”

He almost said, “I notice everything about you.”

“You’re not predictable,” he replied instead, easing his foot off the gas. “I just… pay attention.”

Because you’re… you.

It was quiet for the rest of the ride. 

He glanced back a few times and saw that your eyes were heavy. He hoped you were able to relax more when you got back to your place. You deserved the rest. 

A pang of disappointment hit him when he got to your place, the drive seeming quicker than normal. “Here we are.”

You stifled a yawn. “Thanks.” 

“Anytime.”

“Oh. I almost forgot.” You sat up, seemingly more awake now. “I have something for you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You already gave me a protein bar.”

“Well, this isn’t from me,” you said, handing him a folded piece of construction paper along with the cash. “It’s from my niece and nephew.”

He opened it carefully, his heart melting on the spot. 

A drawing of a car stretched across the sheet. It was lopsided with uneven wheels and windows that were too big. There were two stick figures inside. One in the back with a large smile that was clearly you. And one in the front with brown hair, blue eyes, and a small smile. 

It was him. 

There was a message in crooked letters above the car, surrounded by glitter glue. 

BUCKY DRIVING AUNTIE! YAY!

His throat tightened unexpectedly. “That’s us?” he asked with a hint of disbelief. 

You mentioned him to your family?

“That’s us,” you said affectionately, making him wonder if that was for him or your niece and nephew. “They wanted to thank you for always getting me there and back every week.”

He swallowed, his throat dry. “You… talk about me?” 

“Of course, I do,” you said like it was obvious. “You’re part of my week.”

He folded it back up like it was something fragile, your words slowly sinking in. 

You talked about him. Your family knew he existed. Your niece and nephew had never met him, but still made him a card like he mattered. 

His heart felt full. 

And he didn’t know what to do with that feeling. 

“Tell ‘em I said thanks,” he said quietly. “Really.”

“I will,” you promised, hesitating when you reached for the door handle. 

You waited long enough for him to look at you over his shoulder. Long enough that his heart thudded. Hope flickered deep within. 

She feels something, right? It can’t just be me. 

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag, but your eyes were soft. “I…” Your gaze flickered down before looking back at him, sighing a little. “I’ll see you next week, Buck.”

He exhaled, trying not to let disappointment show. Something passed between you. He felt it. It was real. 

Or… maybe he just imagined it. 

“Yeah,” he said, offering you a small smile. “Next week.”

“Good night.”

“Good night,” he repeated. “And thanks again for the card and tip.”

You smiled softly before you got out. 

He leaned against his seat and once again stayed to make sure you got inside safely. You didn’t rush inside when you got to the door. You paused instead and glanced over your shoulder at the door, like you were waiting for him. It was an opening. Maybe. 

But he didn’t take it.

He kept that line drawn. 

You waved before you went inside, and he closed his eyes, the quiet surrounding him once again.

His fingers brushed the construction paper in his lap.

Steve and Sam would flip when he told them about it. Hell, they already did whenever he talked about you. He could practically hear them now once he gave them the recap of tonight’s events.

Sam shaking his head and saying, “She gives you protein bars, offers to watch movies with you, her family knows about you, her niece and nephew made you a card, and you didn’t ask for her number?”

Steve, a little quieter but no less insistent, with, “Buck… you’re allowed to want something.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. They acted like it was simple, like he could just ask and it wouldn’t change a thing. It would change everything. 

He didn’t want to risk losing you or holding you back when he didn’t have you to begin with.

For now, he’d continue driving you where you needed to go and leave it at that.

Coward. Life’s too short.

He set the card aside and took one last look at your building.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I’m in big trouble.”

Bucky arrived a couple of minutes early the following Thursday. 

He told himself it was habit. Being mindful of traffic. Not because he was eagerly waiting for you. 

Not at all.

And you also weren’t the reason he spent ten extra minutes picking out a shirt.

Just because she said I look nice…

He made a mistake of checking the group chat he had with Steve and Sam while he waited.

Sam: “Be a man and get her number.”

He gritted his teeth, quickly typing. He almost regretted confiding in them about you. It would’ve been easier to keep his mouth shut. 

“Fuck off, Samuel. I am a man.” 

The dots appeared with both of his friends writing something back.

Sam: “OOH. Samuel. My full name. Hit a sore spot, huh?”

Maybe he did.

Stevie: “Just go at your pace, jerk. We got your back.”

Some of the tension left his shoulders. 

“Thanks, punk.”

He put his phone away and smiled just a little. They were good guys. Had been with him through thick and thin. Brothers.

Sam definitely acted like an annoying brother in the most supportive way.

And as much as he adored Becca, he didn’t want to bother his little sister with his lack-of-relationship woes. She had enough on her plate. He’d be just fine.

Eventually.

His attention snapped in your direction when you left your building and everything else faded away.

There you were again.

The same familiar sweep of your eyes along the street before you found him. The soft smile. The small wave. How you always looked incredible no matter if you dressed up or down. 

Like tonight, you had on the same soft sweater you wore last month. It reminded him of comfort. It also made you look gentle in a way that made him want to take care of you.

The instinct hit him harder than before.

Yeah. I’m royally fucked.

He straightened up as you walked closer, his brows furrowing. You were still smiling at him, but your steps didn’t look as light as normal. There was tension in your shoulders. 

“Happy Friday Eve, Buck,” you said, unfolding the blanket with extra care. 

There was a touch of weariness in your tone under the warmth.

It would’ve been easy to miss if he wasn’t paying attention. 

“You mean Friday Junior,” he said automatically.

“Same thing,” you murmured. 

“Your brother’s place?” he asked gently.

“Same trip as always,” you replied just as gently.

He looked at you in the mirror after pulling away from the curb. You were already gazing out the window, relaxed but not completely. His chest tightened when he spotted the slightest frown on your face.

It didn’t belong there.

Is she okay? Was work extra rough?

He waited a couple of blocks before he asked, “Long day?”

Bucky didn’t want to push if you didn’t want to talk, but he did want to make sure you were okay. If something upset you, he wanted to fix it. If someone upset you, he wanted to handle it.

Let me help however I can.

“Yeah,” you replied after a second. “Long week, actually.”

“Those are the worst.” He tapped a finger on the wheel. “Becca always tells me to take a breath and not let the week eat me alive.”

“That’s good advice.” Something soft and a little sad flickered in your eyes. He didn’t know if his words triggered a memory, but it felt important. “Especially coming from a sibling.”

“It is,” he replied. “Siblings just get it some days.”

You hummed in agreement, but didn’t say anything else. 

He bit his tongue. It was times like this when he wished he wasn’t driving. He wanted to turn around and give you his attention. You deserved it.

“Would it make you feel any better if I said you look nice today?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. 

That brought a smile to your face. “It does make me feel better,” you said, your tone almost back to normal. “Thank you.”

He smiled back gently, the sound of the engine and low music filling the space for a moment. It didn’t fix your long week, but he was glad the compliment helped. He’d consider that a win.

“You look nice, too.” You craned your head to look at him. “I really like that color on you.”

His pulse jumped. The usual ease was coming back, the cab lighter. And you noticed his shirt. 

I chose well. 

“Oh, this old thing?” he teased, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Really brings out my eyes.”

You giggled. “It sure does.”

He stole another glance at you when you looked out the window again. You were tired, but you were okay. Still warm. Still you.

He felt like he could breathe again.

“Hey,” he said after another block, reaching into the console. “I, uh… made you a list.”

“A list?” Your eyebrows went up. “What kind of list?”

“Movies. Some I like. Some I think you’d like,” he clarified, passing it back to you before he could change his mind. “You did offer to critique them.”

“And you’re taking me up on it?” You gasped, putting a hand to your chest. “I’m both shocked and flattered.”

“You should be,” he deadpanned before grinning.

You smiled, a little tired but genuine. “The first title has a star next to it.”

“Because it’s my favorite and a good one to start with.”

“Did you get Steve and Sam’s seal of approval?”

He scoffed. “They’d like it. Enough oldies for Steve, and Sam has somewhat decent taste in recent stuff… but he’ll never know I said that.” He coughed into his hand and added, “They’ve heard about you.”

You smiled. “Is that right?” 

“Yeah, I talk about more than I probably should.” He shrugged, but his left foot lightly tapped. “You’re a good passenger.”

And I’m just your driver.

Your smile faltered, just for a second, before you smoothed it over with a laugh. “And you’re a good driver.” You scanned the small piece of paper once more. “You put a lot of thought into this, didn’t you?”

Warmth rushed to his cheeks. “You should see the book list I’m making for you,” he muttered. 

He valued your opinion, and the lists were a way for you to think of him between rides. A way to keep you two connected. Maybe it was selfish that he wanted you to have him on your mind. 

But maybe it wasn’t.

“You’re making me a book list, too? Oh, I can’t wait for that.” You folded it neatly and put it in your bag. “I’ll watch the first movie tomorrow night.”

Another Friday night with no date? I wish I could man up and change that.

“I expect a full report next week,” he teased.

“You got it, Sarge,” you teased back.

His breath caught. “Sarge?” he repeated. “You remember my military ranking?”

Sergeant Barnes.

It was mentioned only once, just like the protein bars. A passing comment and nothing more. But you listened. 

You remembered.

“Of course, I do.”

The same thing you said about mentioning him to your family. 

He blinked rapidly, trying to steady the emotions stirring inside him as he drove. You continued to surprise him with your soft words and smiles, making him feel special in your eyes. You undid him in ways nothing or no one else could.

“Here we are,” he said minutes later.

“Thanks, Buck.” You gathered your things before you stopped, your inhale sharp. “Oh… you kept it.”

He followed your gaze to the dashboard. Your niece and nephew’s card was proudly on display. It was a beautiful reminder of you.

“Of course, I did,” he said, trying to play it cool. “It’s a nice drawing.”

“That’s really sweet, Buck.”

He shrugged a little, but heat crept up his neck. “It deserved a front and center spot.”

Your gaze softened more. “They’ll think you’re the coolest guy ever when I tell them.”

They made him feel cool by giving him the card. 

“Guess I’ll have to try to live up to that.”

“You already are,” you said without missing a beat, passing him a protein bar with the cash. 

His heart pounded in his chest. Another thoughtful gesture. More words that made him feel good. 

Say something. Do something. 

But he didn’t. 

There was a small pause before you sighed and got out, the door gently closing behind you. Tap. Tap. The familiar rhythm against the roof should’ve felt normal and comforting. 

But why did it feel like you were disappointed?

“See you later,” you said. “Drive safe.”

“See ya,” he exhaled.

He watched until you went inside, half tempted to hit the dashboard since he chickened out. He held himself back. There was no sense in taking his frustration out on the car. He could hit a punching bag later.

Maybe he could knock some sense into himself, too, and man up. 

“Should’ve said something,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. 

Some of the frustration at himself faded when he looked at the card. He imagined your niece and nephew were the kind of kids who loved when the garbage men came by every week or drivers dropped off packages. They’d probably have a blast riding around in his cab, cheering him on for driving you around. If Becca ever had kids, they’d likely be the same way.

He wondered, briefly, if you’d ever meet her, and the thought didn’t scare him the way it should.

But what would your brother think of me? Would he think I’m good enough?

At the end of the day, didn’t it matter only what you thought and saw in him?

His phone buzzed. 

Sam: “Well??? We’re waiting.”

Bucky stared at the message before typing back. “Dropped her off. Didn’t ask.”

Three dots appeared immediately. He didn’t want to look. Didn’t need the additional salt on the open wound of his self-doubt. 

But he looked since he was a glutton for punishment. 

Sam: “Man, if we can even call you that, you're killing me! I’m gonna lose the bet.”

Bet? What fucking bet?

Stevie: “There’s no bet. You’ll do it when it’s right.”

Sam: “Don’t make me get Becca and Sarah involved. I’ll do it.”

He tucked his phone away and shook his head. Tough and gentle love. He needed both. 

And he needed just a little more time to convince himself to erase the line he had drawn. 

The next passenger he picked up, a man complaining about the state of the economy, didn’t shift his focus fully away from you. The restaurant he dropped him at seemed like a nice one to take you to, something quiet and romantic. A couple of women he drove after that mentioned an acoustic concert in the park, which made him picture you leaning your head on his shoulder while listening to music together. Every passenger was like that, managing to tie something back to you. 

He still got everyone where they needed to go safely since that was the job. 

He just couldn’t stop thinking about you. 

By the time he arrived to pick you up again, the city lights had taken over the streets. He spotted you immediately, your arms wrapped around yourself to keep warm. You looked about the same as when you went in. A little more tired, but okay. 

And you still gave him a smile when you got in. 

Smiling like she’s happy to see me. 

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he replied, double checking the heat. “Kids wear you out again?”

“You know it. They had so much energy tonight, and I almost stepped on a lego when I was chasing them around.” 

“Occupational hazard of being a great aunt.”

“You know it.” You laughed a little. “They were also thrilled that you have their card up.” 

That warmed his heart. “So, they think I’m cool?”

“The coolest.”

He smiled at the sincerity. He believed that they believed that. It was a feeling he needed to lean into more. 

“Did you have a good night?” 

“Yep. Just driving. Getting everyone where they need to go,” he answered. 

And thinking of you. Always thinking about you. 

He turned the radio up a notch after that instead of trying to fill the silence, letting you relax. For a moment, he pictured swaying with you. Minus the quick brush of your fingers, he hadn’t touched you in any way. 

To hold you would be a gift.

“Hey, Buck?” you asked once he pulled up to your place. 

“Yeah?”

You bit your lip. “I wanted to give you something.”

“Yeah?” he asked, his chest tightening in anticipation as you reached into your bag. 

You hesitated before you nodded. “Yeah.”

Your hand shook a little when you passed him a small slip of paper with the cash. He unfolded it, blinking hard to make sure he was reading it correctly. He turned it over, too. 

It was your handwriting. Your name. Your number. 

You gave him your phone number. 

His heart forgot how to beat before it thundered. He imagined this scenario for weeks, but he hadn’t prepared himself for the reality of it. He didn’t think the universe would be that kind to him.

“I just figured, this way you don’t have to wait until next week for my report on the movie. You could just text me and see what I think,” you explained, trying to play it off casually. “Or if you ever want to send me pictures of Alpine. Or you’re just… bored.”

His pulse roared in his ears. You wanted to hear from him. You gave him another opening while he kept mentally blocking the door with his foot. 

You trusted him enough to want a connection outside of the cab and the rules he internally created and enforced.

“But you don’t have to,” you added quickly, reaching for the door handle. “I can wait until next week to talk to you and-”

“Wait,” he begged, trying not to panic. The last thing he wanted was for you to think he didn’t want to reach out. “I’ll, um… give you mine, too.”

You met his gaze in the mirror. He wanted to memorize how you looked at this moment. Hopeful. Beautiful. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he whispered. 

He found a pen and a receipt, making sure his writing was legible as he jotted it down. Your smile when he handed it over soothed his nerves. The smooth thing to do would’ve been to put his phone number on the movie list when he gave it to you earlier. But this was better. 

This felt more right. 

“Thanks.” You tucked it away like it was something sacred. “I’ll text you.”

He nodded, his throat tight. “I’d like that.”

You stepped out into the cool air, glancing back at him. The tension was almost completely gone from your shoulders. The glow from the street lamps made your eyes sparkle. 

He couldn’t look away from you if he tried. 

“Good night, Buck.”

“Good night.”

Once you were inside, he glanced at your number again, reading it until the numbers ran together. He reached for the phone to message the guys and Becca before deciding against it. Sam would lose his mind. Steve would tell him not to overthink it. Becca would be somewhere in the middle. He didn’t need that tonight.

He wanted to hang onto this just a little longer and let it sink in that it was real. 

Besides, it was just an exchange of phone numbers. You didn’t ask him out. He didn’t ask you out. He was still being professional. 

But he did check his phone immediately when a new message popped up. 

“Happy fourteenth Thursday. Thanks again for the ride.”

Still counting like me. 

“Anytime. Get some rest. And let me know when you watch the first movie.”

A neutral message. Polite. Professional. 

“I’m still in trouble.”

And he grinned like an idiot because of it.

You messaged him on Friday night.  

He saved you under his contacts as MFP, my favorite passenger.

MFP: “Halfway through the movie.”

His fingers hovered over the screen. If he typed back too quickly, he’d look desperate. If he waited too long, he’d look aloof. 

A full minute was enough time. 

“And?”

He winced at himself. That was too short. Too blunt. 

MFP: “They switched part of what happened in the book. Trying to reserve my judgement until the end.”

A sense of awe filled him. You read the book. Of course, you did. That made him want you even more. 

But he couldn’t say that. 

“I didn’t like the switch at first either, but keep watching. Trust me.”

MFP: “I trust you.”

That made his breath catch. 

He scratched behind Alpine’s ear, smiling when she purred. “She’s watching it and texting me. That’s good, right?”

She meowed happily. 

He put the movie on, too, in the hopes that he wouldn’t keep checking his phone. 

You messaged him again an hour later. 

MFP: “My score: 8/10. Adventurous, heartwarming, and visually stunning. I see why it’s your favorite.”

He smiled, typing out, “Dinner and tell me more?”

He deleted it and started over.

“8/10? I’ll take it. What didn’t you like besides the book switch?”

MFP: “A one point deduction was for the book switch. Another deduction for the bad wig. I mean, a huge budget like that and they couldn’t give the lead some good hair? Tragic.”

Bucky chuckled. “You make a good point. It was pretty bad.”

MFP: “But movie wise? So far, so good for your taste.”

That was a win in his book.

You didn’t message him again until Saturday night. 

MFP: “Is brinner an acceptable choice on a Saturday night?”

He smiled immediately. 

“Brinner is an acceptable choice every night.”

MFP: “I knew you’d understand. I can eat while I watch the second movie on the list.”

“I bet you’ll give it a 7/10.”

MFP: “We’ll see if you’re right. Hope you're having a good weekend.”

He reread that statement twice. It felt measured. Careful. 

“You, too.”

He read the message again after sending it. 

Maybe it was another message that was too short. 

And it was too late to erase it. 

You sent him a photo of a white cat on Sunday. 

MFP: “Is this Alpine’s doppelganger?”

He chuckled. The image wasn’t too far off but Alpine was prettier. He was a bit biased when it came to his feline. 

“There’s no cat like Al.”

MFP: “I believe it. And you were right, but the way. 7/10. I deducted two points for the one terrible accent.”

He tilted his head and laughed again. He had almost forgotten about the bad accent. It was amazing how one actor or actress could throw off an entire scene. 

“Much deserved deduction. Al would approve.”

MFP: “I’m honored.”

He didn’t hear from you for the rest of the day. 

It was his turn to message you first. 

“Hope you have water and caffeine to get you through Monday.”

He stared at it after sending. Maybe that too personal. Maybe it wasn’t enough. 

MFP: “Do I have to have water?”

He laughed, picturing you scrunching up your face. 

“Need you to stay hydrated.”

Because he cared.

MFP: “But what if I try to live on stubbornness like you?”

You’re too good to live on stubbornness. 

“Still need water.”

MFP: “Yes, Sarge.”

Oh, that did something to him. 

MFP: “But only if you drink some water, too.”

“I will.”

He would for you. 

He didn’t hear from you on Tuesday. 

That was fine. You were busy. You had a life outside of him. And he didn’t want to bother you. 

But he checked his phone more than he should have. 

You messaged him first thing on Wednesday. 

MFP: “Is it Friday Eve yet?”

Relief hit him faster than he expected. 

“Almost. You surviving?”

There was a delay this time. Long enough for him to notice. 

MFP: “Barely, but I’m trying.”

He frowned a little. 

“Hang in there.”

He hesitated before adding another message. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

There was another pause. 

MFP: “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

He stared at it longer than he meant to. 

Something about it felt different. Quieter. He could’ve been imagining it. 

He sent one more message before he could stop himself. 

“Can’t wait.” 

He meant it. 

Even if something told him tomorrow would feel different.  

Bucky waited at the curb as patiently as he could, checking his hair three times. Just like every week before, he looked forward to seeing you. But this felt different because the texts had been good overall. Almost effortless.

Almost. 

Tonight could be a turning point.

Bucky checked his phone again, even though he told himself he wouldn’t.

Sam: “You better not fumble this now that you got her number.”

Stevie: “Ignore him. Just be yourself.”

He huffed under his breath, locking the screen.

Like it’s that easy.

He turned his attention back to your building, his heart sinking the moment you stepped outside.

The usual sweep of your gaze didn’t happen since you were looking at your feet. You hardly seem to notice or care that your bag slipped from your shoulder. When you finally lifted your gaze, you looked worn out in a way he had never seen before. 

It was like someone took the light inside you and dialed it down.

Everyone had bad days. That was a normal part of life. But this was you. 

It didn’t sit right with him at all.

“Happy Friday Eve,” you stated with a dim smile, hugging the blanket against your chest like a pillow. Your fingers trembled just enough that he spotted it. 

“Friday Junior,” he said because that’s what he was supposed to say.

Same thing.

You didn’t say it. 

You looked out the window, your jaw tight enough that he could see the tension in your neck. There was no teasing either as he drove. No references to any of the messages between you, like brinner or the bad wig or accent from the movies. No jokes about staying hydrated or calling him Sarge. 

There were no comments on anything. 

Just the kind of silence that for the first time felt off between you two.

Something was wrong.

I fucked this up, didn’t I? 

He thought back to every message he sent like he could figure out the exact moment things flipped. 

He responded in a timely manner. He initiated at times so it wouldn’t all fall on you. They weren’t overly flirty but they weren’t cold either. 

Maybe you expected more and he let you down.

Or maybe he leaned in too far with the “can’t wait” message and now you were pulling back. 

“Hey, um…” He cleared his throat, his grip shifting on the wheel. “If I said something wrong, or if I upset you with one of my texts…”

“What?” Your head snapped toward him, your brows pinching. “Buck, no.”

He blinked, surprised at how quickly you shut that down when his mind was screaming at him. “You sure?” He bit the inside of his cheek. “You just seem off, and I didn’t want it to be because of me.”

He was sure he could handle just about anything but that.

He didn’t want to lose the one bright part of his week because he misread a moment or sent the wrong text.

“Buck,” you said, even gentler this time. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

His shoulders dropped. “Really?” he pressed, needing to be absolutely certain.

“Really. I like talking with you… a lot,” you promised, a shallow breath leaving your lungs. “I swear, it isn’t you.”

The weight in his chest eased enough for him to breathe but not enough to feel okay since your voice cracked. You liked talking to him, which was good. Better than good. But if he wasn’t the issue, it was something else. Something you weren’t telling him.

It worried him.

“Can I ask you something?” you asked softly.

“Yeah. Anything,” he said honestly. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever asked you this.” You paused to consider your words. “Why do you drive?”

He inhaled. It wasn’t unusual for you to ask about him. But most people didn’t care enough to ask why he did this job. 

You weren’t most people there, were you?

Your gaze was back on him instead of looking out the window, waiting patiently for his answer because you wanted to know.

Like Becca said… you care.

“I guess the easy answer is having a flexible schedule, getting decent money on the right nights, and it beats being in an office with some boss hounding me.”

You gave him a knowing, very small smile. “And what’s the real answer?”

He took a breath. “You remember I served in the army.” You nodded in acknowledgement. “When I got out… there was no clear objective. No structure.” His voice stayed even, but quieter. “It was just… a lot of noise.”

He stared at the taillights in front of him, lost for a moment. 

His smile had been wrong for days when he got out. Everything seemed like too much or not enough. And the world didn’t slow down just because people couldn’t keep up. 

“I had my friends. My sister. I wasn’t alone,” he said like it mattered because it did. Not everyone had that support. “But it still felt like I was supposed to be doing something… and I didn’t know what that was.”

You didn’t interrupt or rush him, so he continued.

“But this?” He gestured around the cab. “It gave me something again.”

A sense of purpose. A mission. 

“I have an objective… orders,” he explained, tapping the dashboard. “I pick a passenger up and I get them from point A to point B. That’s the job.”

You nodded slowly. “That makes sense.”

“And how I get you there? That’s on me.” He tapped his chest. “If the weather’s bad, I take it into account. If there’s awful traffic, I adjust. If my usual route is blocked, I find another way.”

“So, it gives you a sense of control,” you mused. “You know what you have to do, but you choose how you execute it.”

He nodded. You seemed to understand. Not everyone did.

“It’s simple in a good way. Discipline and structure with adaptability.” He ran a hand along the wheel, smiling to himself. “I know what I’m supposed to do. I know I can do it well.”

He glanced at you in the mirror, vulnerability shining in his eyes.

“And at the end of the ride… I get someone where they need to go. Safely.”

He paused, the sounds of honking horns and engines surrounding him. It was strangely comforting. But the most comforting thing was your presence and tender expression. 

“And sometimes… that’s enough,” he finished. 

“It is. It matters,” you insisted, gently but firmly. “More than you think.”

You make me feel like I matter. 

“I do my best.” The words came out nonchalantly but he meant it. “I can’t control what others do when they’re on the road, just like they can’t control me. But if something does happen, I fix it.”

Your expression shifted. “And if there’s a time that you can’t fix it? You can’t control what’s happening?”

Bucky stilled before he realized it. That didn’t sound like you were talking about driving. He had a good read on people, but he couldn’t read between the lines of this. Couldn’t figure out why you were asking that. 

What needs fixing?

“I just keep driving,” he finally answered. “Like Steve always says… We have to move forward.”

You shifted in your seat. “I guess it’s all we can do,” you said more to yourself than him. “And for what it’s worth, you really are doing a great job,” you added.

He inhaled sharply. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You help people every time you drive. You don’t just drive well. You do it safely, like you said,” you pointed out, giving him a small smile. “I always feel safe when I’m with you.”

Those words landed in the middle of his doubt in himself, threatening to tear it apart. There was trust within your compliment. It was pure in an impure world.

“Good.” He had to swallow to keep his voice steady. “I’m glad you feel that way.”

You smiled again, but it didn’t reach your eyes. 

His chest ached. Every smile seemed to take more effort than it should, like you were chipping away little pieces of yourself. He hated that.

He hated that he couldn’t shoulder the weight still pushing you down, even just a little. 

“Here we are,” he said once he stopped, quieter than before. 

“Thanks, Buck,” you said, handing over a protein bar with the cash. “And I’m sorry if I made you think that you upset me.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said quickly, turning around as best as he could so he could see you. “You don’t have to do that with me.”

There was no reason for you to apologize when he was the one overthinking.

“But are you sure you’re alright?” he asked, searching your face for the answer your lips may not say. 

Lean on me if you aren’t.

Something passed in your eyes and then it was gone. “I will be,” you assured him.

His stomach dropped when you took the blanket with you, like you forgot you were holding it. You clutched it like a lifeline as you walked away from the cab. He watched you go, reaching for the door handle. You disappeared into the building before he could follow, which he had never done before.

You weren’t okay.

For the first time since he met you, he had no idea how to fix it. 

But something told him he was about to find out.

By the time he came back, he was tense. He told himself you just needed time with your family tonight. That whatever was on your mind eased with some laughter and familiar warmth. 

It had to have helped. 

…Right?

His heart didn’t sink when he saw you.

It cracked.

You had the blanket around your shoulders, trying to hold yourself together as you put one foot in front of the other. The look of sadness on your face wasn’t fleeting or light. It was the kind that settled in your bones.

What the hell happened?

You forced a smile when you met his eye and it twisted something inside him painfully. 

Don’t do that. Please, don’t do that.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you replied, your voice thin. 

He didn’t drive off right away, giving you a moment to get your bearings. 

But you didn’t. 

You didn’t slip your shoes off or tuck yourself in. The blanket stayed around your shoulders like an afterthought. Your breaths were too measured. Too careful. 

He held the wheel so tight that his fingers ached.

You were a heartbeat away from unraveling.

“Ready?” 

“Yeah.”

The city bustled around like normal, but nothing inside the cab felt the same. 

The air felt even heavier than earlier. The silence was too loud.. Louder than any word you ever spoke.

And you simply stared ahead like you were bracing yourself for impact.

His teeth snapped together, trying hard to keep himself in check. His job was to get you home safely. If you wanted to confide in him, he’d listen. But you didn’t have to lean on him. He was just…

Your breath hitched on the next turn. 

He made it three more blocks before he couldn’t take it anymore. 

Fuck this. I’m not just your driver.

He switched lanes and turned down a road he had never taken on your route before. It was familiar to him, of course. Away from some of the noise. It had a soothing view, too. 

Exhaling through his nose, he stopped the car and turned to look at you. 

He recognized pain when he saw it. Had lived through it. He couldn’t recall ever seeing you look so fragile. 

It’s okay to break with me. 

“Hey,” he said carefully because you needed something gentle. “I know you said you’ll be alright… but you’re not.”

“I will be,” you said quickly, your lower lip trembling. “I have to be.”

“Hey…” he whispered again. 

You don’t need to be strong tonight. 

You shook your head automatically, your next breath shaky. “I don’t want to dump this on you.”

“You’re not dumping anything on me,” he promised, needing you to believe him. “You’re hurting.”

Your eyes filled and you tried to blink the moisture away. 

He didn’t think when he got out of the cab, his body moving on instinct at the sight of your tears. He got in the back with you, leaving you enough space so you wouldn’t feel cornered. His hands rested on his knees, making sure not to touch you since he didn’t know if that would help or make things worse.

 But he wanted to be there for you.

“Please, let me help,” he begged, his voice thick. “Even just a little.”

That did it. 

A sob burst from your chest, your hand coming up to cover your mouth and failing to keep it in.

His heart stopped, his fingers curling to hold himself back from hauling you into his arms.

You hastily wiped your tears away that fell, like it would hide them. Your shoulders shook the more you tried to hold them in. Another broken sound escaped, the threads inside you slowly pulling apart.

“He’s sick,” you whimpered. “My brother…”

Your words were like a punch to the gut.

Oh, no…

“He has been for a while. They thought he was getting better, but the last couple of weeks have been bad,” you admitted, your face crumbling. “He barely made it through dinner tonight before he had to lay down.”

His jaw tightened in that helpless way when grief felt too close and overpowering. 

“And the kids… They don’t get why their dad is so tired or why their mom looks so sad when she thinks no one’s looking.” You hiccuped, the sound raw. “And I’m trying to help when I can. I’m trying to be strong for everyone, but I’m scared and… I can’t fix this.”

His throat went tight. 

“And if there’s a time that you can’t fix it? You can’t control what’s happening?”

It all made sense now. 

The nights where you looked a little worn down. Your smiles that didn’t reach your eyes. Your light dimming. The talk earlier tonight.

While he had been overanalyzing his interactions with you, you were carrying this.

Alone.

And he couldn’t fix it for you.

“I help cook, clean, make the kids smile, but I don’t know what to do anymore,” you whimpered, looking at him with teary eyes. “It hurt for me to smile tonight.”

Trying to smile through pain was one of the hardest things a person could do. 

“I’ve been holding this in and I… can’t anymore.”

Bucky couldn’t keep staying behind the line he drew.

Not anymore.

His arms went around you without another thought, strong and steady, pulling you in like it was the most natural thing in the world. You clung to him, your fingers curling in his shirt as you sobbed painfully into his neck. He closed his eyes, willing whatever being was watching over them to feed some of your pain into him. 

Don’t do this to her. Give it to me. I can take it.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, cradling the back of your head as your cries continued. “I’ve got you.”

He didn’t say it was okay because it wasn’t. But he was there. Solid and real. Nothing else mattered except you. 

“He’s my big brother. He’s a good guy. He’s supposed to be okay,” you choked out between sobs. “But he isn’t, and I can’t make it any better.”

He pressed his cheek to your temple. He knew how afraid Becca had been when he served and how relieved she was when he came back. If he were to get sick now… If anything happened to him…

“You just need to love him,” he whispered against your ear.  “And you do. You have such a big heart.”

You cried harder, making him hold you closer. 

“Just let it out,” he urged, rubbing your shaking back. 

Minutes passed before your cries eventually slowed to small sniffles. Your body slumped against his, the tears wearing you out. And he held you through it all, letting you feel his warmth and comfort. 

You lifted your head slowly, your cheeks wet. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

“Don’t you dare apologize for that,” he said, wiping a stray tear away with his thumb. “Sometimes saying it out loud makes it more real and it opens up the floodgates before you’re ready.”

Like me being a coward about my feelings for you. 

You leaned into his touch briefly. “I didn’t want to be a burden,” you said, your voice wrecked. 

“You’re not.” He pulled back enough to really look at you. “You never could be.”

You searched his face, your lip trembling again. “Am I doing enough?”

Your grief already cut open his heart, but your question made him feel the blade all over again. 

“You’re doing more than enough. You’re showing up for everyone. That matters,” he swore to you, echoing some of your earlier words as he held you tighter. “More than you know.”

Your eyes shimmered again, but the tears didn’t fall. 

“And you can lean on me whenever you need to,” he added, giving you a tender smile. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

You smiled back faintly. “Thanks, Buck.”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Anytime.”

You let go of his shirt, but didn’t make an effort to move out of his arms. He didn’t move either, taking a second to breathe with you and memorize how it felt to hold you. He’d keep you in his embrace all night if he could.

“Can I just...” You glanced down, your fingers absentmindedly tracing a pattern on your thigh. “Can I say something?”

“Anything,” he answered, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders. 

Say whatever you need to. I got you.

“Seeing you… talking to you,” you began. “I always look forward to it.”

You lifted your gaze, somehow more exposed and vulnerable than your earlier tears. 

“It’s the best part of my week,” you admitted. 

Bucky froze completely. 

You exhaled shakily, like you said too much. 

“I didn’t want to fall apart in front of you,” you went on while his brain was scrambling to catch up. “But everything felt heavy and I just… I felt safe enough that I could. So… thank you. For that.”

He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Your words flowed through him, filing every crack he couldn’t seal shut himself.

I’m the best part of your week? 

Not work, your friends, or even your family?

Me?

Since the beginning, he told himself to stay in his lane and keep things simple. To be professional. Driver and passenger. That was it.

But you were here in his arms, trusting him enough with something so raw and admitting that he was the one thing that made your week a little lighter. 

Him.

And he was still acting as if there was a line he shouldn’t cross?

His thumb brushed your shoulder. You looked to him for comfort tonight. You needed him in a way. 

Maybe you wanted him, too.

If that were true, what the hell was he waiting for?

Don’t rush her. Don’t make this about me.

“I appreciate you telling me that,” he whispered once he found his voice. “Let’s get you home, okay?”

You nodded, your energy spent as you shifted from his hold. He felt the loss immediately, the cab feeling colder. But he didn’t linger, as much as he wanted to.

He moved back to the driver seat grudgingly and started the engine. 

You weren’t too far from your place, but he drove a bit slower and checked the mirror more than he needed to. You had your legs curled up now, your eyes heavy but open. Not distant or shut down. Just tired. 

You had a good reason to feel tired.

But you also gave him a smile when you caught him looking the last time. A small, real one. Because you felt safe. 

You’re safe with me.

The lights didn’t seem as harsh when he turned onto your street. The breeze wasn’t as strong. The world seemed to realize you needed little wins after breaking down.

Neither of you moved right away when he parked. 

“Hey.” He turned slightly in his seat, your expression glassy but more clear when you handed him the money. “I’m gonna walk you to your building tonight.”

It wasn’t a question or suggestion.

Should’ve been doing that since the first night. 

“I’d like that,” you uttered. 

“And you can take the blanket,” he offered when you started to fold it. “If you want.”

“Really?” Your eyes widened in realization. “Oh, my God. I took it with me earlier. I’m so sorry.”

Bucky had to smile at the way you looked genuinely distressed, like you had done something unforgivable. 

“It’s okay,” he said gently. “You had a lot on your mind.”

You hesitated, but didn’t set it down. “Are you sure I can take it with me?”

“Yeah.” His gaze softened. “I put it back there so you’d be comfortable, and it kinda defeats the purpose if you don’t use it.”

He wouldn’t be there to hold you tonight if you cried again, so the blanket would have to do. It was a small piece of comfort. A small piece of him. 

Warmth filled your eyes. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” he replied, meaning it in more ways than one. 

He stepped out first, going to your door to open it. He didn’t rush you as you gathered your things, letting you go at your pace. He understood how the body lagged sometimes after everything spilled over. 

And his hand was already outstretched to help you out if you wanted it. 

You took it. 

Instead of the usual spark when your fingers touched, something steadier and grounding moved between you both. 

It felt like your hand belonged with his. 

It feels right. 

He helped you out and fell in step beside you, matching your pace without thinking. Your thumb brushed his skin, making his grip tighten a fraction when he glanced at you. Faint exhaustion lingered in your body, but you weren’t as tense. Your breathing had evened out. 

The hurt was still there, but you were safe.

You made it to the door, the light above it casting a glow over you, but you didn’t reach for the handle or let go of his hand. 

The soft good nights usually happened at the car, but not tonight. 

“Thank you for tonight,” you said above a whisper. 

He nodded, everything from the last few weeks pressing into his mind. 

Sam on one shoulder. “Be a man and get her number. 

Steve on the other. “You’re allowed to want something.”

The teasing. The smiles. The protein bars. The card your niece and nephew made. The movie list. 

How you quietly gave him your number. The careful texts. The deeper talks. 

The way you trusted him and broke in his arms tonight.

The way you said he’s the best part of your week. 

The way he was done pretending that there wasn’t something there between you. 

Time to erase the line for good. 

He kept your hand in his, refusing to retreat into neutral territory. “I, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled. “I was thinking.”

You gazed at him expectantly. 

“I know things are… a lot right now,” he said, trying to be careful and not add pressure when you had so much on your mind. “With your brother and everything.”

Your grip tightened on the blanket, but you nodded for him to continue. 

“And I’m not trying to…” He huffed a little, almost frustrated with himself. “I’m not trying to make things harder for you.”

That was the last thing he wanted to do. 

“You’re not,” you said, stepping closer. “You never could.”

That gave him just enough courage to keep going, taking one last deep breath.

Just say it. 

“I just… I don’t want to keep pretending that I’m just your cab driver anymore. Not after tonight,” he said, his forehead almost touching yours. “Because you’re the best part of my week, too.”

Your breath caught enough that he felt it. 

“So. When things feel less heavy, or you just need a break…” His heart was pounding now. “Would you like to have dinner with me?”

He didn’t breathe as the question hung in the air. 

Opening up and asking you out wasn’t going to magically erase the pain or worry you felt. It wouldn’t fix what was happening with your brother. But you didn’t need to go it alone. 

You stared at him, almost like you were afraid he’d take the offer back. “Dinner?” you echoed.

“Yeah. Dinner. With me,” he said, his voice low. “No meter running or route. Just… us.”

Just the two of you enjoying each other’s company. 

“Because I want to see you outside of the cab.” His thumb brushed your knuckles. “I want to critique movies and books with you and eat pizza or noodles or brinner and just talk. I want Al to finally see my favorite passenger in person.” 

A small laugh escaped you, the sound like sunlight appearing after a storm. 

“But only if you want, and only when you’re ready.”

You stared at him for a long moment before you smiled, one that reached your eyes for the first time tonight. 

“I’d like that,” you said 

The rush of relief hit him so fast it almost made him lightheaded. You wanted to have dinner with him. You wanted to see him outside of the weekly routine. 

“Yeah?” he asked, just to be sure.

“Yeah,” you replied, tender and certain. “Is… tomorrow too soon?”

Bucky blinked, genuinely thinking he misheard you. 

Tomorrow?

His heart stuttered. He expected an offer to check your schedule or something weeks down the line. But not this. 

“Tomorrow?” he repeated breathlessly. 

You nodded, a tad shy. “Yeah. I mean, if you’re free… and it’s not too fast or anything?”

Too fast?

I’ve been waiting fifteen Thursdays now for this. 

“It’s not too fast.” He shook his head, a faint, disbelieving smile tugging at his lips. “It’s actually kinda perfect.”

“It is?”

“It is,” he said, more certain. “Tomorrow’s great.”

Tomorrow meant you wanted this. Not just someday down the line, but now. Even with everything going on. 

“We can keep it easy,” he said, his thumb moving over your knuckles again. “Whatever you’re up for.”

“Movie?” you suggested, a small hint of your usual warmth slipping back in. “And noodles?”

He laughed. “Number seven?”

“Number seven,” you confirmed, your smile widening. 

“Alright. Noodles and a movie at my place.”

“It’s a date,” you whispered.

A date.

You were still standing close. Close enough that if he leaned in just a fraction… God, he wanted to kiss you. More than anything. 

The two of you took an important step. He finally stopped being a coward. You didn’t hold everything in. 

But he didn’t kiss you. 

Tonight wasn’t about that. 

His forehead, however, did intentionally brush yours this time. 

“I’ll text you,” he murmured. 

“I’ll be waiting.”

And I’ll be counting down the minutes. 

You squeezed his hand before finally stepping back, his blanket tucked against your chest. “Good night, Buck.”

He memorized the way you gazed at him,  basking in that glow. “Good night.”

You slipped inside, the door clicking shut behind you. There was no drop in his stomach. No nerves. 

He didn’t have to wait for another Thursday to see you again. 

He finally turned back toward the cab, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to physically process what just happened.

Dinner and a movie. 

You wanted to spend time with him. 

“Jesus,” he muttered happily under his breath as he slid back into the driver’s seat. 

His gaze drifted to the backseat, landing on the empty space where you had been curled up just minutes ago, his blanket wrapped around you, trusting him with something rough and fragile.

When he picked you up tomorrow, you could sit in the front beside him. 

His phone buzzed, his heart picking up before he even saw your message. 

Of course, it was you. 

MFP: “Curled up on the couch with your blanket. Thanks again. For everything.”

It gave him peace of mind knowing you made it into your place safe and sound since he only walked you to the building door. 

“Thanks for letting me help.”

He made a difference tonight. 

He almost set the phone down when another message popped up. 

MFP: “My brother was awake when I reached out.”

He held his breath. Was he okay? Did something happen?

“Yeah?”

Three dots appeared long enough that he sat up straighter. 

MFP: “I told him we’re having dinner tomorrow, and he said he’s looking forward to meeting the guy who keeps me safe every week.”

He reread the message until the screen went dark. 

Your brother, the one you were terrified for, wanted to meet him. 

Becca would want to meet you. 

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to ground himself. Something earnest and dangerously close to overwhelming spread from his chest, the card on the dashboard staring at him. It brought a smile to his face. 

“I’d be honored to meet him. I’ll have to make a good first impression.”

As a big brother, Bucky sensed and respected that he would be a bit protective of you. 

MFP: “You already have.”

The additional layer of assurance did wonders. 

MFP: “Get some rest tonight, okay? Happy Friday Eve.”

There it was. 

Soft, familiar, and you. 

“You, too. And it’s Friday Junior.”

MFP: “Same thing. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” he whispered, happiness filling him to the point where he thought he’d float away. 

He shot off a quick message to the guys and Becca. “Got a date tomorrow night. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

With a smile, he put the phone away. He could already see Sam losing his mind and Steve would try and fail to act subtle about it. Becca would demand every detail after. He’d wait until later to see and hear their stunned reactions. 

For now, he was going to drive and get a few more people where they needed to go. 

But not before taking one last look at your building and picturing you curled up with his blanket. 

Fifteen Thursdays.

Fifteen weeks of watching you slip into his cab with tired eyes, soft smiles, and sweetness that made a difference in his day. Fifteen weeks of falling for you in steady increments. Fifteen weeks of chances he almost let slip by because it took him some time to feel brave. 

And tonight he erased the line he drew in the sand for good because you mattered more. 

You let him see you and it was a beautiful thing. 

“Tomorrow,” he said again like a promise, starting the car and pulling away from the curb. 

Tomorrow there wouldn’t be a meter running or rearview mirror glances. No pretending it was just another ride. It would just be you and him. 

He was counting down the minutes. 

And for once, he didn’t feel like he needed to second guess any of it. 

Whew! Did we make it? This isn't the end for these two. It's very much a beginning. Would love to hear your thoughts!

Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[nahthanks]

I cannot express how beautiful this was oh gosh, I saw it was 10k plus and usually the story drags but this flowed so masterfully and it was so tender. My heart broke when it stopped scrolling. Truly loved this. 5/5

[heldbybarnes]

welcome to the light side of hbb!

everything here is fictional and meant to bring a little softness to your screen. please check tags and ratings before reading

ABOUT ME - REQ GUIDELINES - PROTECTION POLICY - TAG NAV

the darker side of hbb ‼️ = OC name is used | ⚠️ = NSFW 18+ ONLY Current anons: 🩵🐸🫧🫒🔮🖤🐛💐🪻🍎🔆🩰🌻 🪩😼⚓️🪷🧃🐍🦢🪵🥀🍇⚙️🌷🦌🦭🕯️🌧️🪐

SERIES CENTRAL

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ cherries In... winter | spring | summer ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

post ws. a cabin, a storm, and two broken people trying to thaw.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ink & aftershocks | part i | ii | iii ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

post ws. his hidden letters become the bridge from silence to love.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ love songs for ghosts ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

eight versions of him. eight versions of you. one love that always finds its way back.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ lingua del cuoure ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

he doesn’t speak your language—yet he listens, and falls for every word.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ the mirrorball effect ‼️ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

he joins the show for pr. you’re the pro who’s supposed to teach him to dance—not the one he’s supposed to fall for, step by step, week by week.

ONESHOTS

standalone fics with a punch of emotion or steam

DAD BUCKY & DOMESTIC FEELS

soft metal dad. chaos kids. pure serotonin

AUs, TROPES & FUN CONCEPTS

soulmates, bookstores, fake dating, and everything in between

ASK REQUESTS & WRITING DAYS

quick hits of emotion, steam, or soft chaos—bite-sized Bucky, perfect for scrolling

5+1 MOMENTS W/ BUCKY BARNES

snapshots of who he was, who he is, and the moments that stitched it all together

mdni banner: @cursed-carmine section dividers: @chateaubarnes

[heldbybarnes]

bucky barnes are back scratches? I know it's vague but I also know how amazing you are!

im suing you for emotial damage.

---------

Bucky doesn't even know you're looking in the beginning.

He was sitting on the floor between your knees, the both of you tucked into the quiet blue hour of evening, when the apartment felt softer than usual and the city outside had dulled itself down to a hum. The television was on, but neither of you had been watching it for a while. Some old sitcom played low in the background, laugh track rising and falling while Bucky worked on a little wooden model Sam had mailed him as a joke and then immediately insisted was “good for fine motor skills and stress management.”

Bucky had called him an asshole.

Then he’d spent three nights carefully putting it together.

You were on the couch behind him, one leg folded beneath you, your other foot hooked lazily near his hip. Your fingers kept drifting down without thought, brushing through the short hair at the nape of his neck whenever he leaned back close enough. It was instinct by now, touching him. Not because he demanded it. Not because he was clingy in any obvious way. But because somewhere along the line, you had learned that Bucky Barnes settled under gentle hands.

He never asked for much.

That was the thing that always cracked your heart open a little. He gave without thinking. Coffee waiting for you before you woke up. Your keys moved from wherever you had tossed them to the little dish by the door so you wouldn’t panic in the morning. A blanket pulled over your shoulders when you fell asleep on the couch. His hand at the small of your back in crowded places, not possessive so much as present.

But when it came to wanting, Bucky still moved like a man sneaking across thin ice.

Careful.

Quiet.

Ready for the whole thing to split under him.

That evening, your nails skimmed lightly along the back of his neck, and he went still.

Not tense. Not afraid. Just… still.

His shoulders lowered by a fraction. His chin tipped forward. His hands, broad and capable and scarred by more history than anyone should have to carry, stopped moving around the little wooden pieces in his lap.

You paused. “You okay?”

Bucky blinked like he’d been pulled out of somewhere far away. “Yeah,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah, doll. M’fine.”

You watched him for a moment, your hand hovering near his neck. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” His answer came softer this time. “No, not at all.”

So you kept going, gentler than before, dragging your nails in a slow line from the base of his skull to the collar of his shirt.

Bucky’s eyes fluttered shut.

Your heart did something tender and unbearable.

He looked younger like that. Not in any obvious way. Not like the years had vanished from his face or like the weight had lifted completely from his back. But something in him loosened, some old guarded part stepping out from behind its wall just long enough to breathe.

You didn’t say anything. You knew better by now than to shine too bright a light on these things too fast. Instead, you let your fingers move in soft, lazy strokes, tracing over the warm skin at his nape, down to where the collar of his shirt interrupted you.

The little model was forgotten in his lap.

After a while, he swallowed.

“My ma used to do that,” he said.

The words were so quiet you almost missed them.

Your hand stilled again, but only for a second. Then you resumed, softer. “Yeah?”

Bucky nodded once. His eyes stayed closed. “When I was little. I was always crawlin’ into her lap for a back scratch. Didn’t matter what she was doin’. Reading, sewing, talking to my sisters. I’d just wedge myself in there like a cat.”

You smiled faintly, trying to picture it. Little Bucky, all dark hair and sharp elbows, demanding affection like it was his birthright. Before war. Before serum. Before anyone taught him that needing comfort was something to hide.

“I bet she loved that,” you murmured.

“She did.” His mouth curved, barely. “Made a whole show of complainin’ sometimes. Said I was too big to be climbin’ all over her. Then she’d pull me closer anyway.” He let out a small breath. “Her nails were always the perfect length. Not too sharp. Just enough.”

Your fingers moved over him again, and this time you felt it—the shiver that rolled through him, subtle but unmistakable.

His voice thickened. “Yours are like hers.”

Oh.

The room seemed to quiet around you.

Not awkwardly. Not heavily. Just enough for the truth of that to settle between you.

Your hand slid from his neck to his shoulder. “Buck.”

He shook his head once, like he regretted saying it, like the memory had slipped out before he could stop it. “Sorry. That’s— I don’t know why I said that.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

He gave a small, embarrassed huff. “It sounds childish.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“It kinda does.”

“Bucky.” You leaned forward, wrapping your arms loosely around his shoulders from behind. Your cheek pressed to the top of his head. “Wanting something soft doesn’t make you childish.”

For a moment, he didn’t move.

Then his flesh hand came up and covered your forearm. He held you there, firm enough to ask without asking.

You pressed a kiss into his hair. “Do you want me to scratch your back?”

His fingers flexed around your arm.

A long silence stretched.

Then, so quietly it nearly broke you, he said, “Yeah.”

You kissed him again. “Come here.”

He turned his head slightly, glancing back at you with those blue eyes that always looked like they were bracing for the worst and hoping for the best. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“You were comfortable.”

“I’ll be more comfortable with you.”

That got you the smallest smile.

Bucky moved slowly, like he was giving you every possible chance to change your mind. He set the model pieces aside with almost ridiculous care, then stood and rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy in a way that made your chest ache. This was a man who had faced armies, assassins, aliens, nightmares with his own face—and yet asking to be touched kindly seemed to take more courage than any of it.

You shifted on the couch and patted the space beside you. “Shirt off or on?”

His cheeks pinked.

Actually pinked.

You bit back a smile because you loved him too much to tease him right now.

“Uh,” he said, looking down. “Off, maybe. If that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay.”

He nodded, then reached behind his neck and tugged his shirt over his head. You had seen him shirtless countless times. In bed. After showers. In the kitchen when he forgot modesty was a thing before coffee. But this felt different. There was no heat in it, no performance, no flirtation to hide behind.

Just trust.

He sat down in front of you again, back turned, shoulders broad and marked with the evidence of everything he had survived. Scars. Muscle. The seam where metal met skin. The places where pain had written itself into him and stayed.

You settled behind him and laid your palm between his shoulder blades.

Bucky exhaled.

“There?” you asked.

He nodded.

You started gently, dragging your nails down the center of his back in slow lines, careful at first, learning what he liked. His head dipped almost immediately. The reaction was so sweet, so unguarded, that your throat tightened.

Again, you scratched lightly from his shoulders down toward the middle of his back, then up again, varying the pressure when he made a low sound of approval.

“Okay?” you whispered.

His answer came out rough. “Perfect.”

So you kept going.

You traced the strong slope of his shoulders. The tender skin along his spine. The places where he carried tension like armor, coaxing them loose with patient strokes. Every now and then, your nails caught just right and he melted a little more, his breathing deepening, his body leaning back toward your touch.

You didn’t know how long you stayed like that.

Minutes, maybe.

Long enough for the television episode to end and another to begin. Long enough for the light outside to dim fully. Long enough for Bucky Barnes to stop holding himself like he had to be ready for impact.

Eventually, he spoke.

“She used to hum,” he said.

Your hand slowed. “Your mom?”

“Yeah.” His voice was soft with distance. “Old songs. Stuff I don’t remember the names of anymore. Sometimes I can almost hear it, but then…” He tapped two fingers against his knee. “Gone.”

Your heart squeezed. “Do you want me to hum?”

He glanced back, surprised.

You shrugged, smiling gently. “I don’t know old songs from the forties, but I’ve got a few lullabies in me.”

His eyes shone a little in the low light. He looked away before you could look too closely.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, doll. That’d be nice.”

So you hummed.

Nothing fancy. Nothing perfect. Just a soft, meandering tune your own mother used to sing under her breath when she washed dishes or folded laundry. Your nails moved over his back as you hummed, and slowly, carefully, Bucky leaned back until his shoulder rested against your knee.

Then his cheek.

Then, after another minute, he shifted entirely, laying down with his head in your lap like he had been waiting for permission to fall apart gently.

You gave it to him.

Your fingers moved from his back to his hair, then down again, scratching lightly over his shoulders while he curled one arm around your calf. His eyes closed. His face softened. For once, he did not look like a weapon or a ghost or a man outrunning history.

He looked like someone’s boy.

Someone’s love.

Yours.

You bent over him and kissed his temple.

Bucky’s eyes opened halfway. “What was that for?”

“For asking,” you whispered.

His brows pulled together slightly.

You brushed your thumb along his cheek. “I know it’s hard sometimes.”

He swallowed, then turned his face into your thigh, hiding a little. “Feels stupid.”

“It’s not.”

“I’m a grown man askin’ for a back scratch because I miss my ma.”

“You’re a grown man letting someone love you where you’re tender.” Your voice stayed soft, but firm enough that he heard every word. “That’s not stupid, Bucky. That’s brave.”

He was quiet for a long time.

Then he pressed a kiss to your knee.

“Love you,” he murmured.

“I love you too.”

Your nails drifted slowly down his back again, and he sighed like something old inside him had finally been allowed to rest. The apartment stayed warm and dim around you, full of the soft buzz of the television, the distant sound of traffic, the steady rhythm of his breathing.

And every night after that, he got a little better at asking.

Sometimes with words.

Sometimes by sitting on the floor between your knees, silent and hopeful.

Sometimes by taking your hand and placing it gently at the back of his neck.

And every single time, you gave him what he needed.

Not because he had to earn it.

Not because he had to explain.

But because somewhere long ago, a little boy had been loved with gentle hands, and somewhere in the present, the man he became still remembered what softness felt like.

You were more than happy to remind him.

[nahthanks]

This was so delightfully sweet I could've cried

[aquaticmercy]

Aquaticmercy’s General Masterlist

I write about MCU / Marvel Comics characters.

Last update: 25/04/25

I have written for Bucky Barnes, Agatha Harkness, Carol Danvers, Natasha Romanoff, and Sam Wilson.

I have WIPs for Yelena Belova, too.

My stories may have adult themes. You are responsible for your own media consumption.

Multi-Character Pairings

One Shots

Birds of a Feather (Bucky Barnes x fem!reader x Sam Wilson x Joaquin Torres)

You and Bucky were already in a committed relationship when you both fall in love with Sam. What happens when Joaquin comes into the picture and starts questioning his sexuality?

Bucky Barnes

One Shots

Beautiful Mess

Bucky tries to cook you a food you’ve been craving. It goes wrong, but it also goes right.

Almost Kisses

Bucky's kisses have become a daily part of your life together, but it wasn’t always that way.

All These Things That I've Done

In which Bucky leaves behind a loving note every time he goes on a mission. But what happens when you stumble on a letter not meant to be found… yet?

In Another Life

Bucky is certain you only see him as a friend. It only took him travelling to a different reality to realise otherwise.

Comfortable and Easy

You are the only person Bucky could ever spend a domestic evening with.

Bloodstains and Daydreams

You and Bucky fantasize about starting a family while tending to each other’s wounds.

Under my Skin

Bucky is always ready to give his girl cuddles.

Hot Chocolate?

Bucky wakes up from a nightmare and can’t find you.

Do Humans Dream of Normal Sheep?

Generations ago, your family was cursed to never sleep. Now that the curse is broken, Bucky helps you rest by telling you a bedtime story.

Of Black Ink and White Lillies

Bucky wants to get a tattoo, so he asks you for advice.

Morning Coffee

A short fic in which he makes you coffee every morning, without fail.

The Great Wave

Bucky would do anything to make his girl happy. He would even risk his life to get you the perfect gift.

Altar Ghosts

While on a mission with Bucky Barnes, you’re forced to confront your ex-fiancé, who left you at the altar. Bucky helps you realize you deserve far better than the man who broke your heart.

Happily Ever Eventually

Sam and Yelena are helping you and Bucky plan your wedding. 

Love in Full Bloom

Bucky thinks everything he touches dies, but the plants in your apartment prove otherwise.

Dangerous Game

Bucky Barnes is dating a trigger-happy antihero, and she has him wrapped around her finger. She’s just Bucky’s pretty girl, and he lets her get away with everything.

Temple

Bucky Barnes is struggling to say ‘I love you,’ so he says other things to make sure you know he cares.

Breaking Point

You and Bucky had always hated each other. When Bucky gets injured during a mission, you start wondering if the hatred was just masking something else.

Strays

Bucky has a soft spot for strays.

Soft Lights

A short fic in which you and Bucky get high together.

Kickoff

A short fic in which Bucky tries supporting your favourite football team.

Hypothetically: Version 1 / Version 2

The Thunderbolts* crew gossip about Bucky's love life / Your ragtag group of supernatural superheroes gossip about your love life. (A one-shot told in two perspectives!)

Sleeper

When Bucky falls in love with the antihero he’s sleeping with, he offers her a place in the Thunderbolts*.

Match

You finally found your intellectual match in Bucky Barnes.

Full Throttle

Bucky thinks he hooked up with a really pretty mechanic. 

The Catalyst

In this universe, you and Bucky are happy. In other universes, it might not be that simple.

Portals

You teach Bucky how to open portals using a sling ring. Turns out, he’s a menace with that thing.

Getaway

No one knows Bucky is dating an F1 driver until you show up in a getaway car for mission extraction.

Papercuts

You, a mutant loyal to Magneto, gets transported to a world where mutants don’t exist. As you fall in love with Bucky Barnes, you start questioning Magneto’s views and start embracing the ideas of your old teacher, Charles Xavier.

The Art of Thieving

Bucky starts investigating a series of art thefts… and starts helping the thief.

Back on Track

After a brutal crash during a race, Bucky won’t leave your bedside.

Word of the Day

A short fic in which you teach him modern slang words.

Depths

Bucky is an open book and you don’t trust anyone enough to reveal your past. What happens when Bucky insists you don’t have to go through it alone?

Armed and Dangerous

A short fic in which he gets an upgraded arm and it gives you (dirty) thoughts.

Alpine and the Alien

Your and Bucky’s cat, Alpine, fucks around and finds out. 

Snow

You love the snow. Bucky can’t stand it, but he can’t bring himself to tell you, either. 

The Land Shark

A short fic in which Bucky gets attached to Jeff the Land Shark. 

Loose Ends

Your husband, Bucky Barnes, finally meets your multiversal best friend, Wade Wilson.

Swipe Right

You matched with Bucky Barnes, your teammate, on a dating app.

Golden

Bucky watches the Golden Globes with you, only to be adorably jealous when your celebrity crush, Sebastian Stan, wins an award.

Irresistible

Falling in love with Bucky Barnes is a little complicated when you also happen to be Yelena’s ex-girlfriend. 

Devil's Backbone

When you fall in love with Bucky Barnes, you start hunting down anyone who has ever wronged him. What happens when he finds out? 

Dinner and Diatribes

Bucky has a crush on you… and your knives. Who knew weapons turned him on?

Autobot Dad

Bucky’s daughter loves the Transformers cartoons. She asks Bucky if he’s an autobot. 

Bloody Mary

When you inherit a criminal empire from your father, Bucky Barnes decides to investigate you. He hadn’t expected you to be so… charming.

Perception

Congressional Candidate Bucky Barnes starts sleeping with his campaign manager. What happens when he wants more than just sex?

Princess

You fall for Bucky Barnes, the Avenger assigned as your bodyguard. When a photo of the two of you kissing leaks to the tabloids, your clients start questioning your company’s integrity.

All American All-Star

Falling for the club’s American striker, Bucky Barnes, was never part of the plan— especially since your father happens to own the club. (Football/soccer au)

Better Man

Trapped in an abusive relationship, you cross paths with Bucky Barnes. Maybe, you deserve a second chance at love.

The Congressman's Secretary

Bucky forgets his birthday. You, his secretary, remember.

Menace

A short fic in which he showers with one arm (and with you).

Smitten

Sam finally meets Bucky’s girlfriend, though you’re not who he thinks you are. 

Midnight Zoomies

Your super soldier husband always gets a burst of energy after a mission.

Cheer Up, Barnes

When you go undercover as a Professional Cheerleader, Bucky’s thoughts become filthy.

The Lady, or The Tiger?

Bucky is in love with you, but he doesn't even know what you really look like. What happens when he finds out?

Sanctuary

Bucky needs to vent, and you’re there to listen. One day, you both try a powerful sex magic ritual that blurs the line between healing and love.

Siren

Bucky is obsessed with you. He is insanely, hopelessly, unhealthily obsessed with you.

Praise

Bucky realises he has a praise kink after getting a tattoo. 

Jackass

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

Simplify

Bucky falls in love with his best friend's ex-girlfriend.

Spare Parts

Your boyfriend gets used to life with one arm.

Hypersonic Missiles

Congressman Barnes falls in love with a fiercely progressive senator. What happens when he starts regretting going into politics at all?

Have We Met Before?

America Chavez says that you and Bucky are together in every universe. 

Don't Touch the Tech Girl

Sam told Bucky that you, his new tech engineer, was off-limits. But that just makes Bucky want you more.

Frostbites

Bucky found you injured in the middle of a snowstorm.

Hold On

Bucky has trouble holding hands until he meets you.

Small Circles

Bucky Barnes is still getting used to modern dating… and hates that you have to work with your exes.

The Beholder

Bucky Barnes struggles with intimacy. Perhaps, he just needed to see himself through your eyes.

Kindred Spirits

Bucky starts courting you, a woman out of time.

Today, of All Days

You were self-destructing. Then, you found Bucky.

Structural Integrity

Congressman Barnes has to move into your office because there’s a leak in his. 

Only Fools Rush In

Bucky accidentally ruins a big surprise, and you take it into your own hands.

Series / Multi-parts

Of Heroes and Heartstings Masterlist (Completed)

Bucky Barnes develops a crush on the researcher who interviewed him.

Waste a Moment Masterlist (Completed)

Bucky had always kept his distance, but seeing you get hurt on a mission changed everything. For the first time, he has a chance to start over with you.

Dark Necessities Masterlist (Ongoing and Paused)

You drink Bucky’s blood out of necessity and accidentally form a primal bond that has the ability to unlock an ancient ritual magic.

My Own Soul's Warning + Supporting Stories Masterlist (Ongoing)

This is a series of one-shots that revolve around you, a cosmic entity who falls in love with Bucky Barnes and sacrifices everything.

In Her Corner (completed)

Bucky had already found the love of his life in the 1940s— a boxer, just like him. But as a woman in a male-dominated sport, your success looks different from his. In the present day, Sam offers to help Bucky track your family down… never imagining you might still be alive.

Super Soldier Support Group (completed)

Sam Wilson starts a Support Group for Super Soldiers. You and Bucky sit next to each other during the sessions.

Spoils of War (ongoing)

Your father, the God of War, trained you to be his executioner— his weapon. When he assigns you a mission on Earth, you encounter Bucky, who helps you see yourself as more than a weapon. He offers you refuge and helps you go into hiding. Knowing that his favourite child has gone rogue, your father sends your half-brothers, Phobos and Deimos to bring you home.

Agatha Harkness

One Shots

To be Loved

A short fic in which Agatha makes sure you can never die.

Perfection

You and Agatha are on a perfect picnic date when its started raining. Why not dance in the rain?

Safe and Sound

You have been cursed. Agatha will stop at nothing to destroy the witch that cursed you.

Winter of 1984

Agatha always makes sure you fall asleep safe and warm in her arms, even as the coldest winter in generations raged on outside. 

Natasha Romanoff

One Shots

Muse

You are an artist, and your greatest muse is an assassin. 

Pirouette

Steve and Sam set Natasha up with a professional ballerina, but they already know each other. 

Sam Wilson

One Shots

The Future's Overdue

A year after breaking up with Sam Wilson, he shows up at your doorstep.

Use Somebody

It’s Valentine’s Day and neither you nor your best friend Sam has plans, so he invites you over for movie night.

Carol Danvers

One Shots

Peace and Quiet

A short fic in which Carol always seems to run off to save a distant galaxy before breakfast.

Johnny Storm

One Shots

Desk Light

Johnny Storm has a very obvious crush on a very oblivious diplomat.

Various blurbs and ideas!

Bucky, Steve, and Sam as dads

Bucky has a light up arm

Sub!Bucky headcanons

Happy and Bucky spend Christmas together

You're dating Bucky and also Olivia Walker's Best Friend

[aquaticmercy]

Siren

Summary : Bucky is obsessed with you. He is insanely, hopelessly, unhealthily obsessed with you.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Grumpy x Sunshine, Wife!reader, sweet!reader, sex references. Love taken to an extreme. A lot of cursing, Congressman!Bucky, threats, obsessive love bordering on stalking, possessive love. Overprotective!Bucky, Jealous! Bucky, dark!Bucky, dark!you, Overprotective!you. You are Sam and Sarah’s childhood best friend, canon-typical violence. I feel like I have to disclose that Bucky does not hurt you at any point in this story. Let me know if I miss anything! 

Word count : 8.9k

Note : This is probably my most cursing-heavy story. This is fictional story, so please do not get into an unhealthily obsessive relationship irl. I will also be posting a new part of Super Soldier Support Group tomorrow! Enjoy!

It started with a casual gathering at the Wilson Family home. Nothing fancy, just good food, loud music, and a backyard full of people laughing. 

It was warm, the kind of sticky Louisiana heat that made the air feel weirdly refreshing— the perfect day for Sam to throw one of his famous family cookouts.

Bucky hadn’t wanted to go, not that day anyway. He had not been sleeping well that week, and that made him grumpy. Well, grumpier than usual. 

He wasn’t sure if he could handle the crowd, or the small talk. 

But Sam had insisted, and somehow a sleep-deprived Bucky found himself standing in the corner of the docks, watching from a distance while the party went on without him.

Then he saw you.

And suddenly, everything stopped.

You were laughing, standing next to Sarah and helping with the food. You had this bright energy about you, like sunshine breaking through a dark cloud.

From the very first moment he saw you, something inside Bucky snapped. It wasn’t attraction—it was possession. His brain, his soul, whatever dark, broken part of him that was still capable of love— latched onto you like a parasite. You were too beautiful. Too sweet. Too—fuck, what was he thinking?

“C’mon man,” Sam’s voice snapped him back to reality. “Don’t just stand there looking like you’re planning a murder. I want you to meet someone.”

Bucky frowned but let Sam drag him forward anyway. His stomach twisted when he realised Sam was leading him straight to you.

“This is my childhood best friend,” Sam introduced you, “Be nice to her, Buck.”

You turned from your conversation to face him, and…Jesus Christ.

This was even worse up close. You had such a pretty smile, and the most wonderful eyes. You didn’t even have to try to brighten up the room.

“Hi,” you greeted, offering your hand.

Bucky hesitated. He didn’t like touching strangers—hell, he barely liked touching people he knew—but then you looked at him again, and—fuck.

Before he could talk himself out of it, his flesh fingers wrapped around yours.

You didn’t flinch, didn’t react the way people so often did when they realised who he was. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Bucky,” you said softly. “Sam’s told me a lot about you.”

Bucky’s heart felt like it was beating out of his chest. All he could manage was a stiff nod.

Sam, standing beside you, cleared his throat, narrowing his eyes at Bucky. “Be civil, okay?” He was already overthinking this, assuming this could go sideways fast. Sam wanted you two to get along more than anything in the world— he would at least want his childhood best friend and his work best friend to be able to stand in a room together without ripping each other’s head off— but he wasn’t counting on it.

Confused, you scrunched your nose. “Why wouldn’t we?”

Bucky wanted to know the same thing.

“Because,” Sam said, exasperated, “you’re polar opposites. You’re too damn nice for your own good, and Barnes here is all doom and gloom. He hates people. You love people.”

You turned your eyes back to Bucky, considering the former winter soldier before smiling, and subsequently melting Bucky’s heart. 

“I don’t know, Sam,” you said. “I think we’ll get along just fine.”

—

Bucky kept his distance throughout the day. 

Not because he wanted to, but because he had to.

You were too much. Too sweet, it felt like he was getting a sugar rush just looking at you. 

It was overwhelming. 

And it wasn’t just that he liked you. It was worse than that. 

In the short time he had known you, he had already begun craving you.

But you made it worse.

You sought him out, found excuses to talk to him, tried to make him laugh.

And god help him, but he liked it.

He liked the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled at him. He liked the way you said his name. He liked the way your hand traced his metal arm when you spoke to him.

“Bucky,” you called at one point, while Sam worked the grill, “Try this.”

He glanced down at the spoon you were holding out to him, brows furrowed. “What is it?”

You chuckled like you already knew you had him wrapped around your finger. “Just try it.”

He sighed, and then you pressed a hand to his chest, steadying yourself as you lifted the spoon to his lips.

He froze, and before he could even process what was happening, he was opening his mouth, letting you feed him.

You watched him, waiting for his reaction. “Well?”

Bucky blinked, chewing slowly. It was… good. Really good.

But admitting that felt like surrender, so he just shrugged. “It’s fine.”

You rolled your eyes, nudging him playfully. “Liar.”

Then, you laughed. 

He didn’t just want to hear it again—he needed to. It was like a drug, a high he had to chase. 

Fuck.

That was it.

That was the moment he was done for.

Because you had no idea what you’d just done. No idea that you had ruined him.

No idea that he had just decided— you were his.

—

Later, after the sun had set and most of the guests had left, Bucky sat at the edge of the porch, elbows on his knees, watching you.

Or, more accurately, he was staring at you.

You were a few feet away, laughing as AJ and Cass ran circles around you, their small hands grabbing at your arms as you playfully tried to catch them.

Bucky couldn’t look away.

He knew you were going to be his downfall, and yet he didn’t even want to fight it.

“What’s up with you, Buck?” Sam asked, sitting beside him.

Bucky didn’t move, he didn’t even respond. He barely even registered that Sam was there at all.

Sam followed his line of sight, and then groaned. “Oh, hell no.”

Still, Bucky said nothing.

Sam snapped his fingers in front of Bucky’s face. “Yo. Terminator.”

Bucky blinked. He only just realised Sam was there. “What?”

“What?” Sam repeated, voice rising. “Don’t what me! What the fuck was that?”

Bucky frowned. “What was what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Sam chuckled, teasing. “You’ve been staring at her like you’re about to drag her off to a cabin in the middle of nowhere and keep her there forever.”

Bucky’s muscles tensed. The idea did sound appealing.

“She’s nice,” Bucky said flatly.

Sam let out an amused laugh. “Nice? Nice? Barnes, you look like you want to fucking eat my childhood best friend—what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Sam was joking, but he wasn’t wrong.

Bucky did want to devour you. He wanted to claim you, protect you, make sure no one else ever got the chance to touch you the way he wanted to.

It was bad.

Because for the first time in decades, Bucky wanted.

Mine, he thought. Mine, mine, mine.

And god help anyone who tried to get in his way.

—

At first, Sam was just relieved that you and Bucky got along.

And before he knew it, the four of you—you, Bucky, Sam, and Joaquin—started hanging out regularly. When she was available, Sarah was there too, usually when the get-togethers happened at her place. It wasn’t anything official, just casual. You’d grab coffee, go on late-night walks along the docks. Sometimes, the five of you spent lazy afternoons at Sarah’s while Cass and AJ tried to rope you into whatever game they were playing.

On the surface, it was just friends spending time together.

But Bucky was always a little bit too possessive.

No one really noticed.

Like when Joaquin would make a joke and you’d laugh a little too hard, Bucky would step in, resting his arm on the back of your chair. When you and Sarah got into a playful argument, and Bucky would subtly shift between you, his body positioned like a barrier.

Or when someone at a bar got a little too interested in you, and Bucky would just stare at them until they backed the fuck off.

You didn’t seem to notice.

You just smiled at Bucky. You reached for his hand when you were deep in thought, leaned into him when you laughed, gave him hugs without him even having to ask.

And he let you.

Because if he couldn’t have you the way he wanted, then he’d settle for this—for now.

—

One day, you heard a knock on your door late at night. 

When you opened it, you found Sam, Joaquin, and Bucky standing there—bruised, bloodied, and looking entirely too pleased with themselves for three men who had clearly just come back from a rough mission.

You sighed. “Come in, boys.”

They filed in, Sam  grinning as he collapsed onto your couch. Joaquin gave you a sheepish ‘sorry’ look before following. Bucky just hovered near the door.

“Sit,” you told him, already grabbing your first aid kit.

He hesitated, then dropped onto the chair closest to you. you knelt beside him.

His knuckles were raw, a few cuts marred his face, and there was a forming bruise on his forehead. You worked on him, dabbing antiseptic onto his wounds.

“Hold still,” you whispered when he shifted under your touch. When you finished, without thinking, you pressed a fleeting kiss to the bruise on his forehead. “For good measure,” you said sheepishly.

Bucky’s breath hitched.

But before he could say anything, you moved on to Sam and Joaquin, fussing over them with the same level of care.

He felt his stomach twist in dread. 

Bucky knew this was irrational. He knew you were just being a good friend.

And yet, as he sat there, watching your hands tend to them—watching you murmur reassurances, watching Joaquin grin at you and Sam chuckle under his breath— with bated breath.

He shouldn’t be jealous. He shouldn’t. You were also Sam’s friend. You were also Joaquin’s friend.

After all, you had taken care of him first. That had to mean something… right?

—

The bar was alive with noise, filled with laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional thud of a pool ball being sunk into a pocket. It was one of those rare nights when there were no missions to worry about, no need to be on high alert. Even Sarah managed to get a babysitter for the kids. 

Sarah and Sam stood near the pool table, casually sipping on their non-alcoholic beers. Bucky nursed his whiskey— not that it would do anything to his enhanced metabolism. You had your mocktail, sweet and bright, just like you.

And then there was Joaquin.

He had spent the last hour or so flirting with the bartender, grinning as she giggled and slid him free drink after free drink. He, of course, took every single one without hesitation.

Now, he was absolutely sloshed.

“Joaquin,” Sam teased, arms crossed as he watched your drunk friend lean against the pool table. “You are so lucky you’re pretty.”

Joaquin shot him finger guns. “Gracias, hermano.”

“No,” Sarah scowled, shaking her head, pointing to the blonde behind the bar. “He’s lucky she thinks he’s pretty.”

“Let’s be honest, everyone thinks I’m pretty,” Joaquin declared, before missing his shot so badly that the cue ball bounced off the table.

Bucky rolled his eyes and let out a small laugh. 

You were next, so you stepped up to take your shot. “If anyone fucks up my shot, I am going to scream.”

And then, like a fucking menace, Joaquin swatted your pool cue mid-shot.

You gasped. “You little shit!”

Joaquin cackled.

“That’s it,” you huffed, shaking your head as you set the cue aside. “I’m getting you some water to sober up before you do something actually stupid.”

Sarah took her turn next, and Bucky… felt happy. He was among friends, leaning against the table, watching the game.

Life was good, right?

That bliss lasted all of three minutes before he realised… you were taking too long.

It didn’t take that long to get a glass of water.

He glanced up, scanning the bar for you. 

His stomach dropped. 

You were leaning against the bar, smiling up at some guy. Some asshole who looked way too interested, who was saying something that made you laugh.

Bucky’s chest burned.

Mine, he thought. 

But no. No, no, no. He had no right to feel like this. You weren’t his. He wasn’t your boyfriend. He was just a friend.

Then why the fuck did he want to break that guy’s fucking ankles for being too goddamn close to you?

Bucky knew you were beautiful. But that fucker didn’t get to look at you like that. He didn’t get to act all high and mighty, like he even had a chance—

Bucky’s grip on his pool cue tightened.

CRACK.

The cue snapped clean in half.

Sarah’s head snapped toward him. “Man— what happened?”

Sam raised a brow. “You good?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. His breathing was all messed up. 

“I gotta go,” he said hastily. 

Sarah blinked. “You just crushed wood like it was a damn breadstick.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He turned on his heel and left.

—

When he got back to his hotel in the heart of New Orleans, he sat on the edge of his bed, fingers twitching.

Then, he texted you.

Got an emergency. Had to go early.

A few minutes later, his phone buzzed.

Oh okay!!! Hope everything’s alright <3!

You were so fucking sweet. So fucking clueless.

You had no idea that the emergency… was you.

And that if he hadn’t left, he would have smashed that guy’s face in. 

—

That night, Bucky couldn’t sleep.

It was driving him insane.

The second he closed his eyes, all he could see was you, laughing at the bar, that asshole touching you, and your body leaned just a little too close—fuck.

The obsession burned in his chest. He needed to know. Needed to be sure.

So, like a fucking lunatic, he found himself outside your Louisiana apartment at four in the morning, perched on your fire escape like a creep.

The window was dark, and there didn’t seem to be any movement inside. Maybe you weren’t even home. Maybe you were— No. No, stop. Fuck.

His metal fingers gripped against the railing. If you had taken that guy home—if that motherfucker was in there, in your bed— he didn’t know what he’d do.

"Whatcha doin’?" 

Bucky jumped, damn near slipped right off the fire escape. His heart nearly stopped.

He whirled around, ready to fight, only to see you, standing behind him.

The fuck—?

"Jesus Christ," he rasped, staring at you like you’d just teleported out of thin air. "Why are you on the fire escape?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Why are you on the fire escape?"

Bucky scowled. “I asked you first.”

You shrugged, completely unfazed, and just climbed through the window. "I forgot my keys."

Bucky blinked.

You turned to look at him expectantly. “Well? Are you coming in or what?”

…What the fuck was wrong with you? Why weren’t you scared?

Still, he followed you inside.

—

You made him tea.

He sat on your couch, cradling the mug in his hands while you curled up beside him, watching him with curiosity.

“So,” you started casually, “what was the emergency?”

Bucky cleared his throat. “Nothing much,” he lied. “I fixed it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And why were you lurking outside my apartment like some weirdo?”

“I wasn’t lurking.”

You hummed, unconvinced, and sipped your tea.

Bucky let out a deep breath, rubbing a hand down his face. “I was just… checking on you.”

Your lips curved up. “Why?”

He hesitated. He couldn’t tell you the truth. Couldn’t tell you that he’d nearly lost his fucking mind at the thought of you with someone else.

But then, as if he could read your mind, you said, “If you were worried about the guy at the bar, don’t be. He’s just an old friend from high school.” You tilted your head reassuringly. “And he’s gay.”

Bucky blinked.

Oh.

Oh, he was a fucking idiot.

Embarrassment flooded his chest in waves, but it did nothing to ease the gnawing possessiveness coiling around his ribs. It didn’t matter that the guy wasn’t a threat. It didn’t change the fact that Bucky had wanted to break him in half for so much as looking at you.

You set your mug down, shifting closer. “Bucky,” you murmured, “what’s wrong?”

He clenched his teeth. “I have to say something.”

You tilted your head, adorably waiting.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.” The words felt dragged out from his throat like he’d been choking on them.

You took a deep breath. “Oh?”

Bucky let out a huff of air, fingers twitching at his sides. “I think—I know—I love you.”

There it was. The confession he could never take back.

Your eyes relaxed as you put your mug down. 

That’s it. This was your rejection. Bucky was sure. 

But then, without hesitation, you cradled his cheeks gently and pulled him down in a bruising kiss.

Bucky groaned into your mouth, hands fisting in your skirt, pulling you closer.

And when you whispered, “I love you, too,” against his lips—

He was fucking gone.

Love wasn’t supposed to be this… all-consuming. It wasn’t supposed to feel like madness. But that was what his love was.

He was everywhere—his greedy hands, both metal and flesh. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, and Bucky growled, lifting you into his lap like you weighed nothing.

You gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist, grinding against him in a way that sent his brain into overload.

And when you rocked your hips against his again. when you gasped at him, teasing, taunting—

Bucky snapped.

Suddenly, you were beneath him, pinned to the couch, his body trapping you.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he rasped.

You bit your lip, eyes dark. “Then show me.”

And fuck, did he.

—

The next morning, Bucky jolted awake to the ring of your doorbell. 

For a second, he was disoriented, his brain sluggish, mind still drunk on you.

You were sprawled half on top of him, face buried against his chest. His metal arm was wrapped around you, fingers splayed across your bare back.

The bell rang impatiently again. And then— knock knock knock.

"Yo, wake up!" Sarah shouted.

His eyes flicked to the clock— 9:42 AM.

Carefully, he untangled himself from you, doing his best not to wake you as he slid out of bed. He barely managed to pull his sweats on before another knock rattled the door.

He opened it.

“Huh,” Sarah grinned.

Bucky’s scowl deepened. “What?”

“Don’t what me.” Sarah gestured, pointing an accusatory finger at Bucky’s chest. “What the fuck is this?”

Bucky’s teeth clenched. “None of your business.”

“Oh, I think it is.” Sarah crossed him her arms and almost cackled.

Bucky just let out a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was still way too tired for this.

Sarah smirked, waggling her eyebrows. “So? How was it? You’re, like, a hundred years old— did your back hold up?”

“Go,” Bucky gritted.

“Relax,” Sarah shook her head, shoving your wallet into his chest. "Your girl left this in my car."

Bucky blinked, but his mind was still buffering on the part when she called you his girl. "Sarah—“

She held up her hand. "Hey, I’m happy for you. Really. But I’ve known her since we were both in diapers, so uh—" she leaned in. "If you hurt her, just know I will kill you."

Bucky huffed. As if. “Yeah, yeah."

"Good talk." She said as she turned to leave.

From the bed, you stirred, mumbling sleepily, “Was that Sarah?”

Bucky climbed back in beside you. “Don’t worry about it.”

You hummed, curling back into his chest. “Mmkay.”

Bucky wrapped his arms around you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

Mine, he thought.

And this time, you knew it too.

—

It had been two years since that night when everything changed.

You had since moved to Brooklyn with Bucky, and had since built a home together.

Two years of waking up with you in his bed.

Two years of you stealing his shirts, dancing around the kitchen in nothing but one of his Henleys and a pair of socks.

Two years of Bucky being so obsessed with you it was a goddamn miracle he let you leave out of his sight at all.

His hand was always on you—on your lower back, your thigh, wrapped around your wrist when you got too distracted in public. His eyes always tracked you whenever you so much as moved. 

Bucky knew it probably wasn’t healthy to be this obsessed— but who the fuck cares?

Besides, no one had noticed. Not really.

Sam rolled his eyes when Bucky hovered too close in public. Joaquin just assumed Bucky was overprotective. Sarah thought it was sweet.

None of them knew just how deep it went.

How Bucky watched you when you slept, how he memorised the way your breath hitched when you dreamed. How he could track scent in a crowd, how he could tell the different sounds of your shoes.

How, sometimes, he just stared at you with this feral, carnal need to keep you his forever.

So one night, he did something about it.

It wasn’t a grand proposal. There were no speeches, no flowers, no kneeling at all.

Bucky just slipped a diamond ring onto your finger as you sat curled up beside him on the couch.

"Let’s get married," he said.

It was not a question. It was a statement.

You looked down at your hand and blinked, joy seeping into your chest. You looked back up at him, tilting your head.

“Okay,” you smiled.

Of course you were gonna marry him. Of course.

It was the most obvious thing in the world.

And Buck felt something primal and dark settle inside him. 

“Good girl,” he said, grabbing your chin and tilling them up to kiss you. 

—

The ceremony was small — just a few close friends and family.

Sam stood at the front, grinning like an idiot, though he was definitely in tears. He tried to deny it, but everyone knew when Sarah dramatically announced she was out of tissues and had to make a store run.

You wore a simple white dress, the sunlight making the lace look holy. 

Bucky couldn’t take his eyes off you. He wasn’t sure how he could even breathe. You were so goddamn beautiful, and all he could think was mine.

Mine, mine, mine. 

He held your hands tightly, every vow he spoke was drenched in devotion.

When Sam pronounced you husband and wife, Bucky crashed his lips against yours, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you so desperately it was like he thought you'd disappear. Joaquin cheered, Sarah covered AJ and Cass’ eyes, and Sam muttered something about needing another box of tissues.

But Bucky didn’t care. You were his wife. 

His. 

Later, at the small reception, he barely let you out of his sight. His hand stayed glued to your waist, his lips brushed against your temple every other minute. He religiously watched the way you smiled, the way you laughed, admired the sparkle of your wedding ring — a ring he’d spent months obsessing over.

“Mine,” he whispered against your skin more times than you could count.

—

A year after the wedding, Bucky somehow found himself on the campaign trail. Sam had roped him into it, convinced the world needed someone like him in Capitol Hill— someone with a backbone, a heart, and a no-bullshit attitude. And because Bucky couldn’t say no to his best friend (or to you, when you’d smiled and told him he’d be perfect for it), he ran.

And won.

He was now Congressman James Buchanan Barnes.

But no matter how powerful or important he became, you were still his priority. You were the first person he called after every meeting, the one who made the stuffy suits and long hours bearable. 

And fuck, did he spoil you rotten. He got a four-bedroom Brownstone when you both moved to DC. For the kids to grow up in, he had told you, when you were ready, of course. The house was under your name.

He bought you designer dresses, diamond earrings, the kind of perfume that smelled like liquid gold. Anything you so much as look at, Bucky was ordering it before you even thought to ask.

“You don’t have to do all this,” you’d say, laughing as another velvet box showed up at your doorstep.

“I want to,” Bucky would grumble, nuzzling into your neck, his arms wrapped tightly around you. “I’m your husband. I want to make sure you have everything you want.”

And he meant it.

Then one day, you asked for something that actually made him think.

“I want a pretty knife.”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

“For self-defense,” you explained casually. “You know. Just in case.”

Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed. “You?” He asked, still trying to make sense of it. “But Sweetheart, you’re—” He paused, searching for the right word. “You’re so… sweet.”

You smiled at him…. And that fucking smile.

Bucky swore you could’ve asked him for the moon and he would’ve tried to lasso it down for you. But a knife? He wasn’t sure whether you could even use it.

Still, you wanted it. So you got it.

Bucky made a few calls, and soon you had a beautifully crafted knife with a marble handle. He even made you practice holding it, standing behind you with his arms wrapped around yours, guiding your hand in slow movements.

You caught on so quickly. He was so proud.

But despite all the lessons, Bucky wasn’t entirely convinced you’d ever actually use it.

“Baby, if anyone even looks at you the wrong way, I’d handle it,” he insisted one night, watching you twirl the knife in your fingers like a toy. “No one’s gonna touch you.”

You giggled, leaning up to kiss him. “Just in case, okay?”

Bucky nodded, nipping at your collarbone, “Okay.”

—

Sometimes, the world forgot Bucky Barnes had always been a dangerous man.

Sure, to the public, he was a polished congressman— the war hero turned politician, a man who fought for justice and all that. At the state galas, he smiled for the cameras, shook hands with donors, and played the role of the perfect politician. And with your radiant and sweet charm on his arm, everyone ate it up. You were the darling wife of Congressman Barnes, the woman who could make the room hold their breath.

But they didn’t realise how violently obsessed Bucky was with you.

He watched every interaction you had at those events. He eventually had a little notepad where he hastily scribbled the name of every man who looked at you too long,  an arrogant politician who thought they could pry you away from him. They thought you were too innocent to be with the former winter soldier— They thought they could whisper something suggestive in your ear or brush their hand along your back without consequence.

But Bucky always noticed.

He’d smile, even laugh sometimes, as if the petty attempts didn’t bother him. But they did. They fucking consumed him. His teeth would grind against each other, his grip on your waist would tighten, and his eyes would darken into a stormy blue— all while the poor bastard standing in front of him had no idea just how badly he’d fucked up.

Bucky had a routine. After the gala, he’d walk you out and hand you to his driver.

He would lean down, whispering softly into your ear.

“Head to the car, baby. I’ve got something to take care of.”

You never questioned it. You’d smile, kiss his cheek, and do as he asked.

And once you were gone, Bucky would… pay them a visit.

The man who let his hand wander a little too low on your back? The one who called you “darling” like he had any fucking right? 

Bucky found him in a secluded corner of the marbled building of Washington DC, his steel-blue eyes cold and calculating.

“You think you can touch what’s mine?” Bucky growled.

He had always been clever. He had always chosen a corner with no cameras. No witnesses. Then, he’d whisper a threat, one that left grown men trembling.

But sometimes threats weren’t enough.

One time, he got fed up with a senator’s son who had too much to drink. He’d cornered you by the bar, his hand grabbing your arm and waist, lips curling into a wicked smirk. 

You’d laughed politely, excused yourself, and found your way back to Bucky. But the damage had been done

Later that night, Bucky found him.

It wasn’t pretty.

The next morning, the senator’s son was seen with a cast on his wrist, stammering about a “bad fall.” 

No one questioned it, 

After all, accidents happen.

That sick, satisfied feeling always found its way to his chest. Though the real satisfaction always came when he hopped in the car. 

He’d find you taking off your heels, waiting for him in the back seat. You’d smile at him, oblivious to the violence he’d just left in his wake. And when you asked, “Did everything go okay?” Bucky would just smile, lean down, and kiss you.

Because Bucky Barnes was a kind person, a great friend, a wonderful husband, and an honest man. But after decades of isolation, torture, and conditioning, he would never truly be a good man again. But for you, he would pretend to be.

—

Still, like any other job, Bucky had bad weeks. And this week had been hell.

Bucky had come home late every night.

Between his work in Congress and the bills he was trying to push through, the DC police department had asked for his help in identifying some vigilante called Siren.

Now, he barely had time to breathe.

You hated seeing him like this. He was always so strong, so put-together, but lately, stress had carved itself into his shoulders, a permanent tightness in his back muscles.

It didn’t help that Senator Mitchell was being a prick, as usual. The man thrived on opposing Bucky’s every move, shooting down every proposal like it was his life’s mission to make your husband miserable.

And then there was Congressman Davis. From what you’ve heard, he was an arrogant, insufferable bastard who had spent the last few weeks blocking one of Bucky’s most important bills.

So when Bucky had muttered “God, I fucking hate that guy” over breakfast one morning, you’d simply nodded.

The next day, Congressman Davis didn’t show up to work.

Broke both legs in a freak accident, according to the news.

Bucky had stared at the article. “That’s… weird.”

“You think?” you tilted your head.

Bucky dragged a hand down his face. “Honestly, I don’t have time to care. Mitchell is still a pain in my ass, and now the DC police want me to help them identify some masked vigilante tearing through the city.”

That made your stomach flip, but you kept your eyes neutral as he tossed a thick file onto the table.

“Siren?” you asked, watching him flip through the grainy surveillance images. The black-clad figure was barely visible. The only clear detail was the glint of a knife in her hand.

Bucky snorted. “What kind of name is Siren, anyway?”

You shrugged. “I think it’s kinda sexy.”

Bucky shot you an amused look.

You shrugged, leaning on the counter. “What do they want from you?”

“They want me to analyse the footage, see if I recognise any combat techniques,” Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples. “As if I can ID someone from a couple of blurry images.”

You hummed in response, flipping through the file again. 

“Maybe she doesn’t wanna be found.” you offered.

“No shit.” Bucky frowned. 

—

That night, Bucky sat at his desk, eyes narrowed at the open file in front of him. His fingers tapped against the wood as he studied the images again. Something about her was… familiar. 

You watched from the doorway, wrapped in a silk robe.

He needs a distraction, you thought. 

You walked across the room, slipping behind him, arms wrapping around his shoulders as you pressed fluttering kisses to his neck.

Bucky sighed, leaning into your touch. “Baby…”

“You’re stressed,” you whispered, biting the lobe of his ear.

“I just— I can’t get a read on her,” he admitted, rolling his shoulders. “On top of that, I have to deal with Mitchell tomorrow.”

You glanced at the photo he was studying—Siren, breaking the arm of an arms dealer. Poetic justice.

You said nothing, pressing a kiss to his jaw. 

Your fingers trailed lower, sliding down his chest, nails lightly scraping against his skin through his shirt. “I think you need a break.”

Bucky swallowed hard. “Baby, I—”

When you stepped back, his words died in his throat.

Because you had untied your robe.

And underneath, a lingerie set that he’d picked out for you weeks ago, the one that had him practically drooling when you tried it on.

The chair scraped back so fast it nearly toppled over.

Then, Bucky was lifting you onto the desk, his hands gripping your thighs, sliding up your sides, mapping out every inch of exposed skin as if he hadn’t memorised everything already. 

“Fucking hell,” he groaned, lips ghosting over your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re tryin’ to kill me, sweet girl.”

You giggled, threading your fingers through his hair. “I just thought my dear husband needed a break.” You batted your eyes innocently.

Bucky’s lips met yours in a bruising kiss. His hands kneaded your hips, pulling you flush against him, letting you feel exactly how much he wanted you.

“S’not fair,” he muttered against your lips, his lovely Brooklyn drawl slipping out. “I was workin’.”

“Oh?” You smiled innocently, nails raking down his back. “You wanna go back to your case?”

Bucky growled, lifting you effortlessly as your legs wrapped around his waist. “Fuck no.”

And with that, he carried you to your bedroom. 

Siren was forgotten, for now. 

—

That night, after you stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around your body, you casually said, “I think I’ll go for a walk.”

Bucky frowned immediately, towel-drying his damp hair as he leaned against the doorframe. “Alone?”

You’d done this before, but never this late. 

You rolled your eyes. “I can handle myself, honey.”

He crossed his arms, “That’s not the point.”

You sighed, stepping forward to press a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”

He didn’t look convinced, but he let you go—reluctantly. At least you had your knife with you. 

—

By the time you got back, you were sweaty, chest rising and falling like you’d just finished a workout.

Bucky, who was sitting on the couch, immediately stood up and walked over to you. He looked at you, studying in the slight flush in your cheeks, the damp strands of hair sticking to your forehead.

He tilted his head. “You said you were going for a walk.”

You wiped at your brow. “Yeah, well… guess I went for a jog instead.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Since when do you jog?”

You shrugged. “Felt like I had some energy to burn.”

His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer, trying to assess the situation, but then you stood on your toes and kissed him.

Suddenly, he wasn’t questioning anything anymore.

—

The next day in Capitol Hill, Senator Mitchell had a black eye.

A nasty one, too. It was swollen and bruised, red against his pale skin.

Mitchell barely spoke all session, and when Bucky had the floor, the senator didn’t interrupt.

He didn’t sneer. Didn’t open his mouth to object.

He just sat there, shifting uncomfortably, trying his hardest not to look at Bucky.

Weird.

—

Before heading home, Bucky had one last piece of business to handle.

An overconfident diplomat from last week’s charity gala had overstayed his welcome in the city, unlucky for him. 

He had touched your arm without permission, his fingers lingering just a little too long on your skin. Bucky had been across the room that night, but even distance couldn’t dull his rage. 

By the end of the night, the bastard had vanished into the crowd.

That had been frustrating. But patience was something Bucky had in abundance when it came to protecting what was his.

So when he overheard a passing remark today that the diplomat was still in town, he found out where he was staying and simply went to the hotel lobby.

Bucky sat comfortably in a leather armchair, looking like just another guest winding down from a long day. He even smiled when his target stepped through the elevator doors.

Bucky stood and intercepted the man, placing himself just close enough that escape wouldn’t be an option. “Nice to see you again,” Bucky greeted, his voice almost pleasant. The diplomat barely had time to register the danger before Bucky leaned in, that same eerie smile still in place.

“If you so much as look at my wife again, I’ll break your fucking nose so badly, they’ll have to rebuild it from the inside out. And even then, it’ll never sit fucking right ever again.” Bucky said, though his tone was conversational. To anyone else, it would look as if he was commenting on the weather. “And that’ll be the least of your problems.”

The man swallowed hard, his overconfidence crumbling.

Satisfied, Bucky patted his shoulder once, before walking away. On the drive home, he pulled a pen from the glove compartment and calmly crossed the man's name off his list.

When he finally stepped through the door, he smiled to see you finishing up dinner. Bucky told you he could just hire a personal chef, but you insisted that you wanted to make his meals, to be his perfect housewife. 

Without a word, he tugged you into his lap, burying his face against your neck, his lips brushing against your skin, “You know you’re mine, right, baby?” he said, his hands tightening around you. “Only mine.”

—

The next morning, you found him in the kitchen, reading over yet another Siren case file.

You pouted, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your face into his back. “Buckyyy.”

He chuckled, placing his hand over yours. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“I lost my knife,” you mumbled.

Bucky paused. “Lost it?”

No. No, you wouldn’t be so careless. 

Did someone take it from you? Did someone touch you?

The mere thought sent Bucky into a violent spiral, his fingers itched for blood.

Because if someone had taken it from you—if someone had dared to lay their filthy hands on what was his—they were going to wish they were never alive.

You nodded against his skin. “I think I dropped it during my morning run.”

He turned, relieved that you were just a bit careless. He lifted your chin with two fingers, thumb brushing your bottom lip as you gave him your best adorable pout. 

“My sweet girl,” he said. “You gotta be more careful.”

You blinked up at him, a little upset. “I liked that knife.”

He chuckled before letting out a deep breath. He could never be mad at you. So he just exhaled, brushing his lips against your forehead. “I’ll get you another one, baby. Whatever you want.”

You beamed. “Really?”

“Of course.” His fingers tightened slightly on your chin. “But you tell me next time you go for an early run. Don’t like you out there alone.”

You grinned, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “You worry too much.”

—

Within a week, Bucky gave you a new knife— a replacement for the one you lost. But calling it just a knife would be an insult.

It was stunning.

The handle was custom-made, dark metal inlaid with delicate floral, perfectly molded to fit your grip. The blade was wickedly sharp, and yet, it wasn’t just a weapon. It was art.

You turned it over in your hands, marveling at the craftsmanship. “You spoil me," you said, testing the weight in your palm. It was perfect.

Bucky smiled, satisfied. "Darling, I haven’t even started."

And just when you thought he couldn’t get any worse, he handed you something else— a little holster, custom-made to hold your new knife. The leather was buttery soft, made to fit against your thigh or tuck neatly under your jacket.

“Specially made for you,” he said proudly, brushing his lips over your cheek, then your jaw. “Gotta keep my good girl safe.”

Your stomach flipped.

What you didn’t know was that, because Bucky was a completely unhinged, lovesick lunatic, he had slipped a tiny tracking device into your holster—one discreet enough that you’d never notice. But that wasn’t all. The device also had a built-in listening function, so it was silently transmitting your location and every sound around you straight to a hidden app on his phone.

Not because he didn’t trust you.

But because the thought of you out there, alone without his protection— drove him insane.

So he made sure that, no matter where you went, he’d always be able to find you.

So now, if anyone so much as breathed wrong in your direction, Bucky would hear it. 

And he’d handle it.

—

The next morning, Bucky’s phone rang. It was an unlisted number from DC Police.

He sighed, already dreading whatever mess was waiting for him. But before he even thought about leaving, he had to take care of something far more important.

You.

Still hazy from sleep, you barely had time to blink before Bucky was on you, pressing you deeper into the mattress, his lips peppering gentle yet desperate kisses across every inch of exposed skin. Your cheek, your shoulders, the delicate curve of your throat.

"Just reminding you how much I love you before I go to work,” he nuzzled you.

You hummed, tilting your head to grant him better access. He took full advantage, dragging his mouth down your throat, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin there. His teeth grazed your pulse point, just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Be good, baby,” he whispered against your lips, still unwilling to leave. 

You smiled, all sweet innocence. “I’m always a good girl.”

Bucky groaned, pressing one last kiss to your lips before reluctantly pulling away.

For now.

—

The moment Bucky stepped into the precinct, conversations halted. Officers froze, whispering behind their hands.

Bucky’s eyes flickered around the room, landing on the open file waiting for him on the table.

“What’s going on?” He asked.

Detective Ramirez, a no-nonsense woman who had been working in DC longer than most high schoolers have been alive, flipping through the folder. “We did a lot of digging last night… and Siren’s been operating a lot longer than we thought.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed as she laid out the evidence.

“We traced activity back a couple years. Louisiana. Then Brooklyn. And now, D.C.” 

Huh. What a weird coincidence. Those are all the places you’ve lived in.

She shook her head. “She’s been at this for a long time.”

The grainy surveillance images showed the same shadowy figure— always disappearing before authorities could get close. But it was clear now. This wasn’t just some local vigilante.

“She started with street-level criminals—gangs, traffickers, arms dealers. But lately?” Ramirez slid a new set of photos across the table.

Congressman Davis. Senator Mitchell.

What?

“Both men had been attacked in the last three months. Different incidents. Different locations. But the same signature,” she explained, shaking her head. They’re terrified,” Ramirez continued. “Refused to talk, barely gave us any details because they’re convinced Siren will come back and… finish the job.”

Bucky stayed silent, his mind racing. 

Something wasn’t adding up.

“And then there’s this in the crime scene. We believe it’s hers.” Ramirez reached into an evidence bag, carefully unwrapping something small wrapped in cloth. She placed it on the table and slid it toward him.

Bucky’s stomach dropped.

A knife.

Not just any knife.

Your knife.

The one he had given you.

The one you had lost.

He reached for it, turning it over in his gloved hand. It was unmistakable in its design.

Bucky clenched his teeth, forcing his expression to remain neutral.

Because if he let anything slip—if they saw even the slightest reaction—he wasn’t sure how he was going to explain this.

—

Bucky came home late that night, his mind clouded and fearful.

The evidence was stacked against you, but he refused to believe it. You couldn't be Siren. No—maybe she had stolen your knife. Maybe someone was trying to frame you. Maybe—

Then he saw the note.

"Went for a run. Be back soon <3"

Bullshit.

His gut twisted with the kind of instinctual, primal warning that had kept him alive for decades. Maybe he thought the handwriting was too neat, or maybe just knew when you were lying to him. He always did.

Metal knuckle curling into a ball, he pulled out his phone and tapped into the hidden tracking signal embedded in your holster.

You were nowhere near a park, or a public road for that matter. Instead, you were in a wealthy neighbourhood on the other side of town.

Then he turned on the listening device.

A second later, your voice crackled through the speaker. You sounded eerily calm. “A little birdie told me you were planning to block the new Veteran Act."

Bucky’s breath hitched. He had told you about that bill he had been spearheading. About how Jones—that corrupt prick—was going to block it before it even had a chance.

And now you must be standing in front of him, threatening him.

He heard the unmistakable whisper of a blade slicing through the air.

Jones hesitated. “You’re insane—”

"Approve it,” he heard you sneer, “Or I’ll come back and finish the job."

Bucky’s heart slammed against his ribs. He was torn between wanting to go to you—to drag you away from this, to keep you safe—and just listening.

In hindsight, he should have known.

The "walks." The "runs." The way you had picked up knifework too quickly when he had first put a blade in your hands. The first night he kissed you, he had found you on your fire escape—because you had been doing vigilante shit after the pool bar. 

And then you spoke again, this time in a sweet sing-song tone, “If you don’t, I’ll put your head underwater until the bubbles stop."

Jones went silent.

Bucky knew you had taken mixed martial arts as a kid for self-defense, but he had never thought much of it— never imagined you still practiced, still used it.

And then, “O-okay, okay—I will.”

Fuck.

He had to admit it now. You were Siren.

Sweet, innocent you. The woman who pressed sleepy kisses against his collarbone in the morning. The woman who curled up in his lap at night, blinking up at him with wide, trusting eyes.

But that wasn’t all you were.

You were this, too. You were a predator hiding in plain sight.

And instead of being freaked out—instead of feeling betrayed or angry—Bucky was… turned on.

His breaths were uneven, chest rising and falling with arousal.

Because he knew this wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t corrupting you.

You were always like this.

Maybe, you were just waiting for someone who would be just as sick as you are.

And you found him.

—

The second you slipped through the back door, you felt his eyes on you.

You had been careful. So fucking careful.

You had changed in the garden shed.  You wiped the sweat and dirt from your skin, slipping into an oversized hoodie, leggings, sneakers that were scuffed just enough to sell the illusion. By the time you stepped inside, you looked like nothing more than a tired, unsuspecting wife coming home from an innocent late-night run.

So you played your part.

You plastered a sleepy smile onto your face. “Hey, honey."

Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t even blink.

He just sat there, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped together.

What’s going on?

"How’s Senator Jones?" He said calmly, too calmly. 

Your stomach plummeted.

The room felt like it had shrunk, walls pressing in. Everything was suffocating.

You blinked at him, feigning confusion. “What?"

Bucky tilted his head, the ghost of an amused smile playing at his lips.

"I know you’re Siren."

Your breath stalled.

A million reasons went through your rolodex of excuses, each one weaker than the last. But when you looked at him, at the certainty in his eyes, you knew there was no use denying it.

He knew.

But two could play at that game.

So instead of panic, you kept yourself calm. 

“Oh?” You arched a brow, voice smooth as silk. "And how’s that diplomat from that gala? Heard you took care of him."

For the first time since you came back, Bucky faltered.

“Y-You knew?” He stammered.

You saw the moment it hit him, the way his pupils blew wide.

"Of course I knew, baby,” you said sweetly, stepping closer. You could see the tension in his shoulders, "I know about your list, Bucky. I see your murderous rage every time."

Bucky’s muscles tightened. His breath became shallow, heart thrumming against his ribs.

You sighed, walking past him to a compartment under the island kitchen, pulling out a small, battered notebook. You flipped it open, then placed it in his hands.

Bucky’s fingers tightened around it as he scanned the pages.

What was this?

It was his list—mirrored.

The same names. The same faces. The same fucking targets. So you could keep track of who he was after. 

But alongside them, you had your own notes. Your observations.

Log entries tracking him— where he had been sighted, what areas he had stalked, what time he usually came home. Notes on when he was distracted. When he was asleep. When you could slip out and do your little crime fighting routine. You had copies of all the numbers in his contacts— classified or otherwise.

You even had pictures of him from the goddamn Capitol Hill security cameras. From his usual coffee shops. From his favourite supermarket.

His hands started shaking, because between the scribbled words, between the ink and the scratched-out sentences, there’s something familiar.

Not just in the thoughts.

But in the way they’re written. They were scrawled in a rush, like they were obsessive.

And then, just beneath one of the messier lines, there’s a word—so small, so easy to miss. ‘Mine.’

Sweet, darling, unassuming you, had a dark side.

You were just like him.

A perfect reflection. A mirror image of his own madness.

His throat felt dry. "You—" He swallowed. "You kept track of me?"

You tilted your head innocently. "Oh, sweetheart."

But if you thought that was something—

Bucky moved, crossing the room and yanked open the bottom drawer of the TV stand. His movements were almost aggressive as he pulled out a thick, leather-bound book.

Not his little notebook. 

This was different.

And then he handed it to you.

The second you flipped it open, your heart stopped.

It wasn’t names.

It wasn’t targets.

It was you.

Pages upon pages, filled with cramped, meticulous handwriting.

Your detailed wardrobe, all of your perfumes, observations of what you smelled like after a shower versus after a long day. An analysis of how your voice changed when you were lying. The exact shade your lips turned when you were cold. Your coffee orders in all the cafes you’ve ever been to, your favourite snacks. There was even a paragraph of the way you twirled your fork when you ate pasta. The names and addresses of all of your exes— where they lived, where they work, where they shop.

Your entire existence, laid bare.

A record. A worship. A fucking obsession.

Then, you both realised. 

You were just two absolute fucking lunatics, hopelessly, unhealthily obsessed with each other.

The two of you had been circling each other like predators for years— watching, tracking, leaving breadcrumbs of obsession in each other’s worlds without even realising it.

You weren’t just people to each other.

You were religion.

You were scripture.

Two minds running parallel, equally deranged, equally consumed— until you inevitably collided. 

You licked your lips slowly, the corner of your mouth curling as you looked up at him through your lashes. You knew what you were doing— of course you did.

With a voice as saccharine as it was wicked, you whispered, "I’m still your good girl."

Bucky fucking shattered.

A wrecked groan tore from his throat. His grip felt like iron chains as he gripped your waist, shoving you against the nearest surface— the kitchen counters. But you barely noticed, too focused on the way his hands clawed at you, like even after all these years, he still needed to mark you, ruin you.

His lips were on you in an instant, first on your lips, then trailing down your throat.

And then he dropped to his knees.

A fucking worshipper at your altar.

A zealot ready to die a martyr.

His hands gripped your thighs, firm enough to bruise, and he tilted his head up to look at you, pupils blown wide, his lips slightly parted.

He was completely undone. Completely yours.

A satisfied smile spread across your face as you threaded your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him whimper.

"But you’re also my good boy,” you teased, “aren’t you?"

His groan was ruinous.

His eyes were wild, desperate, and fucking feral.

"Yeah, baby," he nodded, voice wrecked, hands trailing up, gripping the curve of your hips. "Yours. All yours.”

And then—

He showed you.

Because Bucky Barnes will never be a good man again.

But for you?

He’d be anything.

-end.

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

[nahthanks]

INSANELY GOOD

[real-jane]

you don't say

[bucky barnes x disabled!reader]

summary: you matched on a dating app, but you didn't tell him that you use a cane. bucky's response is not what you expected. it's better.

warnings: mention of smut, but mostly fluff and insecurity on both bucky and reader's part. autumnal vibes all around.

a/n: i became disabled in the last few years and i have really struggled with needing a cane to increase my mobility, especially where dating is concerned. i wrote this as a love letter to myself, and other babes who are processing what it means to accept love as a disabled human being. enjoy. <3

***

You didn’t tell him. 

If the last six were a good litmus, it was for the best. Apparently being that honest with a man you met on a dating app was to be avoided at all costs. The goal, ultimately, was to have him say: “You’re prettier in person,” and then flush like he was comparing the version of you in his head to the reality before him, and coming up wanting.

Bucky was his name. He hadn’t proposed anything rigorous–he liked coffee, as did you. It wasn’t like he suggested a Central Park marathon for your date.  You weren’t even sure how you matched; it probably happened when you left your phone unattended in the same room as Natasha–whose taste was much more varied than yours. Adventurous. It’s not that you wouldn’t have swiped in interest over Bucky, 39, Brooklyn. But not until he swiped first. 

That wasn’t entirely true. You remembered his face popping up as you doom-scrolled for Jesus, on a two day pajama pity-party bender. Consuming Norah Ephron films and cheap cabernet, you swiped right on any man with kind eyes who didn’t have a fish picture in his array. Which… the pickings were slim. But his face–Bucky’s–appeared beneath your thumb as Meg Ryan met Tom Hanks at the top of the Empire State Building on your third watch-through of ‘Sleepless in Seattle,’ and it felt serendipitous. Bucky, 39, Brooklyn looked very serious, and he had a white long-haired cat. You swiped. He swiped. He was nice in his first message…

Hi… I’m new to this, but it looks like we both hit the magic button.

So, there you were.

You arranged to meet at eleven–you were at the coffee shop by ten-thirty, so you could sit by the window and not have to walk towards him. You tucked yourself into the booth and stashed your things on the bench seat beside you, eager to meet the first guy who said yes to a date since you got back on the horse, so to speak. Nevermind that you hadn’t told him the whole truth.

When he walked in–ten minutes early–he scanned the little cafe until his eyes fell on you. His expression went from hardened and serious to… bashful, almost. He recognized you right away, and there was no way you could mistake him either. 

What was that thing about people being prettier in person? 

He was dressed in layers to combat Autumn in New York (comfortable in varying shades of blue and brown) with leather gloves on, which shone like they hadn’t yet been worn before that day. So like a native New Yorker to wear the same tattered coat… but quality, definitely an expensive peacoat which could last him several generations… but buy brand new gloves when the slightest chill sets in.

Bucky was scruffy, like he couldn’t quite bother to shave but every few days. You didn’t mind. When he approached, he had vibrant energy, like it was all packed up inside with nerves.

“Hi. Sorry. I think we had the same idea,” he said breathlessly as he approached. He held out his right hand to you. You grasped his fingers automatically, but he didn’t shake. He squeezed softly, and then pressed it between his own. 

“It’s Bucky. I’ve already had coffee. Too much. I was nervous. But if you still want some, I’ll just get decaf.” 

“Y/n. To be honest, I did the same,” you chuckled, nodding to the half-empty carafe on the table, which your waiter had left after the third refill in twenty minutes. “It’s nice to meet in person.”

“I don’t do this kinda thing, I gotta warn you.” Bucky shucked off his coat and slid into the booth across from you. The gloves remained. He had a loved but noble corduroy blazer on, over a henley. “Dating. I hate the whole conceit.”

“You’re two-for-two!” You grinned. “My roommate got me on the apps. They can be blamed for seventy-five percent of my daily dread.”

“What’s the other quarter?”

“Global warming, and getting shat on by pigeons coming out of the subway.”

“Fair,” he said, smiling. You dimpled at one another. “We don’t have to stay. We’re caffeinated, and I might start levitating, here. We could walk a bit?”

Your stomach lurched. “We could. Where?”

“Dunno. I’m sorry–I have no idea how to be out. We should just sit here for the requisite number of minutes before upsetting the structure of a date.” He smiled at you pleasantly, but it was clear how incredibly nervous he still was… and how unlikely it was to go away unless he could be more active. Which meant standing. Walking, some. Something which you were not prepared to do.

Bucky watched your expression shift. He sat forward and reached out to touch your forearm. “You okay?”

“So. Yes, um. Yes, I’m okay,” you sighed. “It’s still new for me so I’m figuring it out, but… walking long distances? Can’t do it. I could probably handle a short walk, but I’ve had a rough time the last week, so I don’t know how much stamina I have. Even with my trusted friend, here. So.” You showed the head of your cane above the table bashfully, and looked away. “Sorry–people get weird about this stuff, I’m finding out, so I don’t really say anything in advance.”

Bucky blinked for a moment, then he leaned forward, resting both elbows on the table. “What do you mean weird?” His blue eyes narrowed.

“Suddenly unmatch. Tell me ‘it’s such a shame.’” You huffed. “Although it’s guys, on the whole. Women care less. But that’s beside the point–”

“Because of that?” He pointed at the seat beside you, where all of your belongings were stashed, and you knew what he meant. You nodded.

“I don’t say it in so many words. I’m not like–hey, just fyi, I use a cane, so deal with it or fuck off–”

“Why not? That would be a good way to separate out the weak and worthless,” Bucky said, but you could’ve sworn you heard a little touch of anger in his tone. He shook his head. “Doll… shit. Men are shit.”

“Yeah. They are. Sorry.”

“No, I’m shit, too. You can’t insult me when it’s true.” Bucky sat back against the worn cushion. “So, we going? Or are you going to talk me into an espresso to see if I can fly?”

“Sure. If you want to. I’m just slow–”

“Nonsense.” Bucky scooted out of the booth. “I grew up in this neighborhood. There’s plenty to do. And see.” He paused. “If this is insulting, just tell me to fuck off… You can lean on me.” He held out his elbow like an offering.

You could have cried. “Um. Okay.”

“Yeah? I–I would’ve offered, regardless. I like talking to you. I’ve enjoyed myself… through the phone.” Bucky scratched his cheek in embarrassment. “So. Even if you didn’t share, I probably would’ve tried to find a reason.”

“Really, I’ve just given you an excuse,” you said, tamping down a smile. He nodded solemnly.

“It’s thoughtful of you to spare me.” Bucky raised his eyebrows, waiting. The waiter breezed by, just then–

“You can pay at the front register!” the beleaguered hipster sighed, gesturing to the counter at which there was an extensive line. Bucky grabbed his elbow and fished a bill out of his pocket, slapping it in the guy’s palm. The waiter stared down at the twenty in his hand. “Great. I’m a human cash register.”

“Keep the change,” Bucky said. He turned back to you. “Do you get motion sick?”

“No?” You were clearly holding up whatever grand plans he was making in his head, so you hastily grabbed your things. Bucky liberated your coat from your hands and held it open. You stood slowly, leaning on the aid which had given you newfound freedom. Bucky smiled at you softly. He wasn’t impatient, just… excited. You slid your arms into your coat with Bucky’s help, and then curled your fingers into his elbow. His cheeks reddened. He had a boyishness to him which was endearing. 

“This okay?”

Okay? Well. If you considered the wafting warmth of sandalwood cologne and the soft weave of his woolen peacoat okay, then you were dandy. You nodded, feeling your own cheeks flush under his attentive gaze.

“Great. I have an idea, if you’re game. So.” He cleared his throat, ushering you through the front door of the shop onto the sidewalk. “Where do you stand on surprises?”

“Um. Hate ‘em, to be honest.”

“How bad?”

“Flash mob? My idea of hell.”

“K–In that case, I’m gonna call a friend, he runs a ride service. There’s a festival in bridge park–I keep seeing fliers for it all over. We could check it out.”

You couldn’t help the smile which pulled at your cheeks. If that’s the sort of surprise Bucky had in mind, you would’ve been charmed by it. But knowing how quickly his brain was working to improvise a date was impressive, so you squeezed his elbow. 

“Sounds fun.”

“Good. Okay.” His mouth turned up at the corner and his eyes crinkled. 

He quickly dialed a number he had memorized, but not saved in his contacts. It made you wonder how many other people he knew by heart, and what it took to be remembered by this Brooklyn boy. He didn’t say much into the phone, just the intersection you stood on. Bucky hung up abruptly and pocketed his phone again, clearly intent on hiding it away.

“He’s two streets over, it’ll be five minutes max.”

He was a horse-and-buggy driver, who had festooned his buggy with bales of hay and pumpkins bearing hastily Sharpie’d faces drawn on them by someone under the age of ten. When the carriage pulled up outside of the chain coffee shop, Bucky grinned, passing the coachman a tenner and ushering you into the four-wheeled hayride. The straw was strewn over the plush seating poorly enough to poke you in the ass, even through your coat, but Bucky was so excited to pull the plaid wool blanket over your legs that you tolerated the gluteal acupuncture. He stashed your cane beside himself, and pressed you close enough that your thigh pressed against his. 

“I went to school with Pat,” he explained, gesturing to the driver who was too far away to engage in conversation, but kept throwing back knowing glances at you and Bucky. “Kindergarten through the twelfth grade.”

“You really are in your neighborhood.”

“Yeah.” He blushed. “Never did get out, like I thought I would. Not complaining though. There’s a lot to love about Brooklyn.”

Bucky encouraged you to wrap your arm through the loop of his elbow again, and pointed out things to you about Brooklyn which had defied your notice prior. Brickwork at the pinnacle of a building, dating back to the 1920’s. A man dressed like a bush who stood on the street corner, blocking the walk button so no pedestrian could disturb his meditation. The fire hydrant he broke the bolt off senior year, flooding the sewer drains and causing rats to rush down the gutters like a parade of hissing floats. Halloween decorations in windows. Scarecrows mounted to telephone poles like they guarded a field of yellow taxis with as much aplomb as a treasury of corn stalks.

All the while… he distracted you. Little touches on your wrist where your coat met your skin with his soft gloves left you curling your fingers around air, and still he persisted. You studied his profile when he was distracted. With stubble and expression lines, he had character. He wasn’t stoic like you had thought him. Every inkling which crossed his brain was projected on his forehead like a drive-in feature just for you. And he kept smiling at you. 

You arrived at Brooklyn Bridge park having spent an eternity and no time at all in a horse-drawn carriage positively burdened with loose hay, but the tents and balloons and various sizes of gourds distracted you from anything but the Autumnal joy of it all. Stalls lined the park in a makeshift walkway, which smelled of pie spices and syrup, and crisping ham on a rotisserie, and campfire. 

When he helped you down from the carriage, placing your cane at your dominant side, Bucky instantly seemed to have a plan. Time passed like you were observing through a looking glass. He ushered a cup of cider into your hands, and then adios’d the empty into the garbage once you finished it. You dominated the hammer game, winning a massive plush gorilla. Which you promptly gave away to the first screaming child you saw, to Bucky’s amusement. He fed you funnel cake while you picked out your choice for the fastest piglet in a race which consisted of five piglets running around a kiddie pool. You lost–everyone did, when the piglets abandoned course to lay in the tepid water and snort bubbles at one another–but you left a lingering dusting of powdered sugar behind at the corner of your mouth. Bucky wiped it away without a second thought.

And so the date continued, with you floating beside a man whose eyes sparkled with delight every time you found joy in something. It didn’t feel like you had only met that day. You reached for his hand to express delight. He curled his fingers over your shoulder to wish you luck in the ring toss. Bucky–Barnes was his last name, you learned–was some kind of familiar fixture. He even bought you a coffee, and then brutally beat a group of sixth-graders at bobbing-for-apples.

It wasn’t until the sun tucked itself behind the rooftops that you realized dusk approached. Without needing to ask, Bucky summoned a cab. You had leaned on him heavily the second half of the afternoon, and opted to sit every opportunity you got. Yet… Bucky’s excitement never diminished. It wasn’t until you sat on the top step of your stoop that you realized it.

That was the best date you had ever been on.

And you sure as hell didn’t want it to end. The stars were out in force–as clear a night as you had ever seen in the city of light pollution, and yet… Orion’s belt… the pan handle of a Dipper… stars shone for you.

Bucky shoved his hands into his coat pockets in acknowledgement of the drop in temperature, while he balanced one foot up a step from you. He studied you through honest eyes–that is, he looked at you like he saw who you were without pretense. Which felt very vulnerable.

“Repeat the question,” you breathed.

Bucky smiled. “You date much?”

You shook your head. “No. To be honest, I don’t usually feel like it’s worth it. Putting myself out there. I’m sorry–I know it sounds like I’m wallowing in self-pity, but, uh. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it. Being turned down. Because I use a stupid piece of metal to walk.”

“You could spend a lot of time feeling sorry for yourself, doll. And–that’s not to say you don’t have the goddamn right to feel some type of way about it. It’s your body, it’s not how you pictured your life going. Of course you’re gonna be sore about it. You aren’t alone in that. I’m just sayin’... Anybody who’d lose out on a chance with you because of something as insignificant as a tube of aluminum ain’t the type of person you wanna waste your time with anyhow.”

“It’s weird. I don’t disagree with what you’re saying, but. I dunno. It’s hard to think people exist who aren’t gonna be weird about a freakin’ cane.”

Bucky crossed his arms. “Fuck’em. Waste of your time.”

“What about you? Are you a time-waster?”

“Worse. I’m a Brooklyn boy. We can wait out a stubborn dame with the best of ‘em.” Bucky braced himself on the railing. “Can I take you out again?”

“You’re gonna sit on my porch until I agree to a second date?”

“I–when you say it like that, I sound like a creep,” he chuckled. “No, I just… if you had a good time, and I really hope you did, I would like to treat you to another date. I took a wild guess on the festival idea, but I can think of a million other things. More than just coffee.”

“I was holding a coffee mug in my profile photo,” you laughed. “That was enough.”

“There’s more out there.”

“I had a good time.”

“Is that a ‘yes’?”

You watched his face turn from excitement to pure glee. His body angled towards you intensely. All his energy was directed towards you. It made your skin tingle, and all good sense fled from your mind.

“Just come in, Bucky.”

“You gotta say it, or I ain’t budging. This is all up to you, doll.”

“Yes, okay?” You leaned against the doorway with an exasperated sigh. “I had a great time. You’re adorable, and exhausting, and I’ve never had more fun on a first date. Or any date, for that matter. Please–come inside. Kiss me a little. I think you’re probably good at it.”

“It’s been awhile,” he admitted quietly, though he pushed off the railing to do as you bid him.

“Good. I don’t like it so formal–”

“You’re so cute.”

“I’m not–”

“No, it isn’t up for debate.” Bucky tucked a finger under your chin so you’d look up at him, given that your attention had fallen to the laces of his boots in embarrassment. His irises flicked back and forth, mapping every refraction in your eyes. “I know cute when I see her. And there’s nobody else in this whole damned city but you, doll.”

He kissed you as if that were true… as if he had stepped out of the subway to a world devoid of anything but a billion scattered golden leaves tracing circles on the pavement, and a girl with a cane who hates surprises. As if–in that dystopian and autumnal universe, that were heaven to him. Like he’d been looking for you in every empty coffee shop. Like he knew you, and it was only a matter of walking into the right store. It was soft, the drag of his lips over yours. At first he just ghosted a millimeter from your mouth, but then he needed to know… so he gave in. He didn’t spoil it with tongue too soon. Bucky discovered you.

You’d been kissed, but never at the world’s end. The world you knew was siphoned away. In this one? Well, kisses stopped time. Made leaves hang in the air between gasping breaths. Kisses were where the light got in. Where sun broke through clouds… where a girl who didn’t much care for vulnerability let a man she barely knew steal every little sound from her throat, out on her front stoop where anybody could see them.

You got the door open by feel, and stayed on your feet by virtue of the man with roving hands who backed you into the building. It was for the best that your apartment was on the first floor, because your knees threatened to buckle when his tongue worried the seam of your lips. He tucked the crook of your cane into the curve of his elbow when you tore yourself away to fight the finicky lock at your threshold. 

“I didn’t expect to have anyone over,” you said by way of an explanation for whatever mess might be found inside, but Bucky snorted.

“When are you gonna get it through your head?” He nipped at the tendon which helped form the curve from your shoulder to neck, making you shiver. “I don’t give a shit if all you got is a mattress on the floor. I like you.”

“I have a bit more furniture than that,” you giggled, “but I still appreciate you saying it.”

The moment you were inside the apartment, Bucky leaned back against the door and turned you, so you stood between his feet. He looked at you through heavily-lidded eyes. “Tell me.”

You turned your attention to the buttons on his coat as he saw right through you. “Bucky–”

“I think you like kissing me, but you’re skittish. If you’re freaked out…”

“I’m–shit.” You sighed. “I believe you. That you like me, I do. But I am so used to feeling like nobody is ever gonna want me back–”

“Impossible.” He cupped your cheeks. “Look at you.”

“Bucky,” you groaned. 

“No, stop it. I know what you’re doing. Oldest trick in my book. You think that a good thing is a lie, that it ain’t gonna hang around. I’m a really, really, really bad liar. Alright? My ears turn red.” Bucky smiled triumphantly when you chuckled. “I watched you drink a pumpkin latte today like it was the best thing you’ve ever had in your whole damn life and it cost me three dollars. You’re charming. I’m addicted.”

He kissed your forehead and you melted into his chest in resignation. “I don’t do this,” you mumbled into his sweater.

“What? Let somebody say why they like you?”

You shook your head, and pressed your cheek against his chest. “I’m starving.”

“Oh–doll, dammit, I should’a fed you–”

“No. I mean, yes, we should order something,” you laughed, “but. Just. Why?” When you raised your hand, gesturing to your general being, Bucky’s expression transformed from concern to… something gentle. 

He shrugged, but his shoulders fell heavily downward, and his fingers curled into the pockets of your coat so you wouldn’t pull away while he found the words. 

“Because–I just knew. You were simply a notification in a stupid app and I still thought about your profile picture waiting in my ‘likes’ for days. And we talked like it was an everyday occurrence, feeling your world shift its axis. I didn’t talk to a single soul on that app but you, sweets, and I tried my damndest not to jump the gun on asking you to meet in person. Imagine my delight when you agreed. I was so terrified last night that I hardly slept, but I never thought once about feeling… self conscious, all day. It–I don’t feel that way with most girls. Safe, I guess. And I may not know what the hell I’m doing, but I’m not a guy who ever feels like I can trust a person and I’m pretty prepared to lay down naked in the street if you tell me that’s what you want–”

“Not necessary,” you said, smiling. 

“Well, that’s a relief.” Bucky brushed his thumbs over your cheeks. “Doll–I’m so sorry that anybody ever made you feel like you got some kinda worth to live up to. It makes me so angry, but then I think–who’s that for? What’s the point in me being angry at somebody who isn’t gonna change their mind… especially when it means that I get a chance.”

“Says the handsome guy with perfect teeth.” You winked at him when he scowled.

“I’m tryin’ here–”

“You’re wonderful,” you whispered. You smoothed over his bottom lip with the pads of your thumbs. “I’m… thank you.”

Bucky leaned forward until his forehead pressed against yours. “I’ve overwhelmed you.”

“No, sir. I just need a second. To acclimate to the idea.”

“I can go–”

“Please. Please don’t.” You tugged him towards the living room, slowly walking backwards and giving him every opportunity to wrench out of your grasp and run. But he didn’t break eye contact, no. Bucky kept pace with you, toe-to-toe. “We’ll watch something.”

“Spooky movie?” he suggested.

“...I’m such a wimp,” you admitted, and he let out a quick breath.

“You can hide under my arm during the scary parts.”

“So just bury myself under you the whole movie, got it–”

“If that’s what you want, doll.” Bucky smirked as your knees bumped into the lip of the couch, causing you to sit abruptly against the cushions. You still had a fist wrapped in the placate of his coat, so he fell forward, catching himself on the arm rest and hovering over you. You watched intently as his tongue whetted his bottom lip absent-mindedly, and you had to bite back a groan.

“That’s what I want. Bucky.”

***

A long time later, when your body was so sensitive that you shivered beneath him, Bucky hopped up… pantsless, still wearing his sweater, but peachy ass exposed to the air so he could run to the bathroom and find a soft cloth. When he returned to you (with a towel around his waist, suddenly bashful), he bore a damp washcloth in his left hand, which… you sat up slowly on your elbows to watch the reticulated fingers on his left hand as he cleaned you with soft strokes over your thighs and bit his lip… asshole. You smiled at him softly when his eyes flicked up to yours. 

“You gonna tell me about it, or wait for me to ask?” you murmured, sliding the cuff of his left sleeve up his bicep, exposing a charcoal and gold metallic limb to the dim light. 

Bucky didn’t say anything at first. He lifted you beneath the knees, and behind your back. He had no choice but to shower with you (since you woefully lacked a bathtub), as cleaning you both was clearly his priority, so he sat you on the edge of the porcelain counter to help you fully undress. He did so with a type of reverence which felt undue… but you were reminded that he didn’t look at you through the same lens with which you viewed yourself. Especially when he trailed his fingers over your softness like he didn’t feel worthy of touching you. 

But then, he stepped back from you, and he shucked his sweater.

He didn’t look you in the eye once he was fully exposed to you. He studied the tiles under your toes, and his hands didn’t seem to know whether to rest on his hips or try to hide his flesh from you, so he fidgeted. Which meant he didn’t see you reaching for his left hand, and when you did so (threading your fingers through his metal facsimiles), he looked like he might cry.

Bucky was an amputee. With a gleaming prosthetic extending from his clavicle to the tips of his left fingers, so intricate and complicated a design that it must be something experimental and custom-made, just for the likes of a soft-hearted Brooklyn boy.

“You’re beautiful.” You meant the raw words, even though they escaped your lips unbidden. 

Bucky squeezed your hand. “I’m not.”

“You don’t have to agree for it to be true.”

He looked at you, then. An agreement passed between you, unvoiced. I’ll say about you what you can’t. I’ll hold for you what you won’t. I’ll touch you again, because I want you, all of you–the flesh and the metal and the weak and the kind. Especially the kind. Of course Bucky understood you. Your heart-wounds took different guises, but they pulled the same strings.

When he knelt at your knee, it was supplication. It was obvious when he bowed his head to kiss the skin above your heart. Your heart had known his forever, it seemed. 

“A long time ago, I didn’t have a choice,” he said, so quietly you could only make out his words because you had coaxed him up to meet your lips again. “I almost died. I–god, I never thought I’d live or touch somebody again. And then you. I can’t explain this to people–” He rolled his shoulder like the limb was hurting him, and maybe it was– “without inviting them to look at my naked fuckin’ heart.”

“Is it heavy?” You ran your finger the length of the connector, where metal met his skin and cupped his pectoral. You meant the arm, but the way his head bobbed… you inclined your head so you could catch his lips before his spirit fell one iota further. It was a kiss of knowing. Understanding, without words.

“I can take it off,” he breathed against your lips.

“So do it.”

Bucky sat back on his heels. Then, he looked you square in the eye and detached the prosthetic arm. It wheezed as it lost power, the moment its circuits no longer drew power from his body’s natural electric whims. You held out your hands, and he set the thing across your open palms. It was lighter than you expected, but still hefty. You could only imagine how it pulled at his muscles, unnatural as it was. It was incredible, but then–so was the man with an empty prosthetic socket, who sat at your feet like he hadn’t hastily fucked you on your own couch at the end of your first date. Like sex was a small exchange when there was a soul resonance at hand. If you said it out loud? It would sound insane. Holding Bucky’s cheeks in your hands, though… 

“I like sushi,” you said softly, “and any carbs, really. So. Jot that one down, for your date ideas. And I’m a fabulous co-pilot if you like road trips. I love Upstate. I excel at floating down a river on an innertube–”

Bucky pushed up between your knees so he could reach your lips and he kissed you senseless. “Doll–”

“Shhh, darling man,” you smiled against his mouth. “I am addicted.” Parroting his words back to him made Bucky beam. “Stay the night. Surprise me in the morning. I don’t care. You’re everything I didn’t think I deserved and–and I’ll keep you. To spite Me.”

Bucky laughed. “It will be a pleasure to help you get revenge on yourself.”

***

Thanks for reading! :)

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[nahthanks]

DELIGHTFUL

[lidiasloca]

A COURT OF THORNS AND ROSES

MASTERLIST

At times I seem to favor the clever and the fair,

but I bless all those who are brave enough to dare.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄☆

THE FOLK OF THE AIR

MASTERLIST

Is this another riddle?

And if I answer it, will you go back to kissing me?

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄☆

HARRY POTTER

MASTERLIST

Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times,

when one only remembers to turn on the light.

.

[lidiasloca]

A COURT OF THORNS AND ROSES

MASTERLIST

At times I seem to favor the clever and the fair,

but I bless all those who are brave enough to dare.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄☆

THE FOLK OF THE AIR

MASTERLIST

Is this another riddle?

And if I answer it, will you go back to kissing me?

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄☆

HARRY POTTER

MASTERLIST

Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times,

when one only remembers to turn on the light.

.

[pellucid-constellations]

Ok this is literally so random but I’ve been searching for this Azriel x reader fic and I can’t find it. It’s basically about how the IC teases Az about how he’s always wanted a mate (reader is his newly found mate) and she gets insecure that he only wants to be with her bc she is his mate and not bc he loves her for her. Great angst and hurt/ comfort so I wasn’t sure if maybe you’ve heard of it??

Hmm I don’t think I’ve read it! Anyone else know??

[aelia-likes-monsters]

Mended

Characters: F!Selkie/NB!Human Content: SFW, Lost Selkie Skin, First Dates Spice Level: Mild Word Count: ~1,100

Notes: Another story that Patrons got to read early, and which is me experimenting with Flash Fiction.

The lighthouse door was open when I arrived, as if Finn had been expecting me.

I'd gotten their note an hour ago, tucked under their coffee cup at the end of my shift: I found something on the northern beach after the storm. I think it might be yours. Come to the lighthouse when you're ready.

My hands had shaken so badly I'd spilled coffee grounds across the counter.

Three weeks. Three weeks of searching every beach, every cove, every rocky outcrop. Three weeks of waking up in human form with my chest tight and my skin wrong, too heavy, too constricting. Three weeks of drowning on dry land.

And Finn had known. Somehow, they'd known.

"Up here!" Their voice echoed down from the lamp room.

I climbed the spiral stairs, each step feeling like walking toward a cliff edge. The stories warned us about this—about humans who found seal skins and kept them, who used them to trap selkies into marriages and lives we never chose. But Finn had kind eyes. Finn brought me their newspaper to read during slow shifts and always said thank you like they meant it.

Finn, who'd been coming to the café every single day since the storm.

They were waiting in the lamp room, silhouetted against the afternoon light. On the table beside them lay my seal skin, carefully folded.

"You came," they said softly.

I couldn't take my eyes off the skin. "You have it."

"I found it three weeks ago. Caught in the rocks, torn pretty badly." Finn's voice was gentle. "I only realized a few days ago that you were... that it was yours. The way you kept looking at the ocean. The scars on your arms. And you seemed so—" They stopped. "You've been in pain, haven't you?"

My throat closed. I managed a nod.

"I'm so sorry." They looked genuinely distressed. "If I'd known sooner, I would have brought it to you immediately. I've been keeping it safe, but safe isn't the same as returned."

"You mended it." I could see from here—the careful stitches along the flipper, the reinforced seams. Work that took hours. Days, maybe.

"I couldn't leave it torn. My grandmother was a sailmaker—she taught me before she died." Finn touched the skin with one finger, reverent. "It's beautiful. I wanted to take care of it properly."

"Why?" The word came out broken. "Why not just... you know what this is. What it means. You could have kept it."

"I know what the stories say." Finn's jaw tightened. "About humans who steal seal skins to trap selkies. Force them to stay, to marry, to give up everything they are." They picked up the skin, holding it out to me. "I would never do that to you. Never."

I stared at the skin in their hands—my freedom, my home, my self—being offered back without condition.

"I don't understand," I whispered.

"What's not to understand?" Finn stepped closer. "It's yours. I'm giving it back."

"But you've been coming to the café every day. Talking to me. I thought—" I couldn't finish.

"You thought I was keeping you close because I had leverage over you?" Finn's expression crumpled. "No. I came because I wanted to know you. Not trap you."

My hands shook as I took the skin. The moment my fingers touched it, I felt the tension in my chest ease. The first real breath in weeks.

"It's really mine?" I had to ask. "No conditions?"

"No conditions," Finn said firmly. "You're free. You've always been free. I'm sorry it took me so long to figure out how to find you."

I clutched the skin to my chest, feeling its weight, its warmth, the familiar smell of salt and sea beneath the lanolin Finn had used to condition it. Tears spilled down my cheeks.

"Hey, it's okay." Finn reached out, then hesitated. "Can I...?"

I nodded, and they pulled me into a hug. I sobbed into their shoulder while they held me, one hand gentle on my back, murmuring reassurances.

"I've got you," they whispered. "You're safe now."

When I could breathe again, I pulled back to look at them. "You knew what I was, and you still spent all that time with me. Why?"

"Because I wanted to know you." Finn said it simply, like it was obvious. "I liked you the first day you served me coffee and made that face when I said I wanted it black. I liked how you hummed while you worked and how you always saved the crusts from your lunch for the gulls." They smiled, a little shy. "Finding the skin just... explained some things. Made me understand you better."

"And now?" I asked. "Now that you know for certain?"

"Now I'm asking if you want to stay for dinner." Finn's thumb brushed away a tear on my cheek. "Not because you have to. Not because I have any claim on you. But because I'd really like to keep getting to know you. The real you."

I looked down at my seal skin, then back at Finn. At their careful hands and honest eyes. At the lighthouse that had kept vigil over the waters while I'd been lost.

"I should go to the ocean," I said slowly. "I need to swim. To feel whole again."

"Of course." Finn stepped back immediately, giving me space.

"But after..." I met their eyes. "After, could I come back? For that dinner?"

The smile that broke across Finn's face was like sunrise.

"I'll leave the door open," they said. "And I make a pretty decent pasta, if you're interested."

"I'm interested." I clutched my skin tighter. "In the pasta. And... in you."

Finn's breath caught. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." I reached out with my free hand, and they took it carefully, like I was something precious. "Thank you. For keeping it safe. For giving it back. For seeing me."

"Thank you for trusting me," they said.

I carried my skin down the lighthouse stairs, Finn walking beside me. At the door, they squeezed my hand once more.

"The ocean's waiting," they said. "And so will I."

I kissed their cheek—quick, impulsive, terrifying—and ran for the water.

Behind me, I heard Finn laugh, delighted and full of hope.

And I knew I'd be back.

~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~

You can find all my free writing on my Masterlist or AO3. Love what I do? Tip me with a Ko-Fi. Or if you want more, back me on Patreon for exclusives & early access. I also truly appreciate reblogs, likes, and comments. They keep me going. ♥

[nahthanks]

Love 🥺

[julemmaes]

Love her like she should be loved

Cassian and Nesta Archeron modern au

So, this morning I was scrolling through Tumblr and I saw this post who said “i just want a fic with cassian defending nesta!!! idc what the context even is i just want to see him being offended on nesta’s behalf and being ready to throw hands” and I obviously couldn’t resist. The post is this one.

Nesta is not really present in this specific part, if you want more of this au you can always send an ask (and a prompt if you want) and yall know I would continue this without hesitation. Hope you enjoy, as always:)

Word count: 3,266

Keep reading

[nahthanks]

Back to binge your fics again and started with my favourite as always

[pellucid-constellations]

A place for the current fandoms I've written for/currently write for :) I also write for Dramione on Archive of Our Own -> Link ♡

~ A Court of Thorns and Roses

~ Marvel

~ Stranger Things

~ Jujustu Kaisen

~ DC (in the works)

[elilovesangst]

A Fox Among Heroes

Summary: When a skilled fighter joins the Avengers, she hides her true identity as a kitsune, a seven-tailed fox spirit with an uncontrollable charm that bewitches men.

📎Genre: Romantic Comedy | Superhero Fantasy | Fluff

⚠️ Warnings: → Mild language → Comedic depictions of magical infatuation → Light action violence → Emotional themes of self-doubt and guilt

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader! nine tailed fox

A/n: I wanna make up for the heart break I caused you guys, myself included, from "Fractured Light" I give you some fluff and by that I mean literal fluffy short fic. ENJOY!!!

The Avengers Compound buzzed with its usual controlled chaos, sparks flying from Tony’s lab, the distant thump of Thor’s hammer against a training dummy, and Natasha’s sharp commands echoing from the sparring ring. You, the newest recruit, stood at the edge of the training room, adjusting the wraps on your hands. Your heart raced, not from nerves but from the constant vigilance of guarding your secret. You were no ordinary fighter. Beneath your human exterior pulsed the spirit of a nine-tailed fox, though you were only on your sixth tail, a fact you kept hidden from everyone, even the world’s mightiest heroes.

Your skills had earned you a place among them. Natasha Romanoff herself had nodded approvingly after you’d matched her move for move in a sparring session, her lips curling into a rare smile. “Not bad, rookie,” she’d said, tossing you a towel. “Keep up like that, and you might just survive us.” The others had warmed to you quickly, Steve with his earnest encouragement, Tony with his relentless teasing, and Clint with his easy camaraderie. But it was Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier, who lingered in your orbit most often.

Bucky was quiet, observant, his steel-blue eyes tracking you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. He’d offer small gestures, a water bottle after training, a steady hand when you stumbled during a mission debrief, a soft “You okay?” when you looked lost in thought. You weren’t sure why he’d taken to you, but his presence was a comfort, like a warm hearth in a storm.

You’d been with the team for three months when disaster struck. An ambush hit the compound at dawn, a swarm of HYDRA operatives breaching the perimeter with tech that rivaled Tony’s. Alarms blared, and the Avengers sprang into action. You fought alongside them, your movements fluid and precise, dodging energy blasts and disarming enemies with the grace of a predator. Your training kept your instincts in check, but the battle pushed you to your limits.

As the last HYDRA agent fell, you stood panting in the courtyard, adrenaline coursing through you. That’s when you felt it, a tingling warmth spreading from your core. Your eyes widened as you glanced down, and your breath caught. Seven shimmering tails, each tipped with a faint golden glow, fanned out behind you. Your fox ears, soft and pointed, twitched atop your head. The transformation had happened without warning, triggered by the intensity of the fight.

“Oh no,” you whispered, hands flying to cover your ears. You spun, trying to tuck your tails behind you, but they were too voluminous, too alive with energy. The Avengers, scattered across the courtyard, had frozen, their eyes locked on you. Tony’s jaw hung open, his arc reactor humming faintly. Steve’s shield lowered slightly, his brow furrowed. Natasha’s expression was unreadable, but her hand hovered near her holster.

“What… the hell?” Tony finally said, stepping forward. “Are those… tails?”

You stammered, your face burning. “I—I can explain—”

“Explain?” Tony interrupted, circling you like a curious scientist. “Kid, you’ve got a full-on fox vibe going on. This is next-level cosplay or… something else entirely.”

Thor boomed with laughter, clapping a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “A kitsune! A spirit of legend! I’ve heard tales of such beings in Midgard’s folklore. Magnificent!”

You winced, your tails twitching nervously. “It’s not… I didn’t mean for this to happen. I’m still learning to control it.”

Bucky, who’d been silent until now, stepped closer, his eyes wide but not with fear, something softer, warmer. “You’re a fox?” he asked, his voice low, almost reverent.

“A nine-tailed fox,” you corrected, then bit your lip. “Well, seven tails now. I… I wasn’t ready to tell anyone.”

Natasha crossed her arms, her gaze sharp but not unkind. “Why keep it a secret? We’ve got a literal god and a guy who turns green on this team. You think we’d care?”

“It’s not that,” you said, your ears flattening slightly. “It’s… complicated. My kind... have abilities that can… affect people. I didn’t want to risk it.”

“Abilities?” Steve asked, his tone cautious but curious.

You hesitated, then sighed. “Like… charm. It’s not something I control easily. When I’m in this form, it can just… happen. Especially with men.” Your eyes flicked to Bucky, and you quickly looked away, your cheeks flushing.

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Charm, huh? So, what, you’re like a walking rom-com trope?”

“It’s not funny, Tony,” you snapped, your tails swishing in agitation. “It’s dangerous. I don’t want to manipulate anyone.”

To your surprise, Bucky chuckled softly, the sound easing some of your tension. “You’re not manipulating me,” he said, his voice steady. “I’d know.”

You met his gaze, and for a moment, the world seemed to shrink to just the two of you. His eyes held no judgment, only a quiet understanding that made your heart ache.

“Okay,” Steve said, breaking the moment. “So, what now? Can you… change back?”

You shook your head, your ears drooping. “Not yet. It takes time—maybe a week. I can’t retract the tails or ears until the energy settles.”

“A week?” Clint whistled. “That’s gonna make stealth missions interesting.”

Thor grinned. “I say we celebrate! A new tail is a milestone, yes? A sign of growth in your power!”

You blinked, then let out a small, surprised laugh. Your tails flicked, and you couldn’t help the small hop you gave, your fox instincts bubbling up. “It… it is kind of exciting,” you admitted, your voice brightening. “Seven tails means I’m getting stronger.”

Natasha smirked. “Alright, Foxy. Let’s get you inside before Tony tries to dissect you.”

The next few days were a whirlwind of adjustment. Your tails and ears drew stares, but the team adapted quickly. Tony, predictably, called you “Tails” nonstop, while Clint tried to pet your tails “for science” until Natasha swatted his hand away. Steve asked earnest questions about your powers, and Thor insisted on toasting your new tail with mead. Bucky, though, was a constant. He’d sit with you during meals, his quiet humor coaxing smiles, or train beside you, his presence steady and reassuring.

But your charm was a ticking time bomb. By the third day, it began to leak. It started with Clint, who lingered too long at breakfast, staring at you with a goofy grin. “You know, your eyes are… really sparkly,” he said, leaning closer.

“Clint, focus,” Natasha snapped, yanking him back by his collar.

Then it was Tony, who started leaving you gadgets “just because.” “Made you a tail-polishing bot yet?” he asked, winking.

Steve wasn’t immune either. He blushed when you caught him staring during a briefing, stammering, “I, uh, just noticed your… ears. They’re… nice.”

Thor, bless him, was unaffected, too godly for your charm to sway. “Fear not, Lady Fox! Your spirit is mighty, but my heart belongs to Jane!” he declared, oblivious to the chaos.

You were mortified, your ears drooping as you apologized profusely. “I’m so sorry! I can’t control it in this form!”

Natasha sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Great. Half the team’s acting like lovesick puppies.”

Bucky, for his part, was a constant presence. He’d sit with you during meals, his quiet humor coaxing smiles from you. He’d train beside you, offering pointers with a gentleness that belied his strength. And when you’d curl up in the common room, your tails tucked around you like a blanket, he’d sit nearby, reading or cleaning his gear, a silent guardian.

It was on the sixth day that it happened. You were in the kitchen, reaching for a mug, when Bucky walked in. His hair was mussed from training, his shirt clinging to his frame, and something in you snapped. Your tails glowed faintly, and a warmth spread through you, unbidden. You turned, meeting his eyes, and your voice came out softer, sweeter than you intended. “Hey, Bucky. Want some coffee?”

He froze, his pupils dilating slightly. “Uh… yeah. Sure.” His voice was rough, and he stepped closer, his movements almost trance-like. “You… you look nice today.”

Your heart sank. You recognized the signs, the glazed look, the way his attention fixed on you. Your charm had activated, and Bucky was caught in its pull. “Bucky, I—” You stepped back, but he followed, his expression dazed but adoring.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured, reaching out as if to touch your tails. “I’ve never seen anything like you.”

Panic gripped you. You bolted from the kitchen, your tails streaming behind you, and locked yourself in your room. Your heart pounded as you leaned against the door, guilt twisting in your chest. You liked Bucky like really liked him, and now he was under your spell, his feelings warped by your kitsune magic.

The next morning, the team noticed. Bucky hovered near you, offering you snacks, carrying your gear, and smiling like a lovesick teenager. Loki, unaffected by your charms, raised an eyebrow during a meeting. “Okay, what’s with Barnes? He’s worse than Clint.”

You sighed, your ears drooping. “It’s my charm. I didn’t mean to, but it got Bucky too. He’s… well they're... obsessed until my tails retract.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “So, they're basically your personal fanboy until you’re human again?”

You nodded miserably. “I hate it. I… I like him, okay? But this isn’t real. He doesn’t actually feel this way—it’s just the charm.”

Bucky frowned, his brow furrowing. “That’s not true,” he said, his voice firm despite the haze in his eyes. “I’ve felt this way for a while. The charm just… makes it harder to hide.”

You shook your head, tears prickling your eyes. “You don’t understand, Bucky. It’s not you talking. It’s the magic.”

He reached for your hand, but you pulled away, your tails curling protectively around you. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, fleeing the room.

The next day, your tails and ears finally retracted, your human form restored. You braced for Bucky to snap out of it, to return to his usual reserved self. But he didn’t. He still sought you out, still lingered near you, still looked at you with that same warmth that made your heart flutter and ache.

“Something’s wrong,” you muttered to Natasha as you watched Bucky spar with Steve, his eyes flicking to you every few seconds. “The charm’s gone, but he’s still… like this.”

Natasha smirked. “Maybe it’s not the charm, Foxy. Maybe the guy’s just head over heels.”

You shook your head. “That’s impossible. He was under my spell. It’s probably some lingering effect.”

But as the days turned into weeks, Bucky’s behavior didn’t change. He’d bring you coffee in the mornings, sit with you during movie nights, and talk with you late into the night about everything from his past to your hopes for the future. Your guilt began to fade, replaced by a cautious hope that Nipples areola.

One evening, as you sat on the compound’s rooftop, your tails long gone but your heart still heavy, Bucky joined you. He sat beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, and the silence was comfortable but charged.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said quietly, no accusation in his tone.

You hugged your knees, staring at the stars. “I didn’t mean to. I just… I was scared.”

“Of what?”

You took a deep breath. “That you didn’t really feel what you said you did. That it was just the charm.”

He turned to you, his eyes soft but intense. “I told you, it wasn’t just the charm. I’ve been falling for you since the day you walked in here, kicking Natasha’s ass in the ring.”

You laughed despite yourself, your cheeks warming. “I didn’t kick her ass.”

“Close enough,” he teased, his smile small but genuine. “Look, I get why you’re scared. That charm thing… it’s a lot. But I know what’s real. I’ve been through enough to know when my head’s not my own.”

You searched his face, your heart pounding. “How can you be sure?”

He reached out, his flesh hand gentle as it brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “Because when I look at you, it’s not just some spell. It’s you. Your laugh, your strength, the way you light up when you talk about something you love. The way you try so hard to keep everyone safe, even from yourself.”

Tears welled in your eyes, and you blinked them away. “Bucky, I… I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” he said, his voice steady. “And if you’re worried about the charm coming back, then we’ll figure it out together. I’m not going anywhere.”

You laughed softly, wiping your eyes. “You’re too good to me, you know that?”

He grinned, a rare, full smile that made your heart skip. “Maybe I just like foxes.”

You shoved his shoulder playfully, and he caught your hand, pulling you closer. Your breath hitched as he leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a tentative, questioning kiss. You melted into him, your hands finding his shoulders, and the kiss deepened, warm and real and everything you’d been afraid to hope for.

When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours. “Still think it’s the charm?” he murmured.

You smiled, your heart full. “Maybe it’s a little bit of magic. But… I think it’s mostly you.”

He kissed you again, and under the starlit sky, surrounded by the quiet hum of the compound, you felt the weight of your fears lift. Charmed or not, Bucky was yours, and you were his. And that was more than enough.

Author's Note: I really enjoyed writing this so I decided to make a Vignette series of these where different scenarios of you being a cunning Nine-tailed Fox always teasing the Avengers. >>> Masterlist <<< for Fox Tales See my other stories here >>> Masterlist <<<

[nahthanks]

This is so cute I love it

[buckyblogs]

MY BUCKY FIC RECOMMENDATIONS

• ‘come home to me’ - during the rise and ruin of the second world war, a sharp-tongued brooklyn girl falls for james buchanan barnes—only to lose him to the battlefield, a presumed death, and the silence that follows. but almost two years later, when the war is long over and the wounds have scarred over, he comes back through her door, proving that some promises do survive the fire. (14.7k) @danysdaughter

! • ‘promise without ceremony’ - Bucky Barnes gave up on marriage a long time ago. But then, somewhere deep in a storm-soaked safe house, he pulls a bullet from your leg and accidentally proposes in the process. (3.9k) @cheekybarnes

• ‘lessons in lovemaking’ - You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned. (smut masterlist) @artficlly

• ‘this is (not) fine’ - 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. (smut - 9.1k) @artficlly

• ‘take me home’ - the team discovers bucky's relationship with you when bucky searches for you in the hospital after hydra attacks new york (secret marriage - 1.7k) @parkers-gal

• ‘jackass’ - Everyone is horrified that Bucky is flirting with a married woman, but then they realise there's a reason why. (secret marriage - 3k) @aquaticmercy

! • ‘lumberjack!bucky series’ - Roots and Branches is the main story, Hardwood the follow-up, and the rest are one shots that you can read -or not- in the order you desire. (oh my god i love this) @vunblr

• ‘moving in’ - You're moving into your brand new apartment with Bucky. (beefy!bucky smut) @brunchable

• ‘movie night’ - You come home exhausted from another day of work, not expecting Bucky to surprise you with a little heart-warming gesture to show you how much he appreciates you. (fiance) @brunchable

• ‘my neighbour is a p⭐️’ - Things have turned awkward. You and Bucky hasn't spoken with each other for a few days now. But is the much needed space making things better or worse? (part 3/3 - other parts are in their masterlist!) @brunchable

• ‘all the apple cider and no more haunted houses’ - you and bucky barnes have a love-hate relationship—you love him and you believe he hates you—but when your friends insist on going to the scariest haunted house attraction in the area, the experience ends up forcing your real feelings for each other out into light. (smut - 11.1k) @witchywithwhiskey

• ‘the forever third wheels’ - it's the weekend of your town's annual valentine's day carnival and you go with your group of friends, though you can't help but be sad you don't have someone special in your life. your friend, and fellow third wheel, bucky barnes makes it his mission to give you a valentine's day you won't soon forget—and show you how special you are to him. (6.6k) @witchywithwhiskey

• ‘the day after’ - Your new roommate introduces you to her brother, but you met him last night. (implied smut - 2.3k+) @navybrat817

! • ‘like he means it’ - You can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you. (oh my god 😭😍 - mentions of sex - 13.6k) @marvelstoriesepic

*! • ‘summer surprise’ - You've been looking forward to kicking off the summer with a week on your dads new boat. You decide to have one last night of fun before committing to a week on the sea with your family. But you're thrown into a world of shock when you realize the older man you slept with, only days prior, is not only friends with your dad, but also joining you for the trip. (age-gap! - 21k) @pome-seed

*! • ‘we couldn’t stop’ - During a sweep of a forgotten HYDRA lab, you, Steve, and Bucky trigger an old aerosol dispersal system. No one realizes what hit you until it’s too late. Now stuck in quarantine- burning, aching, and caged in with two dominant, unraveling super soldiers- you’re forced to ride out the drug’s effects together. (Bucky & Steve - 7k) @societyfolklore

* • ‘fractured light’ - In this emotional slow-burn romance, you, Steve Rogers’ best friend, find yourself homeless and jobless, seeking refuge in the Brooklyn apartment he shares with Bucky Barnes. While Steve welcomes you with open arms, Bucky is wary, his distrust rooted in a painful past tied to a silver ring from the 1940s. (oh my god - sobbing 😭 - 30k+) @onlyforsebastianstan

*! • ‘captain, stg, grumpy, and their doll!’ - (poly!relationship, Steve x Reader x Bucky | Stucky x Reader - 1.5k) @mercurial-chuckles

WILL KEEP UPDATING!

* means new, ! means personal favourites

MAKE SURE TO FOLLOW AND CHECK OUT ALL THESE AMAZING AUTHOR’S CONTINUED WORKS!

[marvelstoriesepic]

Ahh omg thank you so much for including my work here, lovely!! You are so sweet!! It makes me so happy that you enjoyed it enough to share it this way 💗🫶🏻

[marvelstoriesepic]

A Thousand Times Before

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky travels to an alternate universe for the sake of a mission. But he doesn’t expect to come face to face with a version of you that loves him, completely and openly. Back in his own world, he is left with a truth he can’t keep to himself anymore.

Word Count: 16.5k

Warnings: alternate universe; multiverse; so much yearning; identity confusion; emotional distress; guilt; self-worth struggles; unintentional non-consensual kiss (non-violent, due to mistaken identity); angst; heartbreak themes; slight mentions of Bucky’s past; self-preservation; self-doubt; Bucky is a man in love

Author’s Note: This ended up being longer than I intended. Anyway, I’d love to hear what you think! Also, I’ve been toying with the idea of writing an alternate version where the roles are flipped. This time the reader travels to another universe where Bucky and your counterpart are already a couple. Let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in reading too! I hope you enjoy ♡

Divider by @cafekitsune ♡

Masterlist

The air smells of memory.

As though someone took the world he knew, put it through a sieve, and rebuilt it with hands that were almost - but not quite - shaking.

Bucky walks slow, even though his boots echo down a corridor that used to be silent. Used to be. In his world, the east wing of the Avenger’s compound is always cold, sterile, mostly unused. Here, the lights are warmer. Someone’s installed those vintage bulbs. They buzz faintly and flicker around.

There is a plant in the hallway. A real one. He steps past it. Looks down. A ceramic pot painted with little sunflowers. A tiny sticker peeling off the side.

This version of the compound is lived-in.

It’s unnerving.

He hates how it makes him breathe more deeply as though he is listening for something it shouldn’t. How everything is just off. The couch in the lounge is turned at a different angle. The vending machine is missing. There is a lavender-scented candle burning on the coffee table.

He doesn’t trust this. He doesn’t trust any of it.

Not the way the ceiling seems too low or how the hallways echo the wrong sound the longer he walks. The floor beneath his boots is almost the same. But almost is what gets people killed. And he’s not in the business of dying again. Not even here. Not even in a world that’s supposed to be some mirror image of his own.

It smells of lemon disinfectant and something faintly floral as though someone sprayed a bottle of room freshener and hoped no one would notice the rot underneath.

He runs his metal fingers along the wall as he walks, lets the vibranium whir quietly against the plaster. Feels the microscopic grooves in the paint.

In his universe, there is a crack near the main stairwell. Sam swears he didn’t do it. Clint insists he did. Here, it’s perfectly smooth. That bothers him more than it should.

He takes in this slightly different world as though maybe this is all some trick of the multiverse, some clever illusion designed to fool the worn-down man with the metal arm and the hundred-year-old ghosts. But the walls are still painted in the same color - off-white, barely warmed by the overheads. The hallway lights flicker golden. As though someone decided the compound shouldn’t feel like a facility. As though someone decided it should feel like home. His breath still fogs faintly in the colder patches of the corridor.

This could still be his universe somehow.

Even though it isn’t.

And even though he doesn’t want it to be.

He never wanted to be part of the mission.

He said no. Loudly. Repeatedly. With many adjectives and lots of glares. It didn’t matter. Fury said he was the only one who could go. That this universe had some piece of tech - some half-mythical Howard Stark prototype that their Stark never got the chance to build.

Something with the potential to rewrite temporal coordinates with precision. To fix anomalies. Maybe even to bring back the ones they lost.

He sat through the debrief like a man sitting on a bomb. Not moving. Not breathing more than he needed to.

And Bucky noticed, the way he always did, that you never ask quite so many questions during debriefing - unless the mission involves him. And this time, it’s only him. So that meant more questions from you. More concern you didn’t even try to mask.

And it made his heart clench.

You asked how they knew this tech even existed in that timeline.

You asked why Tony couldn’t just build it himself to which the man gave you a look.

You asked what would happen if Bucky saw someone he knew. If he saw himself.

You asked what exactly Bucky was going to walk into and what was expected of him.

You asked how much they even knew about this universe.

Steve had exhaled, hands braced against the briefing room table, blue eyes clouded. “We don’t know much,” he admitted. “This universe is close to ours in structure, but details are limited. No major historical deviations. No sign of HYDRA still in power. No active wars. Just small shifts. Choices made differently.”

Bucky had watched your face tighten as if the lack of data itself was a warning.

“SHIELD had a file on it, but nothing concrete,” Steve went on. “Stark’s readings say it’s stable - no time fractures, no reality collapses. Just another version of what we know.”

Bucky had listened, fingers flexing against his metal wrist. Close to theirs, but not the same. And he wonders, not for the first or last time, what choices this other world made for him.

The mission is simple. Locate the prototype. Extract it. Avoid unnecessary contact with variants. And get the hell back before anything breaks - him, the people, the timeline.

Bucky stopped listening entirely after receiving all the information he needed.

He only registered you shifting beside him, and it was the tiniest movement, but he noticed. You always get fidgety when something bothers you. He wanted to say something, reassure you, but he didn’t truly know if he even got this.

He knew you were worried. Knew you were angry. The kind that made your eyes too quiet and your hands too still. The kind that made Bucky feel like he was walking through a house where all the lights had been turned off, but every door was open.

When Dr. Steven Strange opened that portal, you stood in the corner of the room, watching him and giving him that guarded look that said you better come back whole. He couldn’t meet your eyes for too long.

And when the world rippled and bent, and the air shimmered as though it might break, and he stepped forward like a man walking into the sun with his eyes closed, he thought of you.

The stairs groan beneath his boots, familiar but not.

Same wood. Same color. But smoother. As though someone took the time to sand down the scars.

In his universe, the fifth step has a chip where Steve dropped a dumbbell. Everyone tripped on it at least once. Here, it is whole. Perfect. No history at all.

That’s what gets him. The lack of damage. As though this place hasn’t lived the same kind of life.

He reaches the second floor and hesitates.

The hallway is dim. Only the lights overhead are on, flickering just slightly. He hates the buzzing. It’s like something alive and trapped.

He turns left.

Your room is down this hall.

Or - your room in his universe is down this hall. He shouldn’t assume anything. Things are wrong here. Tilted just a few degrees off center. The kind of wrong you don’t see until it’s already unmade you.

But his feet are already moving.

It’s not like he’s planning to go in.

He just wants to look. Maybe see how different this version of you really is. Maybe see how different he is, through your eyes.

He reaches your door at the end of the corridor. It’s cracked open. That’s weird. You usually always have it shut.

Your voice isn’t behind it. You’re not laughing, humming, ranting about something. There is only quiet.

He steps closer.

The doorframe is covered in tiny indentations. Not scratches - these are deliberate. Someone’s been marking height on the trim. Two sets of lines. One lower than the other. Two sets of initials scrawled in black ink. Yours. And his.

He knows it’s yours. Because he knows your height. Like a number carved into his bones.

He’s memorized the space you take up in a room. Not just how tall you are, but the way your presence fills the air.

He knows where your head would rest if you stood beside him. Knows it would reach just beneath his chin. Knows the sound your footsteps make when you enter a room, and how the air shifts when you’re near.

He has painted you in his mind a thousand times before.

Eyes open, eyes closed.

In dreams, in silence.

In the echo of a laugh you left behind on a Tuesday.

He’s mapped you in the kitchen. Measured, in his mind, which cabinets you can stand beneath without hitting your head. Which shelves you can’t reach so he can be there, quietly, to help. So he can hand you that mug you always squint up at, the one you pretend you don’t need.

He knows how your arm swings when you walk.

Knows the rhythm of your stride. Knows your pace.

And sometimes, not often enough to be suspicious, he lets his hand brush yours.

Lets his fingers catch a hint of your warmth.

It’s not an accident.

It never is.

He carries you like a story he hasn’t told yet.

And he is aching, aching, aching to write you down.

Bucky stares at the markings like they might reach out and touch him.

He brushes his fingers against one. The ink smudges slightly under the metal pad of his thumb. Fresh.

He doesn’t understand.

Why would he-?

No. It has to be a coincidence. Just a prank. A weird joke. Someone else with your handwriting, maybe. Another version of him. One who doesn’t carry his past like a loaded gun. Or it’s just some odd inside joke he never got to know about in his own universe.

Bucky moves to step back, but his eyes catch on something else.

To the right of the door, hanging crookedly, is a small, square canvas. Acrylic. Textured.

It’s a painting. He knows it immediately. Your style.

He’s seen you paint a thousand times in silence, your jaw clenched, music too loud in your headphones. You always say you paint when you can’t say something out loud. When the words get stuck in your chest and rot.

This painting is familiar. A half-sky. A steel arm. Fingers open, reaching toward a red string that trails off the edge of the frame.

He knows what it means. He knows you.

But the painting doesn’t belong here. Not like this. It’s intimate. Meant for someone who understands the weight in your throat when you speak through colors.

Someone like him.

His stomach twists.

Maybe it is him.

He doesn’t like that thought. Doesn’t like how it makes his heart trip over itself.

He takes a step into the room because his brain told him to and his body didn’t want to argue. And he stops breathing.

Because you're not there.

But the room is.

The room is here.

And that’s almost worse.

It’s too familiar.

Not identical, not exact, but similar enough to tear him wide open.

The walls are a different color. Now necessarily lights. But just not how he remembers it. The books on the shelf are in new places, different spines, rearranged lives.

But the couch is the same shape, the same worn-out comfort.

The window still drinks in the light the same way - slanted, soft, forgiving.

And there’s a sweater messily folded on your dresser.

A book, face-down on the cushion like someone meant to come back to it.

Like you were just here.

Like maybe, if he stays long enough, you’ll walk back into the frame of this almost-life.

He doesn’t touch anything.

He’s afraid to.

Because this version of the world remembers you.

The shape of your existence lives here - in shadows and coffee rings, in the faint scent of something sweet and floral and you.

He walks the room like an intruder in someone else’s dream, eyes cataloguing the differences, chasing the sameness.

He notices that the cabinet doors hang slightly crooked in the same way.

And for just a moment he swears he hears your voice in the next room.

But it’s only silence, mocking him.

He wants to sit.

He wants to stay.

Wants to believe that if he closes his eyes, you’ll be beside him again.

He knows it isn’t true.

This isn’t his world.

This isn’t his home.

And this isn’t his you.

But the ache doesn’t care about reality.

The ache believes in the melodic sound of your laughter and the empty seat beside him.

There’s a coat draped over the back of a chair.

His coat.

Not one like it.

His.

The leather’s too worn in the same places. The collar stretched where he grips it with his right hand. There’s even the tear near the cuff that you stitched together with dark red thread, muttering that you weren’t a tailor but you’d seen enough war movies to fake it.

He steps inside without meaning to.

The room smells like you.

It’s your scent - soft, unassuming, threaded through with something sweet. Like worn pages and old tea and maybe vanilla.

It’s the same smell that clings to your hoodie when you get closer to each other on cold stakeouts to warm the other. The same one that lingers on your gloves when you pass him something, and he holds them a moment too long just to feel the warmth you left behind.

There’s a mug on the nightstand with faded text that reads I make bad decisions and coffee.

He bought that for you. In his world. As a joke.

You still used it until the handle cracked, and then you glued it back together and kept using it anyway.

He reaches out for it.

Stops.

His hand is shaking.

Bucky turns slowly. And sees the photo.

It’s not framed. Just pinned to a corkboard on the far wall, beneath torn paper scraps and to-do lists written in your handwriting.

It’s the two of you.

He recognizes the background - Coney Island. A bench by the boardwalk. Sunlight in your hair. His arm around your shoulder. His face not looking at the camera, but at you.

You’re laughing. And he looks-

He looks in love.

Like he has everything he ever wanted.

His breath hitches.

He steps back.

Back again.

Like distance might undo the gravity of what he just saw.

His ears are ringing.

None of this makes sense. Not fully.

He is stepping into a space he should not recognize but does.

The walls are a little brighter than in his world. Pale blue. Like the sky on cold days. There’s a candle on the windowsill—burned low and forgotten. Its wax has dripped onto a saucer, hardened into a small, messy sculpture. The bed is half-made. A throw blanket in a tangled heap at the foot of it. He recognizes that blanket. You two fought over it last movie night and then ended up sharing it.

There’s another book lying face-down, this time on the mattress. A knife on the nightstand. A half-written grocery list in your handwriting with his name scrawled at the bottom next to coffee and razor blades and more apples.

He stares at the list too long. At his own name like it sits in the wrong place. Like it’s foreign and familiar all at once.

His heart makes a quiet, traitorous sound in his chest.

He shouldn’t be here.

This isn’t his room. It’s not his place. Not his world. He’s just a shadow slipping through someone else’s life.

The longer he stays, the more it feels like the walls are leaning in.

He has a job.

A mission.

A very, very clear objective and a limited window to complete it in. That’s the only reason he’s here. The only reason he agreed to this whole ridiculous plan.

He doesn’t belong to this life.

He doesn’t belong to you.

Not like this.

Especially not like this.

He steps back. Slow. Controlled. As if the room might lurch and pull him in again, keep him held tight inside the heat of it. The scent of lavender on your pillow. A half-drunk mug of something still faintly warm on the desk. A soft blanket, folded neatly over the back of the couch by the window. Woven wool, pale grey, fraying just at the corners. In his world, that blanket lives in the rec room. He draped it over your slumbering body a few times already after you fell asleep somewhere between the second and third act.

The room creaks as though it knows he’s not supposed to be here.

So he leaves.

Each footfall measured like a soldier retreating from a line of fire. Not because of danger.

Because of what it could mean.

He closes the door behind him. Doesn’t let it latch.

He is leaving your room because he has to.

Because he’s still Bucky Barnes, and he still has something to do with his hands that isn’t letting them hover uselessly over photographs he never shot, or standing in the middle of a space that smells like your skin and wondering how long it would take before he forgot this wasn’t real. Or wasn’t his.

The hallway is still and dim. It breathes around him, too familiar and too wrong all at once. Different lungs, but the same bone structure.

His boots scruff over the same tile. The grooves on the walls are the same, the small imperfections in the paint still visible where someone - Clint, maybe - banged a cart too hard against the corner and then tried to cover it up with exactly the wrong shade of touch-up.

There’s a duffle bag sitting outside the laundry chute with a name tag stitched in crooked red thread: WILSON. Of course. Even this Sam never takes his stuff all the way in.

And there is a vending machine. It stands in the wrong corner, but it too has a post-it note stuck to it - out of order, again, thanks Tony - with a penknife stabbed through it, just like Natasha used to do when the machine ate her protein bar credits.

These things shouldn’t exist here. But they do.

Everything feels so carefully replicated, as though this universe is a reflection cast on rippling water - almost right, except where it wavers.

The picture frames are all straight here. No one’s taped up drawings on the elevator doors. But the dent in the wall by the training room door is still there - Tony left it during a particularly aggressive dodgeball game. And the pillow on the corner of the couch is still upside down. Steve never fixes it.

Someone’s sweatshirt is slung over the railing. Sam’s. Same one he wore for three weeks straight after the Lagos op. It still smells like burned rubber and that weird detergent Sam insists is “eco-friendly but manly.”

The common room has a blanket folded over the arm of the couch.

It’s yours.

You always fold it the same way. Two halves, then thirds, then smoothed flat.

The corners of his mouth twitch. Not a smile. Just muscle memory of one.

He walks slower now. Like he’s afraid he’ll wake something up.

He turns down the south hall, toward the kitchen.

He tells himself it’s for the layout. That he’s retracing steps, building a map in his head, keeping sharp like they trained him to. But really it’s you. It’s always you. He knows you’re here, somewhere, and if he turns the wrong corner too fast he might see you in a way he isn’t ready for. Or worse - see you in a way he’ll never forget.

His hand curls into a fist. Flesh and metal both.

The light changes first.

The kitchen here is bigger. Airier. The windows seem to stretch wider than they should, the frame redone in something softer than steel. Someone left the lights low, warm glimmers buzzing faintly above, full of melancholy chords.

And then he freezes. Everything in him turns to stone.

He stops breathing.

Because there are you.

Standing with your back to him.

You are in fuzzy socks, standing at the counter, shoulders relaxed, a pot simmering on the stove, and a sway in your movements that hit him so hard his throat tightens. You shift your weight slightly, hip against the edge of the counter, your hand rising to tuck your hair behind your ear.

The way the light hits you from behind is exactly the same.

You are moving through a rhythm you don’t know he’s watching.

You’re cooking something - he doesn’t know what, can’t smell it through the barrier of this aching distance - but it all is so heartbreakingly familiar. The tilt of your head as you read the label. The absent little sway in your hips as you stir something in the pan.

It’s domestic.

Effortlessly soft.

The kind of moment he’s never had, but has imagined a thousand times before.

His body goes very still. Maybe if he moves, the moment might shatter.

But it cleaves him open.

Because you move the same.

You move the way you do in his world - as though every room bends slowly toward you. As though you don’t know how much of your soul you leave behind in your trail. As though the air makes space for you because it wants to. Because it has to.

He watches.

Rooted to the floor.

This is doing something brutal to him. Seeing you here like this, in this soft golden kitchen that smells like tomatoes and thyme and something slow-cooked with patience and love, tucked into his shirt as though it doesn’t tear his heart apart.

You’re not just wearing it to steal warmth or tease him, the way you’ve done before in his world - tugging on his hoodie after a long mission, smirking when he raises an eyebrow, pretending it was an accident. You always returned it too quickly. Always laughed too loudly when he was too nonchalant about it. Always looked away too fast.

But here. Here you wear it as though you truly mean to.

Here you stir sauce in his shirt and sway slightly to a song you don’t know you’re humming and taste the spoon as though this is just another Saturday. Here, the shirt is not a stolen thing.

The hem skims your thighs. The collar is stretched slightly. The cotton even moves in your rhythm. His name is ghosted into the shape of you, etched along your silhouette. It’s almost too much. It’s absolutely too much.

Your movements are familiar in the way only time can make a person. And God, you move the same way. The same way. Like the version of you he left behind an hour ago. Fluid. Quiet. Self-contained. You hum under your breath, just barely.

He feels it like a bruise forming under his ribs.

His hand curls at his side. Metal fingers flex.

You don’t see him.

He’s not ready for you to. He knows he shouldn’t let you see him.

Not here. Not like this. Not when you’re standing in a kitchen that looks like the one you always complained was too small, in a shirt that is his - or the other Bucky’s - cooking with your whole body curled in that same subtle tension like you’re thinking about something else entirely.

And for one breathless second, he forgets.

He forgets this isn’t his kitchen.

That this isn’t his world.

That the you standing there isn’t the one who left a hair tie on his wrist last Wednesday.

That you’re not the one who laughed at him for not knowing how to use your espresso machine but then proceeded to teach him with that sweet voice of yours he doesn’t mind drowning in.

But God, he wants to walk across the room. Wants to slide his arms around your waist. Rest his chin on your shoulder. Breathe in your scent and feel your heartbeat under his hands.

Because he’s seen you like this before.

In his own kitchen, in his own universe.

Not often. Just enough to be dangerous.

You, in fuzzy socks. You, humming softly. You, squinting into a pot like it might confess its secrets.
You, looking over your shoulder and catching him staring.

Smirking. Amused. But with a warmth in your eyes.

And now, he just watches.

This version of you doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t feel him standing there, made of want and memory and too much tenderness for a heart that was never meant to carry this much.

He grips the doorframe.

Tries to swallow the pain.

Because this is what he’s always wanted, but it isn’t his.

And it won’t be.

But he can’t stop looking.

He knows he should move. Now.

He’s not supposed to linger.

Not supposed to look.

Not supposed to feel.

He’s a shadow in this world, a breath not meant to be heard. A presence designed to pass unnoticed.

But you-

God.

You are gravity and he is weak against it.

You are the glitch in every rule, the exception in every universe.

And he can’t help it.

He looks.

He stays.

Because there is no version of reality where he walks past you untouched.

You are the only thing in this place that hasn’t changed.

The only thing that feels right.

And that’s the worst part.

Because you feel like home.

And you’re not his.

You might never be.

But he stands there, selfish and still, pretending the silence could make him invisible. Pretending this version of you isn’t real. That your shape, your voice, your hands wouldn’t undo him in ways the war never could.

You reach for the spice rack, standing on your toes just a little, the hem of the oversized shirt lifting slightly. His name is written in the way the fabric hangs off your frame. It’s branded into this whole place.

He watches you like a man watches fire from the other side of glass - warmed, lit, and ruined all at once. You move like morning through him - and he, all dusk and dust, knows he is never meant to touch such light.

You wear that shirt on your shoulders as though it is normal for you. As though you want it to be there.

Bucky watches it stretch across the curves of a body he’s only ever worshiped in dreams.

You still feel like you, he thinks and the thought is so sudden and so violent that he has to step back - just a fraction of an inch, just enough to pretend he didn’t feel it, just enough to pretend it doesn’t mean something.

He doesn’t understand how this version of you still reads like poetry he’s already memorized.

He backs away, so slowly, he wonders if time might forgive him for the moment. For his hesitation to leave.

For the way, he just stands there and watches you as though you are the last good thing in the world.

As though you are the world. His world.

You turn, slow, stirring spoon still in hand. You haven’t seen him yet. You’re focused, brow furrowed just slightly, lower lip caught between your teeth, and he knows he should get the hell away from here.

But he is frozen in place. His muscles aren’t working.

He sees the angle of your cheek, the line of your neck, the quick twitch of your nose as though you’ve caught a scent you know too well.

And then you look up.

You see him.

Bucky’s mind is running on empty cells.

Your whole face changes. Clouds lifting. Sun rising. Your smile is instant. As though seeing him is something your body wants to do.

Everything in you brightens. As though the sun cracked open inside your chest. Your whole body jolts. Just a fraction. In surprise, delight. As though seeing him is something that rearranges the air in your lungs and makes it easier to breathe.

He is not prepared for the way you breathe his name.

“Buck-” your voice is thick with shock and joy and something lighter than either. “You’re back.”

He doesn’t move. Can’t.

The word back rattles in his ears. Echoes. Feels like a lie made of gold. He is not back. He is not yours. Not in this life. Not in this room. Not in the way you somehow seem to think he is.

You don’t give him time to speak. You don’t give him space to even think.

Because you’re already closing the distance between you, fast and sure-footed, and he has just enough sense left in him to realize he should say something, before you launch yourself into his chest, arms flung wide, a soft gasp of excitement still spilling from your mouth.

You collide with him hard and certain and unapologetic, and your arms wind around his neck as though they’ve done this a thousand times. So easy with him. Knowing the shape of him.

He stiffens. Every muscle in his body locks up, heart ricocheting against his ribs. He chokes on his breath.

He’s too overwhelmed with this situation to hug you back. His arms stay frozen at his side. His fingers twitch, trying to reach for you but remembering they shouldn’t.

You’re warm. You’re so warm.

You smell like that candle on your windowsill. Like a version of comfort he hasn’t earned.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were back?” you murmur, voice muffled as you bury yourself into the crook of his neck, full of a joy so honest it makes his entire ribcage squeeze the life out of him. “I thought you were still stuck over there. I was starting to get worried. Were you trying to surprise me? Because you definitely surprised me.”

Bucky can’t speak. He can’t do a single thing and that’s absolutely pathetic. He wants to say something clever or distant or safe, but his mouth is a graveyard and the words are bones. He’s not sure he even remembers how to use them anymore.

Your breath fans across his collarbone, your nose brushing his jaw, and it’s too much.

The feeling of you against him is unbearable. You fit. Of course, you do. His body knows you, even if his brain is screaming that this is wrong, that this is not the life he is living, that this version of you is not his to touch.

But you don’t know that. You don’t hesitate. Your hands slide up his back. One of them tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck. The other rests against the curve of his shoulder. His flesh shoulder.

He feels like glass. Like a single breath could rip him to shreds.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

There is something tender in your eyes. Something known. Something that sees him without flinching. You’re beaming. And he is blinded.

You’re looking at him as though he’s something you loved for years and known down to the marrow.

And then, so quickly, so confidently - you kiss him.

Bucky freezes.

All the air leaves his lungs.

His heart stutters in his chest.

Your lips meet his as though the air between you has gravity, as though you have done this before, soft and sure, knowing how he likes it. You kiss him as though you’ve kissed him a thousand times and a thousand more.

Bucky is a rigid wall, thunderstruck.

But he doesn’t stop you.

He should. He knows he should. The second your hands touched his face, he should have stepped back. Should have told you the truth. Should have warned you that this isn’t him. Not the right one. That the man you think you’re kissing is a ghost wearing someone else’s memories.

But he doesn’t. He lets you. For a heartbreaking moment. Lets his mouth press to yours for the span of a beat and a half. Lets the warmth of you crack the ice he’s been carrying in his chest for too long.

Your lips are warm, soft, sweet, tasting of honey and cinnamon and nostalgia and the imaged version of a dream he’s buried too deep to name, one he’s never dared to reach for but still lingers in his bones. Bucky doesn’t know if he’s breathing or if that became something irrelevant.

He lets you press into him as though the whole world hasn’t changed, as though this you is not a stranger wearing your skin, your voice, your tenderness. And for a second, a small and selfish, shattering second, he melts.

His muscles go slack and his eyes fall closed and the universe falls into place. Your lips on his feel like relief, like the end of war, like something he didn’t earn. He lets himself sink into it, into you.

You kiss him as though you know him. As though you know the hollow places and where they go. As though your body is working off muscle memory forged from love he was never around long enough to deserve.

Your hands are on his face and you’re kissing him as though this means something and he wants to pull away, he does, but not for one split-second. He folds like wax in flames, pliant and helpless under your affection.

His heart stutters - skips, crashes, burns.

Your body is pressing forward as though it’s coming home.

His mouth moves with yours, slow and stunned and melted, like a man learning to breathe in a language he doesn’t speak.

This is what he has imagined. This is what has haunted the spaces behind his eyes when he lets his guard down. He has imagined this. Wondered what your breath would taste like when it caught between your mouths, how your fingers would feel fisted in his hair, how it might feel to be wanted by you - openly, without hesitation, without shame.

But then you whisper against his mouth, soft and breathless and full of joy.

“God, I missed you.”

And everything collapses.

The words strike like ice water down his spine. It’s like being shot. He grows tense again. His eyes snap open. His mind catches up to his heart. The sweetness goes sour in his mouth. The warmth becomes poison under his skin. Because it isn’t real. This isn’t real.

You’re not his.

Not his to kiss. Not his to miss him. Not his to touch him with that bright look in your eyes as though he is part of your story.

You think he’s your Bucky. The one who - as Bucky would imagine - kissed you on every hallway in this place, whenever he could. The one who knows which side of the bed you sleep on. The one who earned your trust, your touch, your history.

And so he breaks the sky.

He pulls away - rips himself out of paradise with shaking hands and a jaw clenched so tight it might snap. The breath that leaves him is ragged, torn.

Every muscle in his body is tight. This is not your kiss. Not yours to give or his to take. Not when you don’t know. Not when you think he’s someone else.

And even though it’s you - your warmth, your voice, your heartbeat fluttering against his chest - it’s not the version of you he’s imagined this with.

And it’s not right.

The guilt punches him all at once, shame and grief and confusion he’s never quite learned to survive. He recoils - not even fully on purpose - but instinct, instinct that tells him he has stolen something you didn’t offer him.

He’s just a stranger behind familiar eyes.

You freeze. Blink at him. Confused. Concerned.

Your smile falters. Disappears.

His chest heaves once, twice, too fast, not able to breathe properly with your taste still caught in his mouth. His hands curl into fists at his side, trying to remember what they are for.

And then he sees it - your worry folding into something smaller, something more ashamed.

And it murders him in slow motion, one heartbeat at a time.

Your hands drop away from his face and flutter against your lips for the smallest second as though maybe you’re the one who crossed a line.

And he watches, helpless, as the light behind your eyes dims.

You take a tiny step back, shoulders inching inwards as though you’re suddenly unsure of yourself.

And then your eyes widen, and the guilt spills out of you now, sharp and immediate.

“Buck, I-” you start, your voice soft and hesitant. “I’m sorry. That was… I shouldn’t have just- I didn’t mean to- God, you probably needed a second to just settle, and I-” you trail off and take another step back as though you think you hurt him.

Your face crumples, not dramatically, not completely. But enough to look a little wounded. Vulnerable in that way you only let him see when no one else is around. Even here. Even in this life that isn’t his.

It’s killing him.

That pain in your eyes. The sheen of doubt and confusion that he put there.

You wrap your arms around yourself, retreating inward, your expression far too close to shame.

His chest caves as though something vital just got torn out, and his body hasn’t caught up yet.

Because even if you are not his - you are you. And hurting you, even by accident, even like this, feels like peeling the skin of his ribs.

He feels it in the hollow beneath his ribs, a wound that won’t stop bleeding.

“No!” he forces out quickly, voice low and rough and all wrong. “Hey- no, no, you didn’t- You weren’t- I’m not-”

But he doesn’t know what to say.

He wants to tell you it’s okay, that you didn’t do anything wrong, that it’s him, it’s all him, it’s always him, it’s never you.

He wants to scream that his bones are made of want, that his blood sings only your name, that he is drowning in everything you don’t know you’ve given him.

But none of this is simple. None of it is clean.

And all he does is stand there.

Breath shaking.

Heart breaking.

Hands curled so tightly to keep from reaching.

Because you didn’t give this kiss to him, not knowing who he was. You gave it to the man you think he is. The man you trust.

And he accepted it anyway. Let it happen. For just a split second, but still, he let himself have it.

He feels sick.

And now you look like you’re folding in on yourself, and all he wants in the world is to pull you close and undo every second of pain.

“I just got excited,” you say timidly, even softer now, eyes dropping to the kitchen counter. “I missed you and I didn’t- I thought you’d- Never mind. I’m sorry.”

You’re already turning away, trying to tuck the moment back into yourself, trying to pretend it didn’t just break the air between you. As though you haven’t just handed him a piece of your heart and watched him flinch from it.

And Bucky feels like the worst kind of monster.

Because it’s not your fault. This version of you, who somehow but clearly loves him, who thought she was greeting the man who has kissed her a thousand times and more. Who thought this was welcome. Who probably counted down the days until he walked through that door.

He knows because he does the same thing although his you and him aren’t even a thing.

Because in his world, you’re his friend. Just that. A friend with soft eyes and sharper wit, someone who argues about popcorn toppings and sings loudly in the kitchen when you know he needs some cheering up. You’ve patched him up after missions. You’ve watched old movies with him in silence, both of you staring too long at the screen and not long enough at each other. You’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder. You’ve tucked his hair behind his ear when it stuck to his cheek after a nightmare. You’ve told him - more than once - that you’re here for him.

But you’ve never kissed him.

You’ve never touched him as though you owned the moment.

You’ve never stood in his clothes and cooked dinner for the version of him who let himself be yours.

And god, he wants to hate this version of himself. This man who found the courage to step forward when he only hovered on the edge. Who earned the right to be held by his dream girl like a homecoming.

And now you are ashamed. Now you are hurt.

Because he couldn’t be the right Bucky.

He steps forward, frantic, needing, desperate to fix it, to say something, anything that would wipe that hurt look off your face.

“No- no, hey,” he rasps, voice frayed. His hands are hovering. He wants to touch you. He wants to hold your face in his palms and make this better. “It’s not your fault. It’s not you. I just… I mean, I didn’t think-” He knows he’s not making this better at all right now.

He sighs, mouth open but language failing him, and he scrubs a hand over his jaw as though he can erase the hesitation you saw there.

You search his face, your eyes too deep.

A trembling nod.

“Okay,” you say. “I just thought- I don’t know what I thought. I was just really happy to see you. But I should’ve given you a moment.”

And there it is.

The softness.

The part of you he has always tried to guard. The one he’d go back to Hydra to protect. The one that makes his chest ache and his hands shake at his sides.

He wants to tell you everything. The truth. The mission. That he’s not the man you think he is.

He almost does.

But his throat is choked up.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and that only breaks him in a new way.

Because you think you did something wrong.

“No,” he starts again, firmer this time, softer too. “You don’t need to apologize, sweetheart. I-” he hesitates, and you see it. “I missed you, too.”

He screwed up. Completely.

You bite your lip, unsure. Your eyes flick down to your shirt. His shirt. Not really his shirt. But Bucky’s shirt. You tug at the hem as though it suddenly doesn’t belong to you anymore.

And Bucky knows that this moment will haunt him long after he leaves this world. Long after he goes back to the version of you who wears his hoodies just to tease, who touches him only in passing, who is his friend despite him wishing for you to greet him the same way this you greets her Bucky. For the rest of his life.

You look at him as though he’s a wound.

As though he’s something tender and broken and half-open, and not in the way that frightens you but in the way that makes you reach for the first aid kit. As though you’ve seen the blood already, and you are not afraid to get your hands dirty to make him whole again.

Your voice turns softer now. Maybe trying not to shake the walls around him. Like you’ve already seen him flinch once and you’re afraid of making it happen again. He can hear the thread of caution in your throat, stretched thin with concern.

“Buck,” you say, slow, quiet. “Are you okay?” you ask and it’s not just a question. It’s a doorway. A key turned in a lock he hasn’t let anyone touch. You’re peering through the walls he built up as though you have done it before. Maybe you know all his hiding places. Maybe you’ve kissed every scar on his soul and memorized the way his silences mean different things.

But not this version of him.

Not here. Not now.

And it does something sharp to him.

Because he’s not okay. He is a thousand feet below the surface, lungs full of water and salt and regret. He is standing in a version of his life that is too soft for the callouses on his hands, and you are looking at him as if he means something to you, as if he still matters even after he’s flinched from your kiss, after he’s stood there in a borrowed skin, giving nothing in return.

He wants to say yes. Wants to lie because it would be kinder. Because maybe it would make your forehead smooth out and your mouth curl back up and your shoulders drop from where they’ve crept up near your ears. But the words catch in his throat. He can’t swallow them. He can’t spit them out.

You step closer, slowly now, more careful than before, and the guilt rises more than ever.

“Do you need anything?” you ask, as though you’ve asked him this a thousand times before. “Water? Food? A shower? A-” you falter, “- a second to breathe?”

Your eyes are so gentle he could cry. You’re hurting and you’re still soft with him, still reaching across this invisible crack in the earth, still offering care with both hands like it won’t burn you if he doesn’t take it.

He doesn’t deserve this.

He doesn’t deserve you.

Not when he’s not the man who earned the right to walk through that door and be met with your affection like sunlight. Not when you looked at him like a miracle and he gave you nothing back but a statue.

His hands remain in fists. His chest is too tight. Too small. His own skin is too loud.

“I’m fine,” he answers. Too fast. Too clipped. He regrets it instantly.

Your face drops a little, enough for him to feel it all over again. Another weight, another reminder that he is ruining something delicate, something not meant for him.

“Oh,” you murmur, nodding too quickly, stepping back as though your warmth was a mistake. “Okay.”

And there it is.

That thing he can’t stand.

That thing you do - both of you, all versions of you - when you feel shut out. That pull inward, that retreat behind your own ribs, as though maybe you’d overstepped, and now you need to fold yourself small enough not to take up space.

It crushes him.

Because he made you feel that way.

He made you feel as though you’re making it worse by caring.

He swallows hard, sorrow burning down his throat.

He doesn’t deserve your tenderness. He doesn’t deserve your care. He doesn’t deserve the way you’re moving again, back to the counter, shoulders tense. You’re trying to give him space and comfort in the same breath and it hurts to watch.

You stir something in the pan. Wipe your hands off a towel that looks as though it’s been used too many times. Domestic. Familiar. This life is familiar, too much so, and he is standing in the middle of it like a trespasser.

“I’m almost done here,” you note sweetly, glancing back at him with that look - gentle and worried and wounded. “If you do want something.”

You say it as though you’ve fed him before. As though he likes your cooking. As though this is something you fall into easily, the kitchen your common ground, your voice echoing off the same cabinets.

Bucky can feel his heart cave in.

You’re still looking at him like that. As though he’s someone you’d give your last spoonful of soup to. As though he isn’t just standing there like a coward with your kiss still on his mouth and your concern sitting in the hollow of his chest.

Even when he pulled away, even when he didn’t say a damn word, you didn’t get angry. You didn’t accuse him of anything. You just worried. And you’re still here. Still cooking. Still offering pieces of yourself like they’re nothing when they mean everything.

It makes him feel like a thief.

Because he’s not your Bucky. And he doesn’t know what yours did to earn you, but he can’t possibly live up to it.

His guilt is a creature now - gnawing and breathing heavy in his chest, pacing in circles behind his ribs. He feels it crawling through him, scraping at the back of his throat, making it hard to speak, hard to swallow. You are being careful with him, and all he can think about is how he should have stopped the kiss the second you leaned in.

You wouldn’t have kissed him if you knew who he really was.

And still, he wants to say yes.

Wants to sit at the kitchen table as though he belongs. Wants to take the plate you’d hand him and eat every last bite and listen to your stories and pretend just for a moment that this is his.

But it’s not.

It’s yours.

And it’s his job to leave it untouched.

“I’m good,” he lies, voice a gravel-dragged croak.

You pause, spoon in hand, frowning softly.

He hates that look.

That little line between your brows. The tilt of your head. Maybe you know he’s not telling the truth but don’t want to press. Maybe you’d rather hold the silence in your hands than make him bleed more words than he has.

“Okay,” you say again, quiet but still open, still gentle. “Just let me know if that changes.”

And you turn back to your pan, shoulders remaining to stay curled in. Like a window closing just enough to keep the cold out.

And Bucky just stands there.

Mouth dry. Hands shaking. Jaw tight. Chest full of something that feels like grief and guilt and anguish all tangled up in barbed wire.

And you’re cooking for a man who doesn’t exist in your world.

And the worst part - the part that scrapes down the back of his throat - is that he wishes he could deserve you.

He wishes this was real.

He wishes it were him.

He wishes it more than he’s wished for anything in his life since he lost it.

Since he became something else, since he forgot his own name, since his hands were turned against the world, against himself. Since all he’s done is survive.

He watches you like a man starving for sunlight. Terrified it might disappear if he blinks too long.

The way your shoulders move as you stir. The curl of your fingers around the wooden spoon. The tuck of hair behind your ear. The shift of your weight from one foot to the other.

He watches you move like he’s memorizing. As though this is the last time he’ll see you in motion. Like your movements are things he can bottle and carry with him, tucked deep into some pocket where the world can’t steal it. Where time can’t take it. Where even regret has no reach.

Your fingers fuss over something inconsequential now. Adjusting the position of a mug that didn’t need to be moved, opening a drawer, and then closing it again. You’re pretending not to look at him but he sees the way your eyes keep falling over, the way you keep folding and unfolding yourself. You’re waiting. Giving him the space he didn’t ask for and that he doesn’t actually want but knows he should take. Giving him something kinder than he’s ever learned to give himself.

And you are so familiar. You’re the same here. Even in this place that’s slightly sideways and tinted in colors, he doesn’t recognize. You move the same. You speak the same. You care the same way.

Even if your kindness isn’t meant for him.

Even if your kiss was meant for a version of him he doesn’t even understand.

Because this Bucky - the one you seem to love here - he must have done something right. He must have looked at you one day and not looked away. He must have let himself have you. He must have been brave enough to reach for you with both hands and hold on.

Bucky doesn’t know how to be that man.

He wants to be.

But he doesn’t know how.

Not in his own world. Not where he loves you from afar and pretends that’s protection. Where he swallows the way you laugh like it’s medicine and doesn’t let it show on his face. Where he listens to your questions in briefings - always you, always asking the most, as though you know people better than they know themselves - and he lets the sound of your voice guide him through the fog in his head like a rope he can follow back home.

But he never says anything. Never answers unless he has to. Never tells you how often he thinks about you, about your hands and your hair and your smell and the way your eyes find his in a crowd like a lighthouse built just for him.

Because what would he even say?

Hey, I can’t sleep unless I replay the way you laughed when Sam dropped popcorn all over the floor last month. I still have the napkin you folded into a crane at that terrible diner. I know the shape of your handwriting better than my own.

And what would you say to that?

Would you smile?

Would you run?

He doesn’t know. He’ll never know. Because he never asked. Because he never tried.

But this Bucky did.

And now this is the price.

Standing in the compound’s kitchen that smells of roasted garlic and too many things he’s never had. Watching you move around as though this is all so very familiar to you.

He wonders if you’d greet him like this every day if he were yours. If you were his.

If you’d light up like that every time like he was coming come and not just showing up, arms open, voice warm, like there was no place he could be safer than here with you.

If you’d wear his shirts as though they are yours because of what he means to you, not because they are soft or convenient or too clean not to steal.

He aches with the idea of it.

He wants this.

He wants you.

And not just in the sharp pain that lives under his ribs. Not just in the sleepless nights and the imagined conversations. Not just in the way he stares too long when you’re laughing or how he makes excuses to sit beside you on the couch.

He wants this.

You, warm and open and lit up from the inside. You, the way you could be if you saw him like this. If you let yourself. If he ever earned the right for you to let yourself.

But he hasn’t. He knows that.

He’s just your friend. The one you trust with your coffee order and your spare key and the heavy things you don’t want to talk about until 2 am. The one you steal clothes from, but always give them back because they don’t actually belong to you. The one you fall asleep beside during late movies without worrying about what it means because it doesn’t mean anything. Not to you.

Not like it means to him.

And still, he always watches. From doorways. From shadowed corners of rooms that dim the moment you leave them. Not to possess you - but because to look away would be a small death he cannot bear.

You laugh, and he holds the sound like contraband. You glance past him, and he lets it wound him sweetly. He’ll love you like that forever - at a distance, in silence, in awe. A man carved hollow by devotion, wearing his yearning like a prayer no god will answer.

And this version of you belongs to someone.

Even if it’s just a different version of him, it’s not him. Not this one. Not the one still lost in the burden of everything he’s done. The one who still wonders if the blood on his hands will ever wash off. The one who doesn’t know how to be soft.

He doesn’t know what the other Bucky did to deserve this version of you. Doesn’t know how he got so lucky. Doesn’t know what he offered you, what words he spoke when you were doubting yourself, afraid of being too much.

He’s not sure if he even knows this Bucky. It sounds weird as fuck. But maybe he doesn’t. Because it seems impossible to Bucky that this guy actually managed to get his girl. To get you.

Though he sure as hell would start a fight if the other him ever took this for granted. If he ever walked through this kitchen distracted or tired or in a bad mood and missed the way you smile when you think he’s not looking. If he ever left you waiting too long.

Bucky thinks he’d kill to have what that punk has.

And he hates himself for that.

But he can’t help but watch you, and it feels like the axis of something turning. Like time folding in on itself to offer him one brief, borrowed breath of what could have been.

It feels like being kissed by a future he lost, and forgiven by a present he never dared to ask for.

Because he knows that if you knew his thoughts, if you knew what he is feeling right now, you’d feel betrayed. You’d feel wronged. Because this wasn’t yours to give and it wasn’t his to want and now you’re both tangled in something made of shadows and parallel paths that should never have crossed.

But you’re here. And he’s here. And the moment still smells of cinnamon and citrus and something sweet, like safety, like you.

And he can’t stop wanting.

He wants it so badly he feels like a child in his chest. Like a boy in Brooklyn again, heart too big, hands too empty. Wanting something too beautiful for his fingers. Afraid to touch it in case he ruins it.

He wants this kitchen, this quiet, this life. He wants to be the Bucky who you wrap your arms around without thinking. Without hesitation. The one you miss. The one you think about. The one you care about so deeply. The one you kiss without asking because of course he wants you to.

He wants to be the one you light up for.

He wants it so bad it hurts.

But you are too soft for the ruin of his hands. Too bright for the rooms he lives in. You drink from fountains he was never invited to approach, speak in tones that his rusted soul cannot mimic.

And this is gutting him. To know the shape of your intimate kindness, the tilt of your adoring smile, the poetry of your presence - yet remain nothing more than a silent apostle to your orbit.

And maybe that’s why he finally moves. Why he tears himself away, footfalls too loud in the silence, heart thudding wildly in his chest.

He can’t stay here, not with you standing in the soft yellow light looking like everything he’s ever tried not to need.

He clears his throat, tries to make his voice sound normal, even though nothing about him feels human right now.

Your eyes lift to his. Wary. Still warm. Still worried. Still too much.

“I should, uh,” he mutters, nodding toward the hallway. “I’ve gotta take a shower.”

He bites his lip in frustration at himself.

Your lip twitches. Tugs down ever so slightly. It splits him open.

“Okay,” you say, quiet. There is disappointment in your tone, you weren’t able to overshadow. “You’ll tell me if you need anything?”

He nods too fast. Too tight. “Yeah.”

And then he leaves.

Because if he doesn’t, he’s going to do something worse than kiss you back.

He’s going to beg.

And he knows he has already taken too much.

And he needs to turn away.

Because he has something to do.

Because this world isn’t his. And he wasn’t sent here to collect the storyline he’s too afraid to build on his own.

He’s here for a mission.

He wasn’t sent here to linger in your doorway and let his bones dissolve into longing.

He walks away with you still behind him. He feels your gaze on his skin and with every step, it’s like he’s leaving something behind he’ll never quite be able to touch again.

He almost turns around.

Almost says your name.

Almost asks what this Bucky did - how he said it first, how he reached for you, what it took.

But he doesn’t.

Because he doesn’t get to ask.

So he keeps walking, heart in his throat, your taste still on his lips, and the echo of your smile carved into his spine like something sacred he was never meant to keep.

****

“Did you run into anyone while you were there?”

Steve’s question comes as casually as a bomb dropped from the sky.

Voices rise and fall in the conference room - wooden chairs squeaking under shifting weight, pens clicking, someone’s fingers drumming absently on the table.

The room is too bright. The lights overhead white and clinical, burning a little too harshly through his eyes and down into the back of his skull.

The air smells like ozone and burnt coffee. The kind that’s been sitting in the pot too long, scorched at the edges.

Bucky sits at the far end. Back against the chair but not relaxed, never relaxed, spine too straight, jaw too tight, metal fingers tapping once against the glass of his water before he clenches his hand and stills it.

And he knew this was coming.

Knew from the moment Strange opened that cursed slit in the fabric of the universe and Bucky stepped through like he was boarding a train to nowhere. Knew the second he saw your face - your face, but not yours - that this would catch up with him. That this would unravel under fluorescent lights and scrutiny.

Every muscle in his body coiled tighter. A reflex. A learned thing. His mouth is already dry.

The table is crowded with Avengers, coffee cups clinking, files half-open and untouched because no one is really looking at the paper.

The prototype sits in the center of the table, carefully sealed inside one of Tony’s vacuum-shielded cases. A long-forgotten Howard Stark fever dream, something meant to bend energy fields into weaponized gravity. Or something. It doesn’t matter.

They have it. He got it.

But that’s not what anyone is talking about right now.

Not when Sam is already side-eyeing him. Not when Doctor Strange is seated in his dark robes like the warning label on a grenade, fingertips tented, waiting. Not when you’re sitting two chairs down - his version of you - and you’re watching him with that same knitted expression you always wear when something doesn’t sit right.

“Bucky,” Strange says, voice low and still too loud. “I need to know. Did you encounter anyone significant while you were there? Interacting with alternate selves is risky. Prolonged exposure can ripple. If you spoke to someone who knows you-”

“I know the damn rules,” Bucky mutters, sharper than he meant to, and instantly hates the way your brows lift at the sound of it.

He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. Tries to breathe. His body is still holding something that didn’t belong to him. Your smile. Your voice. The feel of your lips, pressed to his like they had every right to be there. Like you knew him.

He can’t stop thinking about you.

He doesn’t want to talk about it.

He dreads talking about it.

“There was someone,” he says, and the room quiets.

You sit a little straighter. Sam leans forward. Even Clint lowers his cup.

He can feel you watching him.

You, his version of you, sitting across the table with your arms crossed and your head tilted just enough to catch the shadows under his eyes. The real you. The only important you. And it’s so difficult to just look at you because he swears there’s a phantom echo still lingering in his chest. Of another you. Of another kitchen full of light.

“Who?” Strange asks.

Bucky exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the table. The grain of it. The scratch just under his knuckle. He imagines digging his fingers into it, splinters biting through skin, anything to ground himself.

“You,” He meets your eyes when he finally says it, and it feels like swallowing gravel. “I saw her.”

You blink.

“You ran into Y/n?” Sam asks, something like a smirk in his voice.

Bucky nods once. It feels like rust grinding his neck.

He can’t look up anymore. Can’t look at you.

He doesn’t need to look to know your breath has caught. He can feel it in the air. The absence of it. Like the moment before thunder.

He pushes through.

“She was there. She saw me.” His jaw clenches, his fists curl under the table.

Bruce exhales, pushing up his glasses. “That’s not ideal.”

Tony makes a sharp noise in his throat.

“Did you talk to her?” Strange inquiries, voice tighter now, more urgent. And Bucky has to refrain himself from wincing.

He sees you shifting in your seat in his peripheral vision.

“Yeah,” he sighs, quieter now. “We, uh- we talked.”

Silence.

Strange’s eyes are boring through him. “How close did you get?”

Sam leans forward. Bucky doesn’t look at him.

You’re staring at him now. Open. Quiet. You haven’t said a word. Your silence feels worse than anything else.

“I don’t think that matters-” Bucky starts, but Strange interrupts.

“It matters exactly. If she saw you, if you talked, if you touched, if anything that could destabilize your emotional tether occurred-”

Bucky laughs, but it’s hollow, breathless. Rotten. “What the hell is an emotional tether?”

“It’s you,” Strange answers simply. “And her. On a metaphysical level. The same person in different timelines can act as anchors. Or explosives.”

“Jesus,” Bucky mumbles, dragging a hand down his face.

His palms won’t stop sweating.

He hasn’t felt this kind of sick since HYDRA used to strap wires to his temples and ask him how many fingers they’d need to break before he forgot his own name.

The conference room is too still. Too sharp. His chair feels wrong under him, too stiff, too narrow. The soft, predictable sound of conversation from earlier has dropped into something tighter. Focused. Hunting.

He doesn’t want to lie. Not about you. Not when you touched him like that. Not when you said his name like that. Not when it almost felt like it could be true.

So he swallows hard and pushes words through his locked jaw.

“She hugged me.”

A pause.

He doesn’t look at anyone. Just the table. That one dent from Steve’s shield. The scratch Clint made with a fork because he talks with his hands. A small, folded paper crane tucked under your fingers. He doesn’t know where you’ve got that from but your fingers are bending the wings back and forth. He doesn’t think you even realize you’re doing it.

“She hugged you?” Sam repeats, brow raised. “Like… greeted you?”

Bucky nods slowly, heart thudding in his ears. “Something like that.” He can feel your gaze like heat pressed against the side of his face and it almost burns to meet it, so he doesn’t.

“What happened before that?” Steve wants to know, eyes narrowing.

“I-” Bucky starts, and then stops, scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I walked into the kitchen. She was cooking something. Then she saw me. She thought I- he- was back. From something. A mission. I don’t know the details.”

“And she hugged you,” Steve adds.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs.

He doesn’t mean to look at you, but he does. For a second.

And you’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. Something still. As though you are trying to understand.

“And you just let her?” Sam presses, not unkind, but relentless in the way only Sam can be. “You didn’t say anything?”

“What do you think I should have said?”

“Well, I don’t know, man-“

“Did I say anything? Or… she?”

It’s your voice.

And it makes his stomach flip.

His eyes snap to you. But you’re not looking at him directly. You look at the edge of his shoulder. The hinge of his jaw. The tension written across his face.

He shifts in his chair. “You- She asked why I hadn’t told her I was coming back. Thought I was surprising her.” His hands are pressed flat against his thighs as though he can keep himself from shaking if he stays grounded.

“And?” Steve asks, too gently.

“She kissed me,” Bucky manages finally, and the room stiffens around him like a held breath. His voice is almost flat now. Hollowed-out. Maybe he’s trying to bleed the memory dry so it stops spreading in his chest.

There is a momentary lapse of silence that feels like someone dropped something delicate and no one wants to be the first to point it out.

Clint exhales slowly, muttering something under it. Sam leans back in his chair, maybe trying to decide if this is funny or devastating. Steve just blinks.

And you go completely still. Not a twitch of movement. Not even your fingers on the paper crane.

“She kissed you?” Natasha says, brows high.

Bucky exhales. Nods.

“What kind of kiss?” Sam blurts, leaning forward again. “A welcome-home kiss? Or a- like a real kiss?”

Steve sighs exasperated.

“No, I mean- we gotta know. This matters.”

His hand is aching. Flesh thumb pressing hard against the knuckle. “It was- not friendly.”

And the room really freezes. Stunned.

Until Sam lets out this sharp, incredulous sort of whistle, and Clint groans, dragging a hand down his face.

You glance down at your lap, jaw clenched, breath held so still it barely moves your chest. And it twists something in Bucky’s stomach, the way you sit there trying to disappear. He’s not sure who it hurts more - you, hearing this, or him, saying it. There is shame curling behind his ears. Shame and something like grief. And it’s all turned inward.

Sam’s eyes narrow. “So she kissed you thinking you were the other Bucky.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s trying to keep still. Trying not to flinch. Trying not to look left. Trying not to look right. Trying not to look at you.

Because he feels the air around you shift like the press of a coming storm. It’s not anger. He knows that heat, and this isn’t it. It’s just quiet and tight and uncomfortable. A subtle withdrawal as though you’ve stepped behind some invisible wall only he can see.

And he hates it.

Bruce clears his throat carefully. “That implies a romantic connection. At least in her mind. Probably in his, too.”

Tony makes a face. “So we’re saying that Barnes and our girl are a thing in that universe.”

“Looks like it,” Natasha muses, eyes sliding toward you.

“Holy shit,” Clint remarks unhelpfully.

They say it so easily. As though this is nothing. As though this doesn’t wreck something fundamental in Bucky’s ribcage.

And suddenly everyone is quiet. Even the noise of the lights seem muted. It’s hot and awkward and strangely intimate.

Bucky stares down at his hands. They look like someone else’s. He can still feel your touch on them. Still feel the heat of your mouth against his. The softness. The way your lips pressed with such intention.

He says nothing.

He feels terrible.

Because a part of him still wants it.

Still aches with it.

Not the kiss. Not the accident.

The life.

That version of himself who gets to love you out loud. Who gets to be yours in daylight, in kitchens, in the moments that don’t demand heroism but just presence. That version of him that doesn’t have to swallow the way your voice makes something flutter in his chest like a broken-winged butterfly. The one who can kiss you because you already know him. Trust him. Want him. Miss him.

He wants that version to exist so badly.

And it makes him feel like a monster.

You’re sitting just far enough to be untouchable, just close enough that he can feel the space between you aching like a wound.

You are you. You are right there. And you don’t even know that in another universe, you loved him so much you ran into his arms without hesitation.

The light from the high windows drips in thin streaks across the long table, catching on Bucky’s knuckles, the tightness of his body.

There’s a long pause.

Then Tony exhales. “Well, that confirms it. Barnes is getting some in another universe.”

“Tony,” Natasha warns lowly.

Tony holds his hands up in mock innocence, but Strange interrupts them, turning to Bucky with a roll of his eyes. His cloak rustles.

“Did you tell her anything?” His voice is edged. “Did she suspect something?”

Bucky doesn’t answer immediately. He shifts in his seat. His back is too straight, and still, and his hands are bracing for something.

“No,” he relents. His voice is raw and rough like gravel pulled from the bottom of a riverbed. “I didn’t tell her anything.”

Strange’s eyes narrow. “Nothing?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Strange tilts his head slightly. His expression is unreadable. Calculating. “Her behavior. Did she seem disoriented? Odd? Suspicious? I assume you know Y/n well enough to tell if she’s acting off.”

The lump in his throat settles as though it lives there.

“She was hurt,” he admits, and the words punch out of him. “I froze up. She thought she’d done something wrong. But she didn’t suspect anything.”

Across from him, you shift. A small movement. But he feels it in his bones. He looks up. Meets your eyes.

You’re watching him as though you’re trying to learn something about yourself from inside of him.

He swallows hard.

“I didn’t tell her anything,” he says again, and it’s not for Strange this time. It’s for you. “I didn’t compromise anything. I was careful.”

“You were compromised,” Strange says, not unkindly, but without sympathy. “Emotionally. Whether you said something or not.”

Bucky doesn’t argue.

Because yes. He was. He is. He doesn’t even know how to be anything else anymore. His chest still echoes with the memory of your laugh - not your laugh, but close enough to trick him. His arms still remember the shape of your body, the way you buried yourself into him. As though you’d been there a thousand times before and would be a thousand times again.

He wonders what that other you is doing now. If you are still standing in the kitchen, perhaps waiting for him. Still hurt. Still confused. Still so worried.

He wonders what that Bucky is doing now. If he’s back. If he’s home. If you’re in his arms, asking what took him so long. If he knows what he has. If he’s grateful. If he deserves you.

And he wonders too, if you - the you here, right across from him now, quiet and tense and real - will ever look at him that way.

Your eyes are on his and it seems as though you want to say something, as though maybe you’ve been wanting to say something for a while now.

He doesn’t hear the others anymore.

They’re voices in a room, sounds in space, language and logic pressing against the outside of a window he’s no longer looking through.

Because your eyes are on him and they are too open, too careful.

And, unfortunately for him, this is where the hope begins.

Small. Thin. Stupid.

Because there is a version out there who loved him already. Who ran to him as though he was safety and home and joy all wrapped in one reckless heart and it had been so easy for her. Natural, even. Like a reflex. Like a need.

And he has to think that if she could, then maybe you could too.

Maybe - if he just keeps showing up, if he keeps giving you pieces of himself even when it’s terrifying, even when he thinks he has nothing worth offering - maybe you’ll see something in him that you’ll want to keep.

Maybe he’s not beyond that.

Maybe he’s not on the edge of the world after all.

His heart stumbles inside him, a sharp jolt under his ribs, and he realizes too late that his breathing has gone shallow. His palm is sweating. His chest is aching in a way that is not just pain, but hunger, longing, desperate weightless wonder.

Strange is talking. Something about dimensional instability and neural resonance and all that science talk - but Bucky is no longer a soldier at a briefing.

He’s a man staring across a room at the person who has made his worst days survivable, and he’s remembering how it felt to see you in his shirt in a different kitchen, how you stood there with your back to him waiting for him to wrap his arms around you, how your lips tasted like things he should never know but can’t ever forget.

You shift again. Your knee knocks lightly against the leg of the table as you tuck your foot beneath you. And your hair falls forward, soft and a little tangled from the wind that always sneaks through the compound’s side doors. Your lips part, as though maybe you’re going to say something in front of everyone, and he braces for it, all of him going still like a wolf spotting something too delicate to touch.

But you don’t.

You break eye contact and tuck your hair behind your ear as though you caught yourself doing something you shouldn’t.

But Bucky doesn’t stop hoping.

Because he watched you do exactly that in a very different universe. Such a small gesture but it means so much to him.

Because yes, maybe he is not the Bucky she thought she kissed.

He’s not the Bucky who wakes up with you tangled in his sheets.

He’s not the Bucky who lets himself believe he could be loved without earning it first.

But maybe he could become that man.

Maybe if he tries hard enough, he too can get the girl.

Maybe if he works at this more than anything else that matters, you’ll love him too. Not just in some alternate world, but here.

In this one.

In your voice, when you say his name.

In your laugh, when he says something without meaning too.

In your eyes, when you don’t look away.

And he knows he would do anything to earn that.

He would do anything to be enough for you in the only universe that matters.

His fingers twitch. His shoulders square slowly, almost unconsciously, as though some decision has clicked into place without needing permission.

The room is still full. Voices layered over voices like shadows that haven’t realized the sun moved. Chairs creak beneath shifting bodies, Sam’s laughter breaking loose and grating on Bucky’s nerves.

The idiot is grinning, leaning back in his chair as though this whole situation is the best thing to happen this week. “Alternate-universe you is in a relationship, Barnes. What do we think about that, huh?”

“Sounds like he’s living the dream,” Clint mutters, giving Bucky a jab to the arm. “You finally got the girl, Barnes. Took a whole damn reality shift but you got there.”

Someone chuckles. Tony, maybe. Or even Steve. He can’t tell anymore. He can’t hear much over the buzz in his ears, over the sound of his own heart pounding behind his ribs.

“Hell, maybe all our multiverse selves are having better luck,” Sam remarks, amused.

Clint chuckles. “Ah, Barnes just grew a pair.”

“Well, that’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it?” Natasha, calm as ever, lifts one elegant eyebrow.

“Alternate-universe Barnes has game,” Sam says delighted.

“Lucky bastard,” Clint mutters under his breath.

They mean well. They always mean well. This is how they show they care. With ribbing and teeth-bared grins, with shoulders nudged, and things they don’t say louder than the ones they do. It’s how they keep their own wounds in check. How they keep from bleeding all over the carpet.

But Bucky isn’t laughing. He isn’t smiling. His lip twitches but only with frustration at his teammates.

He notices your stillness. The lines around your mouth have gone soft and tight all at once. Your hands are folded too carefully in your lap and your gaze is pinned to the table.

With every mention - every offhand comment, every teasing jab - he can see it.

The way your shoulders stuck in closer to themselves. The way your breath grows quiet and shallow. The way you can’t seem to look at him anymore.

He swallows around it, the sharpness in his throat, but it doesn’t go down.

Everyone else seems to think this is a strange, mildly awkward, maybe slightly endearing detail in a weird mission story.

But Bucky feels sick.

Because he’s seen it on your face. The way the information about the kiss struck you like a misfired bullet. A shadow in your eyes, the small breath that caught in your throat, the way you shifted your legs like you needed to move, to run, to put distance between yourself and what you heard.

God.

He’s such a fool.

A lovesick idiot.

Because he let that brightness curl in his chest. The hope that even though you have every right to feel nothing at all, even though he’s spent so long training himself not to want this, not to wish for things he can’t have - he truly thought that if there was a version of you that looked at him that way, that reached for him without fear, then maybe this version, this you - maybe there was something possible here too.

But now he is watching it close again. Watching you feeling uncomfortable, retreating into yourself, folding inward like the paper crane you left behind. And he knows the fault lines are his. That even his silence can crack things apart.

When the meeting finally breaks - Strange dismissing everyone with a calm nod and a list of inter-dimensional protocols Bucky doesn’t hear - you stand before anyone else. Quiet. Not hurried. Just deliberate.

As though you’ve made a decision.

You don’t look at him. Not once. Just gather your notes and your coffee and the sweater you left draped over the back of the chair.

And you leave.

No goodbye. No glance back. Not even that half-smile you offer when the day has left you tired and the silence between you feels soft instead of loud.

Bucky is on his feet before he realizes it. He ignores Sam calling after him, something about needing to finish signing off the tech. Doesn’t respond to Steve’s “Buck?” Doesn’t glance at Strange, who’s looking at him as though he already knows where this is headed.

All Bucky sees is the hallway.

You, disappearing around the corner, just a whisper of your hair and the sound of your boots against the polished floor. And all he can think is no.

Not like this.

He walks fast, with his pulse in his mouth and panic blooming in his chest.

You’re so graceful even when you’re upset, even when your body is stiff with tension. You carry yourself with that strength that’s always pulled him in, and he hates that he knows it. Hates that he can read you this well, because it means he knows you’re hurting.

He walks fast enough to catch up, to not give himself time to think about it too much. His hands are cold again. The way they get when he’s unsure. When something matters more than he knows how to handle.

“Hey,” he calls out, and his voice comes out too soft. Almost hoarse. “Wait- can you- can we talk?”

You stop. Slow, reluctant. As if the last thing you want to do is this but some piece of you can’t help it.

You don’t turn around at first. You’re breathing hard. He can see your shoulders rise and fall too quickly, your jaw tight, your arms folded across your chest as though you are trying to keep yourself together.

You turn.

And it’s worse than he thought.

Because your eyes are shiny and your expression is made of glass and restraint and you’re biting the inside of your cheek in that way you do when you want to pretend something didn’t bother you.

He hates this. Hates that he did this to you, even accidentally.

But god, you still are beautiful in a way that feels like gravity. Like the ache in his chest could drag the stars down to meet you.

You watch him as though trying not to give too much away.

“Can we talk?” He repeats, breath catching somewhere between hope and despair.

You shrug, not cold, not angry. Just tired. “If you want.”

He steps closer. Not too close. Careful. Always careful with you.

“I know it probably sounded bad in there,” he says, voice rough. “I didn’t want it to come out like that. Like I was… caught up in something.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Bucky,” you say quickly, voice too neutral. “You didn’t know. I get it.”

But he wants to explain. Wants to lay it out, piece by bloody piece. Wants you to understand that for a minute there, he forgot how to breathe because of how you looked at him. That he hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

“I didn’t tell you- I mean, tell her,” he blurts, breathless. “I didn’t tell her who I was. Or where I came from. I didn’t say anything.”

You blink at him. “Okay.”

“She thought I was him. I- I didn’t say anything because I- I wasn’t supposed to engage and I wasn’t planning to. I swear I wasn’t planning to.”

You say nothing. Just stare at him with that sweetly confused expression.

Bucky steps closer. He’s aching, head to toe, something brittle in his chest like cracked glass.

“You kissed me,” he continues, and you bite your lip, looking away, “but I didn’t- I froze. It felt wrong. And when you said you missed me, I panicked. It felt like I was stealing something. From you. From you both.”

He stops. Swallows.

And there it is again. That dangerous spark. That sharp, flickering thing that’s lived inside him ever since he saw that other version of you, ever since your arms wrapped around his neck and your mouth pressed to his and your voice filled his chest with something whole.

He wishes for a version of that hope here, too.

But not if it means breaking you to find it.

You’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. He can’t tell if it’s pain or disappointment or confusion or all of it. He just knows it’s tearing him apart.

“I know it wasn’t me she kissed,” he goes on, quiet, every word dragging out of him as if it doesn’t want to be spoken. “And I know it wasn’t you, either. But it made me think that maybe-” He breaks off, exhales. “I know it’s not fair to say it, but-”

“Then don’t.” Your voice is soft when it comes.

And he flinches as though you touched a nerve.

But your face isn’t cruel. It’s sad. Honest. Tired in the way people get when they’re holding too many emotions all at once.

“I’m not her,” you clarify, but there is something fractured in the way you say it, like the words are paper-thin and barely holding shape. “I’m not whatever version of me you saw, whoever she is to you, that’s not me.”

“I know,” he croaks out. Bucky steps closer, just once. Not touching. Not yet. He doesn’t dare.

“No, I don’t think you do.” Your arms unfold slowly, but not in surrender. You gesture at yourself, the smallest movement, but there is steel in it. “She looks like me,” you go on. Your voice is tight. Bitter. It’s not like you. Not how he knows you - the warmth, the patience, the fire and calm and kindness all mixed together. “She sounds like me. But she’s not. She’s not me, Buck.”

And then you turn as if you’re about to go. As though you can’t stand another second of standing still in front of him.

“No- don’t,” he pleads, and before he can stop himself, he reaches. His hand finds your wrist, not tight, not rough, just enough to stop you. “Please.”

You pause again, with an exhale that is sharp and hurt and too loud in the hallway.

He is closer now. Close enough to see how tight you press your mouth together to keep it from trembling. The twitch of pain in your brow, the soft crease between your eyes he knows only shows up when you’re trying really hard not to cry.

Guilt and desperation roll through him, thorough, like a tide pulling everything warm away. It unspools him from the inside.

“What?” There is no weight behind your words. Your voice is worn. Defeated.

Bucks swallows. His voice feels like rust trying to be rain.

“She hugged me. Said she missed me. She kissed me like she’d done it a thousand times before.” His voice is shaking, even if he’s trying not to let it.

“And I didn’t stop her. Not for a second,” he goes on, quiet. “I should’ve. I should’ve pulled away sooner, but I-”

You pull your arm back, but he doesn’t let go.

“Why are you telling me this?” you question him, voice breaking in the middle. “What am I supposed to do with that, Bucky? Be happy for some other version of me?”

There is so much pain in your eyes, so much confusion and hurt and jealousy and heartbreak and it cuts him right through the heart. He feels it bleeding into his organs.

He closes his eyes, forgets how to breathe for a moment.

“I didn’t stop her,” he says lowly, slowly, “because, for a second, it felt like you.”

The silence between you is thick enough to drown in.

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“For a second, it felt like something I’ll never have,” he confesses, barely audible now. “And I was selfish. I let it happen. Because it wasn’t just a kiss to me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t move. Your chin trembles.

You look at him as though you want to say something but can’t trust yourself to do it.

“I’ve been trying to bury it,” he admits, voice strained. “This thing in my chest. This want. It’s been there for a long time. And I kept thinking- if I just waited long enough, maybe it would go away. Maybe you’d never have to know. But I saw what it looked like when I had it. When I had you. Even if it wasn’t really you. And I- I didn’t want to come back here and pretend I didn’t feel it anymore.”

You don’t move. Just stand there. Staring at him as if you don’t know what to do with the version of the world he is handing you.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he adds quickly, voice thick and gravelly. “Not expecting anything. I just- I couldn’t let you walk away thinking it didn’t mean anything. Because it did. But not because of that other you.”

Bucky loosens his hold on your wrist the way someone lays a weapon down.

Slowly. Gently. Like an offering. Giving you a choice. A chance to run. A way out, if that’s what you need.

His fingers brush fabric as he lets go, every inch of skin unthreading from yours just another stitch in the fabric holding him together.

He steps back. Not far, but enough. Giving you the room to run if you want to. Because he would never cage you. Not you. Not the girl he’s tried so hard not to need and failed so spectacularly at not loving.

The cold creeps in like a punishment.

He swallows, breath shallow, heart trying to climb out of his chest. He doesn’t look away.

“It meant something,” he breathes, and the words are low but steady, dragged out of some buried part of him where he’s kept the truth folded up too long. “It meant something because I love you.”

The words hang there. Open. Unarmored. His voice doesn’t shake but he feels the quake underneath it. He is already bracing for the ruin of it, for the way your silence might cut him down. It’s too much. He’s too much. Too much and too late and he’s saying it anyway, because what else can he do now, what else is left to do but burn with it.

“I love you. You. Only you,” he repeats, and this time it’s quieter, as if speaking it softer might hurt less if you break him.

He is bracing for your silence. For the recoil. For the slow turning of your back and the slam of a door, he won’t ever be allowed to knock on again.

But you don’t run.

You just stare at him.

Wide glassy eyes, lips parted, your whole face carved out of disbelief. Your chest rises with shallow, trembling breaths, and for a second, it’s like the hallway has no oxygen at all. Just the two of you standing in a vacuum made of shattered timing and aching things laid bare.

You look like someone trying to decide if the ground beneath you is real. If you are dreaming.

And Bucky is not breathing.

Doesn’t know how he will ever take in a breath again.

Then you move.

Fast. Sharp. Certain.

You close the distance between you with a speed that knocks his soul out of him, and before he can even process the intention behind the storm in your eyes, your hands are in his collar and your mouth is on his.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not careful.

You crash into him as though gravity has finally won. As though your body has been held back for too long and now it’s surging forward with years of restraint snapped at the root.

It hits him like an impact. Like a whole damn earthquake disguised as your mouth on his.

He makes a noise - somewhere between shock and surrender - and for the barest second, he is frozen.

He’s still.

Because this is you.

You.

One breathless, startled second he forgets everything - his name, the room, the hallway, the mission, the multiverse - and then he’s moving.

He melts.

His arms are around you in a heartbeat, tight, desperate, finding your waist, your back, the edge of your jaw, greedy and trembling and too careful all at once. He pulls you in, tighter, tighter, one hand threading into your hair, the other locking around your waist.

And then he is kissing you back with everything he has, with everything he’s been holding back, with every version of himself that ever wanted to belong.

He is kissing you back as though he’ll never get the chance again.

His whole body folds into yours, heart slamming into his ribs, mouth pressing against yours, like a question he’s been dying to ask. He kisses you like an apology, like a promise, like he’s been holding his breath for a century and only just remembered how to exhale.

It’s not a careful kiss.

It’s years of aching packed into the space between your lips. It’s soft lips and a metal palm and your nails digging in his jacket and his thumb shaking against your jaw. It’s a kiss that tastes of every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every time he looked at you and wondered what it would feel like to have you.

The second your tongue touches his lower lip, a low and tortured sound rips from somewhere deep in his chest. He answers you with open-mouthed hunger, tilts his head just enough to draw you in deeper, slants his mouth over yours as though he’s living out every dream in which he’s imagined this before.

He feels the warmth of your lips and the way you lean into him, the way you give yourself over completely, and he pulls you even closer, as though he’s trying to kiss every version of you that exists in every universe just to get back to this one. You. Here. Now.

His tongue brushes yours and everything goes tight inside him - his stomach flips, his spine arches ever so slightly, his body not knowing whether to hold steady or fall apart entirely.

Your lips are sweet and urgent and you make a sound - quiet, somewhere between a sigh and a gasp - and it knocks the air in his lungs every which way.

His mouth moves faster when your fingers curl into him tighter and tug him closer, dragging him under. His metal fingers are splayed over the small of your back, and his flesh fingers are tangling at the nape of your neck, holding you still as his tongue licks into your mouth, gentle but full of everything he’s feeling.

He moans softly into you, doesn’t even realize it’s happening until he feels the sound buzz against your lips. His pulse is pounding in his ears. His knees feel untrustworthy. There is heat spreading through his chest, through his limbs, and he wants to live in this moment forever, suspended in the place where you chose him.

When you finally pull back, your lips are swollen, flushed. He presses his forehead to yours just enough to breathe, but not enough to let you go. Never that.

His hands are on your face. His thumbs brush under your eyes. His breath shudders out against your lips.

When he opens his eyes, slowly, he is met with yours. Glistening and wide and so full of feeling it almost floors him.

He stares at you as though he’s seeing the sun rise for the first time.

“I love you too,” you breathe against him.

Bucky shivers.

It lands like a heartbeat he forgot to hope for.

Pleasure surges through his veins, straight to his heart. His eyes fall shut, lost in it.

And something in him tells him he will hear this at least a thousand times, maybe even more, if he’s lucky.

“I loved her not for the way she danced with my angels, but for the way the sound of her name could silence my demons.”

- Christopher Poindexter