pairing | new!avengers!bucky x new!avengers!reader
word count | 8.8k words
summary | when a world-famous diamond vanishes during a mission, all eyes fall on you—former jewel thief, current new avenger, and the possessive obsession of bucky barnes—who will defend you to the grave, whether you're guilty or not.
a/n | i swear to you, chat, I really really tried to make this 4-5k words, idk wtf happened
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ
divider by @uzmacchiato
“Do you always shuffle like that, or is that just for show?”
Alexei’s voice boomed across the living room like it had nowhere better to be. He leaned back in the leather chair with a grin too wide for someone three rounds down.
You didn’t look up. Just slid the cards through your fingers with practiced ease, the movement smooth, fluid — sensual, even, if you did say so yourself.
“I find the theatrics help distract lesser players,” you said, cutting the deck without so much as a glance at him. “Consider it a handicap, sweetheart.”
From her spot on the couch, Yelena snorted, one knee pulled to her chest, tablet glowing faintly in her lap. “More like an ego massage.”
“She has to entertain herself somehow,” Ava added, eyes still glued to the book in her hand. She hadn’t looked up once since you'd started the game, but somehow still managed to insert herself exactly where it annoyed you.
You dealt the cards slowly, deliberately, letting the silence hang just long enough to feel like power.
“Jealousy’s not a good look on either of you,” you replied mildly, flicking the final card across the table toward Alexei. “But keep talking — I win faster when I’m being underestimated.”
Alexei picked up his hand like he was holding a newborn. “You know, in Soviet Russia, we play with knives. Much more interesting.”
“I’m not opposed,” you said, crossing your legs, silk robe falling open just enough to make Alexei blink. “But then I’d have to clean blood off the carpet. And I’m allergic to manual labor.”
Yelena cracked a lazy grin. Ava turned a page.
The Watchtower’s common room was dimly lit, warm from the flickering fireplace that Yelena insisted made the place feel “less clinical.” The rain outside painted slow-moving shadows across the hardwood floors. No one else was around — just your little core, spread out like some mismatched after-hours club.
You leaned forward just enough to reach for your bourbon — untouched, but placed with intention. Every move was deliberate. You’d worn the silk for yourself, technically, but you knew exactly what it did to the room.
Alexei scratched his beard. “One of these days, you’re going to lose. And when you do—”
You cut him off with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “When I do, you’ll still be boring, and I’ll still be beautiful. It’ll be tragic, truly.”
Yelena let out a low whistle, muttering something in Russian under her breath.
Ava finally looked up. “Honestly, I’m just impressed you’ve managed to drag her into something that doesn’t sparkle.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” you said, “Not everything has to sparkle to be valuable.”
Footsteps echoed from the kitchen.
“Oh, you guys are playing?” John's voice cut through the warmth of the room like wet socks. “Deal me in.”
You didn’t even look up. “No.”
Alexei chimed in at the same time. “Nyet.”
Walker stopped mid-step. “Seriously?”
Alexei gave a lazy shrug, raising his glass like it might soften the blow. “Room already has enough energy. Don’t want to shift vibe.”
You finally lifted your gaze, eyes raking him up and down with a slowness that bordered on cruel. “Besides, I don’t play games with men who can’t take losing. And you, Boy Scout Barbie, are a sulker.”
Walker blinked. “I’m not a sulker.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” Yelena muttered.
He muttered something under his breath and made his way toward the other end of the room, slumping into the seat next to Bob like a moody teen. Bob immediately stiffened like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. Probably breathing too loudly.
“I mean,” Walker called out again, clearly not done, “what are you guys even playing for, anyway? Bragging rights?”
“No,” you replied, slow and dry. “We’re playing for dignity. You wouldn’t be able to keep up.”
Yelena snorted. Bob looked like he wanted to disappear.
Alexei chuckled beside you, swirling the last of his drink. “So, what I get if I win, devushka?” he asked, eyes narrowing with faux confidence. “Something real. Something good.”
You tilted your head, lips pursing. “If you win…” You let the pause stretch, dragging the silence like velvet. “You get to say you beat me. Once. And then I’ll let you frame the cards.”
Alexei groaned. “Bah. No fun. Okay, okay—what you want if you win?”
You leaned back in your seat, stretching your arms overhead just enough to make it distracting. “Hmm. What do I want from a man who has nothing I need?”
Alexei leaned forward on his elbows, cards fanned lazily in one hand, smirk playing at the edge of his mouth. “Okay, devushka. If you win… I get you something made of vibranium. Real Wakandan stuff.”
You scoffed, slow and unimpressed, barely glancing up from your hand. “I already have something made of vibranium.”
Walker twisted from his spot on the couch, scoffing. “No, you don’t.”
You turned your head toward him, the motion fluid, calculated. “Yes, I do.”
He raised a brow. “What, like jewelry? Pretty sure that’s not on the market for—”
“No,” you cut in, voice syrupy with disinterest. “Unlike you… with your cheap excuse for a shield.”
Bob blinked next to him. “Damn.”
Walker bristled. “My shield is—”
You held up a hand. “Please don’t embarrass yourself further.”
Ava didn’t even look up from her book. “Secondhand symbolism isn’t a personality trait.”
Walker opened his mouth again, then promptly closed it.
Alexei chuckled, sipping his drink. “So, what is mystery vibranium treasure you claim to own, hm?”
You looked at him over the top of your cards, shrugged one shoulder, and said casually, “James’ arm.”
There was a full beat of silence.
Yelena lowered her tablet slowly, blinking at you like you’d just recited an entire monologue about tax law. “I want you to really hear what just came out of your mouth,” she said flatly. “You just… took ownership of someone else’s arm.”
You didn’t even flinch. “Whatever’s his is mine.”
Simple. Like gravity.
Ava turned a page with a deliberate flick. “So, whatever’s yours is his, then?”
“I never said that.”
That earned a huff from Yelena, who muttered something in Russian under her breath that sounded vaguely like delusional but committed.
Walker looked between you all like someone had changed the language setting on the conversation.
Alexei exhaled, long and put-upon, setting his cards down as if they weighed something. “Okay, okay… what do you want, then?”
You tilted your head, lips curving slow, deliberate — the kind of smile that meant trouble and absolutely no regret. Feline and dangerous.
“The Orlov diamond.”
There was a beat of silence.
Alexei turned to look at you fully, eyes narrowing like he was sure he’d misheard. Yelena’s tablet dropped to her lap as she cut you a sidelong glance, brows raising.
You just blinked, perfectly serene.
“You’re not serious,” Alexei said finally, half-laughing like he hoped it was a joke.
“You asked what I wanted,” you replied, your voice light, almost bored. “I answered.”
Alexei sat up straighter, suddenly far more animated than any poker game warranted. “That is Mother Russia’s diamond,” he declared, gesturing like he was rallying a crowd. “It belongs in our history, our legacy. It is symbol of strength—of endurance! Stolen by the West, admired by the world, but born of Russian greatness—”
You didn’t even lift your head. Just slid a glance toward him, eyes half-lidded, unimpressed. “It’s originally from India.”
He blinked. “What?”
Yelena let out a sharp laugh, hiding her grin behind her hand. Ava didn’t even bother pretending not to smirk.
Alexei sputtered for a second, searching for a comeback. Finally, he puffed up his chest with exaggerated pride. “Well then, I simply make sure you don’t win.”
You gave him a slow, sweet smile. “You can try.”
And then, with your eyes locked on his, you slid another chip into the pot.
Alexei cracked his knuckles. You tapped your fingers against your knee, calm but coiled. The game shifted. The easy banter faded into something quieter, more serious — the room narrowing down to the felt, the cards, the chips.
Everyone else had settled in to watch.
Bob sat hunched over on the armrest of the couch, eyes flicking between the two of you like he was observing a bomb defusal. Walker sat stiff beside him, arms crossed, a faint scowl pulling at his mouth.
Ava leaned back in the corner, legs stretched out, expression unreadable behind her book. Yelena was the only one who looked remotely entertained, chin on her fist as she watched with open amusement.
The pile in the center of the table grew. Slow. Deliberate. Neither of you moved quickly now.
Alexei furrowed his brow as he looked down at his hand, chewing the inside of his cheek. You sat still, legs crossed, a fingertip trailing the rim of your untouched glass. Your eyes never left his.
He blinked. Put down one card. Drew another. Tried not to flinch.
You played your move a moment later — no theatrics. Just quiet, smooth certainty. You placed your final bet, then leaned back, completely relaxed. The kind of calm that made people nervous.
Alexei hesitated. Looked at you. Looked at his cards again.
He sighed through his nose. “I regret offering anything.”
“Everyone regrets something,” you said, your tone light.
Finally, he matched your bet.
Cards were laid.
Alexei’s face fell before the last one even hit the table. His shoulders slumped, and he gave a groan like he was genuinely in pain.
You only smiled.
“You’re kidding me,” Walker muttered.
Bob made a small, strangled sound that might have been applause or shock — hard to tell with him.
Yelena just shook her head. “Of course she won.”
Alexei leaned back in his chair, defeated, rubbing a hand over his face. “That was pure luck.”
You gathered your chips with graceful efficiency, not bothering to hide the satisfied glint in your eyes. “Mm. I don’t believe in luck.”
Alexei gave you a side-eye. “So you really want diamond?”
You stacked the final chip on the pile, then leaned your elbow on the armrest and rested your chin on your hand, gaze cool and certain.
“I want it,” you said. “By the end of the month.”
Alexei groaned again. “Ridiculous.”
Watchtower — Conference Room, One Week Later
Everyone hated when Val came to the Watchtower.
She never arrived quietly. Always in heels, always carrying too many opinions and too little respect for the people who had enough evidence to lock her away forever. If she wasn’t here to corner them into another PR gala or some glossy photo-op for the press, then she was here to rip someone apart with thinly veiled passive aggression and backhanded insults dressed up like “feedback.”
This morning was no different.
You were seated next to Bucky, like always, mind somewhere else entirely as she paced in front of the projection screen, throwing her usual mix of threats and barely tolerable sarcasm around like rice at a wedding.
You had one arm looped casually through his, hand resting lightly on his forearm. Your legs were crossed, posture relaxed, entirely unbothered by the stiff tension that filled the room like smoke.
It had become routine. You in his space, wrapped around him like a claim. Him, settled beside you like he belonged there.
“Hong Kong and Japan are furious,” Val announced, clicking her remote like it owed her money. “You know, the kind of fury that comes with lawsuits, diplomatic tension, and entire governments not returning our calls.”
Yelena arched an eyebrow from her seat beside Ava. “So, same as last time.”
Val didn’t bother dignifying that with a response.
Walker leaned back in his chair with a shrug. “We literally saved Tokyo from a nuclear detonation last week. They could’ve had another Hiroshima and Nagasaki on their hands.”
Silence.
It was instant. Heavy.
Even the hum of the projector felt loud in comparison.
Ava looked up slowly. Bob blinked. Yelena tilted her head at him like she was trying to figure out how much brain damage a person could suffer and still hold a government clearance.
Walker glanced around. “Was that too soon?”
You didn’t even blink. “It’s centuries too soon to make a joke like that.”
His jaw twitched, but he didn’t respond.
Val sighed, like she wasn’t even surprised. “This,” she muttered, waving a hand vaguely at Walker, “is why you guys need media training.”
She clicked through another slide she wasn’t even pretending to care about. The projector whined against the silence.
“And now,” she said, tone sharpening, “we have a completely separate mess to clean up — one that’s about to make headlines if we’re not careful.”
Yelena sighed audibly. “You say that like it's new.”
Val ignored her. Of course.
“Same day you all landed in Tokyo,” she continued, her eyes sweeping the room slowly, “something else went missing halfway across the world.”
She clicked again. The screen lit up with a high-resolution image — the glint of light catching on flawless facets.
“The Pink Star Diamond,” she said. “Gone. From its private exhibition in Hong Kong. Security footage? Wiped. Guards? Drugged. No signs of forced entry.”
The room went still.
And then — every head turned.
Toward you.
Slow. Simultaneous.
Ava didn’t even try to hide her stare. Yelena gave a soft snort. Bob blinked like he wasn’t sure if he should make eye contact or duck for cover. Walker just sat there, frowning.
You didn’t react. Not even a twitch.
Val folded her arms. “Coincidence?”
You finally turned to her, face cool, mouth poised in that bored sort of half-smile. “Absolutely.”
Alexei leaned forward slightly. “We were in Tokyo.”
You leaned forward slightly in your seat, arm still threaded through Bucky’s as you rested your other hand on the table, fingers tapping once — slow and deliberate.
“I was never in Hong Kong,” you said smoothly, voice level. “I didn’t leave Tokyo the entire time we were deployed. Ask the field team. Ask Ava. Cross-reference satellite data. Internal comm logs. Flight manifests. Movement trackers.”
Ava didn’t deny it — just narrowed her gaze slightly, studying you with that unnerving, analytical expression of hers.
Val arched a brow. “The diamond was taken by someone who avoided every sensor in a high-security vault. Who moved with precision and didn’t leave a single trace.”
Yelena gave a small shrug. “I mean… she didn’t leave the drop zone. That I saw.”
Walker snorted. “Please. You’ve snuck past tracking before. No one’s doubting your ability, that’s the problem.”
You looked at him like he was gum on the sidewalk. “If I’d stolen it, you think I’d be dumb enough to let it get traced back here? Have some faith in my standards.”
“Oh, we have faith,” Ava cut in, folding her arms and staring you down. “Just not the kind you’re hoping for.”
You arched a brow, waiting.
Val took a step closer to the head of the table. “You were a jewel thief when I found you. Let’s not rewrite history. You were halfway through smuggling the Laurent Emeralds out of Geneva when I made you an offer.”
You smiled slowly, almost sweetly. “Correction. I was halfway out of Geneva. The emeralds were already in Paris.”
Bob blinked like he wanted to take notes.
“Let’s talk logistics,” you added, sharper now. “You think I snuck out of Tokyo in the middle of a live operation, somehow got to Hong Kong, cracked a vault with no gear, took a priceless diamond, and made it back — all without being seen or throwing off the mission timeline?”
Silence.
Then, “…Yeah, kind of,” Walker muttered.
You stared at him. “You can’t even open your own locker without help.”
Yelena snorted again.
Ava narrowed her eyes. “Just because we can’t prove it, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
“You act like this is personal,” you said, eyes skating over the room. “It’s not. It’s logistics. And none of you have a leg to stand on.”
Yelena didn’t even look up from her seat. “I can’t trust someone who doesn’t own a single pair of sweatpants.”
You turned to her with a lazy blink. “And I can’t trust someone who surrounds herself with rodents.”
Her head snapped toward you. “He’s not a rodent, he’s a hamster, and his name is Nathaniel. And you better keep that white she-devil away from him.”
Bob whispered, “I think Nathanial and Alpine are both adorable…”
Walker cut in, loud and self-righteous. “You’re a kleptomaniac. Just admit it already.”
“I’m selective,” you corrected. “There’s a difference. If I were a kleptomaniac, your watch would be missing.”
Walker looked down at his wrist instinctively.
Val stepped forward again, clearly running out of patience. “If you have the diamond, just give it back. We can clean this up before it escalates.”
You stared at her, jaw tight, smile gone.
“I’m not giving it back,” you said evenly, “because I don’t have it.”
“You know what?” Ava said sharply. “Even if you didn’t take it — which, let’s be honest, is a stretch — you still act like this team’s your personal playground.”
You didn’t respond.
“You don’t answer to anyone,” Walker snapped. “You don’t follow protocol. You steal. You lie. And we’re just supposed to deal with it because Bucky lets you crawl into his lap like a damn—”
Your head turned.
Eyes on Bucky.
No words this time. Just a look.
And that was all it took.
He stood like someone had flipped a switch — slow, calm, but absolute. A wall rising between you and the room.
“That’s enough.”
His voice cut through the air like a blade.
Everyone went still.
Bucky looked around the table, one hand still resting gently over yours, the other loose at his side — but the tension in his shoulders said he was ready.
“You’re accusing her with nothing. No proof. No data. Just gut feelings and guesses because you don’t like how she operates.” His voice stayed steady. “She’s not obligated to win you over with small talk and trust falls. She gets the job done. Every time. And if you can’t keep up with how she does it, that’s on you.”
Yelena opened her mouth, but he didn’t give her the chance.
“She was accounted for. We all saw it. And unless someone here can produce actual evidence that she left the mission zone, I suggest you stop throwing accusations like you’re on trial for your own insecurities.”
The room was dead quiet.
You sat back, watching the way his shoulders rose and fell, the way his jaw stayed tight.
Yelena leaned forward, voice sharp. “That’s so unfair.”
You blinked, tilting your head with faux innocence. “What is?”
“That.” She pointed toward Bucky — now standing like a sentinel at your side. “Every time we call you out, you don’t have to defend yourself. You just look at him like a Disney princess and suddenly he’s barking at all of us.”
You raised your brows, lips parting slightly. “Are you suggesting I’m not a princess?”
“We’re suggesting he’s your guard dog,” Ava muttered. “Trained, loaded, and ready to bite.”
Walker scoffed. “You say ‘James’ and suddenly we’re all the enemy.”
“Maybe don’t act like enemies,” Bucky said flatly, still standing tall beside you.
You let out a quiet hum, fingers gently brushing along his forearm. “You all seem very emotional about this.”
Bob, barely breathing at this point, whispered, “She’s doing the thing again where she pretends she doesn’t know what’s happening…”
Val looked like she wanted to rip her own hair out.
Alexei finally spoke, voice low and deliberate. “You say you want me to steal Orlov diamond for you — and we all laugh. But then Pink Star goes missing and suddenly it’s out of question?”
You gave him a look like he’d just said something painfully unoriginal. “It was a joke,” you said coolly. “One you're all now taking way too seriously.”
“Because it’s not unbelievable,” Ava shot back.
“And yet, still unproven,” you replied, voice even, unbothered. “So what are we really doing here? Group therapy?”
Bucky let out a quiet breath and finally lowered himself back into his seat beside you, arm brushing yours.
“The conversation’s over,” he said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. “She didn’t steal the diamond.”
A pause.
“Very sorry for Hong Kong,” he added, almost deadpan. “But that’s their own fault for losing it.”
Yelena threw up her hands. Walker stared at the ceiling like he was praying for divine intervention. Ava just blinked slowly, lips pressed into a thin line.
Val looked around the room like she was considering setting the whole table on fire, but finally closed the file in her hand with a tight snap.
“Fine,” she said, “Whatever.“
And no one argued. Not after that.
You leaned into Bucky just slightly, your tone airy as ever. “I thought I handled that well.”
He didn’t smile—not really—but you felt the way his hand found your thigh under the table.
“You always do,” he murmured.
Your bedroom, That night
“James, you’re not admiring me enough.”
Your voice came out in a lazy drawl, like it wasn’t the first time you’d said it tonight—or ever.
Bucky didn’t look away from you, not even for a second. “I am, baby.”
His voice was quiet. Rough. The kind of hoarse that came from restraint, not disinterest.
He was seated in your vanity chair, his long legs spread wide, arms resting on his thighs. The golden light from a dozen candles danced across his face—across the sharp set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way his throat bobbed when his eyes dropped lower.
The room smelled like rose oil and candle wax. The windows were cracked open just enough to let the cool New York summer air creep in, stirring the silk curtains. The rest of the Watchtower was asleep—or pretending to be.
You were stretched across your bed like something out of a painting, legs bare, skin glowing under dim candlelight. The rose gold silk of your nightgown clung to you like it was made for this moment, slipping dangerously off one shoulder.
And on your right hand—on your ring finger—the Pink Star Diamond glittered in a way that could never be mistaken for synthetic.
It sparkled as you moved, slowly dragging your hand down the curve of your own body, letting the diamond catch the light—your collarbone, your sternum, the dip of your waist.
Bucky's jaw clenched.
“Do you like it?” you asked, eyes meeting his through your lashes.
“You know I do,” he murmured.
“Mm. You haven’t said it.”
“Sayin’ it doesn’t do shit compared to what I wanna do, sweetheart.”
You stretched just enough to shift the way the silk slid over your skin, the gown riding high over your thigh as you tilted your chin toward him. The diamond caught another sliver of candlelight as you turned your hand, admiring it like it was a museum piece.
“I think it pairs nicely with this,” you said, voice honeyed, fingertip grazing the diamond choker around your neck — icy white, square-cut stones sitting flush against your collarbone.
Bucky’s gaze dropped instantly, breath catching in his throat.
“This one,” you murmured, drawing your hand slowly down between your breasts, “I stole in Prague. Four years ago.”
His tongue swiped along his bottom lip. His fists clenched on his thighs.
You watched him watch you. Watched his restraint unravel one breath at a time.
The gown dipped as you rolled one shoulder forward, then the other. Silk slid down your arms, slow and fluid, catching briefly on your wrists before slipping away entirely.
The fabric pooled at your waist.
You made no move to cover yourself.
Instead, you lifted the hand with the Pink Star and cupped your breast — a subtle arch of your back pressing into your own touch, thumb brushing lazily over your nipple as you let out a soft, unaffected hum.
“I think it looks best like this,” you said, eyes locked on his. “Don’t you?”
Bucky looked wrecked.
Absolutely still.
Like touching himself would be a sin, but staying still was agony.
His voice broke low. “Jesus, baby…”
You adjusted your hand slightly, the Pink Star flashing as your fingers squeezed around your breast just enough to make him twitch in his seat.
He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.
Just stared — like you were sacred and obscene all at once.
“You’re being very well-behaved tonight, Jamie.”
Your voice was soft, mockingly sweet — the tone you used when you wanted to draw blood with sugar. You dragged your thumb in a lazy circle, making your breath hitch just slightly, enough for effect.
“Is that for me?” you asked, tilting your head, eyes dropping briefly to the very obvious, very strained bulge in his pants. “Or are you just always that hard when you see me with something expensive on my body?”
His jaw flexed, a vein in his neck twitching. He still didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to.
This wasn’t new. Not for either of you.
Every time you acquired something rare — something stolen, expensive, yours — you made him sit like this. Made him watch as you modeled it, draped in nothing but luxury and intent. A necklace, a bracelet, a pair of earrings you'd lifted off a diplomat's mistress in Vienna.
Your thumb dragged over your nipple again, slow, absent, like you were just adjusting—like you hadn’t just knocked the breath out of him. The diamond on your finger flashed with the movement, sharp and pink and impossibly perfect.
“I think,” you said softly, “it deserves to be seen on something beautiful.”
Bucky was dead silent. Tense. Hard. Eyes fixed to your chest like he couldn’t look anywhere else.
You pinched your nipple between two fingers and let out a quiet, breathy sound that wasn’t quite a moan—just enough to let him feel it. His throat worked as he swallowed hard.
You let your hand trail down the center of your chest, past the soft dip of your sternum, fingers skating over your stomach before curling over the edge of your thigh. The candlelight made your skin look warmer, shinier—like satin layered over heat.
You shifted on the bed, spreading your legs just enough for the silk to fall open between them.
And then you smiled — slow, satisfied, dangerous.
“Don’t worry,” you purred, lifting your chin slightly. “You’ll get to touch.”
A beat.
“When I say.”
You watched his throat bob, the way his metal hand gripped the arm of the chair like it might snap.
You bit your bottom lip and let your legs fall a little wider.
“But for now…” your fingers ghosted across your inner thigh, just high enough to make his breath catch again, “you can keep watching.”
You let your knees fall wider, silk gathering at your hips, the cool air licking at the wet heat between your thighs. You could feel how soaked you already were—just from him watching, from the look in his eyes like he was praying and dying at the same time.
His breath was shallow now. Barely held.
You brought the hand with your diamond down, the weight of it glinting across your knuckles as your fingers brushed through your folds, slow and slick.
Bucky exhaled like he’d been punched.
You dragged your middle finger through your wetness again, slower this time—gathering everything at your entrance before circling your clit with the kind of practiced ease that made you hum in your throat.
“See?” you murmured, eyes locked on his. “Looks good with everything.”
Your finger dipped lower, slid inside—just the tip—and then pulled back out, glistening under the candlelight. You let him see it, held it up briefly like you were about to taste yourself, before trailing it back down again.
His legs shifted like he might stand, but you shook your head once, gently. “Stay.”
He froze. Swallowed hard.
You pushed two fingers in this time—slow, deep, your wrist angling to curl against that soft spot that always made your thighs twitch. You let out a quiet breath and arched, back pressing into the mattress as your palm flexed against your own heat.
The diamond caught the candlelight again as your hand moved—subtle, steady, your breathing picking up as the slick sound of your fingers filled the room.
“Do you know what turns me on the most?” you said softly, your voice catching on a gasp as you pressed deeper. “Knowing you’re sitting there, aching, while I get myself off with your favorite view in the world.”
Bucky’s hands gripped the chair again—one flesh, one metal—white-knuckled and silent, his eyes glued to your fingers moving in and out, knuckles glistening, thighs flexing.
You rolled your hips into your hand, thumb circling your clit now, pressure building fast.
And still, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. You looked at him—sweaty, wrecked, waiting.
And you smiled.
“Good boy.”
You barely had time to pull your fingers out before he was on his feet.
The chair scraped back against the floor, and then Bucky was moving—fast, silent, like a man pulled off a leash. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed, hands braced on either side of your thighs, eyes wild, chest rising and falling like he’d been running.
You tilted your head, smug even now. “Took you long enough.”
He didn’t respond.
He just hooked his hands under your thighs, yanked you closer in one hard pull, and buried his face between your legs.
Your gasp hit the ceiling.
His mouth was hot, wet, desperate. There was no easing into it—no slow, teasing warm-up. He licked you like he needed it, like he’d been starving for it. Tongue flat at first, dragging up your folds, collecting the mess you’d made on your fingers. Then he sucked your clit into his mouth, slow and firm, moaning like he was the one getting off.
You fisted the sheets, eyes slamming shut as your hips jerked up into his face.
“Fuck—James—”
His fingers dug into your thighs, holding you still, dragging you closer, his nose pressed right against you as his tongue worked in tight, devastating circles. The stubble on his jaw scraped against your skin in the best possible way. Your breath hitched with every pull of his mouth, every little sound he made like he was drunk on the taste of you.
And when he shifted lower, dragging the tip of his tongue down to your entrance, you felt him moan—felt it, the vibration of it buzzing right through your core as he fucked you with his tongue, messy and slow and deep.
“James—” you breathed, your voice breaking. You reached down, hand tangling in his hair, diamond flashing as your fingers curled against his scalp.
He groaned again, the sound raw, needy, and gripped your hips tighter, rutting his face into you like he was trying to drown. One hand slid up—flesh—and pressed down firmly on your stomach, pinning you to the bed like he knew you were about to come.
And he was right.
You shattered in seconds.
Your thighs clenched around his head, your hand dragging through his hair as your orgasm ripped through you sharp and fast, your hips jerking under his mouth as he kept going, licking you through it like he needed to make sure you felt every second of it.
He didn’t stop until you pushed at his head with a shaking hand, breathless and ruined.
Even then—he kissed the inside of your thigh, slow and reverent, eyes heavy-lidded and hungry. Your slick was smeared across his chin, his lips red and glistening.
“Fuck,” you murmured, voice hoarse.
He looked up at you like you were holy. “Now let me fuck you.”
You lay back against the pillows, your thighs slick and parted, the diamond catching flickers of candlelight as your hand dropped to your side. Breath steadying. Body humming.
Bucky stood slowly, still panting slightly, eyes never leaving you. You watched him reach for the hem of his shirt, grip it tight, and pull it over his head in one smooth motion.
You always loved watching him strip.
It wasn’t even about the muscle—though that was perfect too, buff and scarred and solid—it was the way he offered himself. Like the moment his skin was bare, he belonged to you again.
He unbuckled his belt next. His pants hit the floor in seconds, and your eyes dropped to his cock—already flushed, thick, twitching, and leaking for you.
You bit your lip, letting your legs fall wider.
“Come here.”
He climbed onto the bed without hesitation, crawling between your thighs with a low grunt, hands already spreading you open again like he couldn’t get enough.
But he didn’t line up just yet.
No—he stared.
Then he reached for your cunt with his flesh hand first, sliding two fingers through your slick, watching them glisten. He dragged them up, circled your clit lazily, and then brought them back down to tease at your entrance—slow, just enough to make you twitch.
“Still so wet,” he rasped, his voice thick with awe. “Fuck, baby…”
You lifted your chin, smirking through your haze. “That’s what happens when you use your mouth instead of your attitude.”
He huffed a laugh against your inner thigh, then pushed his fingers in—two at once, filling you with ease. Your back arched slightly, the stretch so much bigger than your own touch had been.
He curled them just right. Pressed deep. His thumb rubbed at your clit again in tight, controlled circles as he watched your face like it held all the answers.
You moaned, soft and breathy. “Just like that. Fuck—James.”
He groaned, forehead pressing to your thigh for a second, then looked back up at you, pupils blown wide.
“I can’t wait anymore,” he said, voice rough, honest.
You just smiled and tilted your hips toward him, cunt still fluttering around his fingers. “Then don’t.”
Bucky pulled his fingers from you slowly, watching the way your cunt clenched even after they were gone. You were still dripping, the insides of your thighs slick, the scent of your arousal thick in the air.
He shifted forward on his knees, hand wrapping around the base of his cock.
Thick. Hard. Heavy. The head flushed, already leaking pre-come.
He didn’t thrust in right away.
No.
He dragged the tip through your folds first, slow and deliberate, groaning low in his throat as your slick coated him. Up and down, again and again, catching on your clit just enough to make you jolt.
You sucked in a breath, thighs twitching, but didn’t tell him to stop.
He pressed his cock against your entrance—not pushing in, just resting there, teasing you with the weight of it—then pulled back to glide through your heat again, slower this time.
“Fuck,” he breathed, jaw clenched. “You’re so wet. I could slide in without even trying.”
You grinned, your voice low and mocking. “Then stop trying so hard.”
He huffed a laugh, his free hand gripping your thigh, holding you open.
Another slow grind of his cock through your folds.
And then—
He lined up properly. Pressed forward.
And sank into you.
Your mouth dropped open, a breath catching deep in your chest as he filled you in one steady, unforgiving thrust. No rush, no hesitation—just a smooth, deep slide that had you gasping by the time his hips met yours.
“Fuck—” he groaned, head dropping for a moment, his forehead brushing yours. “You feel like heaven.”
You clenched around him, pulling him deeper, dragging your nails across his back.
“You feel like mine,” you whispered.
And then he started to move.
He started slow—just for a second—dragging his cock out until only the tip remained inside you, then slamming back in with a force that knocked a sharp moan out of your throat.
Then again.
And again.
And again.
Relentless. Deep.
The sound of his hips slapping against your ass filled the room, loud and filthy, mixed with the wet drag of your cunt pulling at him like your body knew it was built for this.
You gripped his arms tight, nails digging into muscle and metal— and for a split second, your eyes caught on the contrast of your hand against his vibranium bicep.
The Pink Star flashed.
The diamond, shining and delicate, pressed against matte vibranium.
“Oh,” you gasped, laughing breathlessly even as he fucked you through it, “that looks so good together—”
Bucky grunted above you, hips stuttering just a bit. “Baby—”
You squeezed tighter, legs wrapping around his waist, dragging him in deeper, tighter. “Don’t stop. Just—god, sweetie—look at it.”
He didn’t.
He couldn’t.
His face was buried in your neck now, teeth scraping your skin as he rutted into you, desperate, panting, gone.
“Fuck, you feel so good—so fucking tight, always—can’t—”
You clenched around him on purpose, smiling through your moans. “You gonna come already, baby? Or do I have to ride you ‘til you cry?”
He groaned—deep and broken—his thrusts growing erratic, harder.
“Say it,” he growled. “Say you’re mine.”
You arched beneath him, the diamond catching one last flicker of candlelight as he slammed into you over and over, the bed creaking, your body singing.
“I’m yours,” you gasped. “Yours, baby. Just don’t stop.”
He didn’t.
Not until he was buried so deep inside you it felt like you were one breath away from breaking apart completely.
His vibranium hand pinned both your wrists above your head, the cool metal firm against your skin, holding you open, helpless beneath him—not that you ever minded. You loved when he held you like this. Controlled you like this.
You felt his rhythm stutter for just a moment—his breath catching as his eyes flicked up, just barely—
To your hand.
To the Pink Star glittering on your ring finger, pressed tight beneath his palm, your fingers flexing under his grip every time his cock punched into you deep.
“Yeah,” he rasped, letting out a breathless, wrecked laugh. “You’re right, baby. That does look good.”
Then he slammed into you, harder, rougher—dragging a cry from your throat as your back arched off the bed.
“Fuck, baby—this pussy’s mine,” he gritted out, jaw tight, fucking you like he needed to brand it into your body.
“You are mine,” you panted, breath breaking into soft, frantic sounds as your orgasm coiled sharp in your gut. “All of you—this cock—your mouth—your fucking arm—mine.”
His head dropped to your shoulder as he groaned, full-body shaking, thrusts messy now, erratic, hips slamming into you over and over. The head of his cock dragged right against that perfect spot inside you, over and over, until your legs trembled and your cunt clamped around him—until suddenly he pulled out, slick and heavy, leaving you gasping at the loss.
You didn’t have time to complain.
He grabbed your hips, hands rough and urgent, flipping you with practiced ease. His metal hand pressed into your lower back, firm but not harsh, guiding you down to the mattress until your spine arched perfectly, ass up, face against the sheets.
You loved when he got like this.
When the control slipped just a little. When his restraint cracked open and you could feel the desperation underneath.
“Just like that,” he muttered, voice hoarse, reverent. “God, look at you…”
You felt him stroke the head of his cock through your folds again, dragging it through the mess between your thighs.
Then—he slammed back in.
Hard. Deep.
You let out a choked moan, fingers clutching the sheets as he gripped your hips and fucked you harder than before. The angle was brutal — his cock hitting deeper, faster, the sound of skin on skin now filthy and loud.
“Fuck, darlin’, you’re so tight like this,” he growled, pounding into you with sharp, perfect thrusts. “You love it—don’t you? Letting me bend you. Letting me take you.”
“Yes—yes, James—fuck, don’t stop—”
He grunted, grabbing a fistful of your hair with his flesh hand, pulling you up just slightly, your back still arched, mouth slack and moaning. His other hand stayed locked on your hip, keeping you in place, keeping you right where he wanted you.
Your whole body was shaking, orgasm coiling tighter, your cunt clenching around him again and again.
“You gonna come for me like this?” he rasped against your shoulder. “Bent over like my perfect fuckin’ toy?”
You nodded, nearly sobbing, hips pushing back against him. “Yeah—I’m—fuck, James—I’m gonna—”
“Come,” he growled. “Do it for me.”
And you did.
Your orgasm hit hard, but Bucky wasn’t finished.
Not even close.
He pulled out just long enough to haul you back against him — one strong arm wrapping around your waist, the other anchoring your thigh as he dragged you into his lap. Your back met his chest, slick skin to slick skin, his cock sliding between your folds again as he settled you down on top of him.
You let out a sharp gasp as he thrust up into you from below—hard and deep—the new angle making your whole body jerk, your cunt already pulsing from how wrecked you were.
He held you there, tight against him, your legs spread wide across his thighs, his metal hand gripping your jaw as he turned your head.
You didn’t resist.
Your mouth found his in a hungry, desperate kiss — your tongues tangling immediately, breathing each other in like you needed it. His kiss was filthy and soft at once, the kind that tasted like devotion wrapped in lust, the kind that said I’d die for you, but first I’m going to fuck you until you forget your own name.
He fucked up into you hard and fast, your bodies slapping together, your breasts bouncing with every thrust as he moaned into your mouth.
“That’s it, baby,” he groaned, lips dragging to your jaw, your neck, kissing everything he could reach. “You take it so fucking good… tight little cunt just pulling me in—fuck—I’m so close—”
You could barely breathe, your head dropping to his shoulder, one hand gripping his thigh, the other tangled in his hair as he fucked you through another aftershock, your body shaking in his arms.
“James—fuck—I want it—want you to come inside me—”
His whole body jerked.
And then he did.
With a broken groan against your neck, his cock throbbed deep inside you, pulsing hard as he spilled into you, hips stuttering with each twitch, his arms wrapped around your waist like he couldn’t bear to let go.
He held you there. Still. Breathing hard.
Your cunt still fluttered around him, your whole body sticky and spent and trembling.
You smiled against his shoulder, breathless, boneless, full.
And he kissed the side of your face like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Then his breathing slowed, heartbeat thudding heavy against your back as the last few pulses of his orgasm faded. You stayed there, slumped against him, skin sticky with sweat, his arms still locked around your waist like he wasn’t ready to let go.
But then he shifted — carefully, gently — kissing the curve of your shoulder as he pulled his cock from you, slow and deliberate.
You whimpered softly at the loss.
The stretch, the heat, the fullness—all of it slipping away as his cock slid free, dragging through your soaked folds one last time.
And then you felt it.
Warmth.
His come leaking out of you, thick and heavy, trickling slowly down the inside of your thigh.
You sighed, content. Possessed. Ruined.
Bucky let out a soft, wrecked sound behind you—half groan, half awe—as he looked down between your bodies and saw it.
“Fuck,” he breathed, voice low, reverent. “Look at that.”
His metal hand drifted down your stomach, tracing over your pelvis before his fingers slipped lower—collecting his own spend as it spilled from your cunt.
He rubbed it in. Slow. Gentle. Almost like he was marking you with it.
“Messy girl,” he murmured, kissing the side of your neck. “You love when I fuck it this deep, don’t you?”
You let out a soft, satisfied hum, still dazed, your hand reaching back to curl around his thigh. “Just like I said…” you whispered, voice lazy, lips curling into a small smile. “Everything that’s yours is mine.”
His chest rumbled behind you. And he didn’t argue.
You exhaled slowly as you slid off his lap, your legs wobbly, your thighs still sticky with him. He caught your arm gently to steady you, but you were already shifting back onto the bed, sprawling lazily across the sheets like a queen returned to her throne.
You stretched, just a little, then sighed.
“Run me a bath,” you murmured, voice hazy but firm. “And bring me another nightgown, please. One of the white silk ones.”
He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t question.
“Yes, baby.”
He leaned down to press a kiss to your shoulder, then stood — naked, flushed, his cock still glistening with you as he padded toward the bathroom first to start the water.
The soft sound of running water filled the space.
Then he disappeared into your closet.
The doors opened into a space almost as large as your bedroom — walls lined with mirrors, plush carpet underfoot, the scent of your perfume hanging faint in the air.
One side was filled floor to ceiling with clothing: dresses, robes, gowns, coats arranged by fabric and color. Beneath them, rows of heels, boots, and custom shoes in velvet-lined cubbies.
The other side?
Glass cases and open displays sat under soft lighting, each one housing a piece that could bankrupt a small country. Famous jewels that had vanished off the face of the earth—now resting silently in your private gallery.
The Luxembourg Sapphire.
The La Peregrina Pearl.
The Florentine Diamond.
Bucky walked past it all with the quiet, familiar interest of someone who’d seen it all before… and still felt like he wasn’t supposed to.
He didn’t touch anything.
He just found the white silk nightgown you asked for—thin, sleeveless, soft enough to slide over your skin like water—and brought it back to you.
You were still on the bed, eyes half-lidded, legs open, the candlelight dancing on your still-exposed skin.
“Bath’s almost ready,” he said softly, offering the gown.
You took it without a word, slipping it on slowly, deliberately. And smoothed the silk down over your thighs, the fabric catching just slightly where your skin was still sticky and flushed.
You looked up, and there he was.
Still watching you.
His body was relaxed, but his eyes were locked on yours — heavy-lidded, reverent. Like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to touch you again or just stand there and thank god you let him breathe the same air.
You lifted your arms slowly, languidly, wrists loose, fingers curled just slightly.
“Take me to my bath?”
Your voice was low. Barely a question.
His mouth twitched, lips curling into something soft, a little wrecked.
“‘Course, darlin’,” he murmured.
And then he stepped close, bent down, and slid his arms under your legs and behind your back — lifting you like it cost him nothing.
You sank into his hold, arms curling around his shoulders, nose brushing his neck as he carried you into the bathroom.
Later That Night
The room was quiet now, save for the faint hum of the city through the barely cracked window and the occasional creak of the bed shifting under your bodies.
The candles had mostly burned down, little pools of wax cooling in their glass bases, shadows soft and heavy across the walls. The sheets were a mess beneath you—kicked halfway off the bed, damp with sweat, and still carrying the scent of sex and silk.
You were naked again, your white nightgown discarded somewhere on the floor after round two had turned slow and rough—deeper, more desperate.
Now, you were draped half on top of him—chest to chest, your thigh slung over his hips, toes brushing his shin. His cock lay soft and spent between you, trapped under the weight of your thigh, resting against the hard plane of his stomach, still tacky with the evidence of just how hard he’d come inside you.
Your cheek was pressed to the side of his throat, your nose brushing lazily along the sharp line of his jaw as your lips planted slow, wandering kisses.
His arms were around you, one hand splayed wide on your lower back, the other lazily gliding up and down your spine—not really comforting you, more like soothing himself. Like keeping you close was the only thing holding him steady.
Your fingers toyed lightly with his hair, the weight of the Pink Star still glinting faintly in the low light as it caught against the strands at his temple. You hadn’t taken it off.
You never took your newest prize off the first night. It was a rule. Possession needed to be felt after all.
But this?
This was the part of the night no one else ever got to see.
No cruelty. No teasing. No commands.
Just you. A little sleepy. A little warm. Nuzzling his neck like a cat in her favorite sunspot, soft kisses trailing down his pulse point.
Bucky didn’t speak. He never did first. He just let you have this—his body, his warmth, the silence.
Because this was the closest thing you ever came to asking for comfort. And he knew that.
Your lips brushed his neck again, slower this time—less a kiss, more a lingering press of your mouth against his pulse. Your breath was warm on his skin, your fingers lightly tracing the edge of his jaw.
You didn’t lift your head. Didn’t change your tone. Just whispered.
“You won’t make me give back my diamonds… will you, James?”
The question hung in the dark between you—delicate, heavy, threaded with something that wasn’t quite fear but not far from it.
It wasn’t about the Pink Star.
Not really.
It was about the whole closet of them. The ones you stole before you met him. The ones you wore like armor. The ones no one ever understood. The ones that made people think they knew you—when they didn’t.
But he did.
You didn’t look at him as you said it. Just buried your nose in the crook of his neck, lips brushing his collarbone as you pressed another soft kiss there—almost like an apology.
He was quiet for a moment.
Then his arm curled tighter around your back.
His vibranium hand slid up the length of your spine with that same slow rhythm, fingertips dragging gently, almost reverently, like he was tracing the edges of something precious.
“No, baby,” he said softly. “I won’t make you give back anything.”
Your lashes fluttered against his skin as you breathed him in—warm and steady and always there. You didn’t answer his words. Didn’t say thank you. You just pressed another kiss to the hollow of his throat, your hand now lazily tracing down the slope of his chest, not teasing—just feeling.
It was quiet again.
But you weren’t done. Your voice was barely more than a whisper.
“You love me, don’t you?”
It wasn’t coy. It wasn’t playful. Just soft. Raw. Honest.
Like if he didn’t answer, the silence might fill with something too sharp to swallow.
He turned his head just slightly, lips brushing your temple, breath fanning across your hair.
“I do,” he whispered. “God, I do.”
Your hand stilled against his chest.
Then, a little quieter—
“You need me?”
His grip on your back tightened for just a second, like his body responded before he could.
“Yeah, baby,” he whispered. “More than anything.”
You didn’t speak right away. Your mouth just trailed lower along his jaw, pressing the kind of kisses you never gave anyone else. Slow. Thoughtful. Like you were imprinting yourself into his skin.
And then—
You breathed it into the space between his throat and shoulder. Quiet. Dangerous.
“You’ll never leave me…?”
His hand lifted to the back of your head, cradling it gently, thumb brushing your hairline.
“Never.“
His voice was firm now. Steady. Certain.
“Even if the whole world turns on you,” he murmured, “I won’t. I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.”
You didn’t say anything else. Didn’t need to.
His hand stayed at the back of your head, stroking slow, mindless circles as your body finally started to sink against him—your breathing evening out, your leg still thrown over his hips like you were anchoring him to the bed.
The Pink Star glinted faintly in the low light, still on your finger, resting against his ribs as your hand settled over his heart.
And somewhere, in that half-conscious haze between desire and sleep, your mind wandered.
Diamonds.
You had hundreds of them.
Tucked away in velvet and glass, sealed behind locks and systems no one could break.
Each one rare. Priceless. A little dangerous.
But none of them compared to him.
He wasn’t flawless. Wasn’t carved or polished. He was scarred. Weathered. Real.
And he was yours.
Your most precious diamond.
You wouldn’t give him back either.
Ever.
Not even if the whole world demanded it.
You smiled against his neck, the last of your thoughts slipping into sleep as his arms tightened just slightly around you.
And you didn’t need to say you’re his.
That part was obvious.
Bucky when his girl is so obviously guilty and in the wrong:
( warnings: pervy thoughts/behaviour, murderous thoughts, the dumbification actually goes insane in this one, possessiveness, manipulation, coercion, degradation, name calling, dub-con, exhibitionism, the birth of a daddy kink!, oral - m receiving, edging, orgasm denial, rough sex ig but idk if it's really that rough, pseudo prostitution, hair pulling - f receiving, cum eating, mentions/fantasies of virginity + blood, stucky threesome tease, & more i've probably forgotten about ) read part 1 here & part 2 here !
mechanic!bucky besties (au taglist). @seraphicd0ll @boomyoulookingforthis @average-vibe @izzy698 @yeehawgiddyup13 @flockoff-featherface @wandanatissuperior @herejustforbuckybarnes @umbreoni @xxeatualivexx @jannesyjane
this one goes out to @blowingbarnes <3
thinking about how the first time mechanic!bucky fucks you it’s a punishment. it starts with a mistake, a slip of the tongue. you, his brainless beauty, stand there talking to steve while bucky slaves away changing the front tires of your daddy’s car.
because of a pothole you hit.
bucky has been living in the ignorance of believing you could never be annoying — his perfect angel, crafted and dropped onto earth for his devilish hands to pluck the feathers off your wings, one by one, to mould you into something dirtier, messier, made not in the image of any god but in the fantasies of his wretched mind. today, however, he is learning that he is sorely mistaken.
the pain of this revelation is not his to bare, no. it is yours. a threatening cloud looming over your head, that grows darker and heavier the longer you stand there giggling at something steve said… fucking steve, who never once in his life has been funny on purpose.
“stop it- oh my-! ha! you’re going to make me pee-” you’re heaving through laughter, while bucky is rolling his eyes.
“i’m serious…” seriously driving bucky up the wall, yeah! steve continues talking, like he hasn’t already ran out of the amount of words he’s allowed to say to you. “you should have seen his face when i told him it was divorce papers that were blocking his exhaust pipe!”
“oh my god, steeeeve!” you whine.
whine, and its steve's name.
bucky twists a nut — the fastening kind, not the kind that sit between his legs! — back into place a little too tightly, only for it to nearly crack down the middle. great, more damage and destruction caused by you.
and then it happens.
side-eyeing the pair of you from where he kneels by the tire, bucky watches something worse than a car crash happen. your hand, flying out in a motion that screams please stop!, lands smack-dab on steve’s grubby little fingers, and bucky finds himself contemplating the ramifications of possibly sending his oldest friend and his business partner to an early grave.
as if steve touching you isn’t enough, you have to go and open those pretty lips — the more you move them, the more he thinks their only purpose in life should be to wrap themselves around his cock.
“your hands are so soft,” it sounds honest.
too honest, like the kind of thought a woman like you lets slip out before she can even realising the implications of it. do you ever? realise. bucky would put all your father’s money on you being as clueless as he likes to imagine you, with a vice-grip around his cock and a movie playing out in his head.
“are they? huh, i hadn’t noticed,” next time steve asks bucky to secure a car above him, he's going to walk away and let it drop.
“yeah,” you draw the word out, and, for a minute of pure reprieve, he remembers how pretty that word can sound coming from you. you ruin the moment, and his mood. “nothing like bucky’s, his are rough all over.”
“well, sweetheart, that’s because bucky is rough all over-” oh hell no. that is enough. or else he might just slash your tires and send you home in tears.
“steve, old man riley’s bike ain’t gonna fix itself,” his interruption has both your heads turning to him, two deer caught in headlights.
well, no. a doe and a mountain lion, slowly encroaching behind her back and preparing to rip her apart with its claws. if this were the animal kingdom, maybe it would be easier: bucky could pierce right through steve with his stag horns and leave the mountain lion to bleed out while he tends to his pretty fawn.
“and you,” oh god, look at you, all wide eyed and scared. shoulders jumping, tits bouncing, while bucky points two fingers at you and motions you to come-hither. “you get over ‘ere, gonna teach you somethin’ about cars, case you’re thinking of making a habit outta blowing daddy’s tires.”
like a bitch called to heel, you’re by his side in the blink of an eye, quicker than poor steve can even start walking back to his post, where the mangled remains of a harley-davidson await.
you smell like daffodils. sweet, heady, mouth-watering.
or, at least, whatever bucky thinks daffodils smell like — he's never been one for stopping and smelling the flowers, he’d sooner crush them beneath his boot. maybe he’ll end up doing that to you, too.
“you see these?” the question still somehow comes off as an order, as he encases your hand with his own, making sure you feel every rough patch on it, and drags you down towards one of the empty lug holes. “want you to feel this for me. yeah, there we go, circle it with your finger.”
look at you, his precious girl, using that head for something more than decoration! you follow his lead so easily, so seamlessly, he barely needs to lay a single finger to pull the strings on his little puppet… fortunately, he has too much fun touching you to dare stop.
“now, you feel how she’s all empty?” you nod immediately, then look at him with all the sweetness of someone who thinks they’re actually being helpful. poor thing, you’ve still not noticed the way his eyes are glued to your thighs, to the way your skirt boarders on flashing him a glimpse of heaven, riding up your leg as you crouch by his side. “means the wheel’s not secure. d’you know how we change that?”
“with a lug nut-” no.
no, no, no.
bucky cannot tolerate this kind of behaviour, you answering in earnest, and correctly. and, throw in the thought of one of those limp-dick trust fund losers possibly teaching you about cars? you may as well stab him in the chest with your louboutin heels! cars are his domain, as every much an extension of him as you are.
“we fill her up, princess,” his fingers tighten their grip on your hand. you wince, and bucky feels a stirring in his loins. every new noise of yours that he discovers puts his dick in a trance, no better than them damned cobras that rise to the tune of a flute. “and not with any old lug nut. tsk, thought i already drilled that lesson into that hollow head: your daddy’s precious girl here is vintage.”
he pats his spare hand against the side of the car, an exclamation mark to end his chastisement and a deviation away from the real lesson he’s hoping to teach you. maybe he’ll do it right here, touch you where anyone in the workshop could see.
it would be easy. you’re close enough that he can taste your skin, if he just reaches far enough back into his mind and pictures himself back between your ice-cream covered thighs. you wouldn’t push his hand off if he laid it on you, probably not even noticing the crass intentions behind the way it would inch higher.
what a vision it would be to watch you, his pretty, obedient whore, squirming and bucking into his fingers, desperate for even a half-inch of friction up that dripping cunt — friction he would not hand out freely.
no, he would make you beg, loudly. loud enough for steve to drop that smug look off his face and the wrench from his hand, dragging his attention away from the bike to watch the pathetic performance you put on for something, anything from bucky. would he keep watching if bucky dragged you to inspect the engine again, the perfect excuse to press himself against your back and pull your underwear to the side, slipping his aching cock into the warm embrace of you, like there isn’t a lobby of customers inches away.
bucky wants to. he really does.
in due time, he will.
but right now, he needs to teach you about the importance of knowing what kind of wheels you’re working with.
“what she needs is this,” and he passes you the final lug, that twitch beneath his coveralls returning when you almost drop the thing, not expecting the weight of it. “go on, role it around in your hand. really get to memorising every bump and groove.”
you obey, like always.
“lug nuts come in all shapes and sizes, princess. but all you need to know is the shape o’ this one,” his eyes flicker over to steve and find his friend fully concentrated at his own workstation. just as well. “conical seat, tapered…”
this is all going in one ear and out the other, huh. passing right through that empty head like a gust a wind through a tunnel, echoing but fleeting. bucky loves it. in fact, he now needs to find an excuse to spread you out against every inch of your father’s vehicle and just watch as those eyes go glassy, bored of all the mechanic lexicon.
“tell you what, why don’t you be my little assistant today and hold this against the hole while i feed it in, huh? ‘s that sound easy enough for you to handle?” he hopes you’re certainly feeling easy enough to be handled today, because he’s talking himself into a frenzy, imagining your fingers holding your lips open while he notches his cock inside you. “gonna screw it real good, keep her nice and tight, and safe.”
your assistance persists, even after bucky tightens the bolt of the wheel, at long last finished repairing your silly misadventure. his hand then guides you into helping him lower the jack fully, all four wheels back on the floor… how would you look on all fours?
when the question of payment falls off those pretty lips, bucky finally finds the opening he’s been looking for — well, one of the openings he’s been looking for.
“your dad was sayin’ he’s thinking of buying another vintage.”
“you spoke to my dad? when?”
there is a bite in your voice that only makes him want you more, an irrational possession taking over that cutesy gleam in your eyes. like you can’t fathom him talking to anyone but you… or at least that is what he hopes, because he can barely handle it either.
“when i fixed the coolant. thought it woulda been you bringing her by, and instead i got your daddy.”
“i was,” here we go! at long last, more than a month past, he is about find out what could possibly have been more important to you than seeing him again. “at yoga class! it was actually my first time, and i was nervous about going. i thought i wouldn’t be flexible enough but the instructor eased us all into it, and-”
you’re going on, and on, and on.
he’s not listening.
in fact, he has not been listening since the words first time hit his ears.
because how could he do anything but picture you, contorting yourself into the kind of positions yoga requires and begging him to please be gentle, please go easy, it’s only my first time bucky! god, the thought of popping your cherry, watching himself slide out of you with a mixture of cum and your no longer virginal blood-
a hand lands on his shoulder.
“bucky?”
“oh,” right... the garage. you staring at him. steve glancing at you both somewhere past your shoulder. bucky needs to get you alone. “that’s nice, doll, real… nice. anyway, he was asking if i’d pass him along the details of anyone handling the purchases of vintage cars. left it written down in the back-office, let’s go fetch you it and then we can discuss what i’m owed, hmm?”
there must be a special spot reserved for him in hell, toying with a pretty thing like you… but, then again, you’re the kind of woman that ends up ruined anyway.
better it be at his hands than anyone else’s.
door closed, the buzz of a dying light-bulb, and the mess of the backroom. he finally has you right where he wants you. and you’re just smiling with genuine gratitude when he passes you a sticky note with a number scrawled along it.
“so, what’s the damage?” you’re quick to ask, like you’re itching to repay your debt. do you seriously think he’s someone you can throw your daddy’s cash at, pay your way around every pothole you hit and every ill-use of your mouth?
then again, that’s probably something you’re real good at: swiping daddy’s card, strolling away completely unaware of how much money you just wasted.
a wicked thought creeps its way into his already crowded mind, one where he’s the one wielding your father’s card and he’s swiping it through your soaked folds. it’s the perfect metaphor, in a way, for the situation at hand: your father keeps unknowingly paying bucky to have his way with you.
what would he say, if he knew he was renting out his daughter to the likes of his mechanic?
there is absolutely no chance your father could ever guess you would end up like this: jaw held tight in the grip of bucky’s hand and stumbling helplessly back against a table.
“the damage is my ego,” he doesn’t sneer, he doesn’t shout, he doesn’t show a hint of that previous murderous rage. instead, bucky remains calm, talking softly like he isn’t bruising his fingerprints into your face. “d’you get off on that, huh? bet it’s dripping down your leg, princess.”
“what? bucky, you’re-”
“i’m disappointed, is what. thought you’d be a little smarter than to fall for steve’s schtick, but i guess a slut like you thinks head is for giving instead of using.”
“steve’s nice! he’s my friend,” he tries to stop that damn word from flying out your mouth, thumb pressed so deep into your cheek he can feel your molars, yet you manage to squeak it out.
in a way, he’s glad you do, because it only makes him harder, “i’ve been real nice to you, princess. nicer than steve. am i not your friend?”
“no, you’re my-” what a delight it is to watch you squirm, his other hand spotting the obvious swell of your nipples beneath the thin fabric of your dress and giving one an unforgiving, unwarned pinch.
“you’re what? god, are you that dumb you can’t even answer a simple question?”
“my-” he pinches the other nipple, too, for equality. he’s a feminist. “bucky!”
“i’m your bucky, huh?” the way you nod so eagerly, like his sentence makes all the sense in the world... because maybe it does. no, actually, it definitely does; you are his. “sure didn’t seem like it out there, complainin’ to steve about my rough hands.”
“i wasn’t complain-”
“but that’s okay, princess,” like the slut that you are, your thighs squeeze together the closer he croons that wretched pet-name near your face. pet-name… you would make a good pet, wouldn’t you? “i know a way you can earn my forgiveness.”
in bucky’s mind, the best thing you could say is how. you prove him wrong for a second time today, “anything.”
a part of him wants to live out earlier fantasies.
to reach under your dress, take off your panties, and send you back out into the workshop with one simple instruction: bend over daddy’s bonnet.
he could tease you, tell you to wait until he joins you, and leave you out there for hours, bent over and presenting whatever mess awaits between your legs to any lucky passer-by. all for him to finally come out from the back office and cum inside you, a free show for anyone that cares to watch.
what’s the worst that can happen? he co-owns the garage, it’s not like he can be fired.
his hand does reach under your dress, and it does take off your panties, but the instruction he gives is different.
“sit back, there we go,” he speaks with muted excitement, one hand on your waist guiding you up onto the table and the other pocketing your underwear. “spread your legs for me.”
you do it, but too slowly for his liking.
he doesn’t want shy, he wants shameless.
“c’mon, faster,” he smacks your knee, hard enough for a sting to kiss his palm. “what are you? frigid?”
you shake your head, and yet bucky still feels the need to keep taunting.
“‘cause it sure as shit didn’t seem like it last time you were here. practically forced me to lick your cunt,” legs fully spread, he has the audacity to slot himself between them and push them that little bit wider, until he can visibly see the discomfort on your face. what a pretty sight. “you ever think about that day?”
one look at your face tells him all he needs to know.
“yeah, you think about it,” his hand is on your jaw again, steering your head away from glancing down. you’re curious, he knows, but you don’t deserve to see what’s about to hit you. all you get is the sound of his zipper coming undone. “tell me, any rich boy ever make you feel that good?”
he pulls his cock out, letting out a hiss as it slaps back against his abdomen. great, add pre-cum to the list of things that stains his coveralls.
“no.”
“no, what?”
“no rich boy has ever made me feel that good, bucky.”
this is cruel, even for him.
bucky knows.
he has not touched you. not really. sure, his hands were on you while you tightened the nut on the tire, and his bulge was pressed idly against your back as you helped him lower the jack, and he’d cruelly swiped his feet through yours during your journey to the back office, just to see you trip and need him to stabilise you… if steve was watching, hopefully that little display made it clear: hands off!
but now he’s got you here, perched up on the table he and his buddies eat at, your legs spread, panties stuffed safely in his back pocket. you’re soaking wet and you barely even realise the mess he’s making out of you, pretty eyes pleading for him to help the very same problem he is creating.
help me, bucky, you’re screaming, fix me! when all he intends to do is ruin you into his perfect doll.
so, it is cruel that he won’t even prepare you for his cock.
he will not put his mouth on your pussy, and he certainly won’t be putting his hands on her either. after all, what is it you had said to steve? bucky’s hands are rough all over.
bucky would gladly show you rough, in time.
but for now, you’re going to feel him, all of him, before you even get the chance to see him. which is a damn near travesty, because there’s so much of him to see. perhaps he is the devil he’s always thought himself to be, because he can’t even let you fully finish your breath before he’s feeding the tip of his cock into your cunt.
what air you do have is forced out of you in a gasp, mouth physically incapable of closing as he fills you, inch by aching inch. truth be told, because bucky is nothing if not an honest man — and any lie he may tell you is for your own good — he wants to force himself to the hilt and watch your eyes gloss over in the ache of his stretch. but you’re just so responsive to him, face painting a million pictures of sin, that he can’t resist savouring you initial reactions, eyes growing wider each time you feel him go deeper, practically screaming at him there’s more?!
“you seriously think steve’s a friend?” he feeds you his sympathy like it’s a drug, something for you to get addicted to. the more of his sympathy you crave, the more comfort he can keep giving you. “d’you know what he said to me the other day?”
“wha-at?” you struggle to get the word out, brain quickly melting into a puddle of pleasure the deeper bucky teases you open.
“that you’ve got the kind of face he’d like to paint.”
“steve-” at that, bucky sinks into you fully, the lips of your cunt kissing against his base. “paints?”
aw, darling… now he almost feels bad; steve’s never even mentioned you once.
“not with paint,” curling a hand over the curve of your thigh, bucky tugs you impossibly closer, bodies fusing together while you dangle off the table. “i’ll show you what i mean someday.”
the first roll of his hips is what bucky imagines entering heaven must feel like, pleasure crawling up his spine and your walls trying their best to keep him inside. he’s kind enough to keep the pace slow, teasing at first.
“you feel how she’s pulling me back in, princess?” and it’s true, you are, a perfect little fuck-hole that’s stretching and wrapping itself around him at will. “tightest thing i've ever felt.”
you moan over a stutter of his name, arms reaching to thread behind his neck. he blocks them in their path, pinning your palms flat to the table with a warning in his eyes.
“you seriously think i want you touching me?” the look on your face tells him you’re not used to not getting your way, while the dejection that sinks your shoulders has him fantasising about other ways to tease you. “no. you just sit right here, keep those legs spread, and let bucky have his fill.”
the one being filled is you, unapologetic with how he finally starts to fuck you the way he’s so often fantasised about. deep, harsh thrusts that have your legs bouncing from the impact and your fingers digging into the table’s ledge as you will yourself to obey his no-touching rule.
what a sweet thing of you to do, obey him like he has any real authority over you. say the word and bucky will happily accept ownership of you and your pathetic whims.
the back office has transformed into an auditorium, an audience of too much junk, the only witnesses to this sinful symphony — the Clueless Corruption symphony.
a first movement composed of skin slapping against skin, while the squelch of your soaked cunt swallowing him over and over again takes on the role of the slow movement. your moans are the dance, lyrical and airy; he wants to burn them into a cd and leave in playing your father’s car radio, a little gift for the next time he takes it for a spin… but you’re holding back, denying yourself the need to be louder, and bucky just can’t let you be.
“you were practically screaming with laughter out there for steve,” strangely, he feels himself twitch inside you at the mention of steve, a dirty corner of despair pulling itself into the light as his mind floods him with the image of steve on the other side of the table, your back laid flat against it and your head dangling off the edge, with steve’s soft hands tweaking at your nipples and his cock bulging against your throat. “why’re you goin’ all quiet now, huh? am i not being nice enough to earn my own kind of screams?”
the final movement of the symphony interrupts whatever answer you have, bringing both of you to a complete state of freeze — eyes locking on each other as an unfamiliar ringtone fills the room.
it takes him a minute to realises it’s singing from your bag.
half-unzipped, fingers digging through the junk of whatever you store in there, bucky feels the vibration of your mobile tickle at his skin.
“no, bucky, don’t! it’s my-” bucky almost congratulates you on forming a coherent sentence for once, but you’re clawing at his wrist and he just can’t overlook bad behaviour; that’s how pets end up stepping out of line.
“hands, princess. get ‘em off me on a count of three or i’ll test how waterproof that mascara is.”
you’re off in an instant, like he’s a fire that’s at last licked burns onto your palms. just in time for him to grab your phone and point the screen at his face.
oh.
oh.
he was dreading finding a man’s name but this… this is a blessing granted to him by a higher power that clearly has his interests in mind.
“don’t be rude, princess,” the grin he wears is almost as wicked as him. “daddy’s calling.”
“don’t hit-” too late, he’s already answered on your behalf, pressing the device to your ear. you take a stabilising breath, that is a little too shaky to truly have worked, and speak, “hi, dad.”
you reach to replace his hand on your phone. bucky smacks you away with his free one, and pushes the device harder against your cheek.
“yeah, i was with-” you’re cut off by your own gasp, eyebrows jumping as bucky’s spare hand dances over your belly. teasing, feather-like, enough to tickle your skin. it makes your pussy jump, how cute. not even your father’s monotone drawl in your ear is enough to make you push bucky away. if anything, you feel wetter. “i was with her, yeah, but i’m now-”
creaming around your mechanic’s cock. what bucky wouldn’t give to hear you say that.
the hand on your stomach winds its way down further, until his thumb can circle your clit in slow, teasing motions. you squirm, like you’re trying to run from him, yet all it does is help grind you up against the friction, walls gripping him in a vice that threatens to cut circulation.
he’s summoning the patience of a saint, fighting off the urge to empty his balls.
“y-yeah, i know- no, i’m fine, i just-” you turn away from the microphone, teeth clamping down on your bottom lip as a whine tears through your throat. bucky’s fucking you again, so slow it can barely be considered a real thrust, a repeated jutting the tip of his cock against the spongy goodness of your cunt. committed to cruelty, he follows your face with the phone. “got a headache. no! don’t need you to pick me up-”
what would make you more ashamed: your father finding out you’re currently stuffed to the brim and on the verge of cumming like his voice isn’t in your ear, or that you popped a tire of his precious car?
“yes, okay, uh huh,” a career in acting does not await you, not a sliver of interest invested in your replies to your father. you can’t even pretend to be listening, too busy looking bucky in the eye and pleading him to release you from this torture, be it through letting you cum or letting you go. “yeah, i’ll s-see you for sunday dinner. okay. b-bye, i love you, daddy.”
something inside bucky snaps into place.
hits him over the head.
grabs him by the balls and tells him to man up and make that happen again.
“bucky. bucky. bucky!”
he must have blacked out, mind spiralling into another realm disconnected from his body, for when he’s launched back into the back office, to you, he’s digging bruises into your waist, the table is scraping against the floor, you’re gripping his biceps, and his cock is fucking you at a speed that someone would run from the law with.
gone are the shy whines and bitten back moans. you’re shamelessly chanting his name, a prayer only he can fulfil. there’s no way they can’t hear you through the door, at least steve must. that earlier fantasy flies back in, steve ramming himself in your throat, and bucky chokes on a groan.
“princess,” a coo thrown at your face, as he watches that glassy look take over. the very same look that stared down at him as he buried his tongue in your pussy moments before you came all over his face. “d’you wanna cum?”
you nod, eager, like he’s offering you a gift.
in a way, he is… a gift for himself.
“yeah?” he teases another confirmation out of you. “then repeat what you just said, for me this time.”
“what i just…” he gets a front-row viewing of realisation dawning over that clueless brain. “bucky, no, that’s-”
a hand on your jaw cuts you off, and only now is he noticing the fingerprint grease stains faintly marking your skin. his ownership is all over you, like branding on cattle.
“say it.”
his face hovers inches from your own, waiting impatiently.
“i l-” you start, then hesitate, composing yourself for reasons other than the drag of his dick along your walls. “it feels… wrong.”
“c’mon, princess,” he has to bring in the sympathy again, something to mimic the ghost of a pout on your lips. “do you really think your bucky would make you do somethin’ wrong?”
yes. god, yes.
thankfully, you don’t see the deceit in his gaze.
“okay… i love you, daddy.”
“fuck,” the fact he doesn’t cum immediately merits some kind of medal. “again. say it again.”
“i love you, daddy.”
his forehead knocks against yours, “again.”
“i love you, daddy.”
he’s panting like a dog, tongue darting out to taste an inch of skin, teasing a hunger he has no intention of satiating.
just like he has no intentions of satiating you, either… this is a punishment, after all.
you practically cry out when he removes his cock, the shame of your own words still fresh over your flesh in the form of goosebumps, like your body is physically rejecting the act he forced you to partake in.
“get on you knees.”
“i don’t understand,” you never do. “was that not what you want-”
“knees, now.”
what a vision you are, truly.
knees bent, palms resting on thighs, wide eyes stuck between looking up at bucky’s face or his dick. that flickering light catches on the shine of you soaked all over him.
“if you want to cum so bad, go ask steve,” bucky is a real bastard.
he catches a hiss between his teeth, fingers swiping over his leaking tip.
“or d’you no longer want his soft touch?” you’re practically hypnotized at his feet, lips parting as you swallow down a mouthful of saliva. dick-notized. “no, you need somethin’ a little rougher, don’t you?”
he doesn’t expect you to reply.
it makes it all the more better when you do.
“not rougher, just you.”
“look at the mess you’ve made of me, princess,” he’s a thief, stealing words you should be spewing at him, shouting at him. and all the while you’re kneeling closer, unconsciously leaning up on your knees. “he’s almost dripping from your pussy.”
you’re inches away, so close he can feel your breath kissing his tip.
“think it’s time i teach my little rich girl how to clean up her own messes.”
you don’t even wait for him to find the back of your head, lips wrapping around his tip with no encouragement but the lust coursing through your veins.
bucky throws his head back, needing to ground himself before he gets too lost in the warm, wet cavern of your mouth. meanwhile, you’re damn near humming in delight, eyes slipping shut as you let him guide you further down on his length.
“you like that, doll, hmm?” his tone is a little more wrecked than he intends it to be. but, who can blame him? your tongue is laving over a vein and lapping up the taste of your own cunt like it tastes better than that strawberry cone. which it does, bucky knows that. “mhmm, that’s it, treat him real sweet.”
you moan and he feels the vibration shoot through him, catching on his breath for a moment… until he spots the hand between your thighs.
what a desperate, pathetic, needy whore he’s making out of you.
bucky loves it.
still, he puts an end to it.
a soft smack hits his ears as he taps his cock against your cheek, tutting down at you in disapproval before he heaves out a fake sigh of discontent.
“gimme your hand, princess,” you do as your told, slick covered fingers threading through his own. “if you can’t keep it to yourself, i’ll put it to use.”
then bucky’s guiding your joined hands to your head, tangling a grip in your hair and forcing you to take him in your mouth again, swallowing him whole this time.
your reaction is instant, eyes shooting as wide open as your throat while you attempt to pull back, nostrils flaring to pull in a breath that never makes it to your lungs, caught in your throat. you gag, and he hears it as much as he feels, music to fine-tuned ears.
“there we go, pretty,” there is a whiny twinge to his voice, one he no longer feels he can stave off, too lost in the thrill of using your own hand to bob your head back and forth on his cock, each one punctuated with a gag. “knew we’d find somethin’ useful for this mouth to do, somethin’ it’s actually good for.”
temptation gets the better of him and coaxes him to choke you down on his cock and wait.
one.
you whine.
two.
you dig your nails into your thigh.
three.
you gag.
four.
your eyes are shining up at him.
five- and he sets you free, both your hand and his own tugging you back.
“goddamn,” is the only appropriate reaction he can think of when you barely take a breath before you dive right back for more, lips numb to the stretch of him. “you would rather my cock in your throat than a breath of fresh air.”
you give him some kind of nod, a hum of affirmation, and welcome eagerly the pressure of him hitting your gag reflex over and over. he almost has shivers running down his thighs, like the arousal leaking down yours, as he feels himself twitch and his balls pulls tight, the threat of something coming.
despite your protest, he pries your mouth away and tilts you back to face up at him.
“do you love your daddy?” bucky watches the way your throat constricts around nothing, like it misses him already. mouth open and waiting, you nod. “yeah, i bet you do.”
he’s cumming before your lips even envelope him again, and then he’s filling your mouth, watching as you swallow. gulp after gulp. he’s seeing stars, eyes rolling back at the relief of release, before he remembers the show at his feet and sets his sights back on you.
spent and emptied, he has one last order for you, “open, let me see your tongue.”
and there it is, a canvas of pink painted in milky white, the stain of his cum all over your taste buds, and your teeth, and your throat. you’re a mess, and you look so thankful.
he might have to thank your dad for teaching you some manners. maybe he raised you on the belief that a woman exists in a secondary space to man, as a being through which utter subjugation is expressed.
if that is the case, bucky swears to make use of all the obedience living in your heart.
he tucks away his cock haphazardly, zipping himself halfway before he’s bending at the waist and gripping your jaw again.
for a moment, he considers kissing you, showing you a little tenderness after bruising the palate of your mouth.
but then he remembers steve, and those soft hands, and the way you just kept giggling at his every word… and bucky realises you don’t deserve tender, you deserve used.
“say ah,” is the only warning he gives before he spits into your mouth and snaps it shut, watching you like a hawk to make sure you swallow it back with the rest of him that’s in your mouth.
you’re still kneeling on the floor when he passes the sticky note down to you, the whole reason he even manipulated you into coming back here and you’re staring at it like you’ve never seen it before.
you pluck it from him delicately, like if you’re nice enough then maybe he won’t make you walk out of here without making you cum.
“you never told me what i owe,” you whisper up to him, voice wrecked enough to get him hard again. “for the tire.”
oh, maybe he should have kissed you, his stupid girl.
“don’t worry, princess. you paid the whore’s way today.”
+ extra hyde !
· sorry for edging this fic release... and also sorry for the edging in this fic <3
· pov: reader by the end:
prompt: "you always make things feel a little less heavy" from this post
word count: 10.2k
warnings/tags: 18+ mdni, smut, unprotected p in v, oral (f&m receiving), enhanced!reader with healing and calming powers, references to trauma, minor angst, minor injury, talk of bucky’s recovery and deprogramming, mention of alcohol, mutual pining, slow burn-ish, reader is afab, no use of y/n, fluff, friends to lovers, slightly proofread but excuse any errors i’ll fix them later :)
author's note: started this months ago and then got distracted by other wips. figured i would finally finish it up! first time writing for white wolf/wakanda bucky is long overdue. this bucky era has a special place in my heart.
my masterlist 🖤
Sundays had grown to be a day of familiar comfort and routine.
No matter what happens on the other six days of the week, you always rest a little easier at night when you remind yourself that Sunday is coming.
Sundays aren’t the only day that you see him. In fact, you see him almost every day. You see him on weekdays when you help with his sessions with Shuri, and you see him on Saturdays when you step out of the front door of your cottage that sits at the edge of the woods, less than a quarter mile from his hut directly across the field. But those days are filled with obligations - countless hours spent attempting to undo everything Hydra put inside his head, and just as many hours spent tending to all of the crops and livestock.
But on Sundays, his posture is a little less tense. He breathes a little easier. His smiles reach his eyes. Sundays are the one day that you insist that he forget all of his responsibilities, even for just a little while. You always make enough breakfast for the both of you, and take it over to his hut in the hand-woven basket that you bought at the market in the heart of Wakanda when you had first arrived here at Steve’s request, over half a year ago.
After eating until you’re both stuffed, you help him pull his hair into the partial up-do that he’d grown fond of. When you first started helping him with this, you could always tell - no matter how hard he tried to hide it - that he felt discouraged at being unable to do such a mundane task on his own. It wasn’t until maybe the dozenth time that he fully relaxed, nearly going limp when you brushed your fingers through his long locks so that you could free it of tangles before pulling part of it into a low ponytail. You noticed the way his shoulders slouched in a way that they hadn’t before, indicating that he was at ease. You smiled to yourself, secretly wishing that you could continue the ministrations without coming across as too forward.
“Might ask you to do that for me even after I get a new arm,” he sighed when you finished securing the small elastic tie around his hair.
Then, you refill the picnic basket with supplies from around his hut, depending on what the plan for the day is. On days with milder temperatures, this includes a book for you and a journal and pen for him. The two of you will go on a short walk to a nearby clearing, where there’s a giant willow tree with plenty of shade. You read, and he journals, as Shuri suggests to help with memory retention and emotional processing. On hotter days, you’ll pack drinking water, a couple of towels, and sunscreen (because yes, super-soldiers can get sunburns - a lesson that Bucky had learned the hard way), and trek to the base of a small waterfall in the woods that no one seems to know about except the two of you.
No matter what the day’s agenda is, the basket always gets loaded with a plethora of snacks. Various berries and cheeses, some fresh baked bread from the market with preserves for dipping, and a couple different cured meats. When you’d first referred to the spread as a charcuterie board, Bucky looked at you as if you had grown a third eye.
“Was charcuterie not a thing back in your day?” You teased, taking a bite of a giant strawberry.
“I think you’re forgetting that ‘my day’ was The Great Depression,” he snorted. “If it wasn’t peanut butter or potatoes, it wasn’t on the menu.”
You wish you could say that today feels anything like Sundays typically do. There’s a heaviness that weighs on your shoulders today; a growing sense of dread at knowing you’re going to be leaving this place that has become a sanctuary to you. At knowing that you’re going to be leaving him - even if it is just for a few days.
You should be use to it at this point. This isn’t the first time that Steve has called to let you know that him, Sam and Natasha need your help with some mission in a faraway country. It’s been over a month since you had returned to Wakanda from the last mission you’d helped with, so you knew it was only a matter of time before Steve reached out again. You weren’t surprised when T’Challa showed up at your cottage yesterday morning to tell you that Steve had been in communication with him to let him know that they would soon be on their way to Wakanda to pick you up.
Today. Sunday.
Not surprised, but still disappointed. You feel guilty to even admit it. As glad as you are to see your friends, you’ve grown to hate leaving more and more each time.
You worry for Bucky when you’re away - to the point that it makes you sick to your stomach, sometimes. But you know that he’s safe here, so you go. You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if something happened to Steve, Sam, or Nat and you weren’t there to help them because you couldn’t bear to be away from Bucky long enough to go with them.
But that doesn’t mean that you don’t miss him every minute that you’re away, or that you don’t long to be back in your small cottage, or beneath the willow tree, or leisurely strolling through the town’s market, or swimming in the lagoon below the waterfall with him.
He's quiet. He had gradually grown to be comfortable around you over the last half year, opening up and becoming more talkative as you spent more time together. But today feels heavy. He might not bluntly say it, but you can always tell that he dreads you leaving as much as you do.
“I could stay, you know,” you offer quietly as you dry the last of the dishes from dinner with a hand towel. You’re usually the one who does the cooking for your shared meals, since your cottage’s kitchen is slightly more equipped than Bucky’s hut, but tonight, he had offered to cook for you for a change. “I don’t have to go this time.”
You stand in front of his small sink, staring out of a window that has the perfect view of the lake by his hut. The sun had started to set, making the water appear to dance in hues of red and orange.
“That’s true,” he agrees with a sigh. “You don’t have to go. Steve can’t make you.” You hear him rise from where he’d been sitting at the small dining table in the middle of his hut. His feet shuffle against the ground, closing the small amount of distance between you. He leans against the edge of the counter, standing just inches from you.
“But he wouldn’t ask you to go if it wasn’t important. So you probably should.” His voice is gentle yet firm, though you swear you can hear a hint of reluctance slip through. As if, just maybe, he's trying to convince himself as much as he’s trying to convince you.
“He asked me to be here, too,” you point out. You finally break your stare on the sunset, shifting your gaze to him. You find that he’s already looking at you, an indecipherable expression on his face.
“And I’d much rather be here.”
Much rather be here with you, you almost say, but bite your tongue on the last two words. You hope that, by this point, it goes without saying.
There’s something that always holds you back from being too direct with him. You chalk it up to not wanting to put pressure on him to respond in any particular way. The last thing you want to do is potentially cause him any kind of emotional turmoil when he’s in the thick of healing.
The side of his pinky finger brushes against yours where your hands rest on the edge of the countertop. It’s a feather-light touch; barely there. You can’t even tell if it was intentional, but it still sends a chill up your arm despite the humidity inside the small hut.
“I know you would,” he says with a soft smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’d rather you be here, too. But you’ll be back in a few days, and we’ll go to our waterfall.”
Our.
“Swimming? On a Wednesday?” You ask in mock disbelief, trying to brush off the way your heart just skipped a beat.
“Swimming on a Wednesday,” he promises. “As long as you make it back to me in one piece.”
You move your hand not even a quarter of an inch, so that your pinky overlaps his. You long to grab his hand in yours completely, but physical touch isn’t something that happens very often between the two of you outside of his sessions with Shuri. When he gets overwhelmed and anxious, you’re always there to take his hand in yours and exert waves of calming energy to help ground him.
You know how his hand feels in yours - but not outside the walls of Shuri’s lab. Not when no one else is around. You don’t know how it feels to hold his hand, simply because you want to hold his hand.
He doesn’t pull away. You wonder if he’s thinking of taking your hand in his, too.
You clear your throat, realizing that you’re just staring at him. You look away, glancing back to the sun that has nearly set beyond the horizon.
“Thank you again for dinner,” you tell him, pulling your hand away from his as you take a small, reluctant step towards the door. “I should go finish packing. Steve will be here to get me any time now—”
Before you can finish your sentence, he pulls you into him, wrapping his arm around the back of your neck. You’re momentarily stunned, going completely still. When you’ve processed that he’s hugging you for the first time, you melt into the embrace. You wrap your arms around his midsection, reveling in the feeling of his chest against yours.
“Please be safe,” he murmurs into your hair. “Promise me.”
As much as you hate to pull away, you do so enough to look up at him. You nod, blinking rapidly to fight back the threat of tears. “I promise.”
••••••
“I brought you a fresh bag of peas.”
You crack open your eye that doesn’t have a lukewarm bag of sweet peas placed over it. Natasha peers down at you, another bag of frozen peas clutched in her hand. You’d been holding the current bag to your swollen eye for the last few hours, not even caring about the fact that it’s now room temperature and no longer helping the pain that radiates from your temple.
“Which one of you has a thing for peas?” You sit up with a groan, your body stiff from the aftermath of a fight with a cartel member in Colombia and several nights of sleeping on the jet. You accept the ice cold bag from her, bringing it up to your injured eye in place of the melted one. “What’s wrong with regular ice packs?”
“Peas are rich in fiber and antioxidants and they function as perfectly good ice packs,” Sam retorts over his shoulder from where he sits in the pilot seat of the jet. “We don’t exactly have a lot of freezer space here. We can’t be too picky.”
You both ignore him as Natasha takes a seat beside you. She has a small gash along her cheekbone, but she’s otherwise unscathed. You had offered to heal the laceration for her, but she had insisted she was fine and didn’t want you to use any of your energy on such a minor cut. You had already used your powers to heal Sam’s fractured fibula, and you had a possible concussion to worry about - which, unfortunately, your powers cannot help. You can only heal other people, not yourself.
“How’re you feeling?” She asks for the fourth time in the last two hours.
You give her the same answer as the first three times. “Like I was hit in the face with a piece of steel rebar. How do I look?” You remove the bag of peas from your eye, revealing your engorged brow bone for emphasis.
She doesn’t try to hide her grimace. “Like you were hit in the face with a piece of steel rebar.”
You huff a laugh, once again covering the knot next to your eye with the makeshift ice pack. “I’m okay,” you sigh. “I'll probably have this tumor on my forehead for a few days, but I'll live.”
“You better,” she smirks, a mischievous glint appearing in her eyes. She leans in close to you, lowering her voice so that the two men sitting in the jet’s cockpit can’t overhear. “Or I know someone who will never let me, Sam, or Steve hear the end of it. Matter of fact, we’ll still never hear the end of it, even with you sustaining only minor injuries.”
You furrow your brows at her, the movement causing you to flinch slightly. “What are you going on about?”
You might be sleep-deprived and possibly concussed, but you’re not a complete idiot - as soon as the words leave her mouth, Bucky's face flashes through your mind. You’re sure that she’s referring to him, but why she’d say that with such an…amused expression is beyond you.
“Steve stopped by Bucky’s hut when we first got to Wakanda a few days ago,” she begins to explain. Her expression softens as her smirk fades. Your stomach suddenly feels like a ball of nerves at the thought of what she might say next. You lower the bag of frozen vegetables from your eye, no longer caring about the swelling as you stare at her in anticipation.
“He worries about you when you're not there,” she hums after a pregnant pause. “There was a moment that I thought he was going to ask Steve to tell you to stay. I didn't say anything at first because I didn't want to distract you from what we needed to do in Colombia, but…you’ve been distracted, anyway.”
You avert her gaze, choosing to stare down at your boots instead. She isn’t wrong - you have been distracted. Even more so than usual, and the plump knot next to your eyebrow proves it. You had hoped you were doing a better job at hiding it, but Natasha is trained to read people like open books, so it doesn’t come as much of a surprise that she was able to deduce that even though you’ve been physically present, your mind has been thousands of miles away - back in your own little slice of heaven: a valley in eastern Africa with a one-armed, blue-eyed super soldier.
“I suppose I have been,” you breathe. Normally, you’d probably try to deny it. You’ve never attempted to verbalize your feelings for Bucky to anyone - there’s a part of your brain that tells you saying it out loud makes it real. And it being real scares you.
Maybe it’s just the head injury and lack of sleep, or maybe it’s what Natasha just revealed to you about Steve’s visit with Bucky prior to the mission, but you find it hard to hold back those feelings right now.
“I worry about him, too. He’s made a lot of improvement, but I can’t help but worry about him when I’m not there. It gets worse every time I have to leave. I worry about how his sessions with Shuri are going and if he’s needed me, I worry about if he’s been having nightmares, I worry about if he’s needed help putting his hair up…” You trail off, shaking your head at your rambling.
Nat doesn’t try to interject with any thoughts or opinions. She watches you with a look of sympathy, letting you know that it’s okay to say whatever you need to say.
You shrug. “And I just…miss him.” Your voice quivers, but there’s an immediate sense of relief that washes over you as soon as the words leave your mouth. It felt good to say it so plainly.
You just miss him.
“If you miss him, you should tell him,” she says softly as she places her hand over yours and gives it a comforting squeeze. “If I had to take a guess, I would say that he's missing you just as much.”
“Maybe,” you agree. “I’d like to think so. But I don’t want to put anything on him that he isn’t ready for. Emotionally speaking, that is.”
She’s silent for a moment, contemplating your words.
“He’s his own person with free will again,” she reminds you delicately. “He can decide what he is or isn’t ready for. I think you should give him the opportunity to do so.”
You suddenly get the feeling that she’s isn’t referring to just telling him that you’ve missed him.
“We land in Wakanda in five!” Steve yells from the cockpit. A fresh wave of relief - mixed with some nervousness, and some excitement - comes over you.
You take an easier breath knowing that you’ll soon be back in the place - and with the person - that feels like home to you.
••••••
The first shower after returning home from a mission is what you imagine heaven feels like.
Sure, the shower stall in your cottage is quite possibly the smallest one you’ve ever seen, and the water pressure is underwhelming, but after days of taking whore’s baths with baby wipes on the jet, it feels luxurious.
Still, there’s a part of you that wishes you were washing off in the cool, blue water beneath the waterfall right now - like you and Bucky had talked about before you left. Unfortunately, you had returned home from Colombia later than expected this evening.
The sun was already sinking when the jet touched down in Wakanda. By the time you unpacked, night had settled over the valley. You’re sure Bucky has had another long, draining day - hours in the fields in the intense heat, followed by the mental strain of a deprogramming session with Shuri. As much as you long to see him, you tell yourself it can wait until morning. He’s probably already asleep.
So you take your time in the shower, standing under the weak stream until it runs cold. Afterwards, you dress in only a loose fitting t-shirt and a pair of underwear. It’s your typical bedtime attire - though your cottage has power, there’s no central heat and air. Even with the fan on full blast, nights are exceptionally warm this time of year.
You’re bringing water to a boil for a cup of tea before bed when a knock at your door startles you. Three quick, sharp raps.
There’s only one person it could possibly be. No one else ever comes to your cottage, especially not at this hour.
“Hey,” you greet as you open the door. “We got back later than expected or I would have—”
“What happened to your eye?” He interjects.
Truthfully, you’d already forgotten about the injury. The swelling has already started to go down, and the pain is now nothing more than a dull throb. You felt confident that your face would be back to normal by tomorrow morning, but he notices the unusual lump by your temple as soon as the door swings open.
He steps through the doorway, not waiting for an invitation to come inside. “Who did that to you?”
“Oh,” you breathe, shaking your head. You take a few steps backwards, into your cottage. He closes the door behind him. “Don’t even worry about it. I got clipped by a piece of steel rebar that a cartel member chucked at me.” You laugh awkwardly, trying to play it off.
His hand comes up, thumb brushing the high point of your cheekbone, careful to avoid the injury. He inspects it closely, his gaze sharper than his tone.
While he does, you take him in - the tired slouch in his shoulders, the shadows under his eyes, hair slightly greasy like it hasn’t been washed in a few days.
“Did you get this checked out?” His voice is tight, the concern sitting heavy in it.
“I promise I’m fine, Buck,” you say gently. “It already looks much better than it did a few hours ago. It’s nothing that a little ice and ibuprofen can’t help.”
He exhales through his nose, and reluctantly drops his hand from your face. Behind you, the tea kettle begins to hiss as the water reaches a boil.
“Tea?” You ask, hoping he’ll be content enough with your response. “It’s rooibos. I was just making myself a cup before bed.”
He looks like he wants to press the subject further, but he doesn’t. Instead, he gives you a slight nod and forced smile as he takes a seat at your dining room table. He waits in silence as you pour the hot water into two mugs. Then, knowing he likes a splash of milk in his, you grab the carton from your fridge before placing his cup on the table in front of him.
You pull out the chair directly across from him and start to sit down when you notice his gaze - a brief flicker downwards before settling back on your face. You follow it and it dawns on you that you aren’t wearing pants.
Your cheeks warm at the realization. “I’ll be right back,” you mumble before dashing in the direction of your bedroom to throw on the first pair of lounge pants that you can find.
He has seen you in less than a t-shirt many times. Every time the two of you go to the waterfall, or when you take a dip in the lake in front of his hut to cool off during the day, you wear a swimsuit or sometimes a sports bra and athletic shorts. Your skin is more covered now than in those instances, but there’s something about being behind closed doors that makes it feel more…intimate.
When you return, he’s still sitting there, the mug clutched in his hand, his gaze following you as you move back into the kitchen.
“You okay?” You ask in hopes of breaking the tension that lingers in the air as you take a seat across from him. “You look a little tired.”
His eyes flicker away from you, settling on the drink in his hand. He lifts his shoulders in a small shrug. “Long day. I was in the lab with Shuri for the first half of the day, and then worked in the fields until sundown.”
You can’t shake the feeling that there’s something he’s holding back. He looks like he had a long day, yes, but something tells you that there’s more to it than that. You cock a brow, waiting for him to continue.
“And I didn’t sleep very well while you were gone.”
“Because of nightmares?” You ask softly.
He shakes his head once. “I’m used to those. I just worry about you when you’re not here.”
The admission takes you off guard. It’s not said as a confession meant to guilt trip you for going away - it’s just the truth, simple as that.
You glance down at your own mug, your fingers tightening around the ceramic. “I don’t sleep well when I’m gone, either,” you admit. Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Even when the days are long and exhausting. It’s like something is missing.”
“That’s why I came over tonight,” he murmurs. “Didn’t want to wait until morning to see you.”
Your throat suddenly feels dry, and your face warm. You take a sip of the drink in your hands, just to give yourself something to do while you try to formulate a coherent response. When you sit the mug back down, your legs shift beneath the table, accidentally brushing against his.
Neither of you move away.
“You missed me, then?” Your tone is light and teasing enough for him to deflect if he doesn’t want to give an honest answer - but you secretly hope he does.
The corner of his mouth twitches into a half smile. “Yeah. I did.”
It’s not a joke, nor deflection. Just another simple truth.
You look down at your tea to keep yourself from smiling too big. “Well, I’m back now. Are you still willing to take a day off to go to the waterfall tomorrow?”
He clears his throat, then sits up a bit straighter. “About that…” he starts with a breathy laugh. “I’ll have the next few days off. From sessions with Shuri, anyway. She thinks I’m ready to see if the deprogramming has been successful. We plan to test my trigger words this weekend.”
You’re taken aback. It’s obvious by the way your eyes bulge in surprise. Of all the things to come home to, you didn’t expect this news.
This is what he’s been working towards for over half a year. At first, it felt so far away. You know there have been many times that he doubted he would ever get to this point. You’ve felt it from him - the anxiety and skepticism surrounding his ability to overcome what Hydra had forced inside his brain.
But you’ve also felt his hope. His yearning and determination to have complete control of his mind and body again. And because of that, you never doubted that he’d get here.
“That’s incredible, Bucky,” you tell him earnestly. “How do you feel about it, though?”
You want to give him the opportunity to verbalize his thoughts, but you already know the answer. Your leg still rests against his beneath the table, the touch bridging just enough of a physical connection between you so that you can feel it - he’s scared. Terrified.
He shrugs again, shaking his head. “I don’t know if I’m ready. But then again, I don’t know if I’ll ever feel ready.”
Under the table, you nudge your knee against his, sending a quiet pulse of calming reassurance through him. The knot in his chest loosens just enough for you to feel him relax.
“You don’t have to go through it alone,” you murmur. “I’ll be there to help however I can. However you need me to.”
His eyes flick up to yours, and for a moment the lines in his face ease. He doesn’t say thank you, but the gratitude is there - in the way his shoulders lose some of their tension, and the way his leg stays pressed to yours.
The two of you stay like that for a while, sipping tea in companionable silence until both mugs are empty. You relish the feeling of being back in his presence, and think about how glad you are that he decided to knock on your door tonight - you know that you’ll sleep better tonight than you have in days now, too.
••••••
When morning comes, the air is heavy with the scent of wet earth and the low, muted light of an overcast sky that promises rain. Still, when Bucky shows up at your door with a packed bag, neither of you think about canceling your plans to venture to the waterfall.
He seems to be in better spirits than last night. His blue eyes shine a bit brighter and he appears well rested. He adjusts a bag slung across his shoulder - presumably holding towels, water and some snacks.
“You ready?” He asks, glancing over you with a smile that reaches his eyes.
“I’ve been ready,” you chirp, brushing past him to exit your cottage. You woke up too early this morning, thanks to both the humid air in your bedroom and the anticipation of spending the day with him. Beneath your tank top and shorts, you already have on your swimsuit.
“So sorry to keep you waiting,” he snorts, the faintest hint of a Brooklyn drawl making an appearance in his voice. It’s rare, but it gives you a fuzzy feeling every time it happens. Like underneath all of the decades of trauma, the charming boy from Brooklyn is still there.
Though the trail to the waterfall is narrow, you still manage to walk side by side, your left arm nudging his right every now and then. By the time you’re able to hear the rushing of the water, you both have sweat-slicked skin due to the high humidity.
“Do you think we’ll get rained out?” You ask, pulling your tank top over your head when you reach the edge of the water. You glance up at the sky, which has turned several shades darker during the walk to the waterfall.
Bucky maneuvers his own t-shirt over his head. His muscles are taut and skin is tan from hours of manual labor under the summer sun. It’s a sight you should be used to at this point, considering how often you see him shed his shirt for a dip in the lake following a long, hot day of working in the fields.
Yet you aren’t used to it. You doubt you ever will be.
“Most likely,” he shrugs, stepping into the pool of water. “Oh well. We’ll be wet, anyway.”
With his back turned to you, you shimmy out of your shorts as he wades deeper into the basin. By the time you dip your feet in, he’s already waist deep.
Despite the muggy weather, the water is surprisingly chilly - more so than usual. You hiss as goosebumps erupt across your skin, but you don’t stop until the water reaches your shoulders and your feet struggle to touch the sandy ground at the bottom of the plunge pool. Soon, you’re closer to the base of the waterfall than Bucky, who still stands stomach deep a few feet behind you.
You hear him snort behind you. You glance over your shoulder to find him watching you with a smirk on his face.
“What is it, White Wolf?” You hum. “Scared of a little cold water?”
That earns you a different look - part challenge, part warning - and then he’s wading after you, the water swaying around him. By the time he reaches you, you’ve splashed him twice.
“You’re asking for trouble,” he says, his voice low in a way that makes your stomach flutter.
“You’ll have to catch me first,” you fire back as he playfully lunges at you.
You’re laughing when his hand closes around your wrist beneath the surface. His skin is a warm contrast to the cold water. He reels you in with slow, unhurried strength until you’re chest to chest, your toes brushing against his beneath the water.
He lets go of your wrist, moving his hand to the small of your back to pull you even closer. Through his touch, his emotions hit you all at once. There’s tension, yes, but beneath that there’s something softer. Warmer. A flicker of hesitation mixed with longing.
“Caught you,” he murmurs.
Suddenly, Natasha’s voice echoes in your mind. He can decide what he is or isn’t ready for. I think you should give him the opportunity to do so.
Your eyes find his. You can feel the way they search yours, just waiting for a signal. You tilt your head slightly, not closing the space but not stepping back either, letting him see that you won’t pull away.
“You did,” you hum softly. “What are you gonna do now?”
He stares at you for a moment, something akin to mischief in his eyes. Then, he makes the first move. His nose brushes against yours before his lips finds yours in a kiss that’s slow yet sure. Miles above you, the sky breaks and the first cool drops of rain collide against your skin.
Neither of you seem to even notice it. The roar of the waterfall drowns out the rest of the world, leaving only the pittering of rain and the subtle hitch of his breath when your hand comes to cup the side of his neck.
His hand stays firm at the small of your back, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. You wrap your legs around his waist, supported only by him as you float in the water. His tongue sweeps along the swell of your bottom lip and you part your mouth, just enough to let him in. Every little movement is slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to commit the feel and flavor of you to his memory.
A low rumble rolls through the air, so faint at first you barely notice it over the rush of the falls. But then a harsh clap of thunder cracks overhead, so sudden and sharp it makes you both flinch.
Bucky pulls back just far enough for your foreheads to rest together, his breath brushing your lips in short, steady exhales. The rain has picked up, falling harder now, crashing against the water’s surface in countless ripples.
You’ve thought of how his lips would feel against yours more times than you can possibly count. Now that you know how it feels to kiss him, you don’t want to stop. You can feel it from him - he doesn’t want to, either.
But you have time. Time for more days like this - spent kissing beneath the waterfall. And once the coming days are behind you, you have every intention of spending your days doing just that.
You’re the one who breaks the silence. “We should probably head back,” you murmur, even though part of you aches to stay here and close the space between you again.
A small pang of disappointment jolts through him, but beneath that, there’s understanding. He nods, and gives you a small smile.
“You’re probably right,” he sighs. He drops his hand from your back and brings it to your temple. He then grazes his thumb along the still slightly elevated knot beside your eye. It no longer hurts, and looks significantly better than it did yesterday, but is still faintly visible.
“You already got hit in the face with a piece of steel rebar this week. The last thing I need is for you to get struck by lightning, too.”
••••••
You’re restless.
Tonight, the air in your cottage is uncomfortably warm and the crickets outside chirp far too loudly. The light from the full moon pours in through the cracks of your curtains, making the small room annoyingly bright. You aren’t sure what time it is, but you’ve been tossing and turning for hours without a wink of sleep.
At the forefront of your thoughts is two distinct things: Bucky’s upcoming deprogramming trial, and the feeling of his lips on yours.
The first thought gnaws at you, nauseating and unrelenting. If the deprogramming proves to be unsuccessful, you dread the aftermath. The mere possibility that it could result in him being triggered into the Winter Soldier is enough to make your skin clammy and heart rate skyrocket. You’d do everything in your power to help him, of course. Okoye, Ayo, and the rest of the Dora Milaje would, too. You’re confident enough that, together, you would be able to prevent him from hurting himself or anyone else.
But it’s not the threat of physical violence that plagues you tonight. It’s the thought of how an unsuccessful trial would affect his mental health. How it could possibly undo months of effort and reset so much of the progress he’s made, all in a matter of minutes.
That, and how retraumatizing it would be for him to once again experience the loss of his bodily autonomy and his memories - even for such a temporary amount of time.
But when your thoughts start to spiral, you think back to yesterday morning. To how it felt to be entangled with him in the water - your legs around his waist, his hand caressing your back. The feeling of his lips moving in synchronicity with yours as raindrops cascaded down your faces, a cool contrast to the heat of his skin.
The memory of his touch, taste, and scent are far from being unpleasant or unwelcome thoughts - but they are thoughts that keep you awake, nonetheless.
You roll onto your back and stare up at the shadows that dance across your ceiling in the moonlight, exhaling in defeat at your inability to fall asleep.
Maybe some fresh, nighttime air would help calm your mind.
You don’t bother putting on shoes before stepping outside. As soon as you open the front door, the night breeze feels like a balm against your clammy skin. You start to sit down on your front porch step when the faint orange-red glow of a small fire catches your attention.
Even from across the field, you can tell he’s looking at you. He sits in a wooden chair in front of his hut, a few feet away from the campfire. The firelight dances across his features, highlighting the amused smirk on his face. He raises his hand, offering you a gentle wave.
It’s a simple gesture. An innocent acknowledgement of your presence. But you can’t deny the inexplicable pull to walk across the pasture and join him when his gaze continues to linger on you.
You’re both awake at this hour. Why not be awake together?
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you step off of your porch, putting one foot in front of the other as you walk towards him. As you get closer, his smirk shifts to something softer.
You come to a stop when you’re standing right in front of the fire. You glance around, looking for something to perch on, but don’t see anything other than the chair that he occupies.
“Come here,” he murmurs, his voice low, roughened by the late hour. He shifts slightly, his single arm resting across the armrest as though waiting for you.
Your brows lift, a flicker of hesitation crossing your face. “There’s only one chair.”
His gaze holds yours, unwavering, the corner of his mouth twitching with the hint of a smile. “I know.”
You hover in place for a moment, the grass brushing against your bare ankles, heart thudding louder than the crickets. “You sure?” you ask softly, almost testing him.
He tips his chin toward his lap, his voice a gentle command. “Yeah. Sit.”
You draw in a breath, hesitating only a heartbeat longer before stepping closer. The chair creaks as you ease yourself down into his lap, careful at first, your hands brushing against his shoulders for balance. He’s solid beneath you, and warm to the touch from his time sitting beside the fire.
His arm comes around your waist instinctively, pulling you against him. Even with only one arm, his hold is firm and steady, keeping you pressed close.
For a moment, neither of you speak. The night hums around you. The fire pops, and his blue eyes watch you from so near that the flames shine across his irises. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest under your palm.
He’s anxious. You can feel it radiate off of him in waves. You don’t have to ask. One touch of his skin and you know that he’s awake this late for reasons similar to you.
You bring your hand to his chin, cupping his jaw in your palm. His eyes flutter shut at the touch, before you even release the slightest bit of calming energy. When you do, his frame relaxes beneath you.
“Thank you,” he whispers, nuzzling the scruff of his beard against your palm. “You always make things feel a little less heavy.”
“Less heavy?” You hum, moving a stray hair away from his face and tucking it behind his ear for him. “Even when I’m sitting in your lap?”
He opens his eyes, looking up at you again. “Especially when you’re sitting in my lap.”
You can’t help but smile at his words. You stay like that for a long moment - your hand against his cheek, his arm curled tight around your waist - before you let your fingers fall, brushing against the collar of his shirt. He looks away from you, his eyes settling on a glowing ember in the dwindling fire in front of you. A sudden jolt of nerves overcomes him once more.
“What’s wrong?” You murmur.
“Would you…” He clears his throat, his voice low and unsure. “Would you want to stay with me tonight?”
The question takes you by surprise. In all of the months that you’ve lived so close, you’ve never stayed the night with one another. There had been many instances where he’d had nightmares in the middle of the night - you’d hear the yelling from across the field and come over just long enough to check on him and help calm him down to sleep. But you always returned back to your place.
This is brand new territory. It’s a simple request but it carries weight. Weight that has little to do with physical closeness and a lot to do with the fact that he trusts you enough to want you with him during such a vulnerable time.
“Of course,” you answer, and you mean it with every fiber of your being. “Of course I’ll stay.” You brush your thumb across his cheekbone, coaxing him to meet your eyes again.
The faintest hint of a smile ghosts across his lips, shy and uncertain, and the sight alone makes your heart buzz. You can’t help but to lean in, closing the distance to press your mouth to his.
It’s soft, and slow, and warms you more than the fire beside you. You want nothing more than to melt into him as your lips move against his, but you know that now isn’t the time to let things escalate.
It’s late. Tomorrow is a big day for him, and he needs to go into it with a clear head.
“We should probably try to get some sleep,” you whisper when you pull away. He nods, though he doesn’t loosen his hold on your waist until you start to stand up.
The inside of his hut is familiar, but the energy is different tonight. Tonight it feels quieter. Softer. Expectant. The dim glow of the fire outside seeps faintly through the window, painting the small space in muted gold shadows.
His cot is small - narrow and worn, with the blanket at the foot folded neatly like it hasn’t been used in weeks. He sits down first, leaning back on his elbow. When you climb in beside him, the mattress dips beneath your weight, and suddenly the space feels impossibly small - but not in a way that’s suffocating. In a way that’s comforting.
You curl into his side without thinking. His single arm comes around you, tugging you closer until your cheek rests against the solid plane of his chest. His skin is warm, even through the fabric of his shirt.
“Comfy?” he murmurs at last, his tone gruff but softened by exhaustion.
“Mhm.” You smile against him, eyes fluttering shut. “I think your bed is my new favorite place.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, almost disbelieving. His fingers brush absently over your shoulder, a touch so gentle you know he’s barely aware he’s doing it. “You’re terrible at lying.”
“I’m not lying.” You tilt your head enough to catch his gaze. “I feel safe here. With you.”
The words settle over him. He swallows thickly. When he speaks again his voice is quieter than before. “Haven’t had anyone say that to me in a…very long time.”
You reach for his hand where it rests against your side, lacing your fingers through his. “It’s true.”
He hums in response. You feel it, deep in his chest. A sound of contentment.
“Goodnight,” he whispers.
You press your lips lightly against his chest, right over his heart. “Goodnight, Bucky.”
Within minutes, his breathing evens, steady and calm. At peace against him, sleep finally finds you, too.
••••••
The air is cool when night falls, heavy with the scent of damp earth from an afternoon rainstorm. The Dora Milaje stand silent along the perimeter, their spears grounded but still accessible at a moment’s notice.
You keep to the sidelines, your hands clasped in front of you, heart pounding loud enough that you’re sure someone hears it. You ache to be closer, but you think it best to give him some space right now. He knows you’re close by, and that you aren’t going anywhere. The way you had squeezed his hand before reluctantly dropping it only moments ago told him as much.
Ayo steps forward, her voice calm and void of any emotion. “Are you ready, James?”
He gives one curt nod in confirmation, though the tension in his posture gives away his apprehension. He’s sitting on the ground, his form rigid as though already bracing himself for this to go disastrously wrong.
Ayo speaks the first word in Russian, but you have them memorized well enough to know exactly what she’s saying. It rings through the silence like a stone dropped into water.
Longing.
You see the twitch in his shoulders, the sharp rise of his chest as he inhales. He waits for it - for the familiar darkness to crawl up his spine, for his mind to become something that isn’t his own. But nothing happens.
Rusted.
He clenches his fist. His teeth grind together. Still, nothing. His breathing quickens, but it’s from anticipation rather than loss of control.
“It’s not gonna work,” he grunts and you feel your heart break a little. You take an involuntary step forward before stopping yourself. Ayo continues.
Seventeen. Daybreak. Furnace.
One by one, the words come. You hold your breath after every syllable, your pulse racing a little faster with each word.
His eyes flick up to Ayo’s, wide and glassy. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. His whole frame trembles now, not with the Soldier’s emergence but with the mounting storm of relief and disbelief.
Tears brim in his eyes. He shakes his head minutely, as though trying to convince himself this is real.
Finally, the last word falls.
Freight car.
Silence follows. You could hear a twig snap from within the woods around you. Bucky lets out a sound then, ragged and low, a sob that erupts from the depths of his chest. His tears spill freely, unstoppable, his whole body wracked with them.
Ayo lowers her chin, her voice firm but gentle. “You are free.”
He drags in a shuddering breath, tears wet on his cheeks, and the first word he speaks is your name. It’s broken on his lips, barely more than a whisper, but it shoots straight through you. You’re moving before you can think, crossing the distance between you and dropping to your knees in front of him.
His glossy eyes find yours. When you reach out, cupping his face, he doesn’t hesitate - he collapses forward, burying his face in your chest, his one arm wrapping around you.
He’s sobbing against you but you don’t flinch. You let him break, let him unravel, knowing this is his first true taste of freedom in over half a century. Your own eyes well up with tears as you hold him close.
“You did it,” you say through the tears. “You did it, Bucky.”
At some point, Ayo and the rest of the Dora Milaje wordlessly retreat into the night, leaving you and him alone by the firelight. You continue to hold him, rubbing comforting circles on his back, until his sobs cease and he pulls back to look up at you.
“Thank you,” he says, voice breaking. “For.. all of it. For being here. For staying.”
You shake your head, gentle but firm. “You don’t have to thank me, Bucky. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”
His expressions softens and you catch a glimpse of the boy he was before all of the trauma. It’s unguarded - something he hasn’t been in a very long time, but now can be.
“Come on.” You smile, nodding your head in the direction of the path back home. “Let’s go celebrate.”
••••••
You aren’t quite sure if it qualifies as a celebration, but it’s the best you could do on such short notice.
Earlier today, before even knowing how his deprogramming trial would go, you baked him a cake. A strawberry cake, made with fresh picked strawberries - his favorite fruit.
The rest of the supplies you already had on hand: a large quilt to lay on, two glasses, and a bottle of sparkling wine that you had bought at the market last week. It crosses your mind that the super soldier serum may not even allow him to feel the effects of the wine, but it pairs nicely with the fruity cake so you pack it into the picnic basket, anyway.
“I didn’t know you could bake,” Bucky says with an amused smirk when you pull the small Tupperware of pink cake out of the basket.
“I don’t claim to be a professional, by any means,” you snort. Next, you pour some of the light colored wine into each of the glasses and pass one to him. “But it turned out pretty good, if I do say so myself.”
“Not a professional, huh?” He grins at you for a second longer before forking a bite of the cake into his mouth. He chews for a second, his eyes closing as he savors the flavor. Then, he nods in appreciation as he goes for a second bite. “Could have fooled me.”
You laugh, your cheeks warming at the praise. You dig into your own slice, and the two of you eat and sip on wine in comfortable silence beneath the night sky. It’s dark, save for the stars above you and the campfire that burns next to his hut a few yards away. When he swallows the last bite of his cake, he clears his throat. You turn your head to look at him, but he’s looking up at the sky.
“I’ve been thinking…” he starts, his voice unsteady. “Steve asked you to do this. To be here. To help me through this.” He twirls the stem of the now empty wine glass between his thumb and forefinger. “And you have. You fulfilled your promise to him. So.. where do you go from here?”
You blink, taken aback. That was the last thing you were expecting to come from his mouth. “Where do I…go from here?” You ask dumbly.
He turns his head to meet your gaze, his expression uncertain. He clears his throat again, almost like he regrets speaking, and his thumb rubs anxiously over the rim of his glass. The light of the fire flickers across his face, catching on the sharp line of his jaw as it twitches, like he’s trying his hardest to get the words out.
“Yeah,” he says, quieter this time. “I just wasn’t sure what your plans are…going forward. If you’re going to go with Steve and Natasha now, or…” He trails off with a shrug. “Or if you’re going to stay.”
You can’t help but think that his voice sounds almost hopeful towards the end. You shake your head, still taken off guard by the unexpected question. Truthfully, you hadn’t given much as to what comes next for you. Since you got here, you’ve just been taking it day by day. You never expected for the two of you to grow as close as you have. You never expected to dread being away from him for even a day. You never expected for Wakanda to feel like home.
But it does. Because of him.
“What do you want me to do?” You ask him delicately.
He opens his mouth, but no words come out. By the look on his face, he knows exactly what he wants to say, but just can’t bring himself to say it.
“I want you to do what makes you happy,” he says after another moment of loaded silence, his voice only a notch above a whisper. “Whatever that is.”
Your stomach flutters at his words, but it isn’t with fear or worry. Your heart feels like it might burst because you know exactly what the answer to his question is.
And it’s sitting right beside you.
“Whatever makes me happy?” You echo softly. You lean in a little closer. “You want to know what makes me happy?”
His brows knit together, a hint of uncertainty appearing across his features, and then he nods.
Instead of answering, you set your glass aside, shifting closer until the quilt rustles beneath you. Your hand finds his, prying the empty glass gently from his grip and setting it down beside yours. Then, you bring your hand to the side of his face, your gaze unwavering from his.
“You make me happy, Bucky,” you murmur. “Being here with you makes me happy. I’m not going anywhere. Not without you.”
He’s the one who closes the remaining distance between you. It’s tentative at first, slow and hesitant. But when your lips begin to move with his, his hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss until you’re both light-headed for reasons completely unrelated to the wine.
When you finally break away, your foreheads rest together, his nose still brushing against yours. His voice is hoarse when he speaks. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” you whisper back. Then, with a quick glance in the direction of your cottage, you work up the courage to let your next words slip out.
“It’s getting late,” you say softly. “It’s been a long day.” You pause, a sudden bundle of nerves settling in the pit of your stomach before you continue. “Do you want to stay at my place tonight?”
His breath hitches. His hand is still at the back of your neck, fingers twitching against your skin like he can’t quite bring himself to let go. “I do,” he hums, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
Hand in hand, you cross the quiet stretch of grass in between his place and yours. When you reach your front door, he’s behind you, his breath warm at your ear.
The door shuts behind you with a soft click, and the cottage suddenly feels even smaller than it usually does, the air charged with electricity. His lips find yours again, urgent this time, and you let yourself melt into it, threading your fingers into his hair.
But then you pull back, just enough to look at him. His chest rises and falls heavily, his hand trembling slightly where it grips your hip.
You can feel it - his longing and desire. But you can’t continue without reminding him of what he has now - choice.
“Bucky,” you murmur, your palms cupping his face, steadying him. “We don’t have to do this tonight. We can stop right here, if you want. We can just go to sleep.”
Immediately, he’s shaking his head. His gaze burns into yours. “For the first time in…God, I don’t even know how long, I get to make my own choices. And this is what I choose.”
Your heart clenches, the weight of his words settling over you. “Then let me take care of you,” you whisper against his lips.
He exhales shakily, nodding.
You guide him back toward the bed, pushing gently at his chest until he sits. His eyes follow you, pupils blown wide, as you climb onto the mattress with him. Your hands skim over his shoulders and chest, the tension in his muscles seemingly vanishing with your touch. You straddle him, easing him back until he’s lying flat, his head sinking into the pillow.
You kiss him slow, teasing, then trail your lips down his throat, savoring the way his breath hitches. His hand comes up to your waist, tentative, like he’s still not sure he’s allowed to touch you. You guide it higher, pressing his palm against your chest.
“Touch me,” you murmur. “As much as you want.”
The sound he makes is half-groan, half-sigh, and it goes straight to your core. He lets you undress him piece by piece, eyes fixed on you the whole time like he’s afraid if he looks away you’ll vanish.
By the time he’s bare-chested beneath you, you pause just to look at him. You smooth your palms over him slowly, deliberately, like you’re memorizing him.
“You’re beautiful,” you whisper.
He shakes his head, a disbelieving huff of a laugh escaping him, but the pink blush that blooms across his cheeks betrays how much it means.
You lean down, pressing a trail of kisses down his chest and stomach. He shifts under you, eyes following every movement. When you reach the waistband of his pants, you glance up at him. “Is this okay?”
“Yeah,” he rasps, voice breaking. “Yeah, it’s more than okay.”
You ease him free, fingers brushing against the length of him, and he groans, his head tipping back against the pillow. He’s already hard, already leaking, and the sight of him laid out before you makes your pulse race.
You straddle his thighs, one hand wrapping around the base of him as you lower your mouth over the head. The sound that tears from his chest is raw and guttural. His hips twitch before he forces them still, like he doesn’t want to risk pushing too much on you.
You take him deeper, slowly, savoring the weight of him on your tongue. His hand fists the sheets beside him, knuckles white, before finally reaching for you. He rests his palm lightly against the back of your head, not guiding, just grounding himself in the sensation of your mouth on him.
“God,” he groans, his voice ragged. “Feels so good. Don’t - don’t stop.”
You don’t. You work him steadily, your hand stroking in rhythm with your mouth, your tongue circling the head each time you draw back. His chest heaves, his muscles tense, and when you glance up, the sight of his jaw tight, his eyes dark and locked on you, nearly undoes you.
When he starts to shake, when the words coming from his lips dissolve into broken pleas, you finally pull back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You crawl back up his body until you’re straddling his chest.
His eyes widen, his lips part, and the hunger that breaks across his face tells you he understands exactly what you want next.
“Is this okay?” you ask one more time, your voice low, teasing.
“God, yes,” he growls, his arm locking around your thigh to pull you closer. “Let me take care of you now.”
And then his mouth is on you, hot and desperate. His tongue sweeps over you and your head falls back, a cry spilling from your lips as you rock against him. He moans into you, the vibration making your whole body tremble. His eyes are closed, brows furrowed in concentration like he wants nothing more in the world than to pull every little whimper and whine that he can from you.
You ride his face, grinding down against his mouth until your thighs quake and your breath breaks into ragged sobs of pleasure. When you finally pull back, trembling, his lips are slick and his chest is heaving. You kiss him hard, tasting yourself on his tongue, before easing yourself backwards once more. He grips your hip, his knuckles white with the effort of holding on, as you sink down onto him.
You take your time, rolling your hips, finding a rhythm that has you both moaning. His hand digs into your waist, urging you to move faster, harder, but you keep control - leaning over him, pressing your palms to his chest to pin him down when he tries to thrust up into you.
“Let me,” you whisper against his lips. “I’ve got you.”
His response is a choked, desperate, “Please.”
You ride him until you’re both undone, him coming just seconds after you, and then you collapse onto his chest, breathless and shaking.
He wraps his arm around you immediately, pulling you tight against him, his lips pressing over and over into your hair like he can’t stop. For a long moment, the only sound is your heavy breathing and the steady beating of his heart under your ear.
“Just wait until I get my new arm,” he says breathlessly, breaking the silence. “Then I can love you how I really want to.”
You can’t help but laugh at that. This is a side of him that you could easily get used to - carefree, teasing, unguarded.
“Two arms, one arm, no arms…” you breathe, nuzzling your face against the bare, sweat-slicked skin of his chest, “You love me just fine. I’m lucky to have you. As you are.”
He hums into your hair. “Guess that makes us both pretty damn lucky, then.”
thank you so much for reading 💖 comments and reblogs are always appreciated! dividers by @/strangergraphics
do you understand how feral bucky would be the moment he finds out you’re pregnant??
like it’s not enough that you’ve just told him the biggest, most life-changing news—his brain goes straight caveman. straight into “mine. filled you up. did this to you.” territory.
you barely finish saying the words before he’s on you, eyes blown wide, hands shaking as they grip your hips like he can’t decide if he should fall to his knees and worship you or pin you down and fuck you senseless. spoiler: it’s both.
he keeps muttering it over and over, half-crazed—“my girl’s carryin’ my baby. fuck—look at you, doll. did so good for me. takin’ me so deep every night and now you’re full of me for real.” it’s not even sex at this point, it’s an exorcism. he’s everywhere—kissing your stomach like he’s saying thank you, then dragging you to bed and slamming into you like he’s trying to remind your body who put that baby there.
he’s possessive in a way you’ve never seen before. hand splayed over your stomach like a brand while he pounds into you, growling “gonna keep you like this, doll. always mine. always full.” and you know he’s not gonna last, because he’s too far gone—breeding kink on steroids, the high of knowing his cock just changed your life forever.
the whole thing’s messy, frantic—clothes half-off, sheets kicked down, his teeth sinking into your neck like he has to mark you all over again. he keeps staring at your stomach, pupils blown, like he can see the proof of his obsession blooming there.
and when you finally break, shaking apart under him, he follows instantly—groaning your name like a prayer, hips stuttering as he pushes in deep, like he’s scared you’ll forget how you got here if he doesn’t remind you with every thrust.
after, he doesn’t let you go. not even for a second. he’s still inside you, still trembling, whispering in that wrecked voice, “you’re mine, doll. mine forever. my baby. my family. fuck—love you so much.”
and you’re just lying there, ruined, realizing you’ve unleashed something dangerous because pregnant sex with bucky? yeah. you’re never walking normal again.
tldr;; mechanic!bucky cum-forts a distressed clueless!reader.
( warnings: pervy thoughts/behaviour, bucky is infantilising the reader a little bit please keep that in mind! she is 100% an adult though!, possessiveness, manipulation, coercion, dub-con, oral - f receiving, idk some temperature play?, dacriphilia, hair pulling, probably more i'm forgetting, a smidge of blasphemy/religious imagery in a sexual context, back on my mechanic!bucky bullshit since you guys liked it so much the first time. ) read part 1 here !
mechanic!bucky besties (au taglist). @seraphicd0ll @boomyoulookingforthis @average-vibe @izzy698 @yeehawgiddyup13 @flockoff-featherface @wandanatissuperior
thinking about how mechanic!bucky brings tears to your eyes when his tongue meets your thighs. he deserves a medal for his patience, waiting a whole week to finally call you. you don’t answer the first call, and he feels his eye twitch over thoughts of what could possibly have his trust fund baby so busy.
could it be one of those country club losers? you seem like the kind that’s too sickly sweet to bat away boys that loiter, wasps buzzing for a taste of your nectar. they’re not what you need though. you need a bee, someone who knows how to take capture your sweetness and turn it into syrupy, sticky, eye-rolling honey. if you gave bucky the chance to pollinate you…
the point is, you answer the second time he calls, first ring and, oh, there you are, greeting him down the line and waiting for the mystery caller to reveal himself. the pleased gasp you give has him clenching the wrench in his hand. god, you’re just so naturally responsive, so noisy. bucky needs to lay you down and press every single one of your buttons, just to see all the different notes he can make you sing.
imagine his reaction when that familiar ferrari rolls into the garage, the door slams open, and there stands bucky’s least favourite client: your father.
disappointment of the highest degree. he’s tempted to call you up, demand you come running to him in those pretty tennis shoes. or to send your father away, make up some elaborate plan where his coolant order arrived damaged. instead, he fills up the reservoir, frowns at your father, and tells him, “430 dollars.”
“for a coolant refill? my daughter said you wouldn’t be charging for materials.”
“and you think that sounds like somethin’ i’d do? she must’ve been hearing things.”
your father pays with the stiff fingers of a man far too stingy for his daily salary.
time passes, work remains hectic, and bucky resigns himself to the fact you’re nothing but a fantasy in his life. something for him to picture when a snot-faced idiot yells at him for the damage they’ve done to their own vehicle, or when he’s in need of a little more than a twitter link leading to a blur of bodies rutting against each other, or when he can hear steve snoring through the walls of his apartment and he wants to imagine that the softness he wraps his tired arms around is more alive than a cold pillow.
it happens on the busiest day of the week: wednesday.
the garage doesn’t open on tuesdays, the only real day off he ever gets, and it reopens the following day to a queue of expensive cars lining round the block — bucky finds it fascinating how all those rich car collectors manage to wreck their vehicles during the hours they’re starved of access to their favourite mechanics.
fingers blistering from too much screwing — of literal screws and bolts, you pervert! — bucky finally finds reprieve from the madness of the workshop, tucked away in the back office and one mouthful into a bowl of pasta.
sam interrupts his peace, door half open and poking his head inside, “buckaroo, someone’s asking for you on the floor.”
“tell ‘em to fuck off, i’m on my lunch break. you or steve deal with whatever it is, or else i’ll get to ‘em at my earliest convenience.”
“she’s pretty insistent. you sure?” bucky grunts back affirmatively, stuffing himself with another mouthful of food. “right, okay, just thought i’d run it by ya. think she’s the daughter of that guy you hate. what was it you called him last time… ferrari fuckface?”
the fork sinks into his mouth a third time, and then realisation hits.
nearly ripping the office door off its hinges, he dashes across the workshop’s slicked up floor in pursuit of sam.
“-his lunch break. if you want, me or my buddy steve over there can take a look.”
and there you are.
not a figure in his imagination; not a vixen haunting his waking hours, nor a succubus leading him to the light during sleep. you’re here, in front of him, wearing a damp crop top, a ditsy lilac skirt and a bare face. wet t-shirt, wetter eyes.
real, breathing, crying.
“i can wait,” you squeak, and bucky feels the noise prickle his skin. “sorry, i’m sure you and steve are good, but i really only trust- bucky!”
“hey, hey,” he has to practically catch you as you collapse against him, a sob shaking your shoulders. and all bucky can think is that he could make you do that too: throw your legs over his shoulders, pin your knees between both your chests, and fuck you so good you have no choice but to sob his name over, and over, and over… he lays a hand on your forearm. “what’re all these tears about?”
“my dad’s going to kill me!”
he’s trying to focus, he really is, but how can he when those eyes of yours peer up at him between soaked lashes? it’s your fault, really, shooting him the kind of glances a woman like you should be saving for the bedroom, the kind that make a man like him throb.
“no he won’t. doubt he’d even touch a pretty hair on that head,” but he would. oh, bucky would grip it from the root and tug, make a harness out of it and mount you like the show pony you were born to be.
“yes, he will,” you’re still living in your bubble of distress, utterly blind to the many eyes staring your way. “he’ll blame me when he sees his precious car!”
there’s a flicker of cruelty in your voice, a coating of venom in the way you spit out precious. so bitter, so unlike his sweet girl. bucky wants to hear you angry, suddenly, wants to hear you tear your vocal chords apart from screaming out your frustrations while you bounce on his cock.
salivating thoughts aside, bucky follows the point of your manicured finger and there he sees it: a scratch along the car’s body, tip to mechanical toe.
his pasta is no doubt going cold.
and there’s just something about all these eyes, all those men in the garage’s premises waiting to get their cars fixed and easing their boredom with the fun of staring at your legs, that just doesn’t sit right with bucky. if their minds are anything like his own, he already knows what they’re thinking, all the ways they want to defile you…
time to shatter those unrealistic fantasies.
“c’mere,” he manoeuvres his arms over your shoulder and pulls you into him. “why don’t you come in the back? you can calm yourself down and i can finish eating.”
the pair of you make your way towards the office and, if you feel the descent of his hand over your spine, possessive fingertips kissing the waistband of that delicate skirt, you say nothing, you just keep walking.
you go to lower yourself into the foldable chair, but bucky steers you over to the leather desk chair.
a hiccup rips through your throat, “sorry about this. i didn’t mean to interrupt your lunch break.”
“don’t need to apologise, princess.”
“oh, sorry! wait, no, i’m… not sorry?” are you aware of how cute you look, knees knocking together, hands flattened on your thighs, staring up at him with tears spilling down your face? it’s biblically sinful, the kind of posture one expects from a good catholic sitting among the pews of a sunday ceremony, or while she spills her confessions into a wooden booth in hopes of having her soul cleansed. bucky might not be able to cleanse your soul, but he can certainly try to cleanse your skin. “i just… hate to think i’m taking advantage of your kindness, bucky.”
then don’t, he almost dares to say, crawl to me and show me just how grateful you are.
“know what you need?” he opts for instead. “a distraction. d’you got a sweet-tooth?”
you nod, and bucky can’t help but silently agree. he too has a sweet-tooth… for something a little more carnal than sugar.
the freezer pops open with a sharp tug and out bucky pries the last cone from a box of eight — the summers are warm, even mechanics deserve a little something to cool themselves off with.
“here you go,” ripping up the paper packaging, he passes the strawberry sweetness to you bare. lithe fingers brush over the callouses of his own, and he swears he sees you jump at the contact. “hope you ain’t allergic to nuts.” (hyde interrupts your regularly scheduled porn to say: peep the manchild reference 😛)
he settles back into the foldable chair, which creaks under the pressure of him. legs spreading as he accommodates the heaviness of his cock, eyes dipping over the expanse of you and delighting in the kitten lick you drag over the frozen treat.
and so the time passes between you, slowly and quietly, nothing but the occasional splat of strawberry ice cream dripping down the cone quicker than your tongue can chase after it.
bucky tries to eat his lunch, but you’re distracting. a vision of pastel softness, so contrasting to his oil stained tank top and dirty coveralls.
the chair screams and announces his movement, securing your attention as he drags the heel of his palm over his crotch and makes a show of readjusting himself. shameless, voyeuristic, he makes a point of forcing you to notice the width of what rests beneath the surface of durable cotton, the weight of what he very much wants to unload on you.
“you enjoyin’ that, princess?”
shoulders jumping, like you’re truly horrified that you were caught staring, you swallow back a mouthful of cream before answering, “strawberry’s my favourite.”
“‘s that so.”
“what’s your favourite?”
“my favourite?” he leans over, elbows pressing into his thighs, and pretends to think. “honey.”
“honey?” you echo, as you just about give him a heart attack: the tip of your finger carries up the length of the cone, collecting a river of pink cream, and delivers itself right onto your awaiting tongue. “didn’t know they had that flavour.”
“‘s rare,” he swallows down a groan, dick nearly banging on the bars of its enclosure with a demand to be set free from his trousers. “and comes at a high cost. no store-bought shit.”
another splat of ice cream hits the floor, and bucky feels an insatiable storm roll in.
your head follows the way he rises off the chair, a spotlight of teary eyes focused solely on him. the thought sends a rush down his spine; his attentive, saccharine girl.
his boots drag with the ache of exhaustion in his limbs as he approaches you, reaching for the rag hanging out his back pocket. close enough to smell the softness of your skin — like a honeydew melon, sweet and damp and urging him to drag his tongue up your shin. instead of doing that, he digs his knees into cement and swipes his rag over the ice-cream stained floors.
“oops,” you giggle sheepishly. he can sense the apology on your tongue, but you behave and keep it to yourself. “i’m dripping all over the place.”
you might be the death of him, truly. because if your father finds out he’s letting you run laps in his mind, bucky might just find himself on the receiving end of two bullets, fired into each of his wandering eyes.
strawberry melts onto your thigh, and bucky tuts with faux disapproval at the sight of it.
“you always this messy of an eater?”
one of your feet brushes against his hand as your legs shift, and he takes the opportunity to take capture of your ankle.
“no!” bless, you look like the image of pure guilt, desperately fighting off your good-natured instincts to say you’re sorry. the only sorry bucky wants from you is the kind you sob out after hours of him edging the brat out of you, legs shaking with a need to cum that he keeps denying. “i’m sor- i think it’s just hot in here.”
“yeah?” do you notice him inching closer? “yeah, it is hot, isn’t it? matter o’ fact, think i might need a taste of your treat, princess.”
you don’t even hesitate, you absolute angel, thrusting the cone down to where his mouth awaits, utterly unaware he has no intention of only tasting the ice cream. still, he sinks his teeth into the pink softness and invites it into his mouth with an exaggerated moan.
then, he puts on a face of preformative surprise.
“look at you,” he chastises, nodding down at the spillage of strawberry all over your thigh. “‘s gonna leave you all sticky.”
“oh,” you huff out, renewed tears filling your tears. “the car, myself… all i do is make a mess of things.”
“aw, sweetheart, don’t cry,” unless it’s for me. “‘s just ice cream. let‘s clean you up, then we can go see about the car. that sound good to you?”
you nod and a determined set of fingers shoot straight for the rag in his grasp, but he pulls it out the way before you can grab it.
“ah, ah, no way,” with a shake of his head, he stuffs it back into his pocket, and replaces it with your knees, both hands curling over them. “that’s been wiping up bonnets all day, wouldn’t be nice o’ me to let it touch you.”
“then,” you pause, smile at him sweetly and almost remind him of what it means to feel bad… until you yield with no protest to the slow spreading of your legs his hands impose on you. “how are we gonna clean it up?”
his mouth answers, but not with words.
one slow lick over the spill on your thigh, eyes pinned up at you and studying the way you fall silent. with no objection, he licks up another drop of ice cream, tasting more skin than strawberry.
“oh,” it leaves you as more breath than speech, pupils dilating with desire. poor thing, desperate for him and so unaware of it. he’s infiltrating you like a virus, overriding your dna and rearranging you into an organism that thrives off of him. “i think that’s all of it. thank you, bucky.”
thank you, bucky… yeah, you will be thankful for him.
his hands press back against the attempt you make to close your thighs, pushing them open even wider. something heady hits his nose, tantalising and mouthwatering, and so full of lust, it practically explodes over his tastebuds.
you’re wet, he can smell it.
couple of inches more between your knees, skirt dragging up the swell of your thighs, and there he spots her. shimmering with sticky honey, puffy with the need for comfort, and completely bare beneath that shade of lilac.
“you always walk around with no panties on, princess?” he knows you don’t, memories of that white lace still haunting his wettest dreams, but he likes to watch you struggle to look him in the eyes.
“i was swimming before the…” your lips pause all movement for a second as he trades one knee for a slow trail up your thigh. this time, he puts no pressure behind the way you stretch a little wider for him. “the scratch. my bikini was wet and i forgot to bring some to change into. i didn’t… i thought i would be going straight home!”
swimming, huh? that explains the dampness of your top.
“what, couldn’t stomach your bikini bottoms for that short drive home?” he feels evil, even more so for delighting in the fact the tears are still hot in your eyes, embarrassment stinging them out of you.
“too wet,” you mumble, and he bites back agreement. you are too wet for someone so bashful in light of his wandering touch. “too uncomfortable to sit through traffic in.”
“you must be so uncomfortable now,” he’s not even pretending to look at your face anymore, sights fully settled on the way your pussy seems to be pulsing for him on morse code. taste me, bucky, it says, clean me up. “soakin’ my chair like the kind o’ slut your daddy probably brags to all his business associates about how you’re nothin’ alike.”
“that’s not- i’m sor- it’s just because you’re touching me and-’”
“shh, shh, princess, i know,” he postures a sense of comfort, like he’s sitting opposite you inside that confession booth and granting you the salvation from sin you so deeply need. only, in this booth, he intends to do anything but lead you away from sin. “my touch’s getting her all wet, sensitive thing. i know, but i’m gonna help.”
“help? how can you-” the rest of the question is lost in wave of pleasure, his mouth diving right into your waters for a taste.
and, oh god, it’s better than he imagined.
you’re better than he imagined. better than any late night fantasy of losing himself in the space between your legs. sweeter, wetter, softer on the tongue than the limits of human imagination. you are the first drop of rain after a long summer, the ambrosia devoured by all of heaven’s angels, the sweetness of honey right off the comb.
“buck-ah!” there we go, another thing to add to the list of what makes you squeal: his tongue prodding right against your drooling hole. “your mouth, it’s- oh my- cold!”
speaking of cold… when winter comes, he can only hope your thighs will be there for him to wear like earmuffs and shelter himself from any storm in the heat of your cunt.
“bucky,” you whine his name in a perfect cadence, the sound rolling right down to where his cock twitches against his leg. he’s so hard, he might actually cry… just like you are, unknowingly pushing out a tear as your eyes slip shut in a false attempt to gather rationality. “your lunch! don’t you want- ngh! want to finish it?”
you’re the one that’s insisting on giving him a reason to take his mouth off you and speak, and yet you’re also the one whose fingers curl a steadying grip into his hair, a possessive silence that begs him to not stray too far as he turns his face into the meat of your thigh and bites.
“you and your silly tears came stormin’ into my garage demanding to see me, ruined my lunch break,” he coos the chaos into your skin, thumb smoothing over riled flesh like that will ease the tension in your spine. it won’t, only his mouth will. “don’t you think you owe me this favour, princess?”
“i,” oh my god, look at you! you’re actually measuring his words, finding any semblance of reason amidst his perversions. he’s going to ruin you, he knows it, and you’re going to love every second of it. “i guess, yes?”
“then shut up and let me eat.”
eat, he most certainly does. he indulges, in fact, a display of pure gluttony taking place in the back office.
he pulls you apart, lick by lick, mouthing at the entirety of your pussy like it’s a wound he’s attempting to heal. you’re pulled to the edge, of both your sanity and his office chair, legs dangling off his shoulders. and it’s running down his chin, all your honey, coating his lower face in liquid heaven.
a knock raps against the office door.
steve, always steve. sam doesn’t know how to knock.
“buck?” his friend is muffled through the wood and your thighs. “break’s over, c’mon, it’s my turn. i’m one more customer away from ripping my hair out and setting my coveralls on fire.”
bucky is not listening to all that.
happy for you though, steve, or sorry that happened.
no, bucky is listening to the way you scream against his palm as he cups it over your mouth, practically convulsing as you cum. completely sank into the office chair, folded over like a pretzel while he literally burrows his face into you — tongue between your walls, lips kissing against your own, nose teasing at your clit.
“pull your skirt down,” he tuts at you, rising from his knees and doing everything he can to ignore the protesting throb of his dick. god, if only he had the time, he’d give you something a little warmer to lick at than the strawberry cone. “or d’ya want everyone to see that ruined cunt while i’m fixin’ daddy’s car?”
+ extra hyde!
· does mechanic!bucky have a daddy kink or... this is a genuine question, besties, i expect reports on my desk in the morning detailing why or why not. an inability to meet this command will result in execution. this research is of utmost importance for the wellbeing of all (me). thank you for your cooperation.
· i made a meme, please laugh 🧍🏼♂️
Summary : Bucky Barnes has a crush on a tea shop owner. But is she really just a tea shop owner?
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x witch! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Fluff!!!! Canon-compliant, post-Thunderbolts. Magic. Cursing. Nightmares, trauma. Bucky lives in the New Avengers tower. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)
Word count : 11.5k
Note : I’m on vacation and just managed to finish this story!!! Will start posting more regularly once I get back, but enjoy!!!
It had been raining a steady drizzle all afternoon.
You were rearranging your loose-leaf tins on the shelf behind the counter— your labels were hand-drawn, organised not by alphabet or herb, but by energy. Fig, your small parakeet, was perched lazily on your shoulder, his little peach belly rising and falling as he dozed. A few regulars had come in earlier and left with different tea blends, the usual murmur of jazz from your record player in the background, and now the shop had been eerily quiet for the last thirty minutes.
Then the bell above the door jingled.
That’s when you saw him.
The man who stepped in looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His jacket was damp, his hair curling at the ends from the rain, and when his eyes met yours, your Fig chirped in your ear.
You almost missed it, but when your eyes dropped, and you saw the metal arm— Wakandan vibranium peeking from the edge of his jacket sleeve. You recognised him immediately.
Fig tilted his head sharply and gave a warning chirp, feathers fluffed. His stranger danger mode had kicked in.
“He’s not a threat,” you whispered to the bird, which was easier said than done, considering the adorable thing was deathly protective over you.
Bucky looked at Fig. Fig looked back.
Fig chirped again, and he was not disapproving, just skeptical. He was always wary of people with metal limbs after a bad experience with a garden gnome.
“Another Avenger in my shop,” you said with a welcoming smile. “You’re taller than I thought you’d be.”
He blinked, stopped mid-step like you’d just spoken in Morse code. “I—what?”
“You’re taller in person.” You repeated and shrugged. “Our mutual acquaintance showed me some team-outing photos.”
That earned you a half wary, half confused head tilt, maybe a little amused, but he walked up to the counter anyway. Fig ruffled his feathers, clearly intrigued.
Bucky rested his non-metal hand on the wood between you, glancing around the cosy space. “Bob did say this place was good.”
You gave him a half-smile. Bob came in a few months when he moved to the tower in New York, asking for a blend of herbal leaves that would aid in his recovery, and since then, he had already sent in two other avengers in here– Yelena needed a calming brew and Ava needed one that helped with her energy— but you didn’t think he’d send yet another one your way.
“He’s right,” you said confidently.
“He said,” Bucky measured his world carefully, “You could help me sleep.”
The words were small, but they didn’t feel fragile. It was as if he’d said them before to empty rooms and gotten nothing back.
You nodded, already turning to reach for a jar labeled Nightangel Brew.
“Do you have trouble falling or staying asleep?” you asked.
“I….” he paused. “A bit of both.”
You worked while you talked, scooping a blend of lemon balm, passionflower, valerian root, and a few curls of dried orange peel into a parchment sachet as an addition to the basic blend. The scent drifted up into the air. It was soothing, almost citrusy.
“No allergies?” you asked, as you scooped a bit of sea salt.
“No,” he confirmed.
You hesitated only a second before writing something on a notecard and slipping it into the brown paper bag with the tea.
He glanced at it, then at you. “You put your number on here.”
“Yep.”
He looked at you, amused but not complaining. “That’s… bold.”
You leaned in a bit. “Relax,” You rolled your eyes, smiling. “I only put my phone number in there in case you have questions about brewing the tea.”
Bucky took the sachet, eyes narrowing slightly. “You brew it differently?”
You shrugged like it was obvious. “It’s not just steep-and-dump. If you want flavour and effect, you’ve gotta be kind to it. Use a covered mug to keep the volatile oils from evaporating. Bonus points if you add honey after it cools a little. Or call Bob, he’ll tell you I lectured him for ten minutes once about not microwaving water in a mug.”
He huffed between a scoff and a laugh. Fig chirped curiously.
Bucky raised an eyebrow, the corner of his lip twitching again. “And if I had questions about… more than the tea?”
You blinked, a little thrown off. But still, you leaned a little closer and said, “Then I’d probably still tell you to steep it for five minutes and not call after midnight unless it’s a tea emergency.”
He picked up the bag and took a step back. “Thanks…?”
You offered your name.
He repeated it slowly, like he was letting it settle on his tongue. “Okay. I’ll, uh… let you know how it goes.”
You shrugged. “If it doesn’t work, come back. We’ll adjust the blend. Or if you want to introduce yourself to Fig properly. He’s still undecided about you.”
As if on cue, Fig flapped his wings slightly and let out a single unimpressed chirp.
Bucky smiled, giving the bird a mock salute with his vibranium fingers. “Tough crowd.”
“Don’t worry,” you said. “He warms up. Eventually.”
The door jingled again as he left, disappearing into the curtain of rain outside.
You turned back to your shelf and sighed. Fig nuzzled into your cheek like he agreed.
“Yeah,” you whispered to him, smiling. “He’ll be back.”
—
After the last customer left and the bell over the tea shop door gave its tired little jingle, you flipped the sign to CLOSED, turned off the lights, and let out a deep breath.
It had been a long day — stormy weather always brought in the insomniacs, the anxious, and the romantics. You didn’t mind. You liked helping people who let tea cool in their hands before sipping it. People who didn’t ask questions about the strange, overgrown rosemary plant in the window that occasionally moved on its own as if readjusting their posture. People who didn’t ask questions when vines curled around your wrist as you asked permission to pluck her delicate leaves.
But tonight… you were tired.
Fig settled on your shoulder with a chirp and nuzzled into your neck.
“You really shouldn’t judge customers,” you scolded him. “Even the one who asked if we had matcha Red Bull.”
Fig screeched, offended.
“I know, I know,” you whispered, locking the back door.
You walked home in the drizzle, jacket wrapped tight around your shoulders, trying to ignore the way your fingertips itched with energy.
You had a feeling something was waiting for you at home.
And sure enough — when you pushed open the creaky door of your little apartment across the street, you felt the presence of… magic.
You dropped your keys into the wooden bowl by the door and looked around.
There, on your kitchen table, was a scroll, the mystical equivalent of a fax machine.
You sniffed the air, smelling sandalwood, ash, and a touch of cosmic ozone.
“Wong,” you muttered, stepping closer as Fig flew up to his perch in the corner of the room.
The scroll unrolled the moment you touched it.
To the Esteemed Herbalist of Fig & co
The Sanctum Sanctorum requests your assistance once again. We are in need of a Class IV Lucidity Draught (stable, shelf-safe, dream-filtered, and no substitutions). Preferably before next quarter moon. Strange has broken another Mirror of Insight and refuses to admit it.
Discretion appreciated. Your potions are still the most reliable in this dimension, no matter what the New Orleans apothecaries claim. Payment enclosed, as always.
- Wong
P.S. Fig is due for his magical familiar certification renewal. Please see attached.
You sighed, a mix of fondness and exhaustion tugging at your lips. “Of course he broke another mirror.”
Fig puffed up proudly at the mention of his name and squawked. You held up the attached pouch — sure enough, a handful of glittering stardust coins nestled inside, along with a single enchanted pearl. Payment, plus a bonus. Wong never forgot to tip.
You carefully rolled the scroll back up and tucked it into the hollow panel behind your spice cabinet — the one no one ever noticed because you’d warded it with three layers of disinterest.
You lit a few candles, cast a quick circle, and whispered the potion recipe into the air, watching the herbs rearrange themselves on your shelf.
The Lucidity Draught would take three nights to finish. The rarest ingredients you needed were water from the last rainfall (you always kept a bucket on your roof), rosemary that had bloomed under starlight, and a vial of sleep-ink that could only be harvested from a page left unread for seven years.
Luckily… you had all of that. Fig helped. He always knew where you stashed things.
“I told you not to bring me the experimental saffron strain,” you sent him away to fetch another vial, “It messes with dimensional boundaries.”
As the potionwork began and the ingredients simmered in your teapot, you glanced out the window, down at the street. From here, you could just barely see the windows of your own shop below, the sign swaying slightly in the rain.
Fig hovered over your shoulder, preening like a supervisor.
“You know,” you muttered as you decanted a viscous blue liquid into a tiny vial to age over a couple of days, “I like the tea shop because it doesn’t ask anything magical of me.”
Fig whistled knowingly. You glanced at him.
None of your normal customers knew, and you’d like to keep it that way. You never used magic in the shop — not even the smallest charm.
Everything you sold, everything you brewed, was just herbal blends. Because you loved tea in all its simplicity, its kindness, and its ritual.
As you sealed the last potion bottle, Fig let out a pleased trill and landed back on the candleholder.
You smiled, finally letting your shoulders relax.
Tomorrow, you'd go back to being the local tea seller who definitely wasn’t a real witch.
You’d refill your Nightangel Brew, maybe add a new jasmine blend to the shelf.
And maybe—just maybe—keep an eye on the door.
In case a certain former assassin with a metal arm came back.
Not that you were thinking about him.
Much.
—
Two days later, the shop had just opened for the morning, and you were doing what you always did first thing: steeping a pot of your current favorite (today: chamomile, cinnamon, and a drop of pear extract), restocking the honey jars, and politely telling Fig that no, he could not perch directly on the loose-leaf tins like a goblin king.
There were no customers yet. You put on classical cello music on the speakers, whispered a patience charm into your tea steam, and Fig flipped the “Open” sign in the window.
And then your phone buzzed.
Fig, perched on the hanging rack above you, looked down with narrowed eyes. He hated when technology interrupted your tea time. You ignored him.
The message was from a number you didn’t recognise.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: This is Bucky. I think I burned it last night.
You blinked. A second message came in immediately after.
BUCKY : The tea. Not the tower.
You snorted in amusement, already typing.
YOU: I told you to steep it for five minutes in a covered mug. Not boiling water. I gave you the rules, Barnes. Did you microwave it?
Fig hissed. It sounded personal.
Your phone buzzed again.
BUCKY: I didn’t microwave it. I used a pot. Then I forgot about the pot.
You burst into laughter, startling Fig so badly he flapped his wings and knocked over your cinnamon jar. You sighed but didn’t stop smiling.
YOU: I'm not mad. Just disappointed.
BUCKY: Is this a customer service line or an ouija board for my dad?
YOU: sorry.
There was a longer pause before his next message.
BUCKY: Can I come by later? Try again, maybe supervised?
You stared at that message a moment longer than you meant to. Fig peered down at your screen, then made a throaty little hmm noise.
You didn’t look up. You just typed.
YOU: Sure. I think Fig wants to watch you try.
BUCKY: Of course he does. Is it weird I kind of want to impress a bird.
You smiled.
YOU: He is the true owner of the shop.
And as you set your phone down and turned to your blend-in-progress, you chuckled excitedly to yourself.
—
That afternoon, you were restocking the lemongrass jars when the door chimed.
Not the jingle-jangle of a casual browser or the clumsy shoulder-first push of a tourist trying to escape the rain.
You didn’t even turn around before speaking.
“Been waiting for you all day, Barnes.”
He paused before huffing out a small laugh. “I think I’ve earned ‘Bucky’ by now.”
You turned, and yep — there he was,standing just inside the shop like he wasn’t sure if he should touch anything, hair still slightly damp from the mist outside. He wore a dark sweater this time, sleeves rolled halfway up.
And under his arm was… a mug.
You tried not to smile too obviously. “You brought your own?”
“I figured if I’m going to fail,” he said, “I should at least fail in my favourite one. And maybe Fig would be kinder to me because I’m not going to ruin one of your mugs.”
As if summoned by name, the parakeet popped up from the shelf behind you and gave a long chirp — somewhere between amused and unimpressed.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Bucky muttered to the bird, pretending to understand him. “I’m not microwaving it this time.”
You took the mug from him, inspecting it. It was chipped near the rim, clearly well-loved, and had a faded print of a tree with roots stretching into a starry sky.
“This one’s seen things,” you said.
He gave a small smile. “Like its owner.”
You looked up. “That’s not always a bad thing.”
There was a heartbeat of silence between you, long enough to be noticeable. Just long enough for Fig to tilt his head like oh?
You cleared your throat. “Come on. To the bar.”
He followed you to the counter where you had already set out the tin of Nightangel Brew and a small linen pouch of fresh lemon.
You placed the kettle on its heating plate. “Step one. Know your water.”
“...Know it?”
You nodded. “Boiling water is murder on herbs, remember? You don’t want a rolling boil — you want a simmer with little bubbles.”
Bucky leaned in a little, his brow furrowed in focused concentration — or maybe just to smell. You pretended not to notice how close he was standing. Fig, however, absolutely noticed, and can’t decide if he was rooting for you or jealous of his proximity.
Bucky watched as you spooned the herbs gently into a steeping sachet and placed it in his mug. You handed him the kettle.
“Go ahead. Don’t rush.”
He raised an eyebrow but followed your instructions. Carefully, he poured slow circles, then covered the mug with the little ceramic lid you passed him.
“Five minutes,” you said. “Exactly. ”
“Noted.”
You leaned against the bar, watching the steam rise from the gaps. “So what happened yesterday? Got distracted?”
He hesitated. You saw it in his jaw.
Then he said, “I didn’t need it to sleep at first, but… then I woke up from a nightmare. Couldn’t get back to sleep. Thought I’d try the tea, but I didn’t time it right. Kinda… zoned out.”
Your shoulders dropped kindly, “Well, hopefully, brewing it right will help.”
Fig fluttered down and landed between you both on the bar, watching Bucky quietly, tilting his head like a therapist trying to decide how to phrase advice kindly.
“I don’t usually talk about that,” Bucky said.
“I don’t usually let people behind the bar,” you replied.
Fig chirped like an alarm.
“Five minutes is up,” you said.
Bucky furrowed his eyebrows, wondering how a bird was even trained to even have a perfect internal clock, “How—“
You ignored him and lifted the lid, gently removed the sachet, and handed the mug back to him. “Moment of truth.”
He cradled it in both hands and took a careful sip.
Then another.
He closed his eyes.
“…Okay,” he said, eyes opening again. “That’s… nice.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know,” he said, “but this feels… good.”
Fig chirped proudly once, then flew back to his perch.
Bucky set the mug down, but didn’t back away from the counter.
“So… how do I know if it’s actually working?”
“It works differently for different people.” You shrugged. “But it usually calms people down enough to doze off.”
He nodded, “You ever drink it?”
You hesitated, patting the bench next to you as you sat. “Not lately.”
And as he sat down beside you, sipping tea while the shop filled with the smell of brewing herbs, you couldn’t help but think: Maybe you didn’t mind letting this one in.
—
Bucky came back a few days later and said the blend was “doing something,” which for him, apparently, meant actually falling asleep. He looked better. Still guarded, sure — but the edges were blunting.
He came alone at first. Always late morning or just before closing. He brought his mug. You helped brewed his tea.
He never asked for anything else.
But he lingered every time. And each time, it got a little longer.
By week two, Bucky was coming in more days than not. He was always watching you in that not-trying-to-stare way that somehow made the staring worse.
You noticed he always sat at the same stool, second from the left, near the side table that housed your pothos.
You didn’t tell him it was your favourite spot, but you started making tea for two without asking.
You sat down next to him and started talking about your day.
Fig, meanwhile, hopped over to Bucky’s elbow and gave it a single approving peck. You paused mid-sip.
“Did he just…?”
Bucky nodded solemnly. “He’s warming up to me.”
“Must be the mug,” you said. “Or the absurd amount of honey you put in your tea.”
“I like sweet things.”
You glanced up and looked away.
By week four, Fig had officially defected.
He no longer dive-bombed Bucky’s boots.
He started landing on his shoulder.
And once, he let Bucky feed him a dried goji berry by hand without biting him.
“You’re a traitor,” you said, crossing your arms.
Bucky grinned. “He likes me.”
Fig preened like a smug little demon and settled into Bucky’s scarf like it was his new throne.
“Don’t get used to it,” you muttered playfully, sweeping behind the counter.
Then came the day he walked in with Bob Reynolds.
Bob had been a customer before Bucky. He loved your rosehip tisanes. He said they calmed the void in his chest, whatever that meant. He said it also helped with his cravings.
He greeted you, his usual dandelion-yellow hoodie bunched at the elbows. Then glanced back toward Bucky with a half-smirk.
“This the one who keeps you smiling when you’re supposed to be restocking the chamomile?”
You gave him a deadpan look. “You’ve been talking to Fig, haven’t you.”
“Bird’s got opinions,” Bob said, shrugging.
Bucky, behind him, tried very hard not to react. You caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth anyway.
They sat, ordered. Bob teased. Bucky endured it with the long-suffering patience of someone who was painfully aware of the dynamic forming in plain sight.
And it wasn’t just Bob.
Next came Yelena— a regular customer who insisted your “spicy blend” was the only thing that ever helped her relax. She strolled in one rainy Tuesday, spotted Bucky already at the counter, and raised one finely shaped brow.
“Oh,” she said, flicking her hair back. “You’ve been domesticated.”
“I came for tea,” Bucky muttered.
“You came for her tea,” she corrected, greeting you with a wave and eyeing you both with curiosity and delight.
“Leave,” he said flatly, but didn’t actually tell her to stop.
You served her with a smile, and she left with a wink — but not before whispering loud enough for Fig to hear, “She’s too smart to be pretending she doesn’t know what’s going on.”
The next day, Ava came in to try a new blend.
Ava was more subtle, but no less perceptive. She came in between field assignments, ordered your anti-inflammation brew, and then paused when she saw Bucky sitting behind the counter with Fig perched on his shoulder.
She looked between you two.
Then simply said, “So… how long have you been not-dating?”
You coughed into the tea towel. Bucky didn’t even look up. “We’re not—”
“Sure,” Ava replied, deadpan. “Fig won’t even look at me, but he likes Bucky? Something must be going on.”
Neither of you confirmed it, but you didn’t deny it either.
—
Over the next few weeks, it became routine.
Bucky would try new teas. He’d ask questions. He also learned to tell the difference between the citrus tang of lemon verbena and the grounding scent of ashwagandha.
He learned how you tapped the teapot twice before pouring — a little ritual, perhaps unconscious. You learned he stirred his tea clockwise, like muscle memory.
He smiled more. Not always at you — but often because of you.
Once, Fig dropped a dried hibiscus petal into his cup by “accident.”
You knew it wasn’t— Fig knew that used correctly, only if you cast a spell on it— it could induce an infatuation spell.
Not that Bucky needed it. The parakeet knew Bucky was already infatuated.
You, seemed hopelessly oblivious to it, though.
Bucky simply lifted the mug to Fig like a toast. “Thanks.”
And Fig preened.
—
One evening, just after closing, Bucky lingered while you wiped down the counter.
“I’ve been sleeping better,” he said, quietly.
You nodded. “I can tell.”
He looked at you the way someone examines a door they want to open, but aren’t sure they should. “You put something else in it?”
You just smiled. “Just plants, Barnes.”
“That’s enough,” He nodded, but didn’t look away. he said. “You got any of that cinnamon-pear blend left?”
You turned to the jar, hand already reaching. “Always.”
“Good,” he nodded, “Because I think I’ll keep coming back.”
You didn’t turn around. “I know.”
—
Bucky came in mid-morning two months later. He hadn’t been in for a couple of weeks, and that was not unusual— Bob said he had gone on a stealth mission.
His hoodie was drawn up over his head. He didn’t say anything at first. He just dropped his usual mug on the counter, and sat in silence. Fig came over to greet his friend, but he got no reaction from Bucky.
You tilted your head in confusion, but put on the kettle anyway. This time, you brewed Jasmine with a touch of lemon balm, a whisper of skullcap.
“I didn’t sleep,” he said after a long silence. “Not… since I got back from the mission two nights ago.”
You glanced up. “What’s up?” you asked gently.
He shook his head once. Not embarrassed — just exhausted.
“This… this mission just reminded me of the worst fucking part of humanity. I did what was necessary,” he added. “I… tried the tea. I tried all the steps. I took a deep breath like you said. It helped for a bit. But once I fell asleep…”
His voice faded.
You didn’t need him to finish his thoughts. If whatever he saw in that mission was enough to shatter his mind all over again, you could only imagine how bad it got.
You poured him the tea and started making him a different blend to go.
You prepared a bit of Nightangel brew but added added a pinch of mugwort. Then a little blue lotus, for clarity. Then hawthorn, for flavour.
Bucky noticed. “That’s not the usual.”
“No,” you admitted. “It’s not.”
He didn’t ask questions, just watched your hands move.
You looked up once the sachet was full.
“This is… stronger,” you said.
He nodded gently and murmured, “Alright. Let’s try.”
—
He came back the next morning, hunched deeper in his jacket.
You didn’t even greet him with a joke this time. Just took his mug and went straight to the blend. “Did it help?”
“No,” he admitted, partially scared of offending you. “Not at all.”
You frowned, wondering how much more herbal remedies you could add without it being redundant.
“Woke up sweating,” he explained, “I… Couldn’t breathe. It felt like—”
He stopped. His fingers curled slightly against the counter.
You didn’t push. Instead, you leaned on your elbows, “Okay. Then we go gentler.”
“Gentler?”
You nodded, already pulling down a different tin. “No mugwort. No lotus. Just chamomile to remind your body it’s not in a cage.”
He blinked.
“Holy basil. Rose. Passionflower. A little oatstraw.”
Bucky watched you. “Will it work?”
“For some people,” you said. “But we have to… try.”
He sat back and looked at you like he wanted to ask a hundred things.
Fig fluttered down from his perch and didn’t land on the counter this time, but directly on Bucky’s knee.
Bucky blinked, and for the first time in days, his shoulders relaxed. “Hey, buddy.”
You pushed the mug toward him, hands brushing again.
“I’ll keep adjusting the blend,” you promised with an encouraging sigh. “As long as you keep showing up.”
He nodded.
—
A month later, the bell chimed softly as the door eased open.
It was a sound that now felt like a sixth sense waking. You didn’t need to look up to know it was him.
The second Bucky stepped inside, Fig perked up, puffing his feathers and letting out a trill of affection.
You smiled faintly. Fig loves him. You thought. He only sings like that for me… and Bucky.
“Hey,” you said gently, eyes lifting from the tea counter where you were measuring out dried verbena. “You’re early today.”
He nodded, and walked over to his usual still. You wanted to ask if he was okay, though you never did.
That wasn’t how Bucky worked. He wasn’t made for direct questions.
“Same as last time?” you asked.
He looked up at you, then away.
You didn’t wait for an answer. You knew it anyway.
You turned to the wall of shelves, fingers ghosting over jars. Skullcap. Passionflower. Fennel. Chamomile. You’d changed the recipe multiple times since last month. Each blend tailored to soothe, to calm, to untangle knots that Nightangel couldn’t reach.
None of it worked.
Still, you went through the motions. You always did. You wouldn’t stop trying, not for him. Not when he kept dragging himself through your door like he was searching for something solid to hold onto.
You set the tea to steep and moved to lean on the counter across from him.
“Is it not working?” you asked gently.
Bucky huffed a humorless sound— a mix of a scoff and a sigh. “You’ve changed it four times. You’d think I’d be out cold for a week by now.”
Your lips turned into a frowned.
“You’re perfect,” he added suddenly, urgently. “You… you’re good at this—at what you do. But that mission… I…”
He looked up at you, and for a moment you saw the wreckage behind his eyes. “I think I’m the one that’s broken.”
You swallowed hard, the words lodging in your throat like a stone. All of your vows, all of your promises to never intervene with magic in the shop, they started to fray at the edges. He wasn’t just tired, he was unraveling.
And you were standing here with shelves full of herbs and nothing that could hold him together.
That’s when you felt it: the ache in your chest shifting into guilt, like glass under skin.
You turned away.
“I’ll be right back,” you said, going to the back room, where you store all your stock and closing the door.
Fuck, today, he looked broken.
You froze, hands trembling slightly over the apothecary jars, and your mind went to your apartment that was just across the street. Upstairs. Your real workbench was there. The hidden shelf with dried mystic root. The moon water. The preserved glass vials with hope tinctures and dream oil and truth dust.
“No,” you whispered to yourself. “No, no, no.”
But then you remembered at Bucky again—shoulders hunched, head bowed, fingers twitching ever so slightly—and your resolve shattered.
“…Just this once.”
You leaned down toward Fig, who had hopped closer on his perch and was watching you with keen eyes.
“I need to go home for a second,” you said, pulling off your apron. “Keep him company, okay? Chirp a little. He likes it.”
Fig flapped once and gave a peep of approval.
You slipped out the back door and jogged across the street to your apartment above the bakery.
Inside, you didn’t light a single lamp.
You moved directly to the old armoire that served as your private altar, opening the false panel and pulling out the worn wooden box. Inside: the forbidden things. The ones you kept under lock and key. Your grandmother’s spoon, etched with runes. The jar of dried starblossom petals. A tiny, sealed vial of liquid desire.
You were going to infuse his latest tea blend with… magic.
It wasn’t that it was dark magic. It wasn’t evil. It was just… potent. And dangerous if used carelessly. You had vowed never to use your craft in the shop.
Never to enchant something as intimate as tea.
But you remembered the first time Bucky came in, Since then, he’d been a constant.
And now he was in trouble, and this was the only way you could help.
You whispered the spell as your fingers worked fast, blending more herbs with practiced care: blue lotus for dreams, rosehips for warmth, passionfruit for clarity, and just a bit of the liquid desire.
The spell would draw from his desire, not yours, showing him not what he feared… but what he wanted most— perhaps peace. Or comfort. Perhaps he wanted to be back in the forties. Maybe he just wanted a life on the farm.
You closed your eyes and sealed it with breath, steadying the tremble in your hands.
“Just this once,” you whispered aloud.
And you were going to tell him, right?
—
When you stepped back into the shop, it felt warmer. Or maybe that was your guilt heating up your skin.
Bucky looked up from where he sat, with Fig perched on his shoulder and nuzzled his hair. You paused, surprised—and not surprised at all. Fig never did that to anyone but you.
“I told him not to get too attached,” you said softly, setting the new cup on his table.
“Well,” Bucky replied, a faint smile pulling at his lips, “I’m getting attached, too.”
To you or the bird, you weren’t sure.
You watched him look down at his hands as you handed him the pouch.
It was darker than your usual blend, its surface flecked with starlight-like shimmer. You hoped he wouldn’t ask.
But Bucky just leaned forward, hands clutching the bag.
You took a deep breath, readying yourself for the entire I’m actually a witch confession, but then he said…
“I don’t even wanna know what’s in it,” he muttered. “I just want peace.”
Your fingers brushed his as you sat beside him. “Are you sure?”
Bucky nodded.
You hesitated. Then, said. “It’s on the house today.”
He looked up.
“…Thanks,” he said. “Really. You—”
His gulped like he wanted to say something else, but the words got stuck.. “You always know what to do.”
You watched him slip the tea into his coat pocket, rising slowly.
The bell above the door gave that same gentle chime as he left.
—
That night, in the new Avengers Tower, on the other side of town from your tea shop, Bucky sat on his bed and drank the tea.
The first time in weeks, his body eased against the sheets instead of bracing for war.
And when he dreamed, it wasn’t of screams or steel or blood.
He dreamed of a cosy shop with a parakeet singing in the corner.
—
You were still tying your apron when the door burst open the next morning.
The bell above the tea shop was a frantic, startled chime — not the usual gentle ring. Before you even looked up, you knew it must be him.
Fuck. Did he know? Could he tell something was… different?
You turned just in time to see Bucky push through the doorway like he’d run the entire way here. He was breathless and flushed. His hair was messy, jacket unzipped, like he hadn’t even thought to fix himself before coming straight here.
“Bucky—?” you began, eyebrows lifted as Fig flapped his wings in greeting.
He didn’t stop walking until he was at the counter.
“It worked.”
You froze, one hand still on the apron’s tie. “What?”
“The tea,” he said. “It… worked. Last night. I—I actually slept for the first time in… weeks.
There was relief in his voice.
Your heart clenched behind your ribs.
He let out a shaky breath, glancing toward the floor like he didn’t quite believe he was saying it out loud. “Usually I either have nightmares or… nothing. But last night, I… I dreamed.”
He looked up at you, and your throat went dry.
“I dreamed of here,” he said softly. “Of you.”
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. What?
You nodded slowly. “I’m… glad it helped.”
But you knew exactly what that meant.
The spell you used hadn’t just offered comfort. It hadn’t simply calmed his nerves or quieted his thoughts. It had shown him his deepest desire to get rid of the terrors.
And he dreamed of you.
“I-I don’t mean to be weird,” he said suddenly. “I just…,” he added, so softly you almost missed it. “Didn’t want to wake up.”
You should have told him then. You should have told him what you’d done. That you’d bent your own rules for him. That you’d taken a tiny vial of liquid desire and dropped it into his cup.
That his dream wasn't a coincidence.
But your words wouldn’t come out past your throat.
Because a part of you was afraid that if he knew, he’d doubt the dream. That he’d think it was a trick. That he wouldn’t believe that what he saw was already true.
So instead, you forced your lips into a tight smile and said, “That’s good.”
“You were behind the counter in the dream. Laughing,” he said. “You were wearing that pink cardigan you always say you’re gonna throw out.”
You blinked, unaware he remembered your little neither-here-nor-there conversations. “I… still have it.”
He smiled faintly. “Fig was there, too. He kept trying to eat my scone.”
Fig gave a soft chirp and fluttered down to land on Bucky’s shoulder again, completely unbothered.
Bucky huffed a surprised breath, one corner of his mouth lifting.
“Traitor,” you muttered fondly toward Fig.
Bucky shifted on his feet.
“Can I come back tonight?” he asked.
You smiled, but hesitated. “Of course.”
—
That night, just after closing the shop and wiping down the counters, you stared at your phone.
Bucky had said he’d be back. He wanted to come back.
And you—being you—had gone and messed everything up with your damn heart and your emergency vial of dream-altering magic.
So instead of texting what you wanted (which was: come back, sit with me, let me explain the dream wasn’t real but also definitely was)...
…you typed: Not feeling great. Raincheck?
You hit send before immediately grabbing the emergency sling ring from under your floorboard, called to Fig with a sharp whistle, and opened a portal to Kamar-Taj.
The sky through the portal was blazing orange at dusk. Fig fluttered through first with a defiant chirp.
You stepped into the cool stone corridor just as a familiar voice groaned from around the corner.
“Speak of the devil.”
Stephen Strange rounded the archway, Wong at his side with a tray of your tea.
You blinked. “Why were you talking about me?”
“We need to place an order.” Wong held up a scroll and payment. “Three jars of moonstilled chrysanthemum, two of dreamroot, and that thing with the dried violets that makes people cry for two hours.”
“Well double the payment if you can get it done,” Strange promised, already walking away.
You didn’t follow him immediately. You were still trying to breathe past the knot in your chest.
“I need a hypothetical ethics consult,” you said suddenly.
Wong stopped and raised a brow. “Oh.”
You followed them both into the dim library room they used for absolutely everything, where Fig landed atop a shelf and immediately started pecking at a crystal ball.
You dropped into a floor cushion, rubbed your eyes, and began.
“Let’s say… hypothetically… someone who runs a completely magic-free tea shop made a promise to never use enchantments on the drinks they serve.”
Wong was already frowning. Strange narrowed his eyes.
“But let’s say—still hypothetically—that someone they care about is clearly not okay. We’re talking not sleeping for weeks, barely holding it together, that type of stuff.”
“I already know where this is going,” Wong muttered.
“And so the hypothetical tea shop owner makes a completely irrational, heart-dumb, reckless decision and enchants one tea blend with dream magic. The kind that reveals the drinker’s deepest desire and blocks out trauma-based nightmares.”
Strange folded his arms. “Uh huh.”
“And,” you went on, your voice getting smaller, “let’s say the person drinks it, sleeps peacefully for the first time in weeks, wakes up saying they dreamed of… the person who gave him the blend.”
“Still sounds hypothetical,” Wong said sarcastically.
You stared at your hands. “Is that unethical?”
Strange stared at you. “That’s it? That’s the ethical dilemma?”
“I enchanted his tea, Stephen. I interfered with his subconscious.”
“You gave a traumatized super-soldier a warm nap and a vision board,” he deadpanned. “You didn’t scramble his brain or bind his will to a blood pact.”
“How did you—?” You furrowed your eyebrows, unaware your personal life was their business.
“You are one of the best potions witch in the northern hemisphere,” Wong deadpanned, “do you really think we don’t keep tabs on your more… influential customers?”?l
“Fine,” you snapped, “but back to the question—“
“He’ll be fine,” Strange dismissed.
You frowned. “But he didn’t—“
“Did you cast an obedience charm?”
“No!”
“Corruption sigil?”
“No!”
“Memory trap?”
“NO!”
“Then,” he said, leaning back with an insufferably casual smile, “it sounds like you did what every good magic-user has done at least once: you broke your own rule to save someone you care about.”
You stared at him. “So… it’s fine?”
“No. It’s weird.”
Wong agreed. “You witches are odd sometimes.”
You scowled. “That’s not helpful.”
“I’m not here to be helpful. I’m here to stop Dormammu and make sure no one drops reality into a blender.” He waved his hand. “This? Not even in the top fifty ethical dilemmas I’ve heard this week.”
“It feels icky!” you said, frustrated. “I didn’t mean to influence him!”
Wong raised an eyebrow. “Do you really think a man like James Barnes is so fragile he’d fall in love because of a dream?“
You opened your mouth. “But—”
Strange held up a hand. “Let me guess. You’ve read three books on ethical divination, one essay by an excommunicated greenwitch, and now you’re spiraling.”
You blinked. “…Yes.”
Wong shoved extra currency for the order it into your hands.
“Tell him the truth if you feel bad, but don’t act like you’ve done dark magic just because you caught feelings.”
You stared. “I knew I should’ve joined a coven. At least they’d have a Code.”
Strange rolled his eyes. “Please. Most covens barely agree on how to bless water. One time I watched three hedge witches almost fistfight over which moon phase was best for making lavender oil.”
From your shoulder, Fig gave a loud, scolding chirp.
You glanced at him.
“What?” you muttered. “It was just a passing thought—”
He chirped again, this time louder. His little clawed feet gripped your shoulder tighter.
Wong chuckled. “Sounds like your familiar’s insulted.”
“M’sorry,” you muttered, giving Fig a sideways look. “I didn’t mean to imply I needed anyone else but you, bud.”
Fig gave a dignified huff and fluffed his feathers.
“I wasn’t actually going to join one!” you hissed.
Fig preened pointedly.
“I just panicked.”
He chirped again as you said your goodbyes opened the portal back to your shop.
—
Later that night, you returned to your apartment.
You half expected Bucky to be waiting outside, but was disappointed when there was only the empty street and the patter of rain on cobblestone.
Inside, the tea ingredients sat untouched on your back shelf, tucked away again.
You made yourself a cup of tea and sat with Fig in the dim shop light, wondering if he was still dreaming of you, or if the magic had already faded.
But still a thought whispered. If you were his greatest desire… what would yours be?
You hadn't asked that question before.
Not seriously.
Because you didn't want the answer.
But now you stood, and walked to the back shelf where the last vial of desire sat sealed under moonlit paper, humming faintly with dormant power.
No.
Nope.
Maybe?
Fuck.
Just this once.
You quickly dropped the same dose into your tea and casted the spell.
You carried the cup back to your seat, Fig watching you from the counter with glassy eyes.
“This is dumb,” you whispered aloud. “This is so dumb.”
Fig let out a chirp. Not scolding, but more like, Then don’t do it. But if you’re gonna, stop whining and sip.
You sughed before raising the cup and drinking.
—
You didn’t remember falling asleep.
But when you opened your eyes… the world was a warm amber, flickering like candle glow.
You were standing behind the tea shop counter, apron tied snugly around your waist, the faint scent of cinnamon and vanilla in the air. Fig was perched beside the cash box.
And there he was.
Bucky.
Sitting in his usual spot, back slightly hunched, cradling a steaming cup in both hands. He was in a navy sweater, sleeves pushed to his elbows, his metal hand glinting faintly in the light. He was looking at you like… you were the best part of his day.
And in the dream, you weren’t hiding.
You smiled. And he smiled back.
—
You woke up on your bed with a gasp.
Fig flapped in surprise, his wings fluttering.
You sat forward on the couch, pressing a trembling hand to your chest, breathing coming fast.
Fig chirped, and he knew… you had your answer.
—
The next morning, you had an early customer who ringed the bell in five minutes before opening.
Even before you turned around… you knew it was him.
Here goes nothing.
You expected Bucky to slink in, like he usually did.
Instead, he stood just inside the door with a bouquet of flowers clutched awkwardly in his hand.
They were… wild flowers — your favourite — wrapped in recycled newspaper like he’d tried to make it not a big deal.
Oh.
He looked… terrified.
His hair was still a little damp from the morning drizzle, jacket open over a plain black henley, boots tracking faint footprints on your floor.
“Hey,” he greeted.
“Hey.”
“Can I…” he started, “can I talk to you?”
You nodded once. “Of course.”
He approached slowly, as if he was afraid to break a fragile thing. Maybe himself.
“I wasn’t gonna come,” he admitted, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “Did a bit of thinking and… I was scared I freaked you out.”
Your heart thudded painfully. “You didn’t, I promise.”
He looked at you with that wide-open gaze that always undid you.
“I kept thinking about it,” he said. “About why I dreamed of you.”
Your fingers curled against the counter. Fig, on his perch behind you, let out the softest warning trill.
Bucky went on, his voice barely above a whisper now. “I thought maybe you… I don’t know. I… I thought maybe I’ve been seeing too much of you.”
You opened your mouth—but Fig flapped a hard THWIP of wings.
“But then I realised,” he admitted sheepishly. “I could never have too much of you.”
You met his eyes. “You… what?”
He hesitated. “I think… I’ve felt like this for a while now.” He lifted the flowers slightly. It was awkward, sweet, almost bashful.
“I don’t want it to just be a dream,” he said. “I want it to be real. I want us to be real. So…”
He took a deep breath.
“Would you maybe go out with me?”
For a good five seconds, you only stared at him.
You should tell him.
You almost did.
But then Fig let out a pointed chirp from behind you.
Not yet, he seemed to say.
So, you smiled—nervous, but sincere.
“Sure,” you said, trying to play it off as casual.
His brows lifted slightly, like he hadn’t believed you’d say it. “Yeah?”
You stepped around the counter, closing the space between you. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
And for the first time since you met him, you saw the weight on his chest loosening.
He held out the flowers, finally, with a shy smile. “I’m not great at this… anymore.”
“You’re doing just fine.” You chuckled, taking the bouquet from his hands. It was wild and imperfect and beautiful, just like your magic.
—
The day say he took you out, it was raining again.
Thankfully, it was the good kind, the kind that gave the streets that shimmer like everything’s been kissed by silver. You’d always loved nights like this, when the world felt like a mystic secret.
Bucky had offered to pick you up at your place.
You told him to meet you at the shop instead. It felt right. It felt like you now had gone full circle.
When he arrived, you were already waiting in the doorway with a tiny umbrella, saying goodbye to Fig, who was tucked into his little cosy corner. He wouldn’t shut up, not until Bucky knocked on the door, and you were convinced he sensed what kind of night this would be.
Bucky looked unfairly good. He adorned simp clothes — a dark sweater and stormy-blue jacket he’d worn a few times — and that nervous smile you had come to crave.
He held out a hand.
“You ready?”
You nodded.
—
The place you chose for your first date wasn’t fancy.
It was a tucked-away little bistro down the block, with candles flickering in mismatched holders and tables close enough to each other to hear laughter, but not close enough to interrupt it. You were seated by a window, and Bucky was across from you.
Going on a date with Bucky felt daunting at first. But now… that you were actually in it… it felt natural.
You had both eaten, talked, laughed a little — but it wasn’t until the plates had been cleared and your dessert had arrived that the room shifted.
Bucky had been watching you all night.
Not in a way that made you feel exposed, but like he was learning you. Like he was memorizing every little expression, every gesture.
Like he wanted to know you.
Your fingers curled around the ceramic mug in your hands.
“Can I tell you something?” you said, voice quiet.
He leaned in slightly. “Of course.”
You hesitated, before looked him straight in the eyes.
“You said you dreamed of me. Of… us.”
His mouth twitched. It was not quite a smile, not quite not. “Yeah.”
“It was… because of tea I gave you.”
“Worked like magic,” he confirmed, almost wry.
“Bucky, I’m trying to tell you…” You swallowed hard. Fuck, here goes nothing. “That it wasn’t a normal blend.”
The silence that followed was short enough, but it made your heartbeat pick up. His brow ticked, and he set his desert spoon down carefully. “Okay…”
“I don’t normally do this,” you started, sighing. “I never do this. I have rules. You know I make regular blends—“
“Regular?” Bucky chimed in, furrowing his eyebrows.
“—for sleep, anxiety, energy,” you continued anyway, “but that night, you said that you hadn’t slept in weeks. and I—” your voice caught, “—I panicked. I didn’t have anything in the shop that would worked that I didn’t try already.”
The night flashed before your eyes — the hollow look in his eyes, the way his voice had been almost brittle.
“So I… ran across the street to my apartment. And I used a spell.”
Bucky blinked, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. “…A spell. Like actual magic.”
“Yes.”
You could see him process it, in the way a faint crease formed between his brows, the way his eyes stayed locked on yours.
His voice came quieter. “You didn’t tell me.”
You felt the blood rush to your ears. “You… didn’t want to know.” You explained, looking down in guilt. “Remember? That night, you said you didn’t want to know what was in it.”
“It sounds like you put something in my head,” he said, not unkind, but blunt.
Your stomach turned. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Then what was it like?”
“It’s a spell meant to ease nightmares. It doesn’t control, doesn’t twist. It just… reveals.”
He sat back slightly, studying you. You could see the flicker of wariness in his eyes, and it made your chest ache.
“Reveals what?”
Fuck.
“Their… their greatest desire,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.
Oh.
He leaned back, his expression warping. It wasn’t anger. But you couldn’t quite place where it fit.
“And what I saw in the dream… was you.”
“Yes.”
The candlelight flickered between you, catching the edge of his metal knuckles where his hand rested on the table.
He ran a hand over his face. “You’re an actual witch,” he said finally, looping back to the fact.
“…Yes.”
“Like, sorcery?”
“No. Sorcery’s learned. I was born with it. I work with potions.”
He shook his head, staring down at the table. “I should’ve guessed. Wong’s walked out of your shop before. And Fig… I swear he talks sometimes.”
Your nodded. “He does.”
Bucky’s jaw flexed. “You know I’ve had my mind messed with before. That dream… it didn’t feel wrong. But it was still… I don’t know. I don’t like thinking someone else had a hand in it.”
You stared at him. “You think I made you see me?”
“I think you gave me something that made me see something I didn’t know I wanted,” he said quietly.
Your chest tightened. “It can’t create anything that isn’t already there.”
He looked at you like he wanted to believe you but didn’t know if he should.
“And you?” he asked. “If you drank it, what would you see?”
You hesitated. “…I did.”
His brows lifted slightly.
“And?”
“I saw you.”
That landed between you like a dropped stone disturbing a waveless ocean.
Bucky’s eyes darted away. His shoulders shifted restlessly. “I… I gotta go.”
Your stomach dropped. “Bucky—”
“It’s not—” He stood abruptly, fumbling for his jacket. “It’s not that I’m... I just… I need to think.”
The chair legs scraped so against the worn wood floor as he moved back.
“Okay,” you said quietly.
He hesitated a moment longer, looking at you. Then he nodded once, like he was answering a question only he’d asked himself, and turned toward the door.
You just sat there in the glow of candlelight, your hands curled around the cold desert spoon.
—
Bucky didn’t knock as he reached the 177A Bleecker Street.
He figured if Strange really didn’t want visitors, the Sanctum Sanctorum would’ve swallowed him whole the second he stepped on the stoop.
Instead, the door creaked open on its own, and there was the sorcerer himself, one brow arched in that perpetual look of annoyed judgment.
“Barnes,” Strange said dryly. “You’re a long way from Brooklyn.”
“Yeah,” Bucky muttered, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. “Needed to… talk to someone who’d get it.”
“‘It’ being…?”
Bucky hesitated. “…Magic.”
That actually earned him a flicker of genuine curiosity from Strange. “Alright.”
The Sanctum smelled faintly of incense and something older, like paper and storms. Strange led him down a long hall and into a high-ceilinged library, gesturing to a pair of mismatched chairs in front of a low table.
Strange said, flicked his wrist to summon a cup. “You like Earl Grey?”
Bucky followed him inside, glancing around the vast space. “Not much of a tea guy lately.”
“Oh, right,” Strange said lightly, leading him toward the library while sipping the brew. “You’ve already been drinking something far more potent.”
Bucky stopped in his tracks. “…You know?”
Strange turned with the faintest smirk on his mouth. “Barnes, I know exactly who runs that little shop you’ve been visiting. I also know exactly what kind of magic she works with, who’s been there. She’s supplied Kamar-Taj for years. Her blends are high-quality, magical or not. Wong swears by her migraine remedy. I’d trust her brewing over most trained potion masters I’ve met.”
Bucky crossed his arms. “So you know she—”
“Gave you a desire spell?” Strange cut in. “Yes. And judging by the fact that you’re here, I’d say it worked.”
Bucky’s teeth clenched. “I saw her. In the dream.”
“You’re afraid it was compulsion.” Strange said, like he’d been expecting this. Bucky’s jaw tightened. “…Yeah. After what I’ve been through—”
“I know,” Strange cut in gently. “But no. It wasn’t compulsion.”
Bucky looked up. “How can you be so sure?”
Strange leaned back in his chair, watching him with that unsettling kind of stillness. “Because she came to Kamar-Taj the day after she found out you saw her. She was rattled. Wouldn’t stop apologizing. Wanted to know if it was unethical. Told me she never, ever uses magic in her shop. That she only did it because you looked like you looked like shit. I’m paraphrasing, of course.”
Bucky froze. “…She said that?”
Strange nodded. “She didn’t want to change you. She didn’t even want to risk revealing herself to you. She just—” He gestured loosely, as if the right word was somewhere in the air. “—couldn’t stand to watch you suffer like that.”
Bucky swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the tea cup.
“What she used,” Strange continued, “wasn’t suggestion. It wasn’t manipulation. It’s a mirror. It brings forward what’s already there — a truth you’ve either ignored or haven’t admitted to yourself. It reveals. And revelation, in this case, is a gift.”
Bucky’s brows drew together. “So it was me.”
“It was always you,” Strange said simply. “She just cleared the fog.”
Bucky stared at the steam curling from his tea. The memory of that dream — the sound of your laugh, the warmth in your eyes — burned fresh in his mind. He’d told himself it was too vivid, too convenient. But if Strange was right…
“You’re sure?” he asked, voice low.
“Barnes,” Strange said, faintly exasperated, “I’ve seen enough true desire reflections to know one when I hear about it. You think I’d be this calm if she’d tampered with your mind? I’d have half the Masters here dismantling every floorboard in her shop, and she’d lose both her shop licenses and the potion license.”
That startled a small, reluctant smirk out of Bucky. “…Guess you would.”
Strange’s expression softened just slightly. “You trust her, don’t you?”
Bucky looked down at his hands and nodded.
Strange sipped his tea, watching him. “I assume she didn’t tell you because she knows your history. And, if I may, she’s probably terrified of hurting you.”
Bucky’s voice was quiet. “She was.”
Strange tilted his head. “So… are you going to let this stop you from being honest with her now?”
Bucky was quiet for a moment, then stood up abruptly. “…I gotta go.”
Strange didn’t stop him. He just smiled faintly, as if this had been the plan all along. “Send Fig my regards.”
Bucky paused. “You know about Fig?”
“Of course,” Strange said with a wave of his hand. “That bird glares at me every time I visit. He thinks I’m trouble.”
Bucky huffed, almost laughing as he pushed the door open.
—
Bucky didn’t go back to the shop immediately, even if his body wanted to.
He told himself it was because he was busy with mission reports, training schedules, and repairs to his gear but really, he was avoiding you.
He walked the length of Manhattan twice the next day with his hands in his pockets, keeping his head down. The streets were loud, crowded, and full of people brushing past without a second glance. It should have been easy to get lost in it, but no matter where he went, his mind kept circling back to the same thing: why you hadn’t texted or called.
You probably wanted to give him some space.
So on the first night, he didn’t dream at all. Just tossed and turned until dawn, chasing sleep that wouldn’t stick.
—
The second day, he tried distracting himself.
He hit the gym, hard. He ran on the treadmill for a run until his lungs burned and the machine short-circuited from overuse. He did all his laundry. He cooked for the first time in weeks. It was a simple scrambled eggs and toast, but still ended up not touching most of it away.
When Yelena and Bob brew their teas, their custom blends that you sold them, and wondered if they knew you were magical.
Probably not.
The truth was, he wasn’t mad at you the way he thought he’d be.
It was the memory of the look on your face when you’d confessed. You were not defensive, not smug — guilty. And perhaps, he realised after a bit of thinking, that what hurt most of all was how you thought you had to hide your identity from him.
By nightfall, he’d found himself outside your shop without meaning to. The lights were off, the CLOSED sign swaying gently in the summer breeze.
He didn’t knock, knowing you’d be in bed by now. So he just stood there for a few minutes, staring at the faint reflection of his own tired face in the glass, before walking away.
—
The third day, he gave in.
The tin of tea you’d given him, the one from that night, was still in his cupboard. He’d been avoiding it like the plague, but now he set it on the counter, staring at the label you’d written in a looping script.
It felt strange, making it again. He’d seen you brew tea so many times, the careful measure of leaves, the way you swirled the water just right, but he never really brewed it like you.
It was never… just right.
Still, when the steam rose, it smelled like your shop.
It smelled like… safety.
Bucky wrapped his hands around the mug, sipped, and sat at the shared kitchen table in the new avengers tower.
Within a few minutes of finishing the tea, he walked back to his room. He didn’t fight the warmth creeping in.
—
In the dream, he was standing in your shop again, the light golden through the windows, Fig chattering softly from his perch.
You were behind the counter, head bent over a notebook, and when you looked up, your whole face lit up like you’d been waiting for him.
You were brewing a potion for Strange, completely in your element, while Fig greeted him.
—
When he woke, he sighed in content before he could stop himself.
Fuck.
The dream hadn’t been a trick. He knew that now.
Magical or not, he’d missed you. He missed that feeling of being wanted without needing to earn it, that place felt safe just because you were there.
By the time he set the mug in the sink that morning he’d already decided that he wasn’t going to let four days stretch into five.
—
Bucky couldn’t stop thinking about you throughout the day.
And if you were really his own greatest desire, then… hell.
It took him the entire day, though, to actually go through with meeting you.
—
When he did decide it was time, your shop was already closed.
So he walked across the street where he vaguely knew where you lived.
He didn’t know your exact apartment number. You’d never given it to him, and he’d never asked. But he remembered you saying once that you lived “across the street, in the building with the green awning.”
The lobby was quiet. Bucky found the elevator, pressed the button, and stared at the rows of doors when it dinged open.
Second floor.
No names on the mail slots. Just numbers.
Great.
He started with the first one on the left.
He knocked once, waited and got no answer.
Second door — same thing.
Third door, he heard footsteps, but it was an elderly man with a newspaper, blinking at him in confusion before Bucky apologised.
By the fourth door, Bucky was starting to think maybe he’d have to knock on every single one in the building.
He lifted his hand…
…and something small and peach streaked past his ear.
Bucky looked, catching sight of a familiar flash of feathers before it landed on the hallway railing.
“Fig?”
The parakeet chirped impatiently before taking off again, fluttering halfway down the hall before stopping to glance over its shoulder at him.
Bucky frowned. “You want me to follow you?”
Fig chirped and waited just long enough for Bucky to catch up before darting toward the far end of the hallway, and up a couple flights of stairs before finally settling on a specific door and tapping his beak against it like he was in on the plan.
Bucky stared. “You… showed me the way.”
Fig seemed to say, duh.
He raised his hand and knocked.
You opened the door in an oversized sweater, hair messy, blinking like you’d just changed into cosy home clothes.
“Bucky?”
He had a whole speech planned — something about thinking things through, about needing to talk, about not wanting to leave things hanging between you — but it all died in his throat the moment you looked at him like that.
“I… uh,” he started, then glanced down the hall toward Fig, who was still perched like a tiny feathered soldier. “Your bird sold you out.”
You blinked, then looked past him. “Really?”
The parakeet chirped triumphantly.
“Traitor,” you muttered at him, but when you looked back at Bucky, your voice was gentler. “Why… are you here?”
He shifted his weight, rubbing the back of his neck. “I drank the tea again.”
Your brow furrowed. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “And I still saw you. And… I missed you.”
For a second, you didn’t say anything.
“I had to knock on four doors before Fig found me,” he said with the faintest trace of a smile. “Was ready to go through the whole building.”
Your brows lifted. “You were going to knock on all thirty four apartments?”
“Would’ve found you eventually.” His voice was certain, and you had the feeling he meant more than just your apartment.
“I… didn’t want to think I needed magic to want you.” His jaw tightened briefly before he shook his head. “Turns out, I didn’t. I already did.”
You didn’t realise you’d been holding your breath until it left you in a rush. “…Bucky—”
“I’m glad you told me,” he said.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Fig chirped once, as if in approval. Then, as if even he understood, took off into the night without a backward glance.
Then Bucky smiled, knowing Fig had given the two of you privacy, and stepped closer. “So… can I come in? Maybe stay awhile?”
Of course he did.
—
Five months later…
At first, Bucky thought it was part of a dream — a faint tug at his hair, an insistent pressure at his shoulder. Then came a high-pitched noise he thought his brain had conjured up.
Then it happened again.
He cracked one eye open. The dawn light was shining through the curtains, and sitting on the pillow two inches from his face was Fig with his feathers puffed, letting out the same shrill little chirp again and again, like an alarm clock with wings.
“…No,” Bucky muttered, rolling over and dragging the blanket higher. “Go away.”
But Fig wasn’t having it. He hopped onto Bucky’s shoulder, gave him a surprisingly firm nip, then chirped louder.
Bucky groaned. “Kid, it’s not even nine.”
From beside him, came a muffled laugh.
You were half-buried in pillows when your head just enough to see your parakeet perched proudly atop the former Winter Soldier, who looked far more beleaguered by a six-inch bird than by any mission briefing.
“Morning,” you said sleepily.
That got Bucky moving.
He turned immediately, pressed a slow, unhurried kiss to your lips, then mumbled against your skin, “Much better alarm clock.”
You smiled, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “You’re supposed to be up.”
“Not if I don’t wanna be.” He tucked himself against your side, burying his face in your shoulder like he could hide from the world. “Why’s Fig got it out for me this time?”
Fig chirped something emphatic.
You stretched, still smiling. “He says John Walker sent him.”
That made Bucky sit up, blinking. “…What?”
“Mmhm.” You yawned, brushing your nose against his. “Fig’s just doing his job. The one you said he should do.”
Bucky cracked an eye at the bird. “He’s been doin’ it a little too well. I can’t get away with anything these days.”
Fig puffed up, chirping smugly, and hopped off the bed. You stretched, rolling onto your back.
To be fair, Fig knows the route to the Tower better than any GPS by now.
Because before Fig became Bucky’s wake-up call, he’d been your little courier. After that night, you’d send love letters, and Fig would ferry the between the tea shop and the Tower.
You could’ve just texted, of course, but it was different with physical notes. It was tangible, permanent, and Bucky loved it because he could tuck in a pocket and reread on long nights.
The others at the Tower teased him relentlessly for it. Alexei once caught him tucking one of your notes into the chest pocket of his jacket before a briefing, and the cutesy-laughter didn’t stop for weeks.
Not that he cared.
Still, that’s how the team had learned what you were, too. Somewhere between the delicate wax seals, the faint scent of herbs clinging to the envelopes, and Fig swooping in and out like he owned the place, they figured you were a witch.
Oh that, and Strange barged in while Ava and Bob was in one day with a little dragon-like creature, begging for a magical anaesthetic mix that could knock it out enough for Strange to surgically remove a magical thorn from its spine.
And oddly, once the word was out, it wasn’t a scandal. Everyone just sorta accepted it. You supposed that had seen weirder things.
From the bedpost, Fig let out another bossy chirp.
“Living room, Fig,” you called gently. “We’ll be out in a bit.”
The little bird gave a final huff (or as close as a bird could manage) and fluttered off, leaving your bedroom.
Bucky shifted closer again, wrapping you in his arms and resting his chin on your shoulder. “Y’know,” he started. “We could use a witch on missions.”
You snorted, swatting his chest. “Oh sure. What am I gonna do, force-feed an evil secret agent truth potion?”
“Could work,” he said, deadpan.
You gave him a playful look. “I have a shop to open in an hour.”
“Mean,” he whispered, but he didn’t let go of you.
You brushed your hand through his hair fondly. “Clingy.”
“Yeah, well,” he admitted, not a single filter between his mind and his mouth as his metal arm rubbed gentled circles on your hip, “I love you.”
The words landed between you so naturally that you almost missed it.
This was the first time he ever said it.
You blinked at him. “What?”
He blinked back, suddenly aware of what he’d said. But then he nodded. “I… I do love you.”
Oh.
Wow.
“I love you too.” You smiled
And a grin emerged across his face. It was boyish and almost shy, and it was worth every bit of the waiting.
He kissed you again, nothing rushed, before Fig’s chirp echoed from the living room.
“Your alarm clock is impatient,” you muttered against his lips.
Bucky groaned into your mouth. “Can’t even enjoy sayin’ it for the first time without him chirping in.”
Fig chirped again but this time he flew out of the window, as if saying, I’ll tell Walker you’re going to be late again.
As his hands found your hips, you realised, boy, was he going to be very late.
pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader.
mcu timeline. tfatws.
synopsis. you and bucky are friends... or, at least you were 2 months ago, before he cut all contact. if you had known an injury and a hostage situation was all you needed to finally get some answers out of the stubborn soldier, you would have handed yourself over to karli morgenthau months ago. requested through dm by @theslayerofthevampires
warnings. smut ( unprotected piv, shower sex, silly/sappy sex, doggy style, clit play, switch!bucky with mentions/callbacks to sub!bucky, electricity kink? bestie idk but bucky's gone and got himself his own personal shock collar aka you, implied choking kink - m receiving ) , no use of y/n, reader+bucky's pov, ex-friends to lovers, mutant!reader, ex-avenger!reader, nurse!reader, slow burn, mutual pining/yearning, protectiveness, arguments, does this count as hurt/comfort? idk, implied anxiety+panic attacks, trauma, hostage situations, vomit, canon violence, fire, injuries, blood, mentions of death, angst, fluff, one (1) joke about electro-shock therapy & one (1) use of the word cripple, lord(e) free me from the hell of writing action scenes 😩. this fic ghosts over many of the events in tfatws, please keep this in mind while reading as it could effect it’s readability/the flow of the plot if you are unfamiliar with the events of the show!
reader inclusivity. the reader in this fic is implied to have been part of the same program as wanda and pietro, i'm not the best at describing superpowers but, basically, she can manipulate and conjure energy/electricity through her hands. the request did not make it clear if smut was wanted, so i included it at the end of the fic so anyone who doesn't want to read it can skip it <3
wordcount. 11.9k
hyde's input. diva down, y'all, send help (it's been a sad week so i decided to haunt y'all with my presence)
fic playlist,, for anyone who cares 👉🏻👈🏻
besties aka taglist. @yes-ilovetowrite @strawberryforks
The last time you saw Bucky Barnes, he broke your heart.
Factually, this statement is inaccurate. You could not actually see him when he did it. Yawns have lasted longer than the phone-call, an abysmal fourteen seconds of cold, scripted, rehearsed words fed into your ear through a scratched speaker. Then the line went dead and all that remained was the static sound of silence.
“I am no longer the Winter Soldier. I am James ‘Bucky’ Barnes. Befriending you was part of my efforts to make amends. I’m sorry.”
He wasted no time in blocking your number.
Life takes no prisoners, rolling on and demanding you move forward, trudge through the quicksand of confusion before it swallows you whole and condemns you to a lifetime of wondering why.
Why he walked out your life. Why he chose that day to do so. Why he apologised.
The mind can be a wicked thing in times of distress. In the wake of Bucky’s departure, the rose-tinted frame of friendship cracks, allowing all your memories together to spill over the floor. Picking them up and wiping off the dust, you find yourself staring at captured interactions in a new light, different shades of words and shadows over gestures than you originally remember being there.
Had you hurt him, had you been the one to open the exit door, had you done something wrong that night — even now, you are none-the-wiser to what led him to sever ties.
You’ve always hated police stations.
There’s something sinister about them. A stain on the world, too much grey, and white, and blue lit beneath a sterile light. Metal always seems to clang, all voices fight to yell louder than the rest, and there’s a pervasive stench of bleach — like the building is one big, dirty secret the world is trying to wipe its fingerprints from.
Lump in your throat, you stomach your discomfort for the sake of the soldier. As easy as it was for him to block your number, he forgot to scrub you off his legal records. An emergency contact, a trusted confidant the courts had required him to provide as part of the pardoning agreements — a fail-safe, that’s what you are, someone to call up and pin the blame on should the Winter Soldier ever dare come out to play again.
When the call came in, a tempting siren to rip you from the boat of sleep, a sickness flushed over you, mind racing and heart bracing to hear those awful words. Mr Barnes has fallen off the grid. Reflecting on it now, trapped inside a claustrophobic interrogation room, you’re unsure if fiction would have been worse than the reality of the situation.
Mr Barnes has been arrested. As his registered contact, we cannot release him from custody without your signature. Please make yourself available at the earliest convenience and-
“This only works if you’re all willing to be honest,” declares the woman sitting across from you.
With the little facts you learnt about Dr Raynor, you never pictured her to look so… homely. The blouse almost fools you into thinking this isn’t the sharp-tongue, sharper-minded woman the soldier complained so much about.
“Okay, I’ll go first,” you surprise even yourself. The men sitting at each side of you just about snap their necks as they turn your way. “I honestly do not know why I’m here.”
The soldier was never one for grand displays of affections. Nor minute displays, either. His friendship was not one felt through hugs nor pats on the back, but seen in reassuring glances and the kind of smiles that told you he was still relearning how to form the shape with his lips
Knowing all of this, some foolish part of you had still hoped he would have missed you enough these past few months to lose a little of his composure the moment you walked through the station doors. You’ve flown across state lines just to sign him out of jail, for heaven’s sake!
The least he could do is pretend to still care about you.
“Genius here still has you listed as his handler,” Sam mutters. At least he had been happy to see you, throwing an arm over your shoulder and pulling you in for a side-hug, an silent apology in his eyes.
“No,” you adjust yourself atop the uncomfortable chair. It creaks, far too loudly for a room thick with this much silence. “Why I’m here. In this room. Part of this… weird couples therapy session.”
“Because if James has truly been freed from me by dime-store Captain America, he needs to tie up some loose threads before I let him leave,” the man in question can’t, or won’t, even meet your eyes, stare glued to a corner of the room.
Still, you can feel how you’re infecting his peripheral, can see the way his eyes almost drift towards you, like you’re a magnet drawing them in.
“Oh, trust me, I’m no loose thread. James,” his name is a hiss from your tongue, burning with a foreign flavour. He’s always been Bucky to you — he always was Bucky to you. “Cut me off long ago.”
“I know. That’s exactly why you’re here.”
The guerilla therapy session unfolds about as well as one would expect: in a hypnotic disaster, like a car-wreck you can’t quite tear your eyes away from. Dr Raynor adopts methods used on couples, introducing a seemingly simple prompt: “Suppose that while you’re sleeping, a miracle occurs. When you wake up, what is something you would like to see that would make your life better?”
While the two men busy themselves with snark, you bite back your answer. I’d like to go back in time, to two months ago.
Then a soul gazing exercise comes up, and you’re quick to scoot your chair backwards, out of the soldier’s line of sight, a freshly sharpened knife that promises to pierce the plastic wrap around your heart. But distance can’t save you from the crack in his voice.
“And if he was wrong about you then he was wrong about me!” It would have been less painful to have him dig into your chest and rip your heart clean out from it’s cage.
Hand gripping at the chair beneath you, your fingers jump, a silent plea for your composure to dissipate and allow them to lay themselves atop his shoulder, his brutal aversion to comfort be damned.
You reinforce your hold on the chair, instead, and face Sam, who is halfway through a speech in defence of his decisions. With the blink of an eye, he rises to a stand, smacks a hand atop Bucky’s arm, and turns his sights on you.
“You still a human light-bulb?” The teasing nickname awakens an ache in your soul — Tony used to call you that in the early days of the compound, free for the first time in years and still learning to control your powers. Warmth sizzles through your veins as a crackling light-source ripples from your hands, burning tendrils of electricity warping and dancing between fingertips. “Good, cause I got a favour to ask.”
With that, Sam leaves and lets the door slams on his way out. You’re a moment away from following after him, curiosity itching at your skin that you know he’ll satisfy — unlike the soldier, Sam actually answers when asked a question.
Dr Raynor is quick to intercept, “Ah, no. You sit back down and face James.”
Body barely lifted from the seat, the drop back down still manages to knock the wind out of your lungs. There’s a chance Bucky is to blame for that, a heavyweight gaze that’s pinned itself somewhere past your shoulder, melting you into a blurry stain within his line of sight — not fully in focus, a nuisance in the way of the wall he seems so interested in.
He blinks. Slowly, carefully, an intentional pause taken as he fills his lungs with a stabilising breath. When eyelids reopen, Bucky is finally looking at you.
Blue eyes that do their best to lack any hint of a soul, frozen and robotic in their stare. Humanity, unbeknownst to the soldier, bleeds out of him. It’s in the tightening of his jaw. It’s in the stiffening of his shoulders. It’s in the widening of his pupils.
You itch to ask him how he’s been.
“Now, James, time for a little honesty. And, do me a favour, would you? Really try. You need this more than you think.” The therapist is a horrible reminder of where you are, why you’re here. Bucky doesn’t even flinch at her voice, long ago conditioned to accept being spoken at instead of spoken to. “You crossed her name off your booklet. Why?”
The golden question.
Three simple letters that have shaped your past, present, and future days since the line dropped and Bucky’s number stopped being the one you could dial at any time of the day. Habits die harder than most would think; you sometimes type out the digits, just to tease yourself with the thought of pressing ‘call’ and actually having it go through.
“I completed the assignment you gave me, doc,” Bucky’s response is directed towards Dr Raynor, yet he remains fixated on you, watching you like a predator stalks its prey — too afraid to turn his back, lest you run back off to the burrows with the rest of the cottontails and strays.
“What I told you to do was make amends,” Dr Raynor crosses her arms over her chest, the image of a mother scolding her rebellious teenage son. Any minute now, you expect she’ll drop the classic ‘not mad, just disappointed’ line. “What you did was make a mess. At least tell me you told her the reason.”
Shame overcomes him, casting his stare down to where gloved hands sit fiddling in his lap.
You breath, and it’s like a building has been dropped on your chest. Skipping breakfast is starting to feel more and more like a strategic decision instead of one made on impulse; the cloud of nausea floating around your oesophagus is but an empty threat, no contents in your stomach for it to projectile rain over Bucky’s scuffed boots.
The soldier won’t answer, so you do it for him, “He didn’t.”
“Really, James? I mean, what have you been taking from our sessions? We both agreed her forgiveness would be monumental in your path to reconciliation-”
“I forgive him,” you interrupt, partially because you can’t stand how the pinch between his eyebrows deepens the more she chastises him, and because, as desperate as you are to understand what dictates Bucky’s decisions, you want to hear it from his own mouth, not from the stranger that’s been assigned to analyse his mind. “If that’s all he needed me for, then he’s got my forgiveness.”
The tips of his brows are just about kissing one another.
The soldier lifts his gaze once more, colliding with the intensity of your studying eyes. Red rims the borders of his, spider-webbed and bloodshot with lack of sleep. Who does he call now, when the nightmares leave him stranded and in need of a human life-jacket?
Selfish as you can be, you hope he at least is calling someone.
His lips part slowly. Cracked and bit ridden, a lack of life stains his mouth. He seems none-the-wiser to the state of it, living like there’s still a muzzle covering that half of his face and shielding his voice from the world.
“I don’t need to know why you’re sorry,” you interrupt him before he can possibly begin. It’s a lie you tell both yourself and him, but if you say it with enough conviction, perhaps you’ll start to believe it. “If you don’t want me in your life, I’m not going to force myself into it.”
The chair screams as your stand from it. His head follows your ascent, bending backwards to maintain eye-contact.
This would be easier were he not so naturally attentive. A weapon built to observe, and watch, and study the movement of others as an act of survival.
Is he trying to survive you?
Or, are you another target he needs to exterminate?
The light flickers overhead, product of your own discomforting thoughts as you let them delve into memories best kept concealed in an airtight safe, where all the bad of your past is free to slaughter one another to death. At the first spark of electricity between fingertips, you clench your first shut.
“I’m not like them, James. And neither are you.”
When the door closes behind you, the interrogation room’s light goes back to a cold white, the colour of one’s breath in the chill of winter. The breath Bucky pulls in is ice, a cool burn down into a hollow chest.
“Sorry doc,” his lips pull tight with dishonesty, pain at the edges of his mouth as he forces them to stretch wider. “I broke rule two.”
If anyone was going to drag you back into the fight, of course it would be Sam Wilson.
You had sworn to never step foot back onto the battlefield after the events with Thanos, the war to end all wars. While victory had been secured and families were reunited, too many faces you’d come to admire and adore had perished. Not into particles of dust, but as lifeless bodies strewn across a muddied field. Casualties that no number of glowing stones and no perfected time travelling device could ever bring back.
Cowardly as it may be, you hung up the mantle of hero. Secured an apartment in New York, enrolled as a nurse, and carved out a life of normalcy. Warmth still flowed through your veins, a daily itch that begged to be unleashed, but you learnt to mute it. Dull it. Serrate the weapon implanted into your DNA.
Befriending the soldier had helped take your mind off of it, gave you both common ground to tip-toe over like a mine-field, an unaddressed understanding between two tortured souls. Then he up and left you to fend for yourself.
You could not return the favour when Sam presented you with his plea, fervour behind each word he described the situation at hand with.
A group of mercenaries turned revolutionaries. Gunning for a good cause, yet turning violent. Altering their bodies with a serum, tearing the fabrics of their being apart and stitching it back together with a strength that did not belong to them. The Flag-Smashers are a force to be reckoned with.
Who better to reckon with them than an escaped super-soldier hating convict, the bionic super-soldier, a retired avenger, and the man who passed on the role of Captain America? From Earth’s mightiest to Earth’s most-unlikely, what a fall from grace your career as a hero has taken.
Let the record show, to whom ever it may so concern, that you were staunchly against the liberation of Zemo.
Voicing this was futile, of course, when the man himself was already stepping into the limited light of the warehouse and shooting all three of you an easy smile, like he had not just changed out of an orange jumpsuit.
Through high and low, in a plane bound towards Madripoor and on the ground running from bounty-hunters convinced you had a hand in killing Selby, Bucky has not spoken to you once. You’ve heard his voice, through one-word answers to a cautious Sam and in threats aimed at Zemo, but not once has it been directed to you.
Nor have his eyes, until now.
Neon strobes flash all around you, a dizzying sight that has you craving a drink and the permission to capture the light source and watch it implode on itself. Sharon’s instructions had been to blend in, unfortunately, so you weave through bodies and ignore the pain blooming from your temples.
You feel Bucky’s attention before you spot him. It hovers over you like a force-field, a protective bubble that seems to push the surrounding crowd one step back, heads turning to glance over their shoulders at the man, the myth, the nightmare. The Winter Solider, back pressed to a wall and arms crossed over his chest.
Someone did not get the memo on blending in.
A hand brushes against you. First a whisper of a touch, the kind that makes you doubt you’ve even felt it. And then it’s as loud as a scream, a faceless limb curling over the curve of your waist and entrapping you back against the stiff outline of a stranger. Possessive, yet inviting, coaxing you to sway in a rhythmless pattern to the music blaring throughout the room.
One look across at where he stands is all it takes for Bucky to move. On the prowl, he drifts through the crowd, finding pockets of space to slip past strangers. It triggers a reaction in you, one that yearns to prove you don’t need his help.
Super-powers on lock-down, you lay your own hand atop the stranger’s, who entangles their fingers into the fabric of your clothing and presses themselves closer to you, like they’ve spotted the green-light they were looking for to smother themselves against you. One steadying breath and a quiet mantra on repeat in your mind — disarm, disengage, disappear — you launch your attack.
Taking a deathly grip, you feel as the stranger’s hands mould beneath it. There’s an uncomfortable grunt at your back, one that deepens as you twist a wrist and pair it with a stomp of your foot atop their own. Free from any unwanted touch, you dash out into the crowd, leaving a slew of foreign curses and an aching hand behind.
You steal a look over your shoulder, confirm no one is following you, and run head first into someone else.
The chill of vibranium kisses one elbow, while the heat of flesh burns the other. When your eyes meet, the soldier appears more rattled than you. The red flush in his eyes has grown darker since the police station, the dusting of facial hair now a shadow of brown over his face.
It takes you a moment to register the shake in his hand.
Nearly unnoticeable, Bucky fails to ground himself in your skin. There’s no method behind his breathing, no in and out, no dance of the rise and fall of a chest. Instead, his breathing is scrambled all over the place; inhaling on what should be an exhale, and holding far longer than ordinary lungs would deem survivable.
You’re not sure he’ll hear you over the music. You’re not sure you want him to.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” the first thing he’s said to you in months and it’s a lie.
You don’t call him out on it.
You don’t let him rest thinking you believe it, either.
You do press a hand to his heart.
It races beneath cotton, beneath his suit jacket. A marathon of chaos thrumming throughout his arteries, spreading something dangerous to every cell that encompasses him.
And now he’s watching you, pinning you with a look so disturbed and vulnerable that you ache to flea. From him, with him. A game of tug-of-war between your desires and rationale.
Swallowing down a mouthful of your own nerves, you match the panic in his eyes with a softening of your own. Pressure against his chest, your free hand guides his to lay flat against your sternum.
And then you inhale, slowly, let him feel the rush of air expanding your lungs beneath his fingerprints. He tries, and fails, to do the same.
Holding your breath, you mouth a slow count of seven, making sure he reads over the words you don’t quite speak, and then you exhale. Slower than he does, chest deflating beneath his hand.
Where failure occurs, dust yourself off and try again. That’s exactly what you do with him, beginning a second inhale and forcing him to feel it once more.
Three, four, five breaths are pulled and pushed out both your lungs, slow motions amongst a crowd of pounding hearts. The soldier falls in line, synching himself to the timing of your rise and fall. Upon inhales, the distance between you both diminishes, bodies lingering closer for a counted pause in time, until you exhale and the space returns.
Your hand loosens atop his own upon the sixth breath. Bucky holds it still against your chest, not even a twitch of a finger. Your eyes widen, brows jumping with the proposal of an unspoken question, a nonverbal check-in. He nods, affirmative and slow, confirming the calming of his restless soul.
As you itch to step back, his metal hand clasps over the one atop his chest. You yield to his grasp, let him drag it north to where metal dangles from a chain. The soldier encases both of you around the dog-tags, a tight squeeze that brings no physical harm yet terrorises you with the branding of his name into your skin.
Your breathing is now the one out of line, falling behind in the steady pace you set.
The shape of your name forms over his lips. Before he can speak it, Sam beats him to it, emerging from the left with Zemo hot on his trails and the claim that Sharon has found the intel you were all hoping for.
Hours later, dodging bullets and taking cover amongst shipping containers, it remains stained over your palm.
James Buchanan Barnes.
Chaos does as chaos does best: it spreads.
You chase after it alongside the three men, trailing from one end of the Earth to another. Exhaustion stitches itself into your features, becomes a prominent descriptor for your face. And the silence between you and Bucky persists.
The avoidance is purposeful now, on both each other’s part. An agreement to keep out the other’s way. Yet presence is not something either of you can suppress.
When lights flicker on through every room he enters, Bucky says nothing.
And, when you wake up each morning to find an extra blanket shielding you from the cold, you say nothing.
Somewhere in Europe, an early morning, all hell breaks loose. Minutes from talking down the leader of the Flag-Smashers, Sam has the rug pulled out from beneath his feet by a self-entitled John Walker, storming on the scene with a barrel pointed at the girl’s head and a demand to surrender.
The ensuing events are a blur. An unchoreographed chase-down. Each pounding of your feet to the ground, the electricity pleading to be set free grew louder, warmer, a constant buzz frying your brain with the need for release. Another defeat notched onto all your belts, your meagre team of four dragged itself back to the Baron’s home.
Another fight awaited you there.
The Dora Milaje had their sights set on Zemo, yet they wound up wrestling against Walker and his sidekick. Despite your intentions to remain out of the fight, Sam and Bucky’s interference landed you a bruised cheek and your hands pinned behind your back.
You let the warrior fool herself into believing she immobilised your powers when, in truth, you never intended on using them.
Walker’s bruised ego and Zemo’s fleeing later, the silence between you and the soldier shatters.
“You’re bleeding,” of course you’re the one who has to swing the verbal axe.
Unaware of his injury, Bucky begins to inspect himself. He spots it in the mirror: a gash down his right shoulder blade.
“It’s a flesh wound,” and he’s an idiot, with skin torn open and spilling a river of red into the black cotton of his shirt.
“It would be embarrassing for a super-soldier and war veteran to die from tetanus,” so, maybe you’re being a slight hypochondriac. Working the wards does that to a person, steals any room for doubt when it comes to health and safety. “Don’t be so bull-headed, come here.”
Sam long gone in search of a calming breath and the will to not implode with anger, only you two fill the space of Zemo’s hideout. No other eyes are there to witness nor question as the soldier sits quietly in a bar stool, shirt off and back facing you.
A bowl of cold water and a damp rag, you swipe over drying blood and watch it revive itself, pink rivulets rolling down the stretch of his skin. You catch them before they can reach the waistband of his jeans, and accidentally brush a finger over the silvery mark of a scar long healed yet the pain it brings remains fresh.
You almost apologise.
Bucky almost says it’s okay, your hands could never hurt him.
Instead, you return focus to his open wound and he clamps his teeth down on his tongue.
The mending process is impromptu, the ultimate display of working with what you have. Or, rather, what you find. A half-drunken bottle of vodka to cleanse the wound, a sewing kit to stitch the flesh back together, a bandage to dress it.
The soldier struggles to dress, incapable of angling his arm correctly and pulling the fabric of a fresh shirt over his skin. Against your better judgement, you step in and help, looping over his head and feeding his arm through the sleeve.
“Thanks,” his smile is sheepish, false. A placeholder for whatever he’s really feeling. It sparks something in your heart. Something ugly, and dangerous, looming over all four chambers of the delicate organ, and feeding itself into your bloodstream. “I forget how hard the Dora Milaje hit-”
“Don’t talk to me like we’re friends,” it snaps out of you, cruel and aiming right for the soldier with intentions of killing the smile on his face. It doesn’t even waver but his eyes do, sinking to the floor like a kicked puppy. You feel sick with pity, yet ripe with anger. “Not after putting so much effort into proving we’re not.”
“You’re right,” why doesn’t it fill you with victory to hear him say it? “I’m sorry.”
“Stop!” You get him to flinch, but at what cost? It only deepens the nausea in your soul. Still, you press on with irate words. “I’m sick of hearing you apologise. When have I ever asked you to be sorry?”
“It’s not something you ask,” he bites the inside of his cheek. “It’s something you’re owed.”
“You know what? Yes, I am owed an apology!” The pacing begins before you truly realise, boots scuffing over carpet and kicking up a storm in their wake. “Two months, Bucky! I haven’t heard from you in two months! And then I come here, I go out of my way to give up the peace I’ve worked so hard to bring into my life, and you won’t even look me in the eye!”
Tears sting, blurring your vision yet you won’t let the dam break, won’t let him see you so emotional when he’s the poster boy for stoicism. Fog in your eyes, you fail to notice the way his are suddenly pinned to you, following the back and forth pattern your steps engrave into the floor.
“I mean, who does that?” The words are practically ripped from you, painful as you bring them into fruition. Heaviness clogs your throat with a sob, another degree of distraught you have to fight to contain, reducing your voice to a whisper. “I thought we were friends.”
You’re not exactly sure what reaction you were hoping for.
A yelp of pain? A howl of anger? A whimper of sadness? Backed into a corner and speared by you words, the soldier gives you no such thing. He just stares.
Wide-eyed, unblinking, slow-breathing.
“If I deserve an apology, you deserve a ‘thank you’.” The laughter that tears through your chest possess not a trickle of humour. Instead there’s only grief, mourning for the friendship he left to rot. Dead and unburied, you’ve wandered the last few months desiccating through the streets of the city. Now, you reach for the knife he placed in your back and turn it on him instead. “Thank you for reminding me I can sleep through the night, if you’re not there to tear me away from it. Thank you for showing me I’m capable of doing this all on my own. Thank you for liberating me from… this. Us.”
As high as you get off of cruelty, the comedown is a complete crash of your system. Shoulders that deflate, hands that squeeze shut, and lights that flicker like an electrical storm. When one of the light-bulbs shatters under the heat of your ire, your eyes flinch shut and the barrier of tears snaps at last.
The first to roll is the warmest, lulling you in with the promise of oxytocin.
Bucky inches closer and, on reflex, you flinch back. Images flash quicker than all the surrounding lights, memories of the early days. Confinement, experiments, men in lab-coats.
You never forget the first life you take. In your case, you knew nothing about him. Not his name, not his age, not his favourite colour nor his dearest relative. All you have to remember him by is the smell of his body, blood spilling through every orifice and the stench of electricity convulsing his limp body.
Before the guilt could fully creep in, one of the lab-coats clapped and set off a chain reaction, overcome with a joy that did not match the territory of having just watched their colleague unexpectedly die at the hands of a child.
Of course, you were no longer a child to them, but a weapon.
“There’s something wrong with me,” Bucky starts, and pauses instantly to pull himself together, armour almost cracking under the pressure to reach out and wipe the next tear away before it can trail down your face. “Something in me, it… It hungers. I can’t watch it devour you.”
You hiccup over a sob, the gentle tone of his voice a blanket over the chaos of another light smashing. The soldier does not even react, he just keeps looking at you.
“What does that even mean?”
“It means that everyone I’ve ever cared about has either died,” the first thorn in his field of roses appears, a twinge of distress staining the calm of his voice. Not fear of your powers, but a plea to be understood. “Or I’ve made them hate me through hurting them. I can’t watch that happen to you.”
“Don’t worry,” you wipe at your cheek with the back of your hand, a futile attempt to dry tears that only spread further over your skin. “You hurt me by making me hate you.”
The events in which your life falls apart are quite simple.
First, there’s a threat posed against Sam’s sister. Second, an agreement to meet with Karli Morgenthau — she demands an audience of one, Sam brings her three: Bucky, him, and you. Third, Cadet America and Battlestar Galactica — or whatever John Walker and Lemar Hoskins are running around calling themselves… The point is, they show up uninvited and wreak havoc. Fourth, a fight ensues.
Despite the work put into suppressing that tingle in your bones, it feels good to finally let it loose.
No fear of frying someone into cardiac arrest, the strength that courses through the Flag-Smashers acts as a padding to your touch. For every punch thrown your way, you block it with an electrifying grip, hand closing over fists and watching as faces flush with fear while you zap a bolt of light through them.
A fist flies at you from the right, crashing against your cheek with a crunch that has your jaw aching and open, a thrum of pain echoing up the side of your face. Before you can unload the ball of electricity conjured in your hand, a Vibranium one interferes, grabbing your attacker by the scuff of their neck and knocking them unconscious.
“You’re okay,” the words carry relief, but it’s unclear who they’re aimed at: you or him. Barely two days have passed since you confronted him, yet Bucky stands before you now, right hand inspecting your jaw, like nothing between you has changed. Like these last few months have been nothing but a bad dream that he’s finally called and pulled you out of. “‘S not broken, just gonna bruise.”
If you have the will to answer, you’re not given the chance.
The fight around you both continues, three fighters caging you against one another. Back to back, you fight your way through them. Bucky is all brawl, fists thrown with his entire weight behind them and slamming into the Flag-Smashers with the intention to deescalate, not kill. You, on the other hand, continue the approach of defence, waiting for them to attack first before you unleash shock-waves over their system.
The fighting comes to stand-still at the first casualty. Lamar lays slumped over, a fountain of blood pouring from his mouth as he stares onward, void of life.
“Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey... c’mon... Lemar, Lemar, Lemar, Lemar, Lemar...” Walker’s voice fills the hall, frantic with denial as he checks over his fallen friend.
At Karli’s command, Lemar’s killer flees the scene. Walker is hot on his trail, tightening his grip on the shield of America as devastation and heartbreak settles over him in a blinding cloud. Bucky moves without much thought, dashing to follow the fight and capturing the attention of a handful of Flag-Smashers.
Too many for the soldier to take on his own, instinct comes over you as you raise both hands, eyes squeezing shut in an attempt to channel the power from every flickering light, every outsource of electricity scattered throughout the dilapidated building.
Pain. It infects you like a poison, like nothing you’ve ever felt before. Your eyes fly open with a cry, and find Karli’s hands crushing one of yours in both their grasp, bones snapping like twigs under her strength. The amber tendrils flicker in your other hand, unruly and unwilling to bend to the demand of shocking her, as the super soldier continues to hold you within her deadly grip.
“I’m sorry,” the girl is so soft spoken, you want to believe her. “But I can’t let you get in my way.”
The stitching of your shirt’s neckline snaps beneath Karli’s grip. You barely have time to spew any version of Bucky’s name before she slams her forehead into yours.
The light in your palm burns out and the world goes dark.
There’s this street in Brooklyn.
The floor is cobblestone and uneven, a hazard to cross when rain runs a river over it. Trash compacts and lives deep within the crevices that divide road and sidewalk. Business ends before twenty-two hundred hours, a paradox living within the city that never sleeps. No light guides the way — burnt out decades ago, the streetlamps sit as a landmark of time and not as a beacon of safety.
“You know,” you muse, the midnight breeze brushing over your skin in a sweet caress. “You don’t have to walk me home every time we go out.”
“This street is darker than my past. It’s the least I can do.”
“You don’t have to worry about my safety,” even so, the thought heats up your cheeks. “I’m a walking taser, remember?”
“How could I forget?” Not even you can help but laugh, reminiscing your first encounter. Amidst the chaos of the Sokovia accords, his feet escaped confinement and your hands wrapped around his throat in a mock shock-collar. “It’s not your safety I worry about. Someone’s got to be there to call an ambulance when you electrocute a poor unsuspecting criminal.”
Despite the strength that separates him from the confines of normalcy, Bucky gives in to the shove you give his shoulder, drifting several steps out into the empty road only to be sucked back into your orbit, an arm hooking over your shoulders and offering an apologetic pat.
Both your strides grow shorter as your building comes closer. If you hadn’t already taken two unnecessary laps in the search of more time, you’d ask for another walk around the block. But it’s late, way past any reasonable hour, and he has therapy in the morning. You can’t take more from him.
“I want to,” the soldier confesses, gentle tongue and smiling mouth forming the words. “That’s why I walk you home. Know you don’t need me to, but I think I need it.”
A comforting quiet carries you both the rest of the way, delicate thuds echoing as you travel up the steps to your building’s doorway. A moment of panic passes over you as you struggle to find your keys, hand rustling through your purse in search of the precious metal, only for something to jingle in Bucky’s grasp.
“Lookin’ for these?” He drops them into your open palm, a vibranium key-chain glinting beneath the moonlight — a souvenir from his recent visit to Wakanda, Shuri made sure to send you a scathing text detailing how the soldier blackmailed her into making it. “You left them on the bar. Wanna tell me again how you don’t need me?”
“Technically, I never said that,” while you verbally push at his buttons, your pointer finger pushes on his chest. Solid and warm, you’re overcome with a foreign urge. “But, oh thank you, my knight in vibranium armour!”
Standing one-step higher than Bucky, you meet no difficulty in throwing your arms around his neck and pulling him in for a hug. He, on the other hand, goes stiff as a board, smile melting into a thin line as the rest of him freezes. You double down in light of his non-reciprocation, squeezing your arms a little tighter behind his neck and leaning further over the ledge of the step — nothing but trust for the soldier as you unload the responsibility of bearing your body onto him.
Slowly, the arms glued to his side loosen. Rise over your mid-back. Take their own hold around you. His movements are awkward and full of insecurity — when was the last time he was hugged?
You let him decide when enough is enough, unfurl your arms when his slip from your waist. As you shuffle back over the step, however, the moonlight catches over something else.
“Oh, I forgot,” he’s receptive to your voice, patient as he waits for you to continue. “The book I’m reading, it’s set during a fictional war and, well… I’m sorry if this is a bit silly but, do soldiers really gift their dog-tags to people?”
There’s every chance the question catches him more off-guard than the hug you just imposed on him, for it takes a few second for him to answer.
“Sometimes, yeah,” he nods to his own words, flesh hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “To family, friends… Loved-ones. The tags, they have our names, our whole identity engraved on a metal plate. I guess that’s why they usually go the person you’d want to be remembered by the most.”
The beauty in your friendship has always been the lack of curiosity. A safe haven from each other’s histories; neither of you ask things the other would not want to remember.
And so, you swear you do not mean to pry.
“Do you have anyone like that?”
Instead of a name, the soldier gives you a look.
A single trail of his gaze down your face, something unspoken etched into the way his forehead wrinkles with a frown and his throat swallows.
“It’s late,” the distance between you both remains the same, yet his voice sounds miles away. Gone. Removed. Detached. “You should go up. I’ll call you in the morning.”
And then you never see him again…
You wake with an itch in your palm. World still shutout behind the darkness of eyelids, a pained groan coughs out of you when you try and close your fist. Fingers, swollen and bruised, brush against one another in a failing attempt to curl inwards.
“I’m tryin’ to help,” a voice calls out from the left. “Bit pointless if you keep movin’.”
Consciousness crashes down on you like a sledgehammer, reawakening your nerve endings to every ache and throb, ghosts from a fight long gone and passed.
You let the light seep back in, eyes peeling open to face the rays of warmth piercing through a shattered window. But your veins feel empty of it, hollow as you attempt to conjure that familiar lick of heat.
Karli Morgenthau sits at your bedside — a dirty mattress on the floor — gauze threaded through her fingers as she uses it to tighten a plank of wood to your crushed hand, broken bones screaming out in pain as she forces the fingers flat. A makeshift cast, the kind one would expect to be given while shackled in the hideout of an evil mastermind.
Except, no cuffs bite at your wrists and there’s no inch of her that appears evil. She’s just a girl, barely grown past a child, and the weight of the world has already engraved itself into her tired face.
“Where are we?” Your own voice rings in your head.
“The city you call home,” Morgenthau offers up freely, securing the bandage with a knot.
What she lacks in nursing skills, she makes up for with her bedside manners, unscrewing a bottle of water and holding it out for you. Rising slow, you take hold of the plastic and welcome the sweet relief of moisture to sandpapered lips.
Barely a sip slips down your throat before you gag, body rejecting it and spewing down your chin. The pounding in your head feels like it grows tenfold.
“How long was I asleep?”
“A day or so,” Karli surprises you, delivering soft pats against your back and aiding you in your throat’s need to relieve itself of the burning bile. “You’ve been slippin’ in and out, especially on the plane. D’you know you talk in your sleep?”
The dream replays in a montage, memories of Bucky and you on that dark street stabbing you in the gut with embarrassment. What nonsense had you said aloud?
“I think I’m concussed,” unbroken fingers push into your temple, massaging in a circular motion as you try to coax the agony out of your skull. “You need to get me to a hospital.”
“I can’t do that,” the girl’s demeanour shifts, the once soft stare of a child lost in a sea of madness now hardening with ice and sending a chill down your spine. “You’re my leverage, it’s the only way to keep your friends in line.”
“Karli,” as calm as you keep your voice, there’s panic coursing through your system. Your body won’t cooperate; you can’t summon a single wisp of electricity in your non-maimed hand. “This could kill me. And if I die, my blood is on your hands. Are you sure you can live with that?”
“We’re so close, don’t you get it?” Any sense housed within her has departed, leaving nothing but a crazed look upon her features. “The GRC are meeting tonight. We’re going to put an end to the Patch Act, and then we’ll set you free.”
Outside the window, New York is sunny. A blue sky with no clouds, birds fly through the air, and the Sun paints a golden hue over every inch of land it touches.
It wouldn’t be a bad day to die.
Bucky feels like he’s choking.
Perhaps his jacket is too tight, leather wrapped around him like a casket and confining him beneath the rigid material. Maybe adrenaline is stealing his breath, using it as fuel to propel him onwards through the GRC building, eyes scouring for anyone running around like a headless chicken to direct them towards safety. Or, possibly, his lungs can’t remember how to pull in air when you’re not around.
Days have blurred together. Nights have been restless. Helpless and hopeless, it’s taken everything to not turn towards a familiar comfort in your time of danger. A part of him longs for a time where those ten words still hovered over him like a threat, so he could command Sam to unleash the colder side of him and send him on one last mission.
The Soldier would have had you back by now.
Without him, Bucky is nothing but a man frozen in time. A veteran, a cripple, and a man who’s woken every day with torment in his chest.
Self-inflicted, the kind of pain one can only hope to heal with pressure and time.
There’s a call of the soldier’s name. A stranger wrapped in a pencil skirt and sporting a badge around her neck passes him a phone, declaring the call is for him. Before speaker even meets ear, Bucky knows who awaits him on the other end.
“Ain't you tired of fightin’ for the wrong side, Mr Barnes?”
“I've done this before, kid,” lights flash outside the windows, red and blue, and oh so reminiscent of that dance floor in Madripoor. For a moment, he feels you on his chest, like a phantom limb, lulling it to rise and fall with the rhythm of your own. “I know how it ends.”
“It doesn’t matter if I don’t survive this. I’m fightin’ for somethin’ bigger than myself.” Karli spits down the line as he trudges down a flight of stairs. “And with all the bodies you’ve collected, have you ever been able to say the same?”
That strikes a nerve.
Bucky resists the bait as well as he can, “You don’t think I ever fought for something bigger than myself? That’s all I ever try to do, and I failed twice.”
“Three times, if you think about it hard enough. Do you think she’d still be willing to die for you,” his muscles stiffen, every bone in his body locks, and his grip tightens on the phone. “If she knew what you did?”
“I don’t know what you’re-”
“Yes, you do. I’ll do you a favour and tell’er all about it, right before I kill her.”
“Touch a hair on her head and there won’t be anywhere far enough you can run that I won’t find you,” he can’t bring himself to say your name, a cocktail of fear and desperation. Karli can tell you his dirty secret. She can tell the whole world, for all he cares. What she can’t do, what he won’t survive her doing is taking you from this world. His world. “You don’t want to do this, Karli.”
“You’re right, I don’t.” Finally, a full breath of air. “Well, thank you. I'm glad you took my call. You've been a big help.”
The line drops and Bucky’s left with nothing but his own reflection, a face of agony in the window as he realises that, despite his efforts, he took the bait.
Hook, line, and sinker.
When you were a child, you loved the smell of gasoline.
Your father was a busy man. Time with him was rare, fleeting, something you had to fight to obtain. Being his daughter did not grant you premier access to him, you had to compete alongside all of his business associates; all those men in suits versus a little girl with skinned knees.
But road-trips, those were the only instance where he put down the pager and gave you all the love and attention any normal father would. Gas stations became a vision of home on the horizon, the promise of lukewarm meals, toilets that had never once been cleaned, and the sweet, sweet burn of petroleum deteriorating your brain cells.
The vehicle you sit in now is not manned by your father, yet it smells of gasoline.
Blindfolded and bound, your body sways blindly as tires screech over asphalt. Polyester slices at your neck, seatbelt fastened too tightly against your body. You know better than to complain.
It’s amazing how quickly old survival instincts return, slipping on like a cable-knit sweater you’d long kicked under the bed and forgotten about. You may not be in a literal cage anymore, dragged out for a routine poke and prod of chemicals and needles, but the process of being a hostage, all these years later, remains the same: sit still, be quiet, and do as you’re told.
What do you do, however, when your captor abandons you?
Bedlam overruns the scene. The vehicle comes to a halt, a door slams to your left, heat begins to pool over your skin. At first you tell yourself it’s nerves, a marker of the anxiety coursing in your veins. But it grows warmer, the air around you scolding to breathe and riddled with smoke.
There’s a ruckus of voices, all loud and none familiar, as several bangs ring out.
“Hold on!” A voice stands out amongst the noise.
Fists bang against metal and glass, pounding over and over, desperation thrown behind every punch. Hinges screech and snap as a door is pried open at the back of the vehicle, followed by the flee of feet over a metal body.
“Go, go,” the liberator of captives commands.
You test your own voice, a wail of distress that’s not loud enough, and your chances of being saved are halved.
Breathing grows weaker as the heat grows higher, a fire burning bright enough you see it in flashes behind the dark of your eye-covering.
“Thank you for saving us,” sleep calls to you through the rush of strangers, begging you to let yourself drift off back to that street in Brooklyn. “But there’s a girl! She’s trapped in the passenger seat!”
Eyelids reunite as your head lolls to the side, a ringing starting back up in your ears at the same time as the throb in your head. Your hand went numb hours ago, wrapped in gauze and tied tightly to your other. The voice of resilience inside your head, one that sounds alarmingly like a certain soldier, is screaming at you to fight.
To pry your lungs open with air. To tear your eyes open again. To let the buzz of electricity simmer from beneath your nail-beds, electrifying your touch enough to burn the bindings scratching at your wrists and to tear the blindfold from your face.
Your attempts leave you empty-handed, control lost from the moment Karli crushed one of your palms, abandoned in a time of need by your own powers.
All that pressure has put Bucky in a race against time.
Fire blazing on along the right side of the getaway car, smoke grows thicker as he rounds the driver’s side. Behind the window lays a cloud of grey, a storm that rolls in and obscures his view of the passenger seat. There’s a blurry shape, a figure slumped over.
The soldier’s fist slams through the glass.
And then he’s reaching inside, two hands grappling a hold of the passenger and hauling her over the van’s console. It’s messy, and graceless, and no doubt a bruising ordeal as he takes the weightless body in his embrace.
Brain switched off to outside stimulus, the only thought that passes through him is safety, get away from the ticking time bomb that is the burning van. Only then can he concern himself with trivial matters, like the state of the girl in his arms.
The girl who stirs, face turning into his chest as her ribs shake with the assault of a coughing fit. The girl whose blindfold slips down her nose and pools around her neck, a noose made of rags. The girl who’s capable of putting him into a state of cardiac arrest with one look alone, starlight sewn into the sparkle of her eyes.
“Took you long enough to rescue me,” you croak up at him between a cough. “Knight in vibranium armour.”
Bucky lowers your feet to the ground at your own unspoken request, squirming in his hold until the tips of your toes step over solid road and he’s loosening the bindings around your wrist.
If the world around you is at war, the soldier is dodging draft, too caught up in the battle of assessing what state you’re in. Wrinkled clothes, and dried blood, and the ash of a fire that’s still burning behind him. A grin creeps onto your face and sparks uproar in his chest.
An overjoyed imposter in a crowd of disaster, something in the stretch of your lips feels off; the corners do not quite reach your eyes. Exhausted and drained, pupils that stare past his own and plea for the gratification of sleep, the blessing of rest.
“Need you to follow my hand,” Bucky can’t help himself, palm cradling your face and a thumb soothing over the bags weighing heavy on your eyes. A cold sweat clings to your skin. “Think you can do that for me, darling?”
“Don’t call me that,” the words fizzle out into a giggle. With a slow wave of his metal hand, he watches as your stare stutters along in a failing attempt to catch up with his movements. “Makes my heart-”
You cut yourself off, body melting against his own.
Bucky won’t let himself make the same mistake, won’t have this moment be a repeat of that night in Brooklyn where his arms froze at his side instead of satisfying the craving he’d been feeling for months, scratching the itch to wrap you in his embrace.
The soldier’s arms slot around you with practised ease, like a lock sliding into place to conceal the greatest treasure. Touching you spreads warmth not only over his hands, but his soul, at long-last finding a breath of ease after months of drowning in himself. Slumping deeper into him, Bucky accepts you with every fibre of his being, heart lurching into his throat as he shuts out the chaos, for just a moment, and rests his head stop your own.
“Bucky.”
“Gimme a little longer,” his mumbles into your scalp, resisting the urge to tighten his biceps as the full weight of you presses into him. “Just wanna hold you, feel you’re okay.”
Karli and all the rest can wait.
If a fight is what they want, he’ll give them it. He’ll kick, and punch, and do all that he can to hold off until back-up arrives — Sam is somewhere out there, wings spread and a shield at his back. But not now.
Now, he’s going to memorise the song your heart sings, and anchor his worry in the wholeness of your existence, and sync his inhales to your exhales.
“Bucky, it hurts,” foolishly, he hums in response, not yet cognisant of what you said.
Until your breath trips over itself.
He lets the world back in too quickly, numbing his vision with flashing lights and a shadow cast from a Flag-Smasher standing ten paces behind you and sporting shock all over his demeanour. When you come into focus, he’s staring down at your back and bearing witness to the spreading of a disease, a dark mass spreading over grey cotton.
And his hands… They’re not just warm, but scolding. Contaminated with a peculiar wetness that’s viscous and sticky, slipping between the crevices of his fingers like a syrup, thick streams that drip from his skin and stain the road a darker shade of black.
Bucky catches you as your knees buckle, soaking hands submerging themselves back into a pond of blood. The logical part of his brain is failing him. Lower-rib, left side, rebar impaled through shirt and flesh. So much blood. Too much blood. It is your spleen? It has to be your spleen.
He’s back to drowning again.
“Hey, hey,” he whispers, forcing down the lump in his throat as he pulls back to find you calm, not a single ripple in your features while tears surface over his own. “Eyes on me, remember? Follow my hand.”
Metal plates scream into place as he raises the vibranium to the level of your face, repeating a waving motion. At your back, the stain of you on his flesh is a bloodbath, a sickening sight he knows better than to subject you to.
Bucky’s own private hell grows.
Distant yells move closer as he tunes back into the insanity swirling around you both. Flag-Smashers are fighting tooth and nail with John Walker, flames have completely engulfed the wreckage of the van he pulled you from, and, worst of all, the other vehicle of hostages dangles by a thread atop the shell of a building, bars of metal that are slowly bending beneath the weight of wheels.
“You have to go,” you speak calmly, like every second that passes isn’t making it harder to stand up straight.
“No.”
“You have to stop them-”
“No!” Bucky shakes his head, hoping to block out the screeching of metal and the slamming of fists against skin. He just wants to hear you. “I’m gonna get you somewhere safe, okay? Get you in an ambulance and to a hospital. And I know you hate being a patient but, you don’t gotta worry ‘cause I’ll be there to hold your hand and-”
“Bucky,” there you are again, pushing him away and forcing him to let the noise of everybody else’s terror in, like he too isn’t watching his fears come to life before him. “Those people need you, please.”
“But I need you.”
Unlatched from him at last, you drift a few steps back, head shaking when he tries to reach for you.
A handful of civilians, the very same faces Bucky rescued from that burning van, crowd around you, carefully slipping your arms over their shoulders and hauling your slumping figure up.
“I’m fine,” you choke over a sob, tears to match his own sliding down your cheeks. “Go.”
All Bucky has ever tried to do is the right thing. He chased down the hostages. He pulled them from the van, a man even thanked him for saving them. So, why does it feel like he’s failed once again?
The taste of stale breath.
The smell of peonies.
The sound of a clock.
The touch of a paper gown.
The sight of the soldier at your bedside, one arm folded over the bed and under his head, and the other outstretched, an inch or two of space living between where his fingers end and yours begin.
Bucky snores, a soft whistle floating out with each exhale, while a monitor turns the beat of your heart into a muted beep, a green line pinging across the screen. The muscles in your neck are stiff, protesting as you try to get a closer look at him, but the moon is out and no light is on; you’re left to admire the shadows cast over his skin and the slow ebb and flow of his breathing.
A hiss shoots to the back of your throat.
Blue eyes that open in an instant, from deep sleep to a state of alert in less than three seconds. The hand he lay resting closest to yours shoots for the call button, but you intercept before he can press it.
“Don’t,” even as you coax him back into his chair, there’s conflict in his stare, like any minute now he’ll call the nurses into your room and cause a big scene you don’t need. “I just sat up too fast. Help me?”
Bucky nods, thumbs hooking under your arms and slowly tugging you up the bed while you busy yourself pressing the incline button and delighting in the way the mattress rises.
“When did you wake up?”
“Barely a minute ago,” you finally manage to pull in a full breath of air, and that’s when you feel the scratch of gauze around your torso. “You never told me you snore.”
“You never asked,” the chair creaks beneath him as Bucky struggles to get comfortable, elbows resting over knees only for him to straighten his spine and grasp a hold of the arm-rests.
“That’s kind of a hard thing to do when my number’s blocked.”
It’s an evil thing yet possessing no real malice, said completely out of the desire to see him squirm under the microscope of your eyes.
“How, uh,” he leans forward instead, right arm on the bed, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. “How d’you feel?”
“Like someone took the knife you stabbed in my back and decided to replace it with rebar instead,” this time, your words make him flinch. His fist clenches, retreating from the bed until you hook your good hand around the wrist and stop it in its tracks. “Bucky, I’m just messing with you. You saved my-”
“That night, outside your apartment, I realised something.”
The mask of composure he wears is starting to crack, the shine of something earnest and vulnerable slipping through and forcing you into silence.
“Your life-” Bucky pauses to correct what he’s saying. “I told myself that your life would be better off without me, but I was just being a coward instead of being honest with you,” he’s squirming, uncomfortable with the weight of the truth in his mouth, and it makes you feel sick with the need to comfort and cradle.
“You don’t have to tell me anything if-”
“I’m the reason you ended up as one of Hydra’s experiments,” he practically throws it out, like a grenade that’s one wrong word away from detonating and exploding in both of your faces. “Your dad, he was one of my handlers. I’d been out of the ice too long, I wasn’t taking orders properly, and I… I killed him.”
“I know.”
“They realised his death would leave you orphaned, and so they took you,” not even the dark engulfing the hospital room can hide the shine of wetness his gaze, an visible ache splotching over a palette of blue. “All that pain, all the torture they put you through-”
“I know.”
“It was because of me.”
“Bucky, I know,” your hand engulfs his own, fingers threading like knots you have no intention of letting him loosen. “Steve told me years ago, right before I agreed to fight against the rest of my friends for you.”
“I’m sor-”
“I told you I’m sick of hearing you say that,” you almost lay your other hand on his cheek, only to find a cast — a real one — obscuring it. You settle for tugging him closer with your good hand, until he’s all but hanging off the edge of his seat. “Hydra made a weapon out of both us, Buck. The pain, the torture, all the bad… That’s on them, okay? I would never blame you-”
Soft and sweet, his lips land on yours like a secret.
Not the sinful kind, the ones that tear families in two and bring all but ruin to those who dare keep them. But the giddy kind, the ones that fill people with childish glee and leave them biting at their lips in an effort to contain it, the fear of ruining the greatest surprise.
His kiss is a question, iterations of ‘can I?’, ‘should I?’, and ‘how could i not?’ speaking directly to your heart. If his mouth is wax, then yours must be the stamp, moulding his affections into shape and making something meaningful out of him.
You answer with zeal, covering his cheek in your fingerprints as you pull him in, pull him closer, pull him onto the bed. It creaks in protest as the soldier presses a knee into the mattress, back curving over your body and shielding you away from the rest of the room.
You’re giggling into Bucky’s mouth like a fool, so much so that you barely feel the jolt of your shoulders as he bumps against broken ribs. It’s subtle, yet the soldier notices all the same, mouth tearing away and head dipping to make sure your injuries haven’t mysteriously worsened under the weight of his touch.
“What was it you realised,” you pull his attention back to your face, where your eyes are waiting to trail over the kiss-bitten blush of his rose-bud lips. “Outside my apartment?”
You ask it with every intention of pulling him in for another kiss, so long as he answers.
“That you’re the person I want to be remembered by most.”
There’s an apartment in Brooklyn.
It lives on a street that’s never lit, where the world falls quiet come twenty-two hundred hours, and the neighbours are forever complaining about flickering light-and power-cuts.
It’s insides are full of clutter. Keys strewn across the dinner table, books stuffed unceremoniously in crevices where they’re bound to be forgotten, vibranium trinkets made through blackmail congregate as litter around the TV unit.
A junk-drawer full of movie tickets — dates that end with him monologuing about the death of cinema. A bowl overflowing with arcade stubs — he’s adamant it doesn’t matter that it would be cheaper to just buy the bear, he’s going to earn you it through blood, sweat, and many tears. A bedside table has gained another strip of photos for it’s growing collection — he’s a fiend for dragging you into photo-booths and kissing you until the flash of the camera is a distant memory.
“Stooop,” you’re whining pathetically for all the wrong reasons, slippery hands losing grip and sliding down a tiled wall while you’re bent at the waist and grinding your cunt back against his cock. “This is supposed to be sexy, not sappy.”
“I’m not being sappy,” not even Bucky believes himself, voice trailing off in a chuckle.
He’s cruel, the most evil man you’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing, so of course he grips at your hips and forces them still. Like a punctuation mark ends a sentence, the tip of his dick is poking at that stop-talking-coherently spot inside your walls and threatening to make you gush more than the shower head spilling water over you both.
“Yes, you are,” you somehow find the will to form a sentence, only to gasp something akin to his name when cold vibranium presses into the arch of your spine.
“Maybe I am,” he finally admits, and if you weren’t halfway through a hail-Mary in an attempt to fight off an incoming orgasm that he’s definitely not earned the right to yet, you’d let out a cry of victory. “If admiring how resilient you are makes me sappy, then sure. Arrest me officer, I’m guilty, again.”
That ‘again’ prompts a kaleidoscope of events from Halloween night… Bucky, naked and shackled to the headboard, sporting literal tears in his eyes as he watches the buttons of your sleazy cop outfit strain while you make yourself cum for the third time without a lick of help from him. In your defence, the punishment was well earned — he’d been a little too proud of the number of eyes that had lingered over his gladiator costume.
You're back in the shower the moment fingers kiss over your scar, delicate promises sealed into the caress he brushes over the raised tissue.
It happens more often than not — you raise your arm to grab something out of a cupboard and suddenly Bucky is behind you and trailing over the mark; you wear a dress that cascades down your back and Bucky spends the whole evening brushing his thumb over the scar while holding conversations with friends across the table; you let him bend you over the nearest surface and expect him to have you seeing stars and, while stars are definitely seen, Bucky’s stare burns brighter along your left side. You’ve wondered if it’s a form of torture for the soldier, a bookmark on your skin for the night where your blood stained his hands.
That’s not how you remember the night — the pain, the bleeding, the rebar puncturing through bone and spleen. You remember the strength in his hands as they pulled you from the van, and the relief that fell over his face when you spoke, and the way he held you close while the rest of the world burned away in a cloud of chaos.
“I love you,” who chokes up with tears while standing eight inches deep and damn-near marking up a new blue-print for your organs to reorganise themselves to make more space for him? Bucky, that’s who, and you wouldn’t have him any other way. “So much.”
Okay, so maybe you would have him one other way.
The good man that he is, Bucky slips his cock out of you after a push back against his abdomen, already moulding his hands to the shape of your waist as you turn around to face him.
“That’s it, Barnes,” you try your best to sound authoritative. The shampoo burning at your eye makes it a little difficult, but you pull through and drag him into your hold, arms curling around his shoulders and a leg hooking itself over his hip. The tiles are cold, pressing into your back, a welcome contrast to the heat of Bucky. “I’m sick of you and your wimpy attitude. You’re banned from doggy style, standing or otherwise, until further notice.”
“Don’t be mean, darling,” he drags a thumb over your slit, kissing it against your clit with the practised ease of a man that’s spent the greater half of a year getting to know you inside and out, in every and any position. “Or I’ll cum. And I was really hoping to do that while I bury myself inside you.”
Left palm hovering over his sternum, a muted crackle of electricity burns into his skin, only to fade at your command, “Then I guess you better hurry up and give us what we both want.”
“Hmm, have I ever told you you’re my favourite electro-shock therapy?” He’s laughing at his own ridiculous joke, while gripping your wrist and guiding you up the path to his neck, locking your fingers around him like a collar he’s more than proud to wear. “Now, think you can spread your legs a little wider, baby? Wanna make you cum so hard you blow the building’s fuse.”
+ extra hyde.
· thank you @theslayerofthevampires for your patience and for trusting me to fulfil your fic idea! i hope the wait was at very least worth it <3 (the request prompt, for anyone interested: Well I was thinking that it could be where the reader goes with bucky and sam to after the flag smashers. Bucky is really into the reader but he's dealing with his inner demons that he doesn't let himself grt too close to her. Things change when karli and her followers take y/n hostage and that really pisses off bucky. Sam and bucky save y/n after that when y/n is thanking bucky for saving her bucky just grabs and kisses her which leads to bucky opening up to y/n about himself and he also confesses his feelings for her)
· one of my personal pet peeves when it comes to fics is when it simply reads as a copy and paste of the source material with the reader forced into the scenes, hence why i skimmed over the events of tfatws as much as possible. hopefully this was enjoyable and bucky and reader's relationship felt like a story separate from the show's plot <3
· slowly working my way through requests, please tell me you're all proud of me! ( i have so many left to get through )
babe i gotta know ! we know beefy bucky likes 69ing but like what about manchild bucky is that his tea too? what’s our guy into?
i'm so glad you asked, babe! (enjoy whatever tf this is) (wait why the fuck is this 3.5k words long) (i did not mean to write so much, my bad y'all) (warnings: mdni, discussions of sex toys, kinks, positions, & all things sexual, slight mention of bucky's past s.a. as the winter soldier, somnophilia, choking, domesticity kink, smothering(?), size kink, exhibitionism, fingering, oral sex, risky sex, dom!bucky vs switch!bucky vs sub!bucky, dacriphilia, mirror kink, & more, everybody cheer for the first mention of the thunderbolts* era in the manchild au! yay!)
manchild!bucky is a former freak who, at long last in love & down incredibly bad for his girl (you <3), is dusting off the cobwebs on his freak flag, tying it to a pole, and letting it fly once more.
your relationship is a salve to his troubled soul, and bucky spends more nights than not contemplating if the universe handed him over to your loving hold as an apology for all the awful hands that touched him before.
while the winter soldier programming may have been deleted from his mind, the file containing ‘james buchanan barnes’ was corrupted long ago and is in the slow process of recovery.
and so, as time passes and bonds grow, sex and intimacy become a place for him to explore, to discover his wants and desires in the safety of your arms (and legs). he’s ready and willing to try any toy, any position, any kink at least once, so long as you show equal interest.
“oh my god, this is the most florida headline i’ve ever seen,” eyes glued to your phone, mid-bite of a banana, you struggle over your amusement to get the food down and the words out. “florida man dies after wife sits on face for too long. bucky, listen to this, he was never good at holding his breath, says wife. bucky. bucky... james?” while he’s prone to falling mute some days, this silence feels heavy. heady. daring. spinning the stool around from the kitchen island, you find your lover has risen from the couch. flushed, breathing heavy, and visibly hard, you have about 5 seconds before he’s scooping you up in those arms and tossing you onto the bed. turns out, bucky is very good at holding his breath.
sex, and hear me out on this one, is kind of like a marriage of genitals: there’s an exchange of vows (moans), an officiator that binds you together (an insatiable dose of lust), and the anticipation of something white arriving.
just like a wedding, there’s something borrowed. in this case, you borrow each other’s bodies, gaining partial ownership over the other. something blue can be attributed to the days bucky starts something neither of you has the time to finish, rushing off to work or interrupted by sam calling with an emergency, and leaving the poor soldier’s balls to suffer.
something old is bucky’s high libido. that man does not care what time of the day it is; flutter your eyelashes at him, or smile a little too sweetly, or lose your patience and give him a verbal lashing, and that man is primed and ready to fuck you. honestly, he rivals a horny teenager and there’s times where you almost think it is concerning... but then bucky’s making you cum and turning your brain to mush and, well, who has time to think?
the something new is his favourite, however; something that pairs a little too well with his something old: a short refractory period. after the serum, bucky was basically a puppet in someone else’s game. while he’s not exactly been celibate the entirety of that time, he’s also not had the privilege of wanting someone the way he wants you. realising his dick can basically bounce back in a matter of seconds after cumming is like finding a silver lining in a very, very dark cloud; a good to all the bad his super soldier status has brought him.
and trust that he’s a menace with it, when he gets the chance. you’re a busy woman (teehee) and bucky respects that. to be honest, he finds it a little hot how career driven you are. does he know what your job is? no! that does not stop him from popping a boner every time he sees you in dress pants. or, as he likes to call them, please-get-undressed pants.
the busy part of your lives often gets in the way of bucky getting his fill of you, by getting you full of him, except!! the early mornings on the weekend. no meetings to rush off to, no risk of sam showing up at the door, no demand to be anywhere but in bed, limbs tangled with bucky’s while he makes you both cum, over and over and over again.
there’s only so many hours of complete alone-time he can get, okay? he makes every second count.
in your dream, you’re on fire. warmth that spreads from your core outwards, melting you from the inside out. it’s suffocating, skin-prickling, leg-writhing. “shh,” the flames seem to be whispering to you, coaxing you to relax. “i know, i know. he’s big, but you take him so well.” in your attempt to flee from the tantalising feeling of being burned, you’re met with an immovable object, a wall of heat pressed to your back, curled around your waist and up to your throat. fingers squeeze around your neck as your cunt clenches around him, eyes blinking through the haze of sleep just in time to hear bucky whisper in your ear. “good morning, baby.” five orgasms and four hours later, you both turn up late to lunch with yelena, bob, and ava.
as much as bucky is embracing the whole ‘get your freak on’ lifestyle, there’s still a part of him that is quiet, ashamed, hesitant.
he doesn’t do it on purpose, nor because he truly thinks you would judge any part of him — you have proven, time and time again, how wholly accepting you are of every aspect of him: the good (his baking skills, his eagerness to please, his attention to detail) and the bad (his habit of leaving a puddle on the floor after showers, his insecurities, and the ingrained belief he has that everything good is fleeting).
but, still, hesitancy lingers over his prefrontal cortex. it’s nonsensical, as insecurities always are, because this man will all but beg you to put on his ‘kiss the baker’ apron, bend over the kitchen counter, and let him fuck you until you forget you own name in one breath, and in the next he’ll be turning red and biting his lips, refusing to explain what exactly has got him bricked the fuck up in the middle of a grocery store.
with patience, time, and an attention to detail you learn from bucky himself, it doesn’t take long for those unspoken kinks to click inside your brain, little anecdotes and repeated events that help you connect the dots and paint a picture of what exactly he wants from you.
the need to smother, the desire to be helpful, the want to be depended on. domestic as it all may sound, it awakens something animalistic inside of him.
“earlier, in the aisle,” you can feel him shaping the words against your skin, cheek pressed to cheek and panting into each other’s ears. “you looked- fuck, don’t do that-” he chokes out as your walls pulse around him, cock bullying at your cervix. the ache in your hips has settled in, made itself a home inside your bones as quickly as bucky made himself at home atop your couch. he’s physically smothering you in his love, your legs split open as the weight of him pushes fully down on you. every breath you take is one he allows, one he inches that little bit backwards to let your lungs fill with. “when you needed me to grab something off the shelf... you looked at me, all small, and needy, and so helpless. d’you even know what seeing you like that does to me, doll?” if you don’t already know, you’re about to find out.
the problem (or benefit, depending on the perspective you take) with bucky becoming comfortable, in his own skin and certainly in you, is that it makes him brave.
the hand that used to hover at your back in crowded rooms and busy streets has now started taking a detour south, casually cupping over the curve of your ass and just... resting. it’s only a few seconds, a quiet reminder that says “i’m here, don't worry”. but boy oh boy do you fucking worry, because why the hell does he have to be so hot without even trying? man is shamelessly laying a visual claim over you for anyone with a wandering eye to notice, and simultaneously shooting you the sweetest smile while asking you to pick what bouquet you like most from a little street-side florist.
the problem is not just in public, but private, too. well, as private as things can be when surrounded by the rowdiness of heroes.
over the years, bucky’s friends list grows from a handful to two and, while he maintains his brooding, snarky, i’m-too-old-for-this-shit attitude with them all, you can see how care filters over those blue eyes. he sees parts of himself in ava and bob, he bonds with alexei through memories of the soviets in conversations that, to the rest of you, end up sounding like the trauma olympics. yelena, an equal to his sharp tongue, becomes a younger sister, someone that he’ll tease endlessly yet her safety is the first he checks on whenever missions go awry. even john goes from nuisance to tolerated — bucky stops threatening to give him a knuckle sandwich whenever he mentions that he’s hungry.
and then there is sam. bucky may not say it, but he doesn’t need to: this captain america means just as much to him as steve did. brothers, who bicker over who breathes the loudest during stealth missions and will hesitantly admit to thinking something the other did mid-fight was ‘cool’.
okay, i’m going off on a tangent here because i’ve not technically written about manchild!bucky in a few weeks and i miss him... back to the porn!
confident and cock-sure, this new version of bucky is completely unafraid to watch you writhe around your friends. and, hey, if anyone catches on to why you keep stuttering over your words? bucky’s just going to take another casual sip of his drink while his knuckles bury themselves deeper.
sweet mother of god, you are going to be arrested for homicide if bucky does not stop. the neckline of your dress is clinging to your skin in a way that chokes, the lights in the watchtower are far too bright in a way that blinds, and john’s voice is quite literally the last thing you want to hear while you’re on the verge of cumm- “you don’t look so good, sweetheart,” oh screw you, barnes! the asshole you call yours has the audacity to look at you with faux concern, the hand that’s not currently trapped between your thighs rising to feel your sweaty forehead. “walker asked if you like the food, don’t be rude. don’t you want to tell him how good it is?” the minute this dinner is over and you get him alone, you’re going to bite his dick off.
there’s beauty in diversity. it is quite literally one of the most essential parts of life: things must be different and varied, otherwise the ecosystem will implode. this theory also applies to you and bucky’s sex life.
different versions of you both exist for different moments. in the infamous words of miss tati westbrook, time and place! (and you did it at my birthday dinner!) there are no set rules in your relationship, no guide on how either of you wants the other to behave 24/7.
the toil for power is mutual and shared, a baton you both willingly hand over to the other when necessary.
when bucky holds it and takes charge of bedroom matters, it’s typically due to one of three reasons: something made him jealous, something went wrong, or you pushed one too many of his buttons.
some days, it’s a combination of all three.
dom!bucky is a tease, and a cruel one at that. he’ll tie you to the headboard and just rest his cock against you for hours, only to tut disapprovingly and land a resounding smack against your clit as he pulls away from your squirming hips. he’ll make you crawl on your knees towards him, manspreading on the couch and slowly working his hand over himself. you’re not getting to touch, or taste; the only thing you’re allowed to do is watch him and drool. and, when he’s done, why don’t you make yourself useful and lick his cum off the floor like a good girl?
it’s hard (just like bucky's dic-) to believe that is the same man who, on nights where everything feels a little too much, collapses at the metaphorical temple that is you and gives himself up as an offering. ripe for the taking, wholly meant to serve.
the strangest things seem to trigger this side of bucky — the side that flushes red at the slightest touch, and literally whimpers in response to praise, and damn near cries when you finally sink down on him.
sometimes it’s a loud noise. a door might slam, or the neighbours might raise their voices at one another, or the sky might be screaming with the boom of thunder. sometimes it happens before he even wakes up, something dark, and twisted, and hauntingly real invading his dreams like a parasite. but sometimes it’s light, an overwhelming feeling burning him from inside his heart as he struggles to put into words how lucky he is to have been dropped at your door like an unwanted stray, how the love he has for you obliterates all his senses, leaving him with no choice but to put it all into actions.
this side of bucky doesn’t announce its arrival, no; it waits to be noticed. subtle touches that have you paying more attention to him, like how he’s clingier than usual (and that is saying a lot). words lose their bite and gain a hesitance in their tone, the usual teasing rapport between you collapsing with a vow of silence on bucky’s part. even his eyes change, too shy to meet your own and, yet, incapable of stopping themselves from trailing over slithers of exposed skin, a quiet question caught between eyelashes: will you take care of me, please?
please you do. gently. careful hands over nervous skin, kisses that mean to not rob him of his breath but to feed a little life back into him. cpr for a heart that’s not stopped, just broken. fingertips that glide, and dance, and dip over every ridge that make up the shape of him. your actions are never cruel, never teasing, just assertive, in control, taking charge of him.
most commonly, however, is a mutual and active battle between you, riling one another up and falling into a state of delirium. sex with switch!bucky is fun, and exciting, and loving. one moment, he’ll be making you open-mouth laugh at one of his stupid quips like he’s not literally balls-deep inside you, and the next moment, he’ll have your eyes staring up at your brain as they roll back in sync with his thrusts.
“god, you look so pretty like this,” the soldier practically sobs as you coo praise into his ear. the hands at your hips dare to flex, gripping at your skin momentarily, a flicker of the bucky you’re used to, until the tortured part of him regains control and has his palms sliding down over your thighs, resting inoffensively as you rock back and forth atop him, nails marking indents into his chest as you use him to steady your bounces on his cock. a hand shoots for his jaw, turning his face away from the pillow and forcing his eyes to meet yours. glassy and pathetic, you watch the overwhelming love he has for you pour down his cheeks in rivulets of tears. “cry a little more for me, buck. the tears bring out the blue in your eyes.” god, he is the most beautiful wreck you’ve ever seen.
ah shit, fuck, i haven’t even addressed positions! and that was basically the catalyst for why you sent this ask! anon, i’m so sorry, let’s speed-run this shit!
as established, this man is down for anything, and positions are not an exception. wheelbarrow? hell yeah, get those legs in the air and let’s go! amazonian style? double hell yeah, get his legs in the air and let’s fucking go!
he has a collection of tried and true, however. the classics. the clit-ssics, if you will (someone hurry up and tell me i’m not funny, this is an epidemic).
first on the list you’ve got good old doggy style. on the bed, over the counter, hands pressed against the wall? it does not matter how the position is obtained, all bucky can think about is how deep it allows him to get, the tip of him pressing up against all sorts of organs and rearranging the layout of your insides (okay, not literally!). one night, he’s got you on your hands and knees, and damn near howling like a bitch in heat, and then you do something that just about gives that senior citizen a heart-attack: you let your arms give out and lay your face and chest flat on the mattress, arching your back at an angle bucky will be thinking about the entirety of his recon mission with sam.
wait we’re supposed to be speed-running this... uh, okay! face-sitting? check! prone bone? check! (that man wants to cast a literal full-body shadow over you and hide you away from the world... while conveniently painting your walls with his cum, but that’s just a side-effect!) mating press? only if you’re prepared to endure cramped thighs and bruised hips, because sweet bucky will gradually lose composure the longer you let him fuck you like that, and then it’s all bets off the table when it comes to him using that super strength of his against you. he’s a menace, i’m telling you. anyway... having you ride him is maybe the meaning of life. backwards cowgirl? oh hell, that is enough to have bucky speaking in tongues.
but, at his core, he is a sap. a lover-boy. a down-bad loser who can think of no better sight than the one of your face when he makes you cum... which is why he’s a fiend for missionary and just about every little rendezvous ends with him staring into your soul and marvelling at the sight of it.
he’s in love, okay? let him get a look at that pretty face or he’ll cry.
“no, no,” he mumbles through swollen lips. both of you are a mess: tangled hair, bitten skin, slick bodies. the mattress is in no better state, void of blankets and with no more than a single pillow remaining, positioned conveniently beneath your hips. the bedroom- no, actually, the entire apartment is stained with the stench of sex, hours of writhing, and moaning, and cumming marking bucky’s long awaited return home. “missed my girl’s eyes. open them, baby, need’a see you fall apart.” he watches you like it’s the only evidence that he’s really home again, safe between you arms.
the only hard no manchild!buck has is bringing other people into the bedroom.
does the thought of watching you be worshipped get him hot under the collar? yes! but bucky is a jealous, jealous man who claims he’s already been traumatised enough, all those nights spent sleeping on the cuck-couch while you let losers fuck you. now that you’re his, he’s going to be the only reason your eyes roll, your mouth moans, and your pussy clenches.
don’t worry though! if you’re really that desperate to be stuffed by more than just him, bucky’s going to buy you one of those dildos with a suction cup base, stick it to your bedroom mirror, and force you to gag on it while he fucks into you from behind :)
“what was that, pretty girl?” he’s taunting you mercilessly, one hand on your ass, spreading your cheeks apart to watch how your drooling cunt swallows him whole, like this is all that you were made to do: take him. you’re beyond any state of being able to answer, mind a million lustful miles away as you watch both your reflections in the mirror. there’s an ache in your jaw that has you whining around silicone, tears spilling down your face each time you feel yourself forced forward by bucky’s thrusts, gagging as the plastic dick knocks against the back of your throat. “no more comments about sam’s biceps? yeah, that’s what i thought. i mean, seriously, look at yourself, darling. can barely manage my cock, what makes you think you need another?” poor bucky, he seriously thinks you didn’t orchestrate this whole thing just to have him ‘put you in your place’.
tldr;; manchild!bucky is a whore. thank u for coming to my ted-talk x
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x avenger!fem!Reader (Y/N)
Genre: Enemies to lovers - Smut - Rough Sex - Spanking - Overstimulation - Light choking (consensual) – Dominant!Bucky – Brat!Y/N – Power dynamics – Forced proximity – Emotional tension – Aftercare – Trauma references – Red Room mentions – Protective undertones
Word count: 7760 (working on longer stories)
Summary: Y/N and Bucky were the best at what they did, ruthless operatives who couldn’t stand each other and now the forced together on a dangerous mission.
a/n: Pretty sure it will be a part two of this
AVENGERS COMPOUND - BRIEFING ROOM
The room hummed with quiet tension, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead as the main screen lit up with surveillance images grainy aerial shots, infrared blips, blurred faces in the snow. The Hydra outpost was remote, fortified, and almost invisible to satellites. Tony leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. “This isn’t just a weapons depot,” he muttered. “Hydra’s cooking something nasty in there. Biotech signatures don’t lie.” Natasha crossed her arms, eyes fixed on the screen. “Two names flagged from the old Red Room and Winter Soldier files. If they’re there, this isn’t a recon job this is a clean sweep.” Steve nodded grimly. “Agreed. We don’t just need precision. We need people who can get in, eliminate the targets, and get out without leaving a trace.” There was a beat of silence. Then Sam groaned. “You’re thinking Bucky and Y/N, aren’t you?”
“They’re the best,” Natasha said without hesitation. “They also hate each other,” Sam countered, raising a brow. “Last time they shared airspace, I thought she was going to strangle him with her own belt.”
“They don’t hate each other,” Steve said, but his tone wasn’t confident. Tony snorted. “No, they hate how much they understand each other. It’s worse.” Sam cleared his throat. “Can they at least pretend to cooperate? Or are we deploying World War III with stealth camo?”
“They’ll manage,” Steve said firmly, ignoring the look Tony gave him. “They’ve both led black ops. Both trained to compartmentalize. Whatever’s between them they’ll bury it for the mission.” Natasha gave a small, knowing smirk. “Or they’ll use it to get the job done faster.” Tony flicked to the next slide: blueprints of the Hydra outpost. “High-altitude drop, full winter gear. Satellite blackout zone. And if they’re compromised-”
“They’re ghosts,” Steve finished. “No rescue. No trace.”
Silence fell again. Finally, Tony exhaled. “Guess we’re betting the mission on gritted teeth and sexual tension.” Sam muttered, “This is gonna be a shitshow.” But no one disagreed.
AVENGERS COMPOUND - GYM
Grunts echoed off the padded walls. The rhythmic slap of fists on mats, the crack of limbs colliding sharp, clean, and focused. Y/N ducked under Bucky’s swing, sweat-slick and breathing hard. She twisted, leg sweeping toward his ribs, but he caught it with a grunt, tossing her off-balance. She rolled, came up in a crouch, and smirked. “Slowing down, Barnes.” He wiped a bead of sweat off his brow, metal fingers flexing. “I’m giving you a chance to keep up.” They circled each other again, bodies coiled like springs. Neither pulled punches. Neither gave ground.
Outside the gym, behind reinforced glass, the rest of the team watched from the mission briefing room. Steve folded his arms. “You’re sure about this pairing?” Natasha raised an eyebrow, glancing at the sparring match. “They’ll get it done. They always do.”
“But they’ll kill each other doing it,” Sam muttered, sipping coffee. Tony leaned back in his chair, watching Y/N shove Bucky back with a palm to the chest. “Or they’ll finally screw and get it out of their system.”
“Tony,” Steve warned. “What?” Tony grinned. “Tell me you haven’t noticed the tension. I’ve seen less eye contact in war zones.” Sam chuckled. “Still… it’s Hydra. Deep recon. Snow, low visibility, unstable terrain. This op needs the best.”
“And that’s them,” Nat said simply. “Like it or not.” Steve sighed, watching Bucky catch Y/N in a hold and pin her against the wall. She elbowed him in the ribs. He grunted, and she slipped free. “They’ll fight it,” Steve said quietly. “Each other. The mission. Everything.” Nat’s eyes narrowed, but her voice was sure. “Then they’ll survive it.”
Y/N’s breath came in short bursts, sweat glistening on her skin as she twisted into a takedown. With a sharp grunt, she hooked Bucky’s arm and shoulder-rolled him clean off his feet. He hit the mat hard, the thud echoing through the gym but before his back fully met the ground, his boot swept out low and fast, nailing her ankle just right. She yelped as her balance gave out, and a heartbeat later she was sprawled beside him, face-first on the mat. Both of them groaned, tangled in exhaustion and bruises, neither willing to admit the other got the last hit in. It was a draw. Again.
The door opened with a hiss of hydraulics. Steve entered first, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Behind him, Nat, Tony, and Sam filtered in, observing the sprawled pair with thinly veiled amusement. Steve arched a brow. “Kids. Shower. Briefing room. Now.” Y/N flipped onto her back, breathless. “You calling me a kid, Rogers?” Bucky snorted. “He meant me, obviously.” Tony smirked. “Sure, grandpa. C’mon, before you two make it weird.” Y/N and Bucky exchanged a glance competitive, lingering, electric but neither said a word. They both stood, brushed themselves off, and silently made for the locker rooms. Nat leaned into Steve as they left. “They’re going to love what’s coming next.” Steve just sighed. “They’re going to hate it.”
Y/N now showered stood near the window, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Eyes locked on the frost-streaked glass. She didn’t even flinch when the door opened. Bucky entered with that same grim tension he always carried before a mission jaw tight, shoulders squared, and gaze already wary the moment it landed on her. Steve followed a second later, holding a tablet. Natasha and Sam lingered by the doorway, exchanging a glance that practically screamed this is gonna be fun.
Steve didn’t waste time. “Hydra’s back in motion. Remote outpost in the Carpathians. Two or three high-value targets confirmed on site. We need them taken out, clean and quiet.” Y/N arched a brow without turning. “You’ve got half a dozen field agents who can do quiet. Why call us in?”
“Because it’s not just about infiltration,” Natasha said, stepping forward. “They’re building something. Biotech. Red Room–adjacent. You both have history with the programs involved.” Bucky’s tone was flat. “Who’s the lead?” Steve paused for half a beat. “Joint op. You and Y/N.” The silence hit like a thunderclap.
Y/N turned slowly, her eyes cold. “No.” Bucky’s brow furrowed. “I work alone.”
“Yeah, and I work with people who don’t get me shot,” Y/N snapped. Steve held up a hand. “We don’t have time for this. You two are the best option. You know Hydra’s playbook better than anyone else.” Bucky’s jaw clenched. “She doesn’t follow protocol.”
“And he doesn’t listen when someone smarter gives him orders,” Y/N shot back. Natasha sighed. “Look, no one’s asking you to hold hands and braid each other’s hair. We’re asking you to eliminate a target and survive.” Sam added under his breath, “And preferably without killing each other before extraction.” Steve stepped between them, calm but firm. “You’ve done this before. You don’t have to like it you just have to finish the mission.” Y/N stared at Bucky for a long, silent moment, something unreadable passing through her eyes. She scoffed and looked back at Steve. “Fine. But I’m not babysitting him.” Bucky’s voice was low. “Wasn’t planning on needing it.” Steve nodded, handing them both comm devices and the mission tablet. “Gear up. Wheels up in two hours. High-altitude drop, sub-zero conditions. You’ll be alone out there.” As the others filed out, Y/N and Bucky lingered behind tension thick enough to cut with a knife. “You stay out of my way,” she muttered, strapping the comm to her wrist. He didn’t blink. “Only if you don’t get yourself killed first.”
“Wouldn’t give you the satisfaction,” she said, brushing past him. He watched her go, eyes narrowing slightly. Not for the first time, he wondered if she was the only person on the planet who could get under his skin and still make his blood run hot. This mission was going to be hell. But he was already in it.
AVENGERS COMPOUND - ARMORY LOCKER ROOM
The metallic clatter of weapons and gear echoed faintly as Y/N adjusted the straps on her tactical vest. The cold metal of a knife sheath slid into place along her thigh. Focused. Silent. Tense. A soft footstep behind her didn’t make her flinch she already knew who it was. “I know it sucks, working with him,” Natasha said, leaning casually against a locker with her arms crossed. “Trust me. I’ve done it.” Y/N huffed. “Wasn’t planning on letting him slow me down.”
“You won’t,” Nat said easily. “But you should know… he respects you. Even if he shows it by growling like a rabid dog.” Y/N smirked, despite herself. “Charming.” Nat pushed off the locker and walked over, voice lowering. “Look I know it’s complicated. He gets under your skin. Pushes every button. But in the field? You two work like a loaded gun. Clean. Precise. Lethal.”
“That supposed to be comforting?” Y/N muttered, adjusting the clasp on her gloves. “No,” Nat replied. “It’s supposed to remind you: You don’t have to like him. But you can trust him especially when it counts.” Y/N didn’t reply right away. But her jaw unclenched.
MECHANICAL BAY - GEAR STAGING AREA
Bucky sat on the edge of a bench. Metal fingers worked methodically loading his gun, but his face was far from calm. Steve approached quietly, offering a small nod. “You packed?” Bucky slid the mag in with a sharp click. “Almost.”
“You don’t have to like her, Buck,” Steve said carefully, resting a hand on the back of the bench. “You just have to get the job done.”
“That’s the problem, Steve,” Bucky said, not looking up. “I do like her. On the field. She’s reckless, sharp, brutal. Like she knows exactly how far to go and then goes two steps past it.” Steve raised a brow. “Sounds familiar.” Bucky gave a dry laugh. “Yeah, well. Guess that’s what pisses me off.” Steve studied him for a beat. “You think she’ll be a liability?” Bucky finally looked up. His eyes were clear. Certain. “No. She’ll have my back, even if she wants to shoot me right after.” Steve gave a faint smile. “Then that’s all that matters.” As Bucky stood, sliding a knife into his belt and slinging a rifle over his shoulder, his gaze shifted to the snowy sky through the high windows. “She doesn’t know how dangerous she is,” he muttered. Steve clapped his shoulder. “Maybe that’s why you’re both still alive.”
AVENGERS COMPOUND - HANGAR BAY, NIGHT
The hangar was dark, lit only by the floodlights lining the floor and the sleek silhouette of the quinjet idling on the tarmac. Y/N walked in first, boots echoing sharply against the concrete, each step steady and unbothered. Her gear was tight, efficient. A second skin molded to every curve and angle of her body. It wasn’t for show, and yet it had the effect of one. Tactical, precise, and effortlessly lethal. She didn’t look at Bucky as he approached from the other end of the bay, but she didn’t need to. She felt him. Like always. The weight of him. The quiet storm that trailed behind her in silence.
Bucky almost faltered. His eyes locked onto her, tracing the lines of her frame, the way the combat vest hugged her torso, the smooth stretch of her sleeves over lean, powerful arms. He told himself it was reflex, muscle memory from a lifetime of watching for threats, assessing allies. But it wasn’t that. Not really. It was her. She moved with purpose, like a loaded weapon, unaware — or maybe fully aware — of how every calculated movement pulled him in. Bucky knew better than to let his guard down, but around her, the lines blurred. Watching her, wanting her — it had become a habit he couldn't break.
He clenched his jaw and forced his eyes elsewhere, pretending to check his gear, but they always drifted back. Just a glance. Just one more. It was a facade, the way he acted around her. The cold nods. The gruff, impersonal words. He wore indifference like armor, because it was safer that way. But none of it was real. What he wanted — truly wanted — was her. Not just the version in combat boots and Kevlar, but all of her. The fire behind her eyes, the quiet strength, the way she never flinched around him, even when others did. He wanted to touch her like he wasn't afraid of breaking things anymore.
But for now, he just watched. Pretending it didn’t burn. Neither of them spoke. The rear ramp of the jet lowered with a hiss. Steve stood at the edge, arms crossed, watching them both like a parent sending his problem children off to boarding school. “You’ve got coordinates locked,” he said. “No comm chatter unless necessary. Target recon first. Elimination second. Extraction window is tight.” Y/N nodded once. “Copy.” Bucky just grunted. Checked his sidearm. They reached the ramp at the same time. Steve gave them a look half warning, half faith then stepped back.
“Don’t die,” he muttered. Y/N smirked. “I’ll try not to kill him.” Bucky didn’t respond. Just walked past her up the ramp, heavy boots thudding against the steel, each step a measured beat in the silence between them. It was Y/N’s turn to look. She hadn’t meant to — told herself she wouldn’t — but her eyes followed him anyway. The broad set of his shoulders beneath his jacket, the way his muscles moved under the fabric like coiled wire. Controlled. Contained. Always on the edge of snapping loose. There was something about the way he walked — like he carried centuries of weight in his spine and didn’t trust the ground not to give out beneath him. That same quiet tension that radiated off him when he stood too close. Like lightning in the air before a storm. She swallowed.
He wasn’t looking at her, and yet she still felt seen. Exposed, somehow. The way his silence said more than most men ever did with a full sentence. The way he kept his distance, but never really left her orbit. It was easier when he looked away. Easier to pretend none of it mattered. That her skin didn’t remember the sound of his voice or the rare, barely-there smile that threatened to undo her completely. But now, watching him climb the ramp — back rigid, jaw tight — Y/N felt something twist inside her. Because she knew the truth, whether he said it or not. He wanted her. And god help her, she wanted him too. But want was dangerous. Want got people killed. So she kept her hands to herself and her feelings locked behind walls even he couldn’t break through. At least, not yet.
Inside the jet, the atmosphere was colder than the sky outside. She slid into a seat, strapping in, while he took the bench across from her. Their knees almost touched. Almost. She didn’t look at him. He didn’t look away. The engines roared to life. The jet lifted off into the night. For a long moment, nothing but the hum of flight and the quiet rasp of breathing filled the cabin. Then Y/N finally spoke, voice low and calm. “Let’s get one thing straight.” Bucky arched a brow. “Go on.”
“I don’t like you.” Her eyes cut to his, sharp as glass. “But I trust what you can do.” His jaw twitched. A muscle ticked in his temple. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “Good,” he said. “Because I don’t like you either.” A pause. Then the faintest curve at the corner of her lips. “Perfect.”
The roar of the jet engines hummed low beneath the silence that had settled over the cabin. Mountains of white sprawled endlessly below them, wind currents buffeting the Quinjet like a steady heartbeat. Snow. Ice. Silence. Y/N sat strapped in, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the endless whiteness outside the small window. She hadn't said a word since takeoff. Bucky sat across from her, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor like it might open up and swallow him whole. He finally exhaled, slow and deliberate. “Listen, if…” Her head snapped toward him. Cold. Sharp. “If what, Barnes?” He looked up, met her eyes. And for once, there was no heat behind his stare — no sarcasm, no challenge. Just… sincerity. And something older. Wounded. “If you see something about the Red Room… memories, triggers, files—whatever,” he said quietly, “remember you’re not a Widow anymore.”
The silence stretched. She blinked. Once. Then twice. The cold edge in her gaze softened, just barely. “Same for you,” she said after a moment, her voice warmer now. Softer. “You were never him.” The corner of Bucky’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. Just something real. “I know.” he said. But they both knew it was never that simple. The Quinjet rumbled on, slicing through the storm. And for the first time in a long time, they didn’t feel entirely alone with the weight they carried. They stared at each other. Steady. Electric. Two weapons locked in the same box, waiting to explode. Outside, the clouds swallowed the jet whole, and the mission began.
The quinjet touched down with a low hum, its engines cutting through the frigid mountain air like a blade. Snow drifted in thick, blinding sheets, settling in every crease of Bucky’s tactical gear as he stepped into the whiteout, rifle slung over his shoulder, jaw clenched tight. Y/N followed just behind him, checking her weapon one last time before pulling her hood over her head. The cold bit through everything, even their high-grade suits, but neither of them flinched. They weren’t here to get comfortable they were here to kill. “Target compound’s half a klick northeast,” she muttered, glancing at the tablet in her gloved hands. A grainy satellite image flickered on the screen squat buildings hidden beneath camouflage netting, high fencing barely visible beneath the snowdrifts. “Hydra’s ghosts are nesting again. Intel says two of the names on the watchlist are confirmed inside.” Bucky gave a tight nod but didn’t look at her. “We get in, eliminate the targets, and get out. No heroics.” She scoffed. “I wasn’t the one who tried to play human shield in Jakarta.” “And I wasn’t the one who ignored backup protocol in Prague,” he shot back, voice clipped. They fell into silence, trudging up the slope through the snow, both too stubborn to acknowledge the sting behind each other's words. They didn’t like working together. Never had. Too much alike. Too much history. But they were the best and when the mission was this delicate, this dangerous, the Avengers sent them anyway. Hydra wasn’t just regrouping they were testing limits again. Quiet, hidden cells scattered across the globe, rebuilding what was lost, piece by twisted piece. And the two assets best equipped to erase those pieces? Y/N and Bucky.
They reached the ridge twenty minutes later, breath fogging the air, snow clinging to their gear. The compound lay below, barely visible through the storm a few scattered figures moving between buildings, heat signatures glowing faintly in their goggles. Y/N dropped to her stomach behind a jagged outcrop of rock, pulling her sniper rifle into position. Her heartbeat slowed. Focus narrowed. They took different paths. “Three tangos out front. Two near the east gate,” she whispered into the comms. “Looks like shift change. This is the window.” But before she could take the shot, Bucky’s voice crackled in her ear low, firm, and already laced with tension. “You’re too exposed on that ridge,” Bucky’s voice crackled through the comms, rough with tension. “Pull back, now.” “Negative,” she replied, crouched low behind a jagged outcrop of stone. Snow whipped across her face like razors. “Targets in the open. I can take the shot.”
“Not with those thermals scanning the perimeter. They’ll spot you before your finger touches the trigger.”
“I know what I’m doing.” There was a pause. Then, clipped and sharp: “Copy that.”
She adjusted the scope, heart pounding. She could feel him fuming through the comms, but this was her op. She had led it from the beginning reconnaissance, planning, infiltration. Bucky was only there for backup, and his presence had been a thorn in her side from the first briefing. Too intense. Too observant. Too silent until he wasn’t then all bark and bite and frustrating, infuriating right. Still, she trusted her instincts. Until everything went to hell. The second her finger squeezed the trigger, the world lit up in red sensors flared, alarms screamed, and within seconds, a flood of heavily armed guards swarmed the compound. She dove for cover, adrenaline crashing into her system like lightning. “Fuck! I’ve been made-”
“I told you,” Bucky growled over the comms. “Fall back to point Echo. Now.”
“I can still-”
“No.” His voice snapped like a whip. “You stay and fight, you die. Move.” She hesitated just a second and that second nearly killed her. A blast tore up the snowbank beside her, spraying ice and debris across her face. She scrambled to her feet and ran, sprinting toward the treeline, heart thundering. Shots rang out behind her. They weren’t aimed at her. She skidded into cover just in time to see Bucky all muscle and fluid brutality drop from a ledge and take out three guards before they could follow. His movements were precise, lethal, beautiful in the worst possible way. “We’re clear,” he muttered. He eliminated all the guards, alone. He grabbed her arm and hauled her into motion without waiting for thanks. “You compromised the op,” he said through clenched teeth as they ran. “We improvise now.”
“And what? You’re in charge suddenly?” He stopped abruptly, backing her into a tree, his breath misting hot between them. “I don’t give a shit about rank. I care about getting us out alive. So yeah I’m in charge. Unless you want to bleed out in the snow.” She hated the way her heart jumped. Hated that she couldn’t argue because he was right. And when he turned and took off again, she followed without another word.
“You good?” he asked, voice lower now. Rougher. She glanced at him. Nodded. “Yeah.” But she wasn’t. Not really. Because even now standing in a battlefield of snow and blood and broken bodies she felt it. The tension. The pull. The urge to slam him against the nearest tree and scream out every unsaid thing with her mouth, her fists, her hips. And worse? She saw it in his eyes, too. He stepped even closer. She didn’t move. His voice was quiet, unreadable. “You disobeyed a direct order.” Her lip curled, defiant.
The snow crunched beneath their boots as they moved through the shadowed trees, the cold biting through their layers but doing nothing to cool the fire simmering between them. The moon hung low, casting pale light over the frozen landscape, every breath visible in the icy air. Neither spoke. Words felt useless—too sharp, too vulnerable. Y/N’s mind raced, every nerve alert, every glance at Bucky’s rigid posture a reminder of how close they were to the edge—of the mission, of each other. He led without looking back, silent and sure, like a predator confident in his path. She kept pace, matching his steps but keeping a careful distance. Their breaths rose and fell in uneven rhythm, and every so often, their eyes would meet—brief, charged flickers—before darting away like startled prey. The extraction point came into view—no quinjet waiting.
Bucky paused, scanning their surroundings once more before turning toward her. All that remained was a twisted, smoking wreck—shattered by Hydra’s ruthless strike while they’d been occupied. Y/N’s breath hitched as she took in the ruined craft, the blackened metal glowing faintly in the cold night. Bucky cursed under his breath, fists clenched tight. Without hesitation, he pulled out his comm and dialed Tony. The static crackled before Tony’s voice came through, strained but calm. “Bucky, we saw the attack. The quinjet’s a total loss.”
“What’s the plan?” Bucky asked, scanning the dark tree line. Tony sighed. “Weather’s worsening. Visibility’s dropping fast. You’re stuck there for the night. Find shelter, stay low. I’m sending reinforcements at first light.” Y/N swallowed hard, the weight of their predicament settling like ice in her stomach. Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Copy that. We’ll hold position.” He ended the call and looked at Y/N. His voice was low, clipped. “No extraction tonight. We find cover, keep watch. This just got a hell of a lot more complicated.” She nodded, heart pounding—not just from cold or danger, but from the way his eyes held hers—dark, fierce, and raw. The night was far from over.
The wind howled through the trees, slicing cold air through their layers as they trudged deeper into the woods. Snow crunched beneath their boots, every step echoing in the stillness around them. Bucky scanned the darkness ahead, muscles tense, eyes sharp for any sign of danger—or refuge. Y/N’s breath came out in frosty clouds, her fingers numb despite the gloves. The chill wasn’t just from the weather anymore. After what felt like hours, a faint light flickered through the trees—warm and steady, a beacon in the cold night. They exchanged a quick glance, silent agreement. Moving cautiously, they approached the source: a small, weather-beaten cabin tucked among the pines, smoke curling gently from its chimney. The house looked abandoned, but sturdy—just enough to shield them from the storm. Bucky reached the door first, pressing his ear against the wood before turning the handle slowly. The hinges creaked, but the door gave way.
Inside, the air was stale but dry. Dust motes danced in the weak glow of a lone lantern hanging from the ceiling. Y/N stepped in, closing the door behind them, shutting out the storm—and the world outside. Bucky dropped his pack with a thud and locked the door behind them.
“We’ll make do,” he said, eyes already searching for firewood or anything useful. Y/N nodded, muscles still taut but a flicker of relief warming her. For now, they had shelter. But the night was still young—and so was the storm between them. Inside, after the door slammed shut behind them, Bucky turned slowly to face her. “You’re welcome,” he said, voice low and bitter. “I didn’t ask you to save me.”
“No. You didn’t,” he said. “That’s the fucking problem.” She stared at him, chest heaving. Rain dripped down her face, but her blood burned hotter than ever. “I don’t need you.” He stepped closer. “Yeah? Then why’d you listen when I told you to run?” She said nothing. Because the answer was simple. She did trust him. Even when she hated him for being right. Even when she wanted to push him against the nearest wall and—
The silence cracked between them like thunder. The storm outside hadn’t even started yet. The power flickered twice then died, leaving the place in a cold, humming silence. “You’ve gotta be kidding,” she muttered, soaked through and scowling. Bucky locked the door closed behind him, shoulders tense, eyes already scanning the dark with soldier precision.
“No power. No signal. We’re stuck until morning.” She blinked. “There’s only one bed.”
“And no heat,” he said, jaw tight. “This high up in the mountains? We’ll be hypothermic by dawn.” She pulled off her soaked jacket, biting back a shiver. “What, no generator in your fancy arm?”
“No,” he said, stepping closer. “But I’ve got body heat.” She scoffed. “Wow. Original.”
“I’m serious.” He always was too serious. Cold. Controlled. And now here they were. Wet. Cold. Stuck. Together.
In the dimness, she peeled off her boots and gear, teeth clattering. Bucky shrugged out of his gear with more force than necessary, metal arm clanking as he yanked his harness free and dropped it to the ground. He looked at her and his jaw was tight, twitching like he was trying very hard not to say something he’d regret. They watched each other intently as they slowly peeled off every piece of clothing. Fingers trembled slightly with anticipation, eyes tracing every curve and line revealed with each discarded layer. The air between them thickened with heat and unspoken desire, every glance speaking louder than words as they bared themselves completely, standing vulnerable and exposed before one another. He watched as the tactical pants slid slowly down her legs, the fabric slipping over smooth skin. She watched how his metal arm moved deliberately, unclipping and pulling the belt free with quiet strength. Their eyes met, the small moments charged with something electric between them. When she removed her bra, Bucky kept his eyes fixed on her face. Inside, he was dying—dying to touch those delicate breasts, to suck on the nipples now fully erect. But he also knew she’d probably shoot him if he tried.
“You always think you’re right,” she snapped, pacing across the floor. “Like your instincts are the only ones that matter.” His head jerked toward her, blue eyes sharp. He stopped undressing, his shirt and boxers still on. She looked at how tight the boxers were, the fabric stretched against his skin. “I was right,” he growled. “If I hadn’t pulled your ass out, you’d be cooling in a body bag.” Her ass, Bucky thought, now bare except for a tiny pair of underwear clinging to her skin. She stepped in closer. “You don’t get to throw that in my face.”
“I do when you nearly got both of us killed.” Her pulse spiked. “I had it handled—”
“Bullshit. You’re too reckless.”
“And you’re too cautious.”
“I’m still alive.”
“I made the call—”
“And it was the wrong one!” That hit like a slap. Her breath left her in a short, sharp exhale. The room felt smaller. Tighter. Her hands curled into fists at her sides. “You think just because you’ve got a metal arm and a haunted past, you get to take over whenever you feel like it?” she hissed. He stepped forward. “No,” Bucky said, voice low and dark. “I think I get to take over when you start making decisions with your fucking ego instead of your head.”
The silence after that was deafening. They glared at each other, the storm howling outside. Rain hammered the roof. Their chests heaved in unison her in just a tiny pair of underwear, him still in his shirt and boxers. Then she laughed sharp and humorless. “God,” she said, her voice rough, “you are so fucking infuriating.” He stalked closer. “Funny. I was about to say the same about you.”
She peeled off the last piece of clothing and grabbed a very light blanket she found. Curling under it on the bed, she settled in, the fabric barely shielding her skin. Bucky watched her remove the last piece of clothing, his breath catching as he took it all in. He inhaled deeply, the air thick with tension and something raw between them. “This is stupid,” he said. “You’re freezing.”
“I said I’m fine.” He stripped off his shirt and boxer slow, deliberate. His chest, all scars and muscle and too much perfection, caught her eye even if she didn’t want to look. Then he was beside her, sliding in behind her, his arm circling her waist like a steel band. “Bucky—”
“Shut up,” he said into her ear, voice low and rough. “It’s survival.” She tried to ignore the heat blooming under her skin. The sharp contrast of his bare chest pressed to her back. His breath on her neck. She was flushed too flushed and it wasn’t from the cold. “You always get this worked up when a guy’s just trying to keep you warm?” he murmured. She turned her head, eyes narrowing. “You’re enjoying this.” He didn’t flinch. “I’m hard,” he said, blunt and brutal. “Doesn’t mean I’m enjoying it.” She blinked. “You’re serious?”
“Fine. I’ve had dreams about you,” he said, voice like gravel. “Nights where I woke up panting and touching myself to the sound of your voice echoing in my head. And you acted like you didn’t fucking notice.” She turned fully and stared at him. Thunder cracked overhead. “I noticed,” she said, just above a whisper. “I just wanted you to beg for it.”
“I’d never beg for you,” Bucky said. A long, heavy silence filled the space between their bodies, broken only by the pounding storm outside and the way his chest heaved beneath her. “Oh?” she said, tilting her head, voice all silk and steel. “You sure about that, soldier?” His jaw clenched. “Dead sure.”
She wasn’t supposed to lose control. Out in the field, she was the one barking orders, dragging Bucky out of fire, running point with steel in her spine and fire in her eyes. But now? Now it was Bucky who’d saved her life.
And that shift sudden, jarring left her off balance in a way she couldn’t explain. Now, he was on top of her. Now, his hand was curled around her throat with just enough pressure to remind her that she was his at least for the night. "You don’t know how long I wanted to see you like this,” Bucky rasped, voice low and thick in her ear. “All bark, all orders… but look at you now.” She was naked beneath him, thighs spread wide, breath caught in her throat as he pinned her wrists above her head with his flesh hand.
“Bucky,” she whispered, writhing beneath him, desperate and aching. “No,” he growled. “Tonight you listen. No control. No orders. Just me.”
“You just love pushing me, don’t you?” he growled, metal hand clamped around her throat unyielding, cold, and terrifyingly precise not choking, but firm enough to pin her there. “Out there, you gave me orders like I’m some fucking lapdog.” Her lips parted. Breath shallow. “You gonna do it again?” he asked, eyes blazing. “Or are you finally gonna learn what happens when you make me feel like I don’t have any power?”
“Get off me,” she said but her voice shook, not with fear… but anticipation. He smirked. “Oh, we’re playing that game tonight,” he murmured darkly. “Good.”
She wanted this.
She wanted the loss of control.
She wanted to be taken.
“You act like you’re in charge,” Bucky hissed, grinding against her. “But look at you now. Shaking for it.”
“Don’t stop,” she whispered.
“I wasn’t going to.”
The moment he flipped her over, she knew she was in trouble. Not just because of the bruising grip on her waist, or the way his cock slid between her folds with maddening precision but because of the way he smiled when she whimpered. Like he had won. “Look at you,” Bucky murmured, dragging the blunt head of his cock through her slick folds but refusing to give her what she wanted. “Acting like a big-shot in the field… but needy as hell the second I get my hands on you.”
She clenched her fists in the sheets, growling, “Just fuck me already.” He paused. “We stop the second you say the word. Always.”
“Don’t you dare.” Then crack a sharp slap landed across her ass. She gasped, hips jolting forward. “Bu-Bucky…”
“You gonna boss me around again?” he asked slapping her ass, then gripping the bruised flesh. “I don’t remember giving you permission to talk to me like that.” She lifted her head slightly, breathless. “Maybe I like being punished.”
“That’s right,” he rasped. “Because this body? It’s mine now. You only get to act like you’re in charge.” His chuckle was dark and low and filthy.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he rasped, leaning over her, pressing his cock along the seam of her pussy without entering. “You have no fucking idea what that does to me.” Before she could reply, he pushed in hard stealing the breath from her lungs. She cried out, half in pain, half in relief, arching her back to take him deeper. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned. “So desperate for it, and still you act like a brat.” He started thrusting deep, slow, punishing strokes each one knocking her further forward on the bed. His hand gripped the back of her neck, holding her in place like a doll. “You wanna act like a mouthy little thing?” he growled into her ear. “Then I’ll fuck the attitude out of you.” She gasped, grinding her hips back just to spite him. “Maybe I want you to try.” Another slap this one harder, across the curve of her ass, the sound echoing in the tiny room. “Careful,” he warned. “I’ll break you in half.”
She smirked into the mattress, panting. “Big words from someone already close to coming.” That did it.
Bucky grabbed both her wrists, pinning them behind her back with one strong hand. His other hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back as he slammed into her, over and over, faster, rougher, until her moans turned to ragged screams. “Say it again,” he demanded, sweat dripping from his brow. “Tell me how bad you want it. Beg me like the needy little brat you are.” She was too close, too full, too wrecked to keep her defiance intact. “I want it,” she gasped. “Fuck, Bucky I need it—”
Another slap. Another sharp, blissful sting. She moaned, shaking. “‘Need’ isn't good enough,” he growled. “Tell me you belong to me.”
“I'm yo—” She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. She was unravelling. “I belong to you, Bucky. I’m yours. Just please let me come.” He shoved deeper, hips grinding against her ass, the wet sound of their bodies colliding filling the room, obscene and perfect. “Say it louder.”
“I’m yours!” That broke him.
His rhythm turned feral, his fingers bruising against her hips as he fucked her hard and messy and deep, chasing both her orgasms like a man starved. Her legs shook. Her walls clenched. She screamed his name as she came, her whole body tightening like a bowstring then snapping apart beneath him. She felt him pulse inside her moments later a raw, guttural noise tearing from his throat as he came with her, collapsing forward, keeping her caged beneath his body as he filled her. They both lay there, breathless, soaked in sweat, marked in each other’s prints.
She was still shaking when Bucky pulled out slow, thick, wet making her moan at the loss. Her body was boneless, wrecked, trembling in the aftermath of her orgasm, but he wasn’t done. Not even close. Because this wasn’t just about heat. This was about power. About payback.
And she saw it in his eyes the second he turned her onto her back his pupils blown wide, chest heaving, jaw clenched tight with the restraint he hadn’t yet dropped. “You think you’re done?” he growled, crawling over her, sweat-slick skin sliding against hers. “I—”
He grabbed her jaw, forcing her eyes on him. “All those times you gave the orders. Made me wait. Treated me like a subordinate instead of a partner.” She whimpered as he lined himself back up, her body already aching, still sensitive and leaking from the last round. “You liked teasing me in the field, didn’t you?” he said, voice low and dark. “Bossing me around. Making me watch you walk away.” He didn’t wait for an answer. He slammed back into her with a brutal thrust, ripping a gasp from her throat.
“Bucky—!” she cried, trying to squirm, to adjust, but he was relentless deeper than before, fucking her harder now that she was loose, open, soaked and ruined. “You wanna act like you’re in charge?” he hissed into her neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark. “Then take it.” She clawed at his back, nails dragging down muscle. “Please too much-”
“Oh no, baby,” he snarled. “This is just the beginning.” He sat up on his knees, grabbing her thighs and folding her in half, forcing her open. Her hips trembled, overstimulated and exposed. “You’re gonna lie there and take it,” he said through clenched teeth. “Every. Last. Drop. Until you forget how to boss me around.” She moaned like she was falling apart, her body shaking with every thrust. Her legs touched at his shoulders so he just grabbed her ankles, pinning them back. His metal hand wrapped around her throat again firm, not tight just enough to make her gasp. “You’re mine now,” he said, hips snapping mercilessly. “You understand?” She tried to nod, words gone. “Say it,” he growled. “I’m yours,” she gasped, tears prickling in her eyes. “I’m yours, Bucky- fuck-”
He fucked her through it. Through another orgasm. She didn’t know when the begging started. She just knew she couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop moaning. Couldn’t stop taking everything he gave her. By the time he flipped her over again face down, ass up, back arched and marked with bruises her voice was wrecked. Every sound she made came out hoarse and breathless, her body trembling from the overstimulation and rough praise he’d dragged out of her. But Bucky wasn’t finished. Not even close.
He settled behind her, kneeling between her thighs. His hands smoothed over the curve of her hips, fingers tracing bruises like they were battle scars he was proud of. Then, without a word, he leaned in and spread her open, dragging his tongue through her soaked folds with slow, deliberate pressure. She gasped high and broken her thighs trying to close instinctively, but his hands kept her wide and vulnerable for him. The flat of his tongue pressed against her clit, flicking, circling, teasing. He moaned into her like he was drunk on her, the vibration of it sending jolts of pleasure straight through her spine.
"Fuck—Bucky," she cried into the pillow, voice muffled but desperate. He didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down. His mouth was relentless tongue plunging deep, then retreating to flick her clit again and again until her hips were shaking. His metal hand gripped her ass tightly, holding her still while his other hand slipped between her thighs, two fingers sliding inside her with ease. He fucked her with his mouth and hand like he meant to break her all over again. She clawed at the sheets, sobbing out broken curses as he devoured her messy, hungry, insatiable. Every time she thought she might come down from the edge, he sucked her clit hard enough to make her scream, dragging her higher all over again. Her body wasn’t her own anymore not with the way he worshipped her, wrecked her. Her legs trembled violently, barely holding her up. He moaned into her cunt like he belonged there, like this was exactly where he was meant to be.
"You taste so fuckin’ good," he muttered against her, lips slick, voice ruined with heat. "I could stay here forever."
She sobbed into the mattress, her body shaking uncontrollably, every nerve on fire. And when the orgasm finally hit sharp, hard, unforgiving it shattered through her like lightning. Her whole body tensed, then buckled, her cry strangled and raw.
But even then as her body collapsed, twitching, spent Bucky kept licking her through it, through the aftershocks savoring every drop of her release like it was the only thing that could satisfy him.
Y/N tried to speak, to form a single coherent word maybe a protest, maybe a plea but the pleasure was too much. Her mouth opened, a sound barely escaping, nothing more than a whimper caught in her throat. Her mind was fogged, drowning in sensation, every nerve lit up and thrumming like live wire. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe all she could feel was his mouth on her, his fingers deep inside her, and the overwhelming heat crashing over her in relentless waves.
“B-Bucky—” she managed to gasp. Her fingers clawed at the sheets, desperate to anchor herself, but her body refused to obey. Her thighs shook, her back arched, and she let out a strangled cry. He knew. Of course he did. He could feel her tightening, hear the breath hitch in her throat, see her hips trying to pull away even as she ground herself against his mouth. “You gonna fall apart again, sweetheart?” he murmured against her soaked flesh, lips brushing her clit like a tease. “You trying to tell me to stop?” She shook her head violently, breath catching. “No—please—don’t stop—”
“Didn’t think so,” he growled, and then his mouth was back on her harsher, deeper, as if he wanted to break every bit of control she had left.
Y/N sobbed into the mattress, trying to say his name, trying to warn him, but her voice failed her again as pleasure took over. All that came out were helpless moans, wrecked and breathless. Her body went limp beneath him, trembling violently, tears pricking at her eyes from the sheer intensity of it all. And Bucky just kissed the inside of her thigh, slow and reverent, like he hadn’t just dragged her through the edge of oblivion.
By the time he finally pulled back, her thighs were soaked, her body boneless, her breath coming in shallow, trembling gasps. And he just smirked lips glistening, eyes dark. And still he didn’t stop.
His palm came down on her ass, sharp and fast. Then again. And again. Until her whole body quivered under him, and all she could do was whimper and moan and fall apart in his hands. “Pretty little brat,” he grunted, thrusting into her so deep a last time, it knocked the breath from her lungs. “Finally shut the fuck up.” She didn’t even know how. Just that her body couldn’t not not when he sounded like that, not when he owned every inch of her. This time, he came with her deep, rough, possessive one last groan torn from his chest as he spilled inside her again, his thrusts slowing but no less intense. He stayed there for a long time buried in her, body heavy over her back, breath hot against her shoulder. When he finally pulled out, she collapsed onto her side, utterly limp, spent, broken in all the right ways.
Bucky hovered above her, hand stroking her thigh, now gentle. Reverent. “You still with me, doll?” he asked softly, brushing sweat-soaked hair from her face. She nodded, eyes half-lidded, body trembling. He kissed her temple, her cheek, the corner of her lips. “Good,” he whispered. “You did so fucking good for me.” And this time, when he pulled her into his arms, she didn’t fight it. She curled against his chest, his warmth sinking into her bones, and let herself be held safe, marked, and undeniably his.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x avenger!fem!Reader (Y/N)
Genre: Enemies to lovers - Smut - Rough Sex - Spanking - Overstimulation - Light choking (consensual) – Dominant!Bucky – Brat!Y/N – Power dynamics – Forced proximity – Emotional tension – Aftercare – Trauma references – Red Room mentions – Protective undertones
Word count: 7760 (working on longer stories)
Summary: Y/N and Bucky were the best at what they did, ruthless operatives who couldn’t stand each other and now the forced together on a dangerous mission.
a/n: Pretty sure it will be a part two of this
AVENGERS COMPOUND - BRIEFING ROOM
The room hummed with quiet tension, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead as the main screen lit up with surveillance images grainy aerial shots, infrared blips, blurred faces in the snow. The Hydra outpost was remote, fortified, and almost invisible to satellites. Tony leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. “This isn’t just a weapons depot,” he muttered. “Hydra’s cooking something nasty in there. Biotech signatures don’t lie.” Natasha crossed her arms, eyes fixed on the screen. “Two names flagged from the old Red Room and Winter Soldier files. If they’re there, this isn’t a recon job this is a clean sweep.” Steve nodded grimly. “Agreed. We don’t just need precision. We need people who can get in, eliminate the targets, and get out without leaving a trace.” There was a beat of silence. Then Sam groaned. “You’re thinking Bucky and Y/N, aren’t you?”
“They’re the best,” Natasha said without hesitation. “They also hate each other,” Sam countered, raising a brow. “Last time they shared airspace, I thought she was going to strangle him with her own belt.”
“They don’t hate each other,” Steve said, but his tone wasn’t confident. Tony snorted. “No, they hate how much they understand each other. It’s worse.” Sam cleared his throat. “Can they at least pretend to cooperate? Or are we deploying World War III with stealth camo?”
“They’ll manage,” Steve said firmly, ignoring the look Tony gave him. “They’ve both led black ops. Both trained to compartmentalize. Whatever’s between them they’ll bury it for the mission.” Natasha gave a small, knowing smirk. “Or they’ll use it to get the job done faster.” Tony flicked to the next slide: blueprints of the Hydra outpost. “High-altitude drop, full winter gear. Satellite blackout zone. And if they’re compromised-”
“They’re ghosts,” Steve finished. “No rescue. No trace.”
Silence fell again. Finally, Tony exhaled. “Guess we’re betting the mission on gritted teeth and sexual tension.” Sam muttered, “This is gonna be a shitshow.” But no one disagreed.
AVENGERS COMPOUND - GYM
Grunts echoed off the padded walls. The rhythmic slap of fists on mats, the crack of limbs colliding sharp, clean, and focused. Y/N ducked under Bucky’s swing, sweat-slick and breathing hard. She twisted, leg sweeping toward his ribs, but he caught it with a grunt, tossing her off-balance. She rolled, came up in a crouch, and smirked. “Slowing down, Barnes.” He wiped a bead of sweat off his brow, metal fingers flexing. “I’m giving you a chance to keep up.” They circled each other again, bodies coiled like springs. Neither pulled punches. Neither gave ground.
Outside the gym, behind reinforced glass, the rest of the team watched from the mission briefing room. Steve folded his arms. “You’re sure about this pairing?” Natasha raised an eyebrow, glancing at the sparring match. “They’ll get it done. They always do.”
“But they’ll kill each other doing it,” Sam muttered, sipping coffee. Tony leaned back in his chair, watching Y/N shove Bucky back with a palm to the chest. “Or they’ll finally screw and get it out of their system.”
“Tony,” Steve warned. “What?” Tony grinned. “Tell me you haven’t noticed the tension. I’ve seen less eye contact in war zones.” Sam chuckled. “Still… it’s Hydra. Deep recon. Snow, low visibility, unstable terrain. This op needs the best.”
“And that’s them,” Nat said simply. “Like it or not.” Steve sighed, watching Bucky catch Y/N in a hold and pin her against the wall. She elbowed him in the ribs. He grunted, and she slipped free. “They’ll fight it,” Steve said quietly. “Each other. The mission. Everything.” Nat’s eyes narrowed, but her voice was sure. “Then they’ll survive it.”
Y/N’s breath came in short bursts, sweat glistening on her skin as she twisted into a takedown. With a sharp grunt, she hooked Bucky’s arm and shoulder-rolled him clean off his feet. He hit the mat hard, the thud echoing through the gym but before his back fully met the ground, his boot swept out low and fast, nailing her ankle just right. She yelped as her balance gave out, and a heartbeat later she was sprawled beside him, face-first on the mat. Both of them groaned, tangled in exhaustion and bruises, neither willing to admit the other got the last hit in. It was a draw. Again.
The door opened with a hiss of hydraulics. Steve entered first, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Behind him, Nat, Tony, and Sam filtered in, observing the sprawled pair with thinly veiled amusement. Steve arched a brow. “Kids. Shower. Briefing room. Now.” Y/N flipped onto her back, breathless. “You calling me a kid, Rogers?” Bucky snorted. “He meant me, obviously.” Tony smirked. “Sure, grandpa. C’mon, before you two make it weird.” Y/N and Bucky exchanged a glance competitive, lingering, electric but neither said a word. They both stood, brushed themselves off, and silently made for the locker rooms. Nat leaned into Steve as they left. “They’re going to love what’s coming next.” Steve just sighed. “They’re going to hate it.”
Y/N now showered stood near the window, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Eyes locked on the frost-streaked glass. She didn’t even flinch when the door opened. Bucky entered with that same grim tension he always carried before a mission jaw tight, shoulders squared, and gaze already wary the moment it landed on her. Steve followed a second later, holding a tablet. Natasha and Sam lingered by the doorway, exchanging a glance that practically screamed this is gonna be fun.
Steve didn’t waste time. “Hydra’s back in motion. Remote outpost in the Carpathians. Two or three high-value targets confirmed on site. We need them taken out, clean and quiet.” Y/N arched a brow without turning. “You’ve got half a dozen field agents who can do quiet. Why call us in?”
“Because it’s not just about infiltration,” Natasha said, stepping forward. “They’re building something. Biotech. Red Room–adjacent. You both have history with the programs involved.” Bucky’s tone was flat. “Who’s the lead?” Steve paused for half a beat. “Joint op. You and Y/N.” The silence hit like a thunderclap.
Y/N turned slowly, her eyes cold. “No.” Bucky’s brow furrowed. “I work alone.”
“Yeah, and I work with people who don’t get me shot,” Y/N snapped. Steve held up a hand. “We don’t have time for this. You two are the best option. You know Hydra’s playbook better than anyone else.” Bucky’s jaw clenched. “She doesn’t follow protocol.”
“And he doesn’t listen when someone smarter gives him orders,” Y/N shot back. Natasha sighed. “Look, no one’s asking you to hold hands and braid each other’s hair. We’re asking you to eliminate a target and survive.” Sam added under his breath, “And preferably without killing each other before extraction.” Steve stepped between them, calm but firm. “You’ve done this before. You don’t have to like it you just have to finish the mission.” Y/N stared at Bucky for a long, silent moment, something unreadable passing through her eyes. She scoffed and looked back at Steve. “Fine. But I’m not babysitting him.” Bucky’s voice was low. “Wasn’t planning on needing it.” Steve nodded, handing them both comm devices and the mission tablet. “Gear up. Wheels up in two hours. High-altitude drop, sub-zero conditions. You’ll be alone out there.” As the others filed out, Y/N and Bucky lingered behind tension thick enough to cut with a knife. “You stay out of my way,” she muttered, strapping the comm to her wrist. He didn’t blink. “Only if you don’t get yourself killed first.”
“Wouldn’t give you the satisfaction,” she said, brushing past him. He watched her go, eyes narrowing slightly. Not for the first time, he wondered if she was the only person on the planet who could get under his skin and still make his blood run hot. This mission was going to be hell. But he was already in it.
AVENGERS COMPOUND - ARMORY LOCKER ROOM
The metallic clatter of weapons and gear echoed faintly as Y/N adjusted the straps on her tactical vest. The cold metal of a knife sheath slid into place along her thigh. Focused. Silent. Tense. A soft footstep behind her didn’t make her flinch she already knew who it was. “I know it sucks, working with him,” Natasha said, leaning casually against a locker with her arms crossed. “Trust me. I’ve done it.” Y/N huffed. “Wasn’t planning on letting him slow me down.”
“You won’t,” Nat said easily. “But you should know… he respects you. Even if he shows it by growling like a rabid dog.” Y/N smirked, despite herself. “Charming.” Nat pushed off the locker and walked over, voice lowering. “Look I know it’s complicated. He gets under your skin. Pushes every button. But in the field? You two work like a loaded gun. Clean. Precise. Lethal.”
“That supposed to be comforting?” Y/N muttered, adjusting the clasp on her gloves. “No,” Nat replied. “It’s supposed to remind you: You don’t have to like him. But you can trust him especially when it counts.” Y/N didn’t reply right away. But her jaw unclenched.
MECHANICAL BAY - GEAR STAGING AREA
Bucky sat on the edge of a bench. Metal fingers worked methodically loading his gun, but his face was far from calm. Steve approached quietly, offering a small nod. “You packed?” Bucky slid the mag in with a sharp click. “Almost.”
“You don’t have to like her, Buck,” Steve said carefully, resting a hand on the back of the bench. “You just have to get the job done.”
“That’s the problem, Steve,” Bucky said, not looking up. “I do like her. On the field. She’s reckless, sharp, brutal. Like she knows exactly how far to go and then goes two steps past it.” Steve raised a brow. “Sounds familiar.” Bucky gave a dry laugh. “Yeah, well. Guess that’s what pisses me off.” Steve studied him for a beat. “You think she’ll be a liability?” Bucky finally looked up. His eyes were clear. Certain. “No. She’ll have my back, even if she wants to shoot me right after.” Steve gave a faint smile. “Then that’s all that matters.” As Bucky stood, sliding a knife into his belt and slinging a rifle over his shoulder, his gaze shifted to the snowy sky through the high windows. “She doesn’t know how dangerous she is,” he muttered. Steve clapped his shoulder. “Maybe that’s why you’re both still alive.”
AVENGERS COMPOUND - HANGAR BAY, NIGHT
The hangar was dark, lit only by the floodlights lining the floor and the sleek silhouette of the quinjet idling on the tarmac. Y/N walked in first, boots echoing sharply against the concrete, each step steady and unbothered. Her gear was tight, efficient. A second skin molded to every curve and angle of her body. It wasn’t for show, and yet it had the effect of one. Tactical, precise, and effortlessly lethal. She didn’t look at Bucky as he approached from the other end of the bay, but she didn’t need to. She felt him. Like always. The weight of him. The quiet storm that trailed behind her in silence.
Bucky almost faltered. His eyes locked onto her, tracing the lines of her frame, the way the combat vest hugged her torso, the smooth stretch of her sleeves over lean, powerful arms. He told himself it was reflex, muscle memory from a lifetime of watching for threats, assessing allies. But it wasn’t that. Not really. It was her. She moved with purpose, like a loaded weapon, unaware — or maybe fully aware — of how every calculated movement pulled him in. Bucky knew better than to let his guard down, but around her, the lines blurred. Watching her, wanting her — it had become a habit he couldn't break.
He clenched his jaw and forced his eyes elsewhere, pretending to check his gear, but they always drifted back. Just a glance. Just one more. It was a facade, the way he acted around her. The cold nods. The gruff, impersonal words. He wore indifference like armor, because it was safer that way. But none of it was real. What he wanted — truly wanted — was her. Not just the version in combat boots and Kevlar, but all of her. The fire behind her eyes, the quiet strength, the way she never flinched around him, even when others did. He wanted to touch her like he wasn't afraid of breaking things anymore.
But for now, he just watched. Pretending it didn’t burn. Neither of them spoke. The rear ramp of the jet lowered with a hiss. Steve stood at the edge, arms crossed, watching them both like a parent sending his problem children off to boarding school. “You’ve got coordinates locked,” he said. “No comm chatter unless necessary. Target recon first. Elimination second. Extraction window is tight.” Y/N nodded once. “Copy.” Bucky just grunted. Checked his sidearm. They reached the ramp at the same time. Steve gave them a look half warning, half faith then stepped back.
“Don’t die,” he muttered. Y/N smirked. “I’ll try not to kill him.” Bucky didn’t respond. Just walked past her up the ramp, heavy boots thudding against the steel, each step a measured beat in the silence between them. It was Y/N’s turn to look. She hadn’t meant to — told herself she wouldn’t — but her eyes followed him anyway. The broad set of his shoulders beneath his jacket, the way his muscles moved under the fabric like coiled wire. Controlled. Contained. Always on the edge of snapping loose. There was something about the way he walked — like he carried centuries of weight in his spine and didn’t trust the ground not to give out beneath him. That same quiet tension that radiated off him when he stood too close. Like lightning in the air before a storm. She swallowed.
He wasn’t looking at her, and yet she still felt seen. Exposed, somehow. The way his silence said more than most men ever did with a full sentence. The way he kept his distance, but never really left her orbit. It was easier when he looked away. Easier to pretend none of it mattered. That her skin didn’t remember the sound of his voice or the rare, barely-there smile that threatened to undo her completely. But now, watching him climb the ramp — back rigid, jaw tight — Y/N felt something twist inside her. Because she knew the truth, whether he said it or not. He wanted her. And god help her, she wanted him too. But want was dangerous. Want got people killed. So she kept her hands to herself and her feelings locked behind walls even he couldn’t break through. At least, not yet.
Inside the jet, the atmosphere was colder than the sky outside. She slid into a seat, strapping in, while he took the bench across from her. Their knees almost touched. Almost. She didn’t look at him. He didn’t look away. The engines roared to life. The jet lifted off into the night. For a long moment, nothing but the hum of flight and the quiet rasp of breathing filled the cabin. Then Y/N finally spoke, voice low and calm. “Let’s get one thing straight.” Bucky arched a brow. “Go on.”
“I don’t like you.” Her eyes cut to his, sharp as glass. “But I trust what you can do.” His jaw twitched. A muscle ticked in his temple. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “Good,” he said. “Because I don’t like you either.” A pause. Then the faintest curve at the corner of her lips. “Perfect.”
The roar of the jet engines hummed low beneath the silence that had settled over the cabin. Mountains of white sprawled endlessly below them, wind currents buffeting the Quinjet like a steady heartbeat. Snow. Ice. Silence. Y/N sat strapped in, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the endless whiteness outside the small window. She hadn't said a word since takeoff. Bucky sat across from her, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor like it might open up and swallow him whole. He finally exhaled, slow and deliberate. “Listen, if…” Her head snapped toward him. Cold. Sharp. “If what, Barnes?” He looked up, met her eyes. And for once, there was no heat behind his stare — no sarcasm, no challenge. Just… sincerity. And something older. Wounded. “If you see something about the Red Room… memories, triggers, files—whatever,” he said quietly, “remember you’re not a Widow anymore.”
The silence stretched. She blinked. Once. Then twice. The cold edge in her gaze softened, just barely. “Same for you,” she said after a moment, her voice warmer now. Softer. “You were never him.” The corner of Bucky’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. Just something real. “I know.” he said. But they both knew it was never that simple. The Quinjet rumbled on, slicing through the storm. And for the first time in a long time, they didn’t feel entirely alone with the weight they carried. They stared at each other. Steady. Electric. Two weapons locked in the same box, waiting to explode. Outside, the clouds swallowed the jet whole, and the mission began.
The quinjet touched down with a low hum, its engines cutting through the frigid mountain air like a blade. Snow drifted in thick, blinding sheets, settling in every crease of Bucky’s tactical gear as he stepped into the whiteout, rifle slung over his shoulder, jaw clenched tight. Y/N followed just behind him, checking her weapon one last time before pulling her hood over her head. The cold bit through everything, even their high-grade suits, but neither of them flinched. They weren’t here to get comfortable they were here to kill. “Target compound’s half a klick northeast,” she muttered, glancing at the tablet in her gloved hands. A grainy satellite image flickered on the screen squat buildings hidden beneath camouflage netting, high fencing barely visible beneath the snowdrifts. “Hydra’s ghosts are nesting again. Intel says two of the names on the watchlist are confirmed inside.” Bucky gave a tight nod but didn’t look at her. “We get in, eliminate the targets, and get out. No heroics.” She scoffed. “I wasn’t the one who tried to play human shield in Jakarta.” “And I wasn’t the one who ignored backup protocol in Prague,” he shot back, voice clipped. They fell into silence, trudging up the slope through the snow, both too stubborn to acknowledge the sting behind each other's words. They didn’t like working together. Never had. Too much alike. Too much history. But they were the best and when the mission was this delicate, this dangerous, the Avengers sent them anyway. Hydra wasn’t just regrouping they were testing limits again. Quiet, hidden cells scattered across the globe, rebuilding what was lost, piece by twisted piece. And the two assets best equipped to erase those pieces? Y/N and Bucky.
They reached the ridge twenty minutes later, breath fogging the air, snow clinging to their gear. The compound lay below, barely visible through the storm a few scattered figures moving between buildings, heat signatures glowing faintly in their goggles. Y/N dropped to her stomach behind a jagged outcrop of rock, pulling her sniper rifle into position. Her heartbeat slowed. Focus narrowed. They took different paths. “Three tangos out front. Two near the east gate,” she whispered into the comms. “Looks like shift change. This is the window.” But before she could take the shot, Bucky’s voice crackled in her ear low, firm, and already laced with tension. “You’re too exposed on that ridge,” Bucky’s voice crackled through the comms, rough with tension. “Pull back, now.” “Negative,” she replied, crouched low behind a jagged outcrop of stone. Snow whipped across her face like razors. “Targets in the open. I can take the shot.”
“Not with those thermals scanning the perimeter. They’ll spot you before your finger touches the trigger.”
“I know what I’m doing.” There was a pause. Then, clipped and sharp: “Copy that.”
She adjusted the scope, heart pounding. She could feel him fuming through the comms, but this was her op. She had led it from the beginning reconnaissance, planning, infiltration. Bucky was only there for backup, and his presence had been a thorn in her side from the first briefing. Too intense. Too observant. Too silent until he wasn’t then all bark and bite and frustrating, infuriating right. Still, she trusted her instincts. Until everything went to hell. The second her finger squeezed the trigger, the world lit up in red sensors flared, alarms screamed, and within seconds, a flood of heavily armed guards swarmed the compound. She dove for cover, adrenaline crashing into her system like lightning. “Fuck! I’ve been made-”
“I told you,” Bucky growled over the comms. “Fall back to point Echo. Now.”
“I can still-”
“No.” His voice snapped like a whip. “You stay and fight, you die. Move.” She hesitated just a second and that second nearly killed her. A blast tore up the snowbank beside her, spraying ice and debris across her face. She scrambled to her feet and ran, sprinting toward the treeline, heart thundering. Shots rang out behind her. They weren’t aimed at her. She skidded into cover just in time to see Bucky all muscle and fluid brutality drop from a ledge and take out three guards before they could follow. His movements were precise, lethal, beautiful in the worst possible way. “We’re clear,” he muttered. He eliminated all the guards, alone. He grabbed her arm and hauled her into motion without waiting for thanks. “You compromised the op,” he said through clenched teeth as they ran. “We improvise now.”
“And what? You’re in charge suddenly?” He stopped abruptly, backing her into a tree, his breath misting hot between them. “I don’t give a shit about rank. I care about getting us out alive. So yeah I’m in charge. Unless you want to bleed out in the snow.” She hated the way her heart jumped. Hated that she couldn’t argue because he was right. And when he turned and took off again, she followed without another word.
“You good?” he asked, voice lower now. Rougher. She glanced at him. Nodded. “Yeah.” But she wasn’t. Not really. Because even now standing in a battlefield of snow and blood and broken bodies she felt it. The tension. The pull. The urge to slam him against the nearest tree and scream out every unsaid thing with her mouth, her fists, her hips. And worse? She saw it in his eyes, too. He stepped even closer. She didn’t move. His voice was quiet, unreadable. “You disobeyed a direct order.” Her lip curled, defiant.
The snow crunched beneath their boots as they moved through the shadowed trees, the cold biting through their layers but doing nothing to cool the fire simmering between them. The moon hung low, casting pale light over the frozen landscape, every breath visible in the icy air. Neither spoke. Words felt useless—too sharp, too vulnerable. Y/N’s mind raced, every nerve alert, every glance at Bucky’s rigid posture a reminder of how close they were to the edge—of the mission, of each other. He led without looking back, silent and sure, like a predator confident in his path. She kept pace, matching his steps but keeping a careful distance. Their breaths rose and fell in uneven rhythm, and every so often, their eyes would meet—brief, charged flickers—before darting away like startled prey. The extraction point came into view—no quinjet waiting.
Bucky paused, scanning their surroundings once more before turning toward her. All that remained was a twisted, smoking wreck—shattered by Hydra’s ruthless strike while they’d been occupied. Y/N’s breath hitched as she took in the ruined craft, the blackened metal glowing faintly in the cold night. Bucky cursed under his breath, fists clenched tight. Without hesitation, he pulled out his comm and dialed Tony. The static crackled before Tony’s voice came through, strained but calm. “Bucky, we saw the attack. The quinjet’s a total loss.”
“What’s the plan?” Bucky asked, scanning the dark tree line. Tony sighed. “Weather’s worsening. Visibility’s dropping fast. You’re stuck there for the night. Find shelter, stay low. I’m sending reinforcements at first light.” Y/N swallowed hard, the weight of their predicament settling like ice in her stomach. Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Copy that. We’ll hold position.” He ended the call and looked at Y/N. His voice was low, clipped. “No extraction tonight. We find cover, keep watch. This just got a hell of a lot more complicated.” She nodded, heart pounding—not just from cold or danger, but from the way his eyes held hers—dark, fierce, and raw. The night was far from over.
The wind howled through the trees, slicing cold air through their layers as they trudged deeper into the woods. Snow crunched beneath their boots, every step echoing in the stillness around them. Bucky scanned the darkness ahead, muscles tense, eyes sharp for any sign of danger—or refuge. Y/N’s breath came out in frosty clouds, her fingers numb despite the gloves. The chill wasn’t just from the weather anymore. After what felt like hours, a faint light flickered through the trees—warm and steady, a beacon in the cold night. They exchanged a quick glance, silent agreement. Moving cautiously, they approached the source: a small, weather-beaten cabin tucked among the pines, smoke curling gently from its chimney. The house looked abandoned, but sturdy—just enough to shield them from the storm. Bucky reached the door first, pressing his ear against the wood before turning the handle slowly. The hinges creaked, but the door gave way.
Inside, the air was stale but dry. Dust motes danced in the weak glow of a lone lantern hanging from the ceiling. Y/N stepped in, closing the door behind them, shutting out the storm—and the world outside. Bucky dropped his pack with a thud and locked the door behind them.
“We’ll make do,” he said, eyes already searching for firewood or anything useful. Y/N nodded, muscles still taut but a flicker of relief warming her. For now, they had shelter. But the night was still young—and so was the storm between them. Inside, after the door slammed shut behind them, Bucky turned slowly to face her. “You’re welcome,” he said, voice low and bitter. “I didn’t ask you to save me.”
“No. You didn’t,” he said. “That’s the fucking problem.” She stared at him, chest heaving. Rain dripped down her face, but her blood burned hotter than ever. “I don’t need you.” He stepped closer. “Yeah? Then why’d you listen when I told you to run?” She said nothing. Because the answer was simple. She did trust him. Even when she hated him for being right. Even when she wanted to push him against the nearest wall and—
The silence cracked between them like thunder. The storm outside hadn’t even started yet. The power flickered twice then died, leaving the place in a cold, humming silence. “You’ve gotta be kidding,” she muttered, soaked through and scowling. Bucky locked the door closed behind him, shoulders tense, eyes already scanning the dark with soldier precision.
“No power. No signal. We’re stuck until morning.” She blinked. “There’s only one bed.”
“And no heat,” he said, jaw tight. “This high up in the mountains? We’ll be hypothermic by dawn.” She pulled off her soaked jacket, biting back a shiver. “What, no generator in your fancy arm?”
“No,” he said, stepping closer. “But I’ve got body heat.” She scoffed. “Wow. Original.”
“I’m serious.” He always was too serious. Cold. Controlled. And now here they were. Wet. Cold. Stuck. Together.
In the dimness, she peeled off her boots and gear, teeth clattering. Bucky shrugged out of his gear with more force than necessary, metal arm clanking as he yanked his harness free and dropped it to the ground. He looked at her and his jaw was tight, twitching like he was trying very hard not to say something he’d regret. They watched each other intently as they slowly peeled off every piece of clothing. Fingers trembled slightly with anticipation, eyes tracing every curve and line revealed with each discarded layer. The air between them thickened with heat and unspoken desire, every glance speaking louder than words as they bared themselves completely, standing vulnerable and exposed before one another. He watched as the tactical pants slid slowly down her legs, the fabric slipping over smooth skin. She watched how his metal arm moved deliberately, unclipping and pulling the belt free with quiet strength. Their eyes met, the small moments charged with something electric between them. When she removed her bra, Bucky kept his eyes fixed on her face. Inside, he was dying—dying to touch those delicate breasts, to suck on the nipples now fully erect. But he also knew she’d probably shoot him if he tried.
“You always think you’re right,” she snapped, pacing across the floor. “Like your instincts are the only ones that matter.” His head jerked toward her, blue eyes sharp. He stopped undressing, his shirt and boxers still on. She looked at how tight the boxers were, the fabric stretched against his skin. “I was right,” he growled. “If I hadn’t pulled your ass out, you’d be cooling in a body bag.” Her ass, Bucky thought, now bare except for a tiny pair of underwear clinging to her skin. She stepped in closer. “You don’t get to throw that in my face.”
“I do when you nearly got both of us killed.” Her pulse spiked. “I had it handled—”
“Bullshit. You’re too reckless.”
“And you’re too cautious.”
“I’m still alive.”
“I made the call—”
“And it was the wrong one!” That hit like a slap. Her breath left her in a short, sharp exhale. The room felt smaller. Tighter. Her hands curled into fists at her sides. “You think just because you’ve got a metal arm and a haunted past, you get to take over whenever you feel like it?” she hissed. He stepped forward. “No,” Bucky said, voice low and dark. “I think I get to take over when you start making decisions with your fucking ego instead of your head.”
The silence after that was deafening. They glared at each other, the storm howling outside. Rain hammered the roof. Their chests heaved in unison her in just a tiny pair of underwear, him still in his shirt and boxers. Then she laughed sharp and humorless. “God,” she said, her voice rough, “you are so fucking infuriating.” He stalked closer. “Funny. I was about to say the same about you.”
She peeled off the last piece of clothing and grabbed a very light blanket she found. Curling under it on the bed, she settled in, the fabric barely shielding her skin. Bucky watched her remove the last piece of clothing, his breath catching as he took it all in. He inhaled deeply, the air thick with tension and something raw between them. “This is stupid,” he said. “You’re freezing.”
“I said I’m fine.” He stripped off his shirt and boxer slow, deliberate. His chest, all scars and muscle and too much perfection, caught her eye even if she didn’t want to look. Then he was beside her, sliding in behind her, his arm circling her waist like a steel band. “Bucky—”
“Shut up,” he said into her ear, voice low and rough. “It’s survival.” She tried to ignore the heat blooming under her skin. The sharp contrast of his bare chest pressed to her back. His breath on her neck. She was flushed too flushed and it wasn’t from the cold. “You always get this worked up when a guy’s just trying to keep you warm?” he murmured. She turned her head, eyes narrowing. “You’re enjoying this.” He didn’t flinch. “I’m hard,” he said, blunt and brutal. “Doesn’t mean I’m enjoying it.” She blinked. “You’re serious?”
“Fine. I’ve had dreams about you,” he said, voice like gravel. “Nights where I woke up panting and touching myself to the sound of your voice echoing in my head. And you acted like you didn’t fucking notice.” She turned fully and stared at him. Thunder cracked overhead. “I noticed,” she said, just above a whisper. “I just wanted you to beg for it.”
“I’d never beg for you,” Bucky said. A long, heavy silence filled the space between their bodies, broken only by the pounding storm outside and the way his chest heaved beneath her. “Oh?” she said, tilting her head, voice all silk and steel. “You sure about that, soldier?” His jaw clenched. “Dead sure.”
She wasn’t supposed to lose control. Out in the field, she was the one barking orders, dragging Bucky out of fire, running point with steel in her spine and fire in her eyes. But now? Now it was Bucky who’d saved her life.
And that shift sudden, jarring left her off balance in a way she couldn’t explain. Now, he was on top of her. Now, his hand was curled around her throat with just enough pressure to remind her that she was his at least for the night. "You don’t know how long I wanted to see you like this,” Bucky rasped, voice low and thick in her ear. “All bark, all orders… but look at you now.” She was naked beneath him, thighs spread wide, breath caught in her throat as he pinned her wrists above her head with his flesh hand.
“Bucky,” she whispered, writhing beneath him, desperate and aching. “No,” he growled. “Tonight you listen. No control. No orders. Just me.”
“You just love pushing me, don’t you?” he growled, metal hand clamped around her throat unyielding, cold, and terrifyingly precise not choking, but firm enough to pin her there. “Out there, you gave me orders like I’m some fucking lapdog.” Her lips parted. Breath shallow. “You gonna do it again?” he asked, eyes blazing. “Or are you finally gonna learn what happens when you make me feel like I don’t have any power?”
“Get off me,” she said but her voice shook, not with fear… but anticipation. He smirked. “Oh, we’re playing that game tonight,” he murmured darkly. “Good.”
She wanted this.
She wanted the loss of control.
She wanted to be taken.
“You act like you’re in charge,” Bucky hissed, grinding against her. “But look at you now. Shaking for it.”
“Don’t stop,” she whispered.
“I wasn’t going to.”
The moment he flipped her over, she knew she was in trouble. Not just because of the bruising grip on her waist, or the way his cock slid between her folds with maddening precision but because of the way he smiled when she whimpered. Like he had won. “Look at you,” Bucky murmured, dragging the blunt head of his cock through her slick folds but refusing to give her what she wanted. “Acting like a big-shot in the field… but needy as hell the second I get my hands on you.”
She clenched her fists in the sheets, growling, “Just fuck me already.” He paused. “We stop the second you say the word. Always.”
“Don’t you dare.” Then crack a sharp slap landed across her ass. She gasped, hips jolting forward. “Bu-Bucky…”
“You gonna boss me around again?” he asked slapping her ass, then gripping the bruised flesh. “I don’t remember giving you permission to talk to me like that.” She lifted her head slightly, breathless. “Maybe I like being punished.”
“That’s right,” he rasped. “Because this body? It’s mine now. You only get to act like you’re in charge.” His chuckle was dark and low and filthy.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he rasped, leaning over her, pressing his cock along the seam of her pussy without entering. “You have no fucking idea what that does to me.” Before she could reply, he pushed in hard stealing the breath from her lungs. She cried out, half in pain, half in relief, arching her back to take him deeper. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned. “So desperate for it, and still you act like a brat.” He started thrusting deep, slow, punishing strokes each one knocking her further forward on the bed. His hand gripped the back of her neck, holding her in place like a doll. “You wanna act like a mouthy little thing?” he growled into her ear. “Then I’ll fuck the attitude out of you.” She gasped, grinding her hips back just to spite him. “Maybe I want you to try.” Another slap this one harder, across the curve of her ass, the sound echoing in the tiny room. “Careful,” he warned. “I’ll break you in half.”
She smirked into the mattress, panting. “Big words from someone already close to coming.” That did it.
Bucky grabbed both her wrists, pinning them behind her back with one strong hand. His other hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back as he slammed into her, over and over, faster, rougher, until her moans turned to ragged screams. “Say it again,” he demanded, sweat dripping from his brow. “Tell me how bad you want it. Beg me like the needy little brat you are.” She was too close, too full, too wrecked to keep her defiance intact. “I want it,” she gasped. “Fuck, Bucky I need it—”
Another slap. Another sharp, blissful sting. She moaned, shaking. “‘Need’ isn't good enough,” he growled. “Tell me you belong to me.”
“I'm yo—” She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. She was unravelling. “I belong to you, Bucky. I’m yours. Just please let me come.” He shoved deeper, hips grinding against her ass, the wet sound of their bodies colliding filling the room, obscene and perfect. “Say it louder.”
“I’m yours!” That broke him.
His rhythm turned feral, his fingers bruising against her hips as he fucked her hard and messy and deep, chasing both her orgasms like a man starved. Her legs shook. Her walls clenched. She screamed his name as she came, her whole body tightening like a bowstring then snapping apart beneath him. She felt him pulse inside her moments later a raw, guttural noise tearing from his throat as he came with her, collapsing forward, keeping her caged beneath his body as he filled her. They both lay there, breathless, soaked in sweat, marked in each other’s prints.
She was still shaking when Bucky pulled out slow, thick, wet making her moan at the loss. Her body was boneless, wrecked, trembling in the aftermath of her orgasm, but he wasn’t done. Not even close. Because this wasn’t just about heat. This was about power. About payback.
And she saw it in his eyes the second he turned her onto her back his pupils blown wide, chest heaving, jaw clenched tight with the restraint he hadn’t yet dropped. “You think you’re done?” he growled, crawling over her, sweat-slick skin sliding against hers. “I—”
He grabbed her jaw, forcing her eyes on him. “All those times you gave the orders. Made me wait. Treated me like a subordinate instead of a partner.” She whimpered as he lined himself back up, her body already aching, still sensitive and leaking from the last round. “You liked teasing me in the field, didn’t you?” he said, voice low and dark. “Bossing me around. Making me watch you walk away.” He didn’t wait for an answer. He slammed back into her with a brutal thrust, ripping a gasp from her throat.
“Bucky—!” she cried, trying to squirm, to adjust, but he was relentless deeper than before, fucking her harder now that she was loose, open, soaked and ruined. “You wanna act like you’re in charge?” he hissed into her neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark. “Then take it.” She clawed at his back, nails dragging down muscle. “Please too much-”
“Oh no, baby,” he snarled. “This is just the beginning.” He sat up on his knees, grabbing her thighs and folding her in half, forcing her open. Her hips trembled, overstimulated and exposed. “You’re gonna lie there and take it,” he said through clenched teeth. “Every. Last. Drop. Until you forget how to boss me around.” She moaned like she was falling apart, her body shaking with every thrust. Her legs touched at his shoulders so he just grabbed her ankles, pinning them back. His metal hand wrapped around her throat again firm, not tight just enough to make her gasp. “You’re mine now,” he said, hips snapping mercilessly. “You understand?” She tried to nod, words gone. “Say it,” he growled. “I’m yours,” she gasped, tears prickling in her eyes. “I’m yours, Bucky- fuck-”
He fucked her through it. Through another orgasm. She didn’t know when the begging started. She just knew she couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop moaning. Couldn’t stop taking everything he gave her. By the time he flipped her over again face down, ass up, back arched and marked with bruises her voice was wrecked. Every sound she made came out hoarse and breathless, her body trembling from the overstimulation and rough praise he’d dragged out of her. But Bucky wasn’t finished. Not even close.
He settled behind her, kneeling between her thighs. His hands smoothed over the curve of her hips, fingers tracing bruises like they were battle scars he was proud of. Then, without a word, he leaned in and spread her open, dragging his tongue through her soaked folds with slow, deliberate pressure. She gasped high and broken her thighs trying to close instinctively, but his hands kept her wide and vulnerable for him. The flat of his tongue pressed against her clit, flicking, circling, teasing. He moaned into her like he was drunk on her, the vibration of it sending jolts of pleasure straight through her spine.
"Fuck—Bucky," she cried into the pillow, voice muffled but desperate. He didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down. His mouth was relentless tongue plunging deep, then retreating to flick her clit again and again until her hips were shaking. His metal hand gripped her ass tightly, holding her still while his other hand slipped between her thighs, two fingers sliding inside her with ease. He fucked her with his mouth and hand like he meant to break her all over again. She clawed at the sheets, sobbing out broken curses as he devoured her messy, hungry, insatiable. Every time she thought she might come down from the edge, he sucked her clit hard enough to make her scream, dragging her higher all over again. Her body wasn’t her own anymore not with the way he worshipped her, wrecked her. Her legs trembled violently, barely holding her up. He moaned into her cunt like he belonged there, like this was exactly where he was meant to be.
"You taste so fuckin’ good," he muttered against her, lips slick, voice ruined with heat. "I could stay here forever."
She sobbed into the mattress, her body shaking uncontrollably, every nerve on fire. And when the orgasm finally hit sharp, hard, unforgiving it shattered through her like lightning. Her whole body tensed, then buckled, her cry strangled and raw.
But even then as her body collapsed, twitching, spent Bucky kept licking her through it, through the aftershocks savoring every drop of her release like it was the only thing that could satisfy him.
Y/N tried to speak, to form a single coherent word maybe a protest, maybe a plea but the pleasure was too much. Her mouth opened, a sound barely escaping, nothing more than a whimper caught in her throat. Her mind was fogged, drowning in sensation, every nerve lit up and thrumming like live wire. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe all she could feel was his mouth on her, his fingers deep inside her, and the overwhelming heat crashing over her in relentless waves.
“B-Bucky—” she managed to gasp. Her fingers clawed at the sheets, desperate to anchor herself, but her body refused to obey. Her thighs shook, her back arched, and she let out a strangled cry. He knew. Of course he did. He could feel her tightening, hear the breath hitch in her throat, see her hips trying to pull away even as she ground herself against his mouth. “You gonna fall apart again, sweetheart?” he murmured against her soaked flesh, lips brushing her clit like a tease. “You trying to tell me to stop?” She shook her head violently, breath catching. “No—please—don’t stop—”
“Didn’t think so,” he growled, and then his mouth was back on her harsher, deeper, as if he wanted to break every bit of control she had left.
Y/N sobbed into the mattress, trying to say his name, trying to warn him, but her voice failed her again as pleasure took over. All that came out were helpless moans, wrecked and breathless. Her body went limp beneath him, trembling violently, tears pricking at her eyes from the sheer intensity of it all. And Bucky just kissed the inside of her thigh, slow and reverent, like he hadn’t just dragged her through the edge of oblivion.
By the time he finally pulled back, her thighs were soaked, her body boneless, her breath coming in shallow, trembling gasps. And he just smirked lips glistening, eyes dark. And still he didn’t stop.
His palm came down on her ass, sharp and fast. Then again. And again. Until her whole body quivered under him, and all she could do was whimper and moan and fall apart in his hands. “Pretty little brat,” he grunted, thrusting into her so deep a last time, it knocked the breath from her lungs. “Finally shut the fuck up.” She didn’t even know how. Just that her body couldn’t not not when he sounded like that, not when he owned every inch of her. This time, he came with her deep, rough, possessive one last groan torn from his chest as he spilled inside her again, his thrusts slowing but no less intense. He stayed there for a long time buried in her, body heavy over her back, breath hot against her shoulder. When he finally pulled out, she collapsed onto her side, utterly limp, spent, broken in all the right ways.
Bucky hovered above her, hand stroking her thigh, now gentle. Reverent. “You still with me, doll?” he asked softly, brushing sweat-soaked hair from her face. She nodded, eyes half-lidded, body trembling. He kissed her temple, her cheek, the corner of her lips. “Good,” he whispered. “You did so fucking good for me.” And this time, when he pulled her into his arms, she didn’t fight it. She curled against his chest, his warmth sinking into her bones, and let herself be held safe, marked, and undeniably his.
pairings: bucky barnes x anti-hero!reader
word count: 25.1k words
synopsis: bucky barnes was supposed to help take down the most dangerous mind-bender the thunderbolts had ever faced, not end up patching her up in his apartment and watching her feed his cat like she belonged there. but when secrets unravel and loyalty starts to look a lot like love, bucky has to choose between the orders he's always followed and the chaos he can't seem to stay away from. what if the villain he was meant to destroy is the only person who truly sees him?
warnings: contains violence, blood, injuries, morally gray characters, mentions of past trauma and war crimes, emotional manipulation, mild language, slow burn tension, enemies to lovers vibes, thunderbolts slander, cat content, and one (1) very emotionally constipated man trying not to fall in love.
flight log: this took me like two weeks to write, and yes, it was absolutely inspired by that one tiktok video where someone said “what if the villain crashed on the hero’s couch” and my brain just spiraled from there. i poured way too much love, spite, and emotional damage into this, so please enjoy the chaos, the softness, the yelling, and the chickens. thank you for reading, i hope it wrecks you gently.
disclaimer: my works are not made using ai. every word comes from me, my thoughts, my hands, my time. do not steal, copy, or feed my fics into ai for any reason. fuck ai and what it’s doing to creative spaces. support real writers.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ masterlist
Bucky knew that making the Sentry fight this bitchass enemy would not be a great plan. Hell, he said it in the damn briefing room. Val didn’t listen. Walker barely listened to anyone except his own ego, and the rest of them? They’d been too busy puffing up their chest plates to see the setup for what it was.
Now, watching Bob, Sentry, rocking himself back and forth near a shattered crate, fingernails carving into his own palms as his mind bent in places no one could reach, Bucky figured the silence in the room said enough. No one dared to move too close. Not even the Red Guardian, and he usually wasn’t afraid of anything that breathed.
They all just kind of... stood there. Pretending like they weren’t watching him spiral, and pretending they weren’t thinking about the Void.
Meanwhile, Yelena was crouched beside him, whispering whatever she thought might reach him, her voice low and slow like a lullaby that maybe worked once a lifetime ago. It wasn’t helping.
Bucky could see it in the tremble in her hands. No one wanted to admit it out loud, but they were all just hoping Bob didn’t snap open and let the thing inside him loose.
And you? You stood in the middle of it all like it was a game, head tilted just slightly beneath that sleek, impassive mask, like this was nothing more than a very average Tuesday. You reached up and casually adjusted the strap at your jaw, the mask settling tighter against your face with a soft click. Not armor, just something you wore like jewelry, like a dare.
“You know,” you said finally, tilting your head just slightly, "I almost feel bad for him. Almost, but then I remember your big bad Sentry over there was supposed to be your ace.” You gave them a slow once-over, barely hiding the grin tugging at your mouth. “That’s what you lot are, right? Earth’s... what is it now? Earth’s Mightiest Leftovers?”
No one answered. Even Walker was silent, jaw tight as he shifted uncomfortably beside the collapsed form of Ghost, who was still trying to reboot her damn suit.
You took a few steps forward, deliberate, unhurried, like you had all the time in the world and not a single ounce of fear. “God, it’s embarrassing. You really thought throwing this mess of ex-assassins and government toys at me would go differently?” You laughed, but it was dry.
“You know, I thought maybe there was a plan. A real one, but this?” You motioned around the room, at Sentry twitching on the floor, at Red Guardian blinking through a concussion, at Ghost breathing heavy through half-phased lungs. “This is just sad.”
Red Guardian grumbled something and tried to sit up, but you ignored it.
“Stark would be rolling in his grave if he saw what the replacement Avengers looked like. You all really want to play at being heroes, don’t you?”
Your eyes flicked to Walker then, sharp with amusement. “Even you, U.S Agent. You especially. Parading around with that shield like it's not just scrap metal with a body count. You think I’m the monster? Please, I do not start wars for fun, and I don’t wear uniforms made for stunt actors. I’ve killed bad people, yes, but you people kill whoever’s convenient.”
The silence that followed wasn’t the kind that begged a reply. It was the kind that came after a bruise.
Bucky stayed quiet. He didn’t stop you, and he wasn’t going to, not yet. He watched the way your shoulders stayed loose, how your voice never cracked once. You weren’t angry, not really. This wasn’t rage. It was something colder. Something truer.
“You’re not a team,” you went on. “You’re a patch job. Government glue holding together a bunch of trigger-happy disasters, hoping none of you fall apart before the press can spin your next mission into a victory.”
You smiled again, this time wider. “You know what I am? I’m honest about it. I’m not pretending. I don’t walk around calling myself a hero while doing the government’s dirty work in other countries. I’m not a good person, but I am not you.”
Then you turned, calmly walking past the edge of the mess you’d made. The floor creaked under your boots, soft and slow, like the entire room was waiting for something else to fall apart.
Bucky didn’t move. He just kept watching you. No gun drawn, no order given, not yet. Because somewhere between the blood on your boots and the truth in your voice, he couldn’t decide if you were the threat… or just the only one finally telling it straight.
Walker was the first to break the silence, stepping forward like the conversation hadn't just stripped the paint off everything they pretended to be. Maybe he thought if he moved fast enough, it would cover the fact that you'd just called them all out in front of each other and none of them had denied a damn thing.
His shield came up quick, arm snapping into motion like muscle could still fix something that was already broken. You saw the move before he finished thinking it. You always did.
You sidestepped him easily, shifting your weight onto the balls of your feet, the movement fluid and light, not rushed. Letting him think he was close enough to land something was almost more fun than knocking the breath out of him, which you did with the flat of your palm against his ribs as he passed. It wasn’t a hard hit. You didn’t need it to be. You needed it to hum through his chest like a warning.
Then, Ghost reappeared just to your left, trying to flank. You twisted into a pivot, watching her phase in too late, already caught in your trap. You flicked your fingers once, and the angle of the room shifted just slightly, like the floor wasn’t quite real anymore.
She staggered, trying to correct her momentum, but it was already off. She clipped the corner of a broken beam and rolled hard across the ground. You didn’t stop to check if she got up.
Meanwhile, Red Guardian had somehow managed to shake off the earlier blow and came charging like he thought brute force was still in style. You spun as he reached for you, your body moving like water, arms loose but precise, the movement almost lazy if it wasn’t so calculated.
You let him lunge and miss, then ducked under his swinging elbow and kicked the back of his knee. He dropped with a grunt and a curse you didn’t bother to translate. You kept dancing.
Because that’s what it felt like now. Not a battle, and not even a struggle, just rhythm. Steps and countersteps. They lunged, and you spun. They reached, and you disappeared. You weren’t angry, you weren’t tired, and you were actually enjoying this.
The way they tried so hard to keep up, to act like you were something they could contain. You could’ve ended it already, you knew it. Bucky knew it. The rest were still trying to pretend this wasn’t just a lesson in their own mediocrity.
Walker came at you again, more frustrated now, his mouth tight with the kind of rage that only came when pride took a hit. You ducked his swing and laughed, not loud, just enough for him to hear it.
“Is this what they taught you in those shiny government camps?” you said, twisting just enough to let his momentum carry him past you. “You all train for this in between press conferences?”
You turned, hands loose at your sides, and caught Bucky’s eyes across the chaos again. He hadn’t moved yet. Not really. He was watching, taking it in like he wasn’t sure what side of the fight he was supposed to be on.
“Come on, Barnes,” you called to him, voice steady, almost amused. “You gonna keep letting your squad embarrass themselves or are you finally gonna take a swing?”
For a second, he didn’t answer. Then he stepped forward, slow and sure, the way he always did when he finally made up his mind. And you stopped dancing, just for a breath. Because this wasn’t a game anymore, at least not with him.
Bucky moved like a man who’d already decided how this would end, boots slow and deliberate across the wreckage-strewn floor, each step heavier than the last. The others had fallen back, groaning or flat-out unconscious, leaving only him standing between you and the exit.
You watched him come with that same half-lidded calm, like none of this mattered, like he was late to something boring and you were the only thing worth his attention tonight.
"You done hiding behind tricks?" he asked, voice hard now, no more caution, no more measured soldier tone. "Or is this your whole game? Slip in, fuck with people's heads, then vanish when someone actually steps up?"
You tilted your head, hand resting lazily against your hip, weight shifted like you were leaning into a joke. "Oh, Barnes," you said, grinning without warmth, "you’re mad, and it’s kind of cute.”
He didn’t answer, just kept coming closer, fists clenched, jaw set. Then, he said it. "You’re a coward. That’s what you are. Hiding behind that hideous mask—”
You interrupted him, one eyebrow raised in mock offense. “Hey now,” you said, hand flying up in mock hurt. “Hideous?! That’s just rude! This thing’s custom-made. Breathable, heat-resistant, and it doesn’t fog up when I ruin a man's psyche, and at least I get to have two arms.”
That landed. You saw it hit, sharp and immediate, like a slap he didn’t see coming. His mouth twitched. You weren’t sure if it was rage or restraint.
“You think you’re funny?” he bit out, low and rough. “You think this is all a joke?”
“Honestly?” you said, stepping to the side just as he lunged, his metal arm swinging past your shoulder. “A little bit, yeah. I mean, come on, Barnes. You, this team, you’re the punchline. You’ve got Walker playing Captain Discount, a Russian tank with a daddy complex, and Bob over there crying in the dark like he just woke up from a bad dream. You’re all trying so hard to be heroes, but the blood doesn’t wash off that easy.”
He turned fast, feinted left, then grabbed your arm with his right and yanked you forward. You didn’t resist. Let him pull you in, close enough to see the anger lined in the corner of his mouth. His breath hit your cheek.
“You’re still hiding,” he growled, tightening his grip. “You could’ve done something real with your power. You could’ve helped people.”
You smiled then, full and dangerous. “And join the circus? No thanks. I like sleeping at night.”
Then you shifted your weight and drove your knee into his stomach, not enough to break anything, just enough to make him let go. He staggered, barely, but you were already stepping back, giving him space like this was a game of tag and he was too slow.
He charged again.
You laughed, not cruel, just tired of pretending he was different from the rest. “You don’t get to be the righteous one, Barnes. You killed people in your sleep. I do it wide awake.”
That stopped him. For a moment, the room was quiet again. Just the two of you breathing hard, the air thick between you, not with smoke or blood, but something worse. Recognition. You didn’t move, and neither did he. Whatever this was, it wasn’t over, but it had never really started, either. The look on Bucky’s face almost made you stay longer. Almost, but you’d made your point. There wasn’t much left to prove.
Walker tried to get up again, dragging himself upright with a grunt, shoulder still hunched from the hit you gave him earlier. You didn’t even look his way. He was predictable, all bark and grunt and misplaced patriotism. He threw his shield again, too slow, too obvious. You didn’t even bother dodging it fully, just ducked under, let it crash into the wall behind you, and caught his wrist as he charged after it.
You twisted. He screamed.
Not a clean scream. Not a soldier’s grunt. A sharp, cracking, human sound. You let him drop before you broke anything important. You weren’t here to maim, not tonight. Just to remind them where they stood.
Meanwhile, Ghost had her knives out again, flickering fast, trying to catch you while you were distracted. You turned and moved through her strike like you’d been doing this forever, then used the heel of your hand to knock the side of her head. Her body glitched mid-phase, then crashed down hard. She stayed down this time.
Red Guardian got halfway to his feet before your fingers curled again, and the air around his skull bent just enough to make him sink back to the ground. Not unconscious. Just confused. Humiliated. They always came in so loud, and left so quiet.
And Bucky? He hadn’t moved since you last hit him with the truth. He was still standing there, fists loose now, metal hand twitching like maybe it didn’t quite know what to do without orders. That part made you sad, almost. The way he wanted so badly to not be the thing they made him, but still kept showing up when they called.
You walked past him, slow, deliberate, boots echoing through the warehouse like punctuation.
As you reached his side, you paused. Not to attack. Not to mock. Just to speak.
"You know, Barnes," you said, voice low, just for him, "I get it. You're not controlled by words anymore. No triggers. No codes. You’re free, right?"
You leaned in, close enough that he could see how calm you were. How unbothered.
"But the truth is," you whispered, “you’re still that same man. Not the Winter Soldier, no. Not the weapon, but the good little soldier who still waits for someone to point.”
He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t deny it either. You stepped back, smiling just a little. Not smug. Just done.
“I don’t need to control your mind,” you said, walking away now, past the ruins of what used to be a mission. “The world already does that for me.”
You were halfway to the exit when you paused, turning slowly on your heel like you'd just remembered something important. The room was quiet except for a few groans and the distant hum of flickering lights. Bucky hadn’t moved, as he was still trying to process what you said. Walker was cradling his wrist like you’d taken something from him that mattered. Red Guardian looked like he wanted to crawl under the floor and stay there.
You smiled, wide this time, bright and biting. “Oh,” you said lightly, like you were talking to old friends. “I’d love to stay and keep playing, really. This has been such a fun bonding experience.”
You gestured around the room, spinning your finger once as if gesturing to the collective mess you’d left behind. “But unfortunately, I’m late for a very important appointment.”
You started ticking the list off on your fingers, voice chipper.
“First, I have to eat something because ruining your morale takes energy, then I have an episode of my favorite show waiting, don’t worry, I won’t spoil anything, and finally, I need my beauty sleep.” You gave them a wink. “Some of us don’t get to wake up with government-funded bone structure.”
Yelena, still crouched beside Bob, glared at you like she wanted to throw something sharp. You blew her a kiss. Then, you turned back toward the busted loading door you’d walked in through, tossing one last line over your shoulder like a joke nobody else was in on.
“See you all tomorrow!” You didn’t look back. Just walked out, like nothing had touched you at all.
- Back to the Watchtower -
The Watchtower wasn’t quiet, not really. It was just full of the wrong sounds. The hiss of oxygen valves. The soft whirr of a scanner. The low murmur of medical droids checking vitals and noting pain thresholds. Someone was groaning behind a curtain, and someone else was cursing under their breath like they thought whispering made the shame sting less.
Alexei was laid out flat on a med table, eyelids fluttering as a nurse reset his dislocated knee. Ava was barely conscious, pale and sweating through the glitching phase of her tech. Bob was strapped to a diagnostic chair that had been built for emergencies, head tilted back, eyes fluttering like his brain was still somewhere else. Yelena hadn’t left his side since they touched down. She sat next to him with her hand clenched too tight in his, still murmuring soft, firm things in Russian that no one else could hear.
And Bucky? Bucky didn’t go to the med bay. He didn’t need to. Not physically.
He was in the briefing room already, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest, metal fingers twitching against the side of his bicep like they were trying to make a fist on their own. He didn’t look at Walker when he walked in, didn’t greet Val when she entered with a tablet and a pinched look that said I told you so before she even opened her mouth.
They filed in slowly. Walker first, his wrist in a brace, jaw set like he still thought this could’ve gone another way. Then Ava, walking stiffly and refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. Alexei followed, limping but loud, muttering something about needing better shoulder padding.
Val didn’t waste time. She hit the screen and brought up the footage, the glitchy, stuttering mess of helmet cam recordings that made the fight look more like a riot than a mission.
“Let’s go ahead and call it,” she said flatly. “Another failed op.”
No one said anything.
She didn’t look up as she added, “We lost containment again. The Bandit walked.”
There it was. Your nickname. Half-insult, half-acknowledgment. Not assassin. Not rogue enhanced. Just the Bandit. Like you were some petty thief pulling fast ones on the world’s cleanup crew. It started as a joke Walker made two missions ago, but the name stuck. Because deep down, they all knew it wasn’t wrong. You didn’t just fight them. You took from them; dignity, pride, illusions of control. Every damn time.
“She left five of us on the ground,” Ghost muttered, voice low, sharp with leftover adrenaline. “Didn’t even break a sweat.”
“She’s playing with us,” Walker said, bitter. “It’s a game to her.”
“And you’re mad ‘cause she’s winning,” Bucky finally said, voice quiet but heavy enough to draw heads.
Val raised an eyebrow, but didn’t interrupt.
Walker looked at him, fuming. “You want to say that again, Barnes?”
Bucky’s eyes didn’t leave the screen, where a blurry shadow of you flickered mid-kick. He stared like he was trying to find a glitch. Like maybe there was something he missed.
“She wasn’t trying to win,” he said. “She already had.”
There was a beat of silence. The kind that made everyone shift a little in their chairs.
“She let us walk away,” Bucky added. “Again.”
Val tapped the edge of her tablet. “She’s mocking us. She knows we’re limited. She knows she can get in and out without a scratch, and she’s not even trying to hide it anymore. That mask? That’s theater. She wants us to know we’re being humiliated.”
“She’s not just humiliating us,” Yelena said from the doorway. No one had noticed her come in. She looked drained, dark circles blooming under her eyes. “She’s studying us.”
That pulled Bucky’s focus. He sat forward slightly, watching Yelena like her words had weight.
“She knew Sentry was our ace. She took him out first. Messed with his mind, deep. Not just illusions. She knew what to poke. Knew where it hurt. She wasn’t improvising. She came in with a plan.”
Val frowned. “And we keep falling for it.”
Bucky didn’t speak again. He just sat back in his chair, staring at the static pause of the footage, where your mask was caught mid-glint. His jaw flexed, but he didn’t say what he was thinking. That he could still hear your voice in his ear. That final whisper, smooth and quiet, still echoing louder than the shouting had.
You’re still that same man. Not the Winter Soldier, no. Not the weapon, but the good little soldier who still waits for someone to point.
He ground his teeth. You weren’t just in his head, you were under his skin, and you hadn’t even stayed long enough to finish the fight.
Then, three weeks passed.
Seventy-two hours turned to seven days, then doubled again, and still, nothing. No sightings. No messages. No whispered threats or sabotaged missions. Not even the occasional cryptic meme posted to a burner account Bob swore was yours. You had vanished. Like smoke after a fire.
It drove Bucky mad. He didn’t say much, but everyone felt the tension in the way he moved through the Watchtower; silent, taut, like a drawn wire ready to snap. He stopped showing up to shared meals. Ignored mission briefings unless your name was in the folder. Val didn’t push. Yelena didn’t ask, but everyone noticed.
“Maybe she’s finally dead,” Walker said, tossing the words out casually as he popped the tab on an energy drink. “Somebody probably got her. Off the books. Would explain the silence.”
Yelena looked up from her seat, brows raised. “You really think she’d go quietly?” Her tone was neutral, but her meaning wasn’t. “That one dies? She takes the building with her.”
“Not if she bled out somewhere,” Walker muttered. “Could’ve been karma, could’ve been luck.”
“Karma?” Ava scoffed from the end of the table, arms folded across her chest. “If that bitch has karma, it’s platinum-tier.”
Bob glanced up from where he was curled on the couch, hood up, bag of chips untouched in his lap. “Do you think she’s… like… watching us?”
Walker rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Bob—”
“No, I mean,” Bob sat forward, frowning. “She’s quiet. Like, strategic quiet. That’s worse. She didn’t even roast us online this time.”
“She is cooking,” Alexei said with a mouthful of protein bar, gesturing broadly with his hands. “That one? She is at home right now, doing pilates, eating soup, plotting murder.”
Yelena smirked without looking up. “Soup?”
“Yes,” Alexei said, nodding like this was obvious. “Murder soup. Spicy. Russian women make it when angry.”
“That is not a real thing,” Ava said, deadpan.
“Is real if you believe in it hard enough,” Alexei grumbled. “Anyway, she’s not dead. No. She’s hibernating. Like bear. Waiting for spring to come so she can bite someone’s head off.”
That pulled a quiet laugh from Bob, the first sound of joy from him all week.
Val entered the room with a tablet in hand, her expression sharp, tired, and unimpressed. She dropped it on the table in front of Walker with a loud clack.
“Ping in Brussels. Cold lead. She ghosted again.”
“Could be a copycat,” Ava offered, already sounding bored. “People love a mystery.”
Walker leaned forward. “So what? We just sit here and wait? She’ll slip eventually. She has to.”
“She doesn’t have to do shit,” Yelena said, crossing her legs and sitting back in her chair. “You think she’s playing chess. She’s not. She’s making the board up.”
Bucky hadn’t spoken once. He just stared out the window, thumb resting against his bottom lip, metal fingers twitching restlessly against his knee.
“She knew we were coming,” he said suddenly. “She knew everything. Took Bob out first. Turned Ava inside out. Broke Alexei’s knee like she read the blueprint.”
Alexei raised a hand. “Not broken. Just insulted.”
“She's not guessing,” Bucky muttered. “She’s studying us, playing the long game, and we’re letting her.”
There was a pause. A thick one. The kind that made the air feel too tight. Then, Bucky’s voice dropped, barely audible. “I hope she’s dead,” he said. “And I hope it wasn’t quick.”
- Bucky’s Apartment, Brooklyn -
The door to his apartment creaked open on the second try. It always did that; jammed just enough to be annoying but never bad enough to fix. Bucky didn’t bother kicking it or swearing like he used to. He just gave it a rough nudge with his shoulder and stepped into the dark, the weight of the Watchtower still sitting heavy between his shoulder blades.
Alpine meowed once from the window.
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, tossing his keys into the ceramic dish by the door without looking. “I’m late. You gonna report me?”
She jumped down with the grace of someone who’d been waiting exactly three hours and twenty minutes to hear his voice again. She circled his legs, tail curling like punctuation, then let out another, louder meow when he didn’t bend down fast enough.
“Alright, alright,” he said, crouching slowly, his knees stiff from training drills and stress. “I gotcha, sweetheart.”
He scratched behind her ears, letting his fingers sink into the fur there. Alpine leaned in hard, purring instantly, rubbing her cheek against the back of his vibranium hand like she was claiming it. He let her. She always picked that side first.
The apartment smelled faintly like lavender from the candle Yelena gave him last Christmas. He never told her he lit it more than once. It was still burning on the kitchen counter where he’d left it that morning, well, more accurately, at three in the morning when he couldn’t sleep and figured folding towels was better than staring at the ceiling.
Bucky stood again, cracking his neck. Alpine trotted ahead of him toward the kitchen like she was giving him a tour of his own place.
He filled her bowl with the dry food she actually liked (not the organic vet crap Val kept recommending) and set it down gently. She immediately went at it, tail twitching, purring into every bite like it was the best damn meal of her life.
He leaned back against the counter and watched her eat, eyes unfocused.
The silence in here wasn’t like the silence at the Watchtower. This one wasn’t heavy or pointed. It didn’t judge. It just… was. The soft hum of the fridge. The tick of the old wall clock. The occasional clink of Alpine’s teeth against ceramic. No one trying to prove anything. No one calling him a coward. No one whispering truths that cut sharper than knives.
Except maybe his own head.
He reached up and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. The mask. The voice. That last line. He hadn’t slept right since. You were still in his thoughts like shrapnel. Still in his hands, the way you let him grab you like it meant nothing. Still in the air every time he walked past an alley or turned a corner or blinked too long.
You were everywhere except where you were supposed to be. And somehow, that pissed him off even more than losing the fight.
Alpine finished her meal and hopped up onto the counter like it was hers, which, honestly, it kind of was. She stared at him with wide green eyes, the ones he always caved to, even on bad days. Especially on bad days.
“You’d like her,” he said quietly, grabbing a sponge and wiping down the counter next to her out of habit. “She’s mean, and smart, and, uh, smug as hell.”
Alpine blinked slowly, then batted her paw toward his hand like she was telling him to shut up already.
“Yeah, I know.”
He dropped the sponge into the sink and ran water over it absently. He didn’t have the energy to cook tonight. He barely had the energy to stand. Still, he moved through the apartment like it helped, like routine could undo what chaos left behind.
Folded a blanket on the couch. Adjusted a crooked picture frame. Checked the locks twice, then once more. When he finally sat down, Alpine leapt into his lap without hesitation. She circled once, then settled, warm and weighty. His real anchor.
Bucky leaned his head back against the worn cushion and let his eyes close. “Where the hell are you,” he muttered under his breath, not to Alpine, but she still purred like she knew the answer.
The apartment was quiet again. Not the kind of quiet that held its breath, but the softer kind. The kind that crept in after the dishes were done, after the cat was fed, after there was nothing left to fold or wipe or adjust.
Bucky sat there, Alpine stretched out across his lap like a living weighted blanket, her tail twitching every few minutes like she was dreaming. He hadn’t moved in half an hour, maybe longer.
The lights were off except for the lamp in the corner; the one with the soft yellow glow that didn’t give him a headache. He didn’t need more light than that. Most nights, he didn’t want it.
His eyes had drifted up to the shelf near the TV. A photo sat there, tucked behind a dusty paperweight and an old cassette tape he still hadn’t digitized. It was a black-and-white print, slightly faded, but sharp enough that he could see the grin on Steve’s face if he looked long enough.
Brooklyn, 1940.
God, they were so young.
Steve looked like a skeleton in a uniform, too small for his cap, shoulders tight with stubbornness, but smiling like he’d just won something anyway. Bucky was standing beside him, tie askew, leaning slightly, one hand on Steve’s shoulder like he’d meant to keep him grounded and accidentally anchored himself instead.
He remembered that day. A double date that ended with Steve getting into a fight outside a movie theater and Bucky sweet-talking their way out of getting arrested. He couldn’t even remember the girls’ names now. He just remembered Steve’s nose bleeding and the way he said, “I had him, Buck,” like he always did.
Bucky had laughed. Not to make fun, just because Steve believed it every damn time.
There had been music playing that night. Someone had a radio up in a windowsill, crackly jazz drifting down with the summer air. A trumpet solo and some woman singing about kisses sweeter than wine. He remembered it like he remembered the heat of the pavement, the stick of sweat on his neck, the clang of someone’s fire escape.
They were boys. They had no idea.
He closed his eyes.
Other memories came easier now, which wasn’t always a blessing. He remembered the streetcars. The smell of roasted peanuts and cheap cologne. He remembered Mrs. Klemenski from 5C, who used to give them hard candy when they ran errands for her, and the butcher down the block who always snuck Steve extra meat because he was too thin for comfort.
He remembered the girls, too, or at least flashes. Dances in basements. Lipstick stains on handkerchiefs. Laughter behind alley doors. A warm hand in his coat pocket on cold nights. He’d been smooth back then. He knew it, cocky, and brave in ways that didn’t survive the war.
Sometimes he caught glimpses of that version of himself. In a mirror. In the corner of a store window. In someone else’s memory, but mostly, he didn’t recognize that guy anymore.
Too much had burned away. Still, on nights like this, when the city was soft and Alpine was warm and the past crept in like fog under a door, he let himself remember. Not to mourn it, but just to see it. To remind himself it was real once. That he had laughed without flinching, that he had loved people before he forgot what it meant to say the word out loud.
That he had been Bucky Barnes, not a code or a weapon or a broken promise. He sighed through his nose, hand resting lightly on Alpine’s side, feeling the slow rise and fall of her breath.
Steve would’ve liked her, and probably would’ve called her a punk and fed her chicken from his plate.
“You’d like him too,” Bucky murmured, voice almost hoarse. “He was… good. The best of us.”
Alpine didn’t respond. Just curled tighter, eyes closed. The picture on the shelf didn’t move. The past didn’t change, but for a second, it felt closer.
His hand rested on Alpine’s fur, unmoving. She was purring still, barely—a soft hum under his fingers like the last string holding him in the room. The lamp flickered once, then steadied, casting long shadows on the wall.
Bucky stared at the photo a while longer. Steve’s smile didn’t waver. It never had.
He wondered, not for the first time, what would’ve happened if he’d died in that fall. Not the metaphorical one, no. The literal fall, off that train in the Alps, years before his name turned into something cold and dangerous. Before he became a ghost in someone else’s war. Before the Winter Soldier was even an idea.
He wondered what the world would look like if that fall had finished him. If there had been a body. A grave. A flag folded neatly in Steve’s hands. Something final.
Would it have hurt less for the people who loved him? Would he have been remembered better?
He tried to picture it. That ending. Falling into snow, bones breaking, lungs burning, and then , darkness. Peace. Maybe even something quiet on the other side. Maybe nothing, but at least it would’ve been his.
It wouldn’t have been needles and cold steel and screaming in languages he didn’t know. Wouldn’t have been seventy years of commands and blood and waking up just long enough to realize what he’d done.
It wouldn’t have been this.
He shifted in his seat, jaw tight, breath stuck somewhere behind his ribs. Alpine stirred, letting out a tiny grumble like she knew he was getting too tense. He exhaled and scratched behind her ear again, grounding himself.
“I think I was supposed to die that day,” he said quietly, more to the room than to her. “That’s the part that gets me. That I didn’t. That somehow they found me. Took me. Kept me.”
He didn’t often say it out loud. Even in therapy, he danced around it, made jokes or shrugged. Because saying it plain made it too real. Made it feel like he was still there, still strapped down, still waiting for the voice to say his name wrong in Russian.
But here, in the safety of his dim apartment with nothing but Alpine to hear, he could be honest.
“I think… if I had just hit the ground a little harder,” he whispered, “Steve would’ve grieved. Maybe he’d have cried, but then he would’ve moved on, married someone, built something, and I’d be… done. Not this. Not some half-version of myself, still trying to make up for all the shit I didn’t even choose.”
He rubbed his face with his flesh hand, callused fingers dragging across his cheek.
“And now I’ve got people calling me a hero. Or a liability. Or both. Got assholes like Walker looking at me like I’m supposed to lead them, like I know what the hell I’m doing.” He shook his head. “And then there’s her.”
He didn’t say your name. Never did. He wasn’t even sure he knew your name. Not the real one. Not the one you whispered to yourself when no one was listening, but your voice was carved into him now. Your laugh. The way you moved. The way you saw right through him like it was easy.
You hadn’t fought him like an enemy. You’d fought him like someone who knew him. Like someone who understood every scar and every failure and didn’t even bother flinching.
And somehow, that had rattled him more than all the blows you’d landed on the others.
Alpine jumped down and padded over to her water bowl. Her soft steps filled the quiet like a heartbeat. Bucky leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes on the dark spot where she’d been.
“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” he said.
Then, he heard it, a thud, quiet but definite.
Bucky’s head lifted from his hands, body already tense, instincts curling tight around his spine like old muscle memory. Alpine didn’t move. She was by the water bowl, but her ears had flicked toward the sound, alert.
He stood slowly, but didn’t grab a weapon, not yet. He wasn’t sure he needed one, and not sure it would matter if he did.
The hallway was dark, shadows layered thick on the walls, the floor creaking under his bare feet as he made his way to the door of the guest bedroom. It was closed. He didn’t remember closing it. He always left it open at night, easier to hear the city, and easier to breathe.
He placed one hand on the doorknob, the other flexing open and closed.
And then—
“Careful, soldier. You open that door any faster and I might think you’re excited to see me.”
The voice slithered out of the dark like smoke. Smooth, wry, lazy with amusement. No panic. No urgency. Just presence. Like you’d been waiting for the right moment to speak.
Bucky froze. That voice, he hadn’t heard it in twenty-one days, and he’d still memorized it like it had been stitched into the lining of his skin.
He pushed the door open slowly, gaze adjusting to the low light.
Moonlight spilled in through the guest bedroom window, casting long streaks of silver across the walls and floor. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.
Then, he saw you.
Sitting on the edge of the couch, one leg crossed over the other like you owned the damn place. Like you hadn’t ghosted the Thunderbolts, the mission, and nearly their sanity for the better part of a month. Like you lived here.
The shadows painted you in soft blue tones, eyes half-lidded, mouth curled in that crooked not-smile that never meant anything good. There was no blood on you. No limp. No bruises. Just your presence, poured out like wine across the room, ruining the silence like it had never belonged.
You leaned back slightly, one arm resting over the top of the couch like a throne.
“Hello, James,” you said, tilting your head just enough to catch the light. “Miss me?”
He didn’t move, and he didn’t breathe. And suddenly, that apartment wasn’t quiet anymore.
Bucky moved the second his brain caught up to the image, instincts snapping faster than thought. One second he was standing in the doorway, the next he was lunging, metal arm cocked, eyes dark with something too sharp to be called rage. It wasn’t clean like anger. It was messier. Deeper. A month of silence and unanswered questions and bruised pride boiling all at once into a motion he didn’t control so much as release.
But before he could reach you, before his feet even cleared the carpet, the air shifted.
A pulse, quiet but unmistakable, bloomed from where you sat. Not loud. Not flashy. Just a hum, like a heartbeat made of static, curling through the room like smoke. The color wasn’t bright, not like comic book red. It was darker. A deep, bruised crimson that moved like ink in water, curling around Bucky’s limbs mid-strike.
He froze mid-lunge. His metal arm stopped just short of your throat. It twitched, once, like it wanted to keep going, but the energy around it tightened. Not choking. Not painful. Just absolute. Like gravity turned sideways.
You hadn’t even stood up. You just raised your hand slightly, fingers loose, wrist relaxed, eyes still calm like you were bored more than anything else.
“Now, now,” you said lightly, the power humming a little louder as it wrapped around his chest. “You weren’t really going to hit me, were you?” You tilted your head slightly, watching his mouth twitch, his muscles fighting the hold. “That’s not very neighborly, Barnes.”
He bared his teeth, not speaking, just glaring, jaw tight enough to pop.
You stood then, slowly, the energy retracting just enough to let him breathe easier, but not enough to let him move.
“You’ve been thinking about me,” you said, stepping closer, your voice low and sing-song, taunting in a way that wasn’t entirely playful. “Don’t lie. I’m in your head already. Even without all this—” you wiggled your fingers, the color pulsing slightly, “—you haven’t stopped replaying that fight, have you?”
Bucky didn’t answer. His jaw stayed locked, but the way his eyes flicked to the window told you he was calculating. Not for an escape, but for a hit.
You kept walking, the floor quiet beneath your steps, until you were close enough to speak softer.
“I mean, I leave for three weeks,” you murmured, gaze flicking over his face, “and you start wishing I was dead, but when I walk into your apartment, you don’t even bother asking how I got past your locks. You just jump.” You grinned, sharp and amused. “Classic soldier move. React first, never ask the real questions.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
You raised your hand again, fingers spread in front of his chest, the energy humming stronger now. Just a whisper of it, but enough that the hair on his arm stood on end.
“So,” you said softly, almost curious, “do I get to control you now?”
The question was rhetorical. You didn’t need him to answer. You saw the shift in his expression anyway, the way his brows pulled in, the way his shoulders fought against the invisible weight holding them in place.
“Relax,” you said finally, stepping back again, letting the power loosen just slightly, “I’m not here to kill you. Yet.” Then you smirked. “Unless Alpine gave you permission.”
Behind you, Alpine made a tiny, offended meow from her perch on the counter, like she knew she was being referenced and was not pleased.
Your smile widened. Bucky still hadn’t moved, but he would. And you were going to enjoy it.
You didn’t move again. Didn’t need to. The pulse of power that still lingered in the air made the room feel heavier, like the space between you and him was soaked in something invisible and humming. The shadows leaned toward you like they knew who owned the night.
Bucky’s breath finally broke the silence, sharp and heavy through his nose. You’d loosened the grip on his body, sure, but not enough to let him forget what it felt like. That stillness. That helplessness. It was too damn familiar.
“What the fuck do you want?” he finally spat, voice low and rough like gravel dragged across steel. “Why the hell are you here?”
His hand twitched at his side, the metal one curling and unclenching, the threat still lingering even if the fight had been stolen from his limbs. His jaw flexed as he took you in again, this time not as a threat, he already knew you were that, but as a question that had been clawing at the back of his mind for weeks.
“You vanish for three weeks after tearing my entire team apart like tissue paper,” he snapped, voice climbing just slightly, “and now you’re sitting on my goddamn couch like you live here?”
He took a step forward. You let him.
“Why are you messing with us?” he went on, heat rising now, thickening his words. “What is this? Some kind of game? You screw with Bob’s head, knock Alexei on his ass, nearly break Ava’s ribs, hell, you made Walker scream like a fucking child—”
You raised your eyebrows slightly at that, almost proud. Bucky noticed. It made him more pissed.
“Don’t smile,” he snapped. “Don’t you fucking smile like that. You think this is funny?”
You shrugged once, slow and infuriatingly casual.
“I’m asking you a real question,” he said, taking another step, his voice a growl now, barely held together by whatever was left of his discipline. “What the fuck do you want from us? From me?”
You said nothing, so he kept going.
“You could be anywhere right now. Causing chaos, robbing banks, taking on another Hydra cell, I don’t know, but no, you’re here, in my apartment, acting like this is just some midnight social call.”
He was closer now. The light from the window stretched long between you, painting the floor in pale streaks. His face was tight, eyes sharp, but there was something underneath it. Not just fury. Not just the remnants of bruised ego and failed missions. There was confusion there. Maybe something else he hadn’t named yet.
His voice lowered again, not gentler, just quieter. More dangerous.
“Why me?”
That was the real question, and you knew it. All the other ones had been warm-ups.
Why him?
Why here?
Why tonight?
You didn’t answer, no, not yet. You just watched him with that same unreadable calm, like the silence was your favorite weapon and he was bleeding slow from every word. And he hated it, he hated that he wanted to know.
Your silence stretched, but not because you were being cruel. Not this time. Bucky could see it, now that the heat of his anger wasn’t drowning everything else. You weren’t smirking anymore. You hadn’t moved to defend yourself. You hadn’t even flinched when he raised his voice. You just stood there, steady but off. Like something was tilting just under your skin.
“I didn’t really mean to come here,” you said finally, voice quieter, slower, not dramatic but tired in a way that didn’t match the chaos you usually carried. “Wasn’t planned.”
He narrowed his eyes, shoulders still tense, arms crossed like he didn’t believe a word coming out of your mouth. “Then why the hell are you here?”
You exhaled, and it wasn’t a sigh, not exactly. More like something that had been trapped in your chest finally slipping out. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
The sentence just hung there. You didn’t follow it up with sarcasm. No snide comment. No dig about how his team was pathetic or how Alpine had better manners. Just those words, plain and fragile in the quiet.
Bucky blinked, thrown off for half a second. He tried to recover it with a scoff. “Bullshit. You’ve been dodging satellites for weeks. You can’t tell me someone like you doesn’t have a dozen bolt-holes and safehouses.”
“I do,” you said, nodding slightly. “Had, actually.”
His brow furrowed. “What do you mean, had?”
“I mean,” you replied, looking toward the floor like it might offer an easier version of the truth, “they’re gone. Burned. Raided. I went dark, but someone else went darker.”
He didn’t respond. Not yet. You lifted your hand and tapped your temple twice, slow. “But for whatever reason, my brain decided you were the next stop.”
Bucky clenched his jaw. “So I’m what, a last resort?”
“No,” you said, and there was a flicker of something honest in your voice now, rough around the edges but not lying. “You’re just the only person I could think of that wouldn’t kill me on sight.”
“That’s optimistic.”
“I’m bleeding, Barnes,” you muttered. “Not delusional.”
He paused. Took a step closer. Something shifted in his eyes, still cautious, still guarded, but less sharp now. Then his gaze dropped, finally taking in the way you were standing. You were favoring your left side. Your shoulders weren’t quite level. You hadn’t drawn attention to it, hadn’t made a scene, but now he saw it. The stiffness. The way your right hand hadn’t moved much at all.
“Where?” he asked, voice low.
You didn’t answer. Not right away. Then, without a word, you reached up and curled your fingers around the edge of your jacket, tugging it aside just enough to reveal the deep crimson soaking through the black fabric near your ribs. It wasn’t a scratch. The stain was spreading.
Bucky’s stomach turned.
“Stabbed,” you said flatly. “I think. Maybe a knife. Could’ve been a shard of glass. Honestly didn’t stop to ask.”
His jaw twitched. “And you didn’t think to mention this before you started playing psychic puppet master?”
You shrugged, and it almost broke the spell—almost brought back the old mask of sarcasm. “Didn’t want to ruin the moment.”
“You’re bleeding all over my goddamn floor.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Take the mask off,” he snapped, stepping forward again. “Let me see—”
“No.”
That stopped him. Your tone wasn’t panicked, but it was firm. Quiet, but immovable. You didn’t raise your voice.Didn’t reach for your power. You just said it like it was final.
“I’m not taking it off.”
Bucky watched you for a long moment, still, breath coming slow through his nose.
And then he muttered, “You’re a fucking nightmare.”
You smiled faintly. “Takes one to know one.”
Bucky didn’t move at first. He just stood there, jaw tight, the lines in his face drawn deep by moonlight and something harder beneath. The shadows clung to his features, and the silence stretched so long it stopped feeling like calm and started tasting like pressure.
Then he stepped closer, just one deliberate movement, the floor creaking faintly beneath his boot. His voice was low when he finally spoke again, quieter than before but somehow heavier.
“Do you really think I wouldn’t kill you right now?”
Your head tilted slightly, unreadable beneath the mask, but your body stayed still. The power curling around your fingers had dimmed. It was there if you needed it, sure, but right now you weren’t using it. You weren’t fighting. You were just… there. Bleeding, and watching him.
He kept going.
“You’re standing in my apartment,” he said slowly, every word laced with something old and bitter, “bleeding all over my floor, half-conscious, out of tricks. You’re helpless. And I really, really want to kill you.”
His tone didn’t shake. Not once. He wasn’t bluffing. You could hear it. This wasn’t a threat for show. It was the truth as he saw it. You were his enemy. You humiliated his team. You invaded his space. And now you were here, vulnerable, talking like the war between you was some inside joke.
He meant it. He wanted to kill you.
And yet, you looked at him for a beat longer, then finally spoke, voice quiet but even. Not mocking. Not taunting. Just matter-of-fact.
“You won’t.”
That made him flinch, almost imperceptibly. You took a slow step forward, enough to make the room feel smaller, but not close enough to provoke him.
“Because if you were going to,” you said, “you would’ve done it already.”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. You saw it in the way his fists stayed clenched, not swinging. The way his jaw worked, like his body couldn’t decide if it was more afraid of what you’d done or what he hadn’t.
You stood there for another second, swaying just slightly now, the wound making itself harder to ignore.
“I’ve done worse,” you added. “To better people.”
Still, no reply. You smiled faintly, not from strength, not from pride, just from knowing. From being right, again.
Then your knees wobbled, and the room pitched slightly, and suddenly the silence wasn’t tense anymore. It was something else. Something softer, or maybe sadder.
You didn’t fall, but you weren’t far from it. And Bucky, for all his anger, didn’t move to finish the job. He just stared at you, still deciding.
Bucky didn’t move. He just stood there, still as a goddamn statue, watching you bleed in his living room like it wasn’t the strangest thing that had ever happened to him, and somehow, it wasn’t. Your frame had gone quieter, the tension in your muscles easing not from calm but from exhaustion. Every breath you took now sounded like a gamble, like your body hadn’t decided if it was worth trying again.
The shadows wrapped around you, the room still mostly dark except for the moonlight bleeding through the slats in the blinds. It streaked across the hardwood floor in soft silver lines, casting your silhouette like a painting too old and too wounded to hang anywhere.
He noticed now, fully noticed, how pale your knuckles were, how your right arm hung a little too heavy at your side. The blood hadn’t stopped. It had just learned to hide better, soaking into your clothes and pooling quietly at your hip.
And still, you said nothing.
Until finally, your legs wobbled again, and this time your hand gripped the edge of the couch like it might anchor you to the earth. Your head dipped slightly, shoulders folding in, not like someone afraid, but like someone too damn tired to keep faking strength.
Bucky’s breath caught in his throat. Every part of him screamed to stay still. To let you fall. To punish you for the mess you’d made.
But then, you lifted your face again, and even through the dark, even behind that damn mask, he could tell you were smiling.
“Careful,” you mumbled, your voice frayed at the edges, like you were dragging the words out from someplace deeper. “If you touch me, I might start thinking you care.”
His mouth twitched. Not with amusement. Not even with anger. Just something tight and confused and ancient, like some part of him had heard those words before, in another life, maybe from another mouth.
And then, quieter, barely a whisper, you added, “You don’t want that… I’m really annoying when I’m conscious.”
Your knees gave another shiver, this time sharper. Your fingers slipped from the couch. And Bucky’s instincts, old as war and sharper than any steel Hydra ever forged into him, moved faster than thought.
He caught you before gravity could.
One hand braced flat against the center of your back, steady and firm, while the other curled around your arm just above the elbow, his grip tight but careful. Your body slumped forward, not heavy, but limp in a way that made his pulse jump. You were smaller like this. Not physically, just quieter. All the fight drained, and all the venom simmered down into stillness.
You didn’t jerk away, and didn’t even try to bite your way free. You just leaned into him, instead, head tilting slightly to the side as your breath brushed his collarbone.
“See? I knew you wouldn’t let me fall,” you murmured, and your voice had lost that razor edge now. It was soft. Almost gentle. Almost… human.
Bucky’s jaw flexed, unsure if he wanted to shake you or carry you.
Then your body sagged all at once, weight melting into him as your knees finally gave out for real. Your head dropped forward against his chest, breath shallow, warmth fading beneath the blood cooling through your layers.
You passed out in his arms.
And for a long second, Bucky didn’t move.
The only sounds were the soft ticking of the wall clock, the whisper of Alpine shifting somewhere in the other room, and the hiss of his own breathing as he looked down at you—this walking disaster of a person who’d torn through his team like paper and then stumbled bleeding into his home like it was where you were always meant to be.
You didn’t even tell him who did this to you. You didn’t explain. You just showed up, then fell, but he caught you.
God help him.
Bucky sat back on his heels, breathing hard, watching you like you might sit up and throw another insult at him just for fun, but you didn’t move. You were still sprawled across his bed, limp and half-twisted into the sheets, body heavy with blood loss, breath catching in soft, uneven intervals that were somehow worse than silence.
His eyes flicked back to the wound on your side. The bleeding had slowed, and now that he’d pulled off more of your gear, he could see the damage wasn’t as bad as he’d first thought. It was a deep slice, maybe from a combat knife or a sharp piece of shrapnel, but it had missed anything vital. You were lucky. Or maybe just stubborn enough not to die.
He muttered something under his breath, not quite words, more like frustration disguised as exhale, and grabbed a clean cloth from the kit. Soaked it. Wiped the blood away carefully, methodically, like it might make this whole thing feel less insane.
His fingers brushed your skin again, just near the edge of the wound, and he paused.
Jesus.
You were warm. Warmer than you should’ve been, maybe from the fever starting to settle in your bones, maybe just from the fight, but the heat of your body seared into his palm like a brand. And for a split second, just one razor-edge beat of a moment, he let himself feel it.
The softness of your waist beneath the torn fabric. The steady thrum of your pulse, faint but there, under skin that had no business being this smooth in a life like yours. He caught a glimpse of the curve of your ribs, the subtle rise and fall of your chest. The moonlight spilled across your skin like it had an agenda of its own, catching the faint sheen of sweat that clung to you, the way your stomach tensed unconsciously when his fingers hovered too close.
He cursed under his breath again, this time with more force.
“Goddamn it,” he muttered, dragging his eyes away from the stretch of bare skin and back to the gauze. “You’re not even awake and you’re still pissing me off.”
He worked quickly now, forcing himself to focus. The antiseptic stung where he dabbed it across the gash, and you flinched again, but barely. It was the first real movement you’d made in minutes, and somehow that made it worse. Made it real.
He wasn’t supposed to be doing this. You were supposed to be the enemy. A threat. A walking storm that wrecked everything in your path, including him.
And yet, here you were, bleeding into his mattress while he cleaned your wounds with the kind of care he hadn’t given himself in years.
Another swipe of the cloth, another inch of skin exposed beneath the torn fabric, and Bucky felt his jaw twitch. You were too close. Too still. And despite everything—the missions, the wreckage, the fucking chaos, you looked like you belonged there. In his bed. In his space.
It pissed him off more than anything else.
He taped the final strip of gauze into place, pulling the wrap snug across your side, fingers brushing the dip of your waist again before he forced his hands to pull back.
Then he stood, too fast, like he needed to create space between your body and his sanity. He tossed the bloodied cloth into the sink across the hall, ran cold water over his wrists, and stared at his own reflection like maybe it could talk him out of whatever the hell this was turning into.
He didn’t go far. Just stood in the doorway, watching your body rise and fall with every uneven breath, jaw clenched, throat dry, eyes still tracking every inch of exposed skin like it was a weapon he couldn’t disarm.
“Fuck,” he said under his breath.
Because the truth was? He’d rather be bleeding than feeling whatever the hell this was.
Bucky hadn’t moved from the doorway. He stood still as a statue, arms folded, brow furrowed deep, eyes pinned to the unconscious figure in his bed like staring long enough might make this all make sense. He should call it in. That was the first thought that tried to crawl its way up through the thick, unsettled fog of his brain.
He should let Val know, let the team know, hell, let anyone know that the problem they’d been chasing for months had landed herself square in his apartment and passed out on his sheets like it was some kind of sick joke.
The comm was on the shelf by the front door. It’d take ten seconds. Maybe less. He stared at the wall. He didn't move.
Then, slowly, Bucky’s gaze dropped back to you. Your breathing had changed. It was heavier now, unsteady and choppy in a way that made his skin crawl. Not from fear. From familiarity.
You were dreaming. No, nightmaring. Whatever hell was clawing at you behind that mask, it was real enough to twist your body in slow, tight jerks. Your hands clenched against the sheets. Then he saw it.
The faint shimmer at your fingertips, glowing like embers under your nails. Not bright. Not wild. Just a low, steady pulse of dark red that crackled with something not entirely stable. It sparked once, then again, and Bucky caught a tiny thread of energy split the air and vanish into your palm like it had never been there.
His stomach dropped. That wasn’t just dreaming. That was a mind screaming in a language he didn’t speak.
You let out a breathless sound. Almost a word. Almost pain. Sweat had broken out across your neck, dampening the collar of your clothes. Your fingers twitched again, and another spark followed, more desperate this time. The kind of movement that didn’t belong to someone faking.
“Shit,” he whispered, barely loud enough to be heard over the soft buzz of the lamp.
He moved back toward the bed, slow now, careful like he was approaching a live wire instead of a bleeding enemy. You didn’t wake. You just turned your head slightly, and the angle of the moonlight hit your mask at a strange slant, catching the carved lines and worn edges.
You were still hiding. Still half the phantom they’d been hunting.
And for whatever reason he couldn’t pin down, that made his chest tighten. He hesitated.
One second. Two. Then, wordlessly, Bucky reached out, fingers brushing the edge of the mask.
It came away easier than he expected. A few clipped locks, a thin band at the back of your head. The fabric was damp with sweat, and it peeled away like second skin, slow and steady. He held his breath as he lifted it free.
And finally, finally, he saw your face. No illusions. No glamours. No sharp grin or sharp tongue. Just you.
Skin pale with blood loss, features drawn tight in the grip of whatever storm was rolling through your mind, lashes damp with sweat, lips parted like you were trying to speak even now. There was no satisfaction in the reveal. No moment of triumph. Just... silence.
Bucky stared. You didn’t look evil. You didn’t look like a threat. You looked like someone who hadn’t slept in weeks. Like someone who’d run out of places to go and had landed here without a plan.
You twitched again, and that red light bloomed at your fingertips once more, a soft flicker curling toward your wrist before sputtering out.
And that was when it hit him. He couldn’t call anyone. Not right now.
Because whatever was happening in that head of yours, it wasn’t something the Thunderbolts would wait to figure out. They’d come in guns drawn, protocols blazing, and they’d end this before you even woke up.
And Bucky? For reasons he didn’t understand, reasons he didn’t want to understand, he didn’t want you dead. Not tonight, and not like this.
So instead, he set the mask on the nightstand. Then, he sat on the edge of the bed, just far enough that he wouldn’t accidentally brush your leg, and watched the flickers of red fade into nothing again, waiting for your breathing to slow.
He didn’t know what the hell he was doing, but he knew this much. He couldn’t let you go. Not yet.
Bucky didn’t move. Not even when the wind outside caught the blinds and made them clatter softly against the windowpane. Not when the radiator groaned like it always did at this hour, settling into itself with a sigh that filled the silence like a whisper. He just sat there, still, quiet, elbows resting on his knees, hands dangling loose between them, watching you breathe like the answers were hidden somewhere in the rise and fall of your chest.
His jaw was clenched tight. It had been since he took off your mask.
The red glow had stopped a few minutes ago, but the heat of it still lingered in the room. He could feel it in the air, a charge that hadn’t quite dissipated. It made the hairs on his arm stand, not out of fear, he was long past that, but out of something closer to instinct. That bone-deep awareness that something powerful had been here. Was here. And he’d let it inside.
You shifted slightly, not enough to wake, just a soft curl of your fingers into the sheets. Your breath hitched again, then settled. Sweat still beaded along your hairline, darkening the edges, clinging to the corner of your jaw like tiny fragments of whatever nightmare you’d just survived.
Bucky looked at you like he was waiting for the truth to rise out of your skin. It didn’t.
Instead, all he had was that voice in his head, Steve’s, maybe, or his own before Hydra carved it hollow saying, What the hell are you doing, Buck?
He didn’t know.
He should’ve called it in. Should’ve tied you up. Should’ve shoved a gun between your eyes and waited for backup. He knew how to do that. He’d done worse to people who mattered less. And you? You’d earned it. After everything. The ruined ops. The mind games. Bob still flinched every time someone said your name.
You weren’t a person to the Thunderbolts. You were a problem. A mission that kept slipping through their fingers like oil and smoke.
But here you were now; unarmed, and unconscious.
Bleeding into his sheets with your mask off and your guard down, and something in Bucky’s chest had curled in on itself the second he saw your face.
He hated that he noticed how young you looked. Hated that he clocked the faint scar above your brow, the subtle pull at the corner of your mouth like your default was half a smirk, even in sleep. He hated that he wasn’t reaching for his gun right now. That he wasn’t dragging you out of his apartment and into the light where the others could finish what they started.
Instead, he was sitting beside you, wondering if your breathing was finally evening out or if you were slipping deeper into whatever hell kept your fists twitching in your sleep.
His eyes drifted down to your hands again. No sparks this time. Just fingers curled into loose fists, stained faint with dried blood. He remembered how those hands moved when you fought, fast, deliberate, surgical. Like you didn’t waste motion because you didn’t have to. And he remembered how you’d looked at him right before you passed out. Like you knew he wouldn’t kill you.
And worse? You’d been right.
“Fuck,” Bucky whispered under his breath, dragging his metal hand through his hair.
He stood for a second, pacing once to the window and back like the motion would shake something loose. But the only thing it did was remind him how small the apartment really was. How close you still were. How this moment, this choice, was already something he couldn’t take back.
So he sat again, this time closer. You didn’t flinch. And he didn’t speak, because if he opened his mouth now, he didn’t trust what might come out.
Suddenly, three days passed. Three days. That’s how long you’d been in his bed.
Three whole days of stillness, of soft, labored breathing, of skin running hot one minute and cold the next. Three days of Bucky keeping one ear tuned to your every movement, eyes always flicking to the bedroom every time a floorboard creaked too loudly. He didn’t sleep much. Not that he did on a good day, but with you there, unconscious and unpredictable, every quiet second felt like a lit fuse waiting to hit the powder.
He'd checked the wound the first night. Pulled your shirt up just enough to see the damage, careful not to touch more skin than necessary. The stab had gone in deep enough to make his stomach drop, blood soaked clean through the gauze he’d wrapped you in the night before, but nothing vital. No organs hit. Lucky, or maybe you were just built like a roach in leather.
So, he cleaned it again. Changed the dressing twice a day. Sat at the edge of the bed and muttered things under his breath like he didn’t mean to, things like, “Should’ve let you bleed,” and “Pain in my ass, even half-dead.” But he did it anyway. Hands steady. Movements practiced. Like tending to wounds was the one thing he could do right without anyone barking orders.
He tried not to look at your face too long. That part was harder. Especially when the nightmares came again, twitching in your sleep, red curling off your skin like smoke. He kept a damp cloth near the bed, dabbed your forehead when the sweating got bad. It felt too human. Too careful. He hated it.
But last night? Last night he’d peeled back the bandage, fingers moving slow, expecting the same mess. The bruising. The tear.
And there was nothing.
Not a scab. Not a scar. Not even the faintest mark of trauma. Just clean, smooth skin stretched over where the blade had gone in. He’d blinked. Looked again. Touched it, gently, like maybe he’d imagined the whole damn thing, but no, it was gone.
He sat back on his heels, eyebrows drawn together in that familiar look of what the fuck, and stared at your side for a full minute.
“Of course,” he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his metal hand. “Because nothing about you is normal.”
It wasn’t healing. Not regular healing. This was something else. Something freaky. Asgardian, maybe. Magic, more likely. He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. It just made the whole thing worse.
He leaned back, resting against the nightstand, arms crossed over his chest. The bedside lamp flicked a dim pool of light across your shoulder, your hand limp against the blanket, twitching once like you were chasing something again. He didn’t know how long you planned on staying unconscious, but the idea of explaining any of this to anyone, to the team, made his teeth grind.
He should’ve dragged you out by now. Should’ve handed you over. Let them finish what they started. Instead, he was keeping watch like some grumpy old guard dog, jumping every time you sighed.
“Would be easier if you were dead,” he mumbled to himself, but his voice was softer than he meant, and the room was still, and you were still breathing.
Bucky was on the floor, cross-legged and hunched over like a six-foot-tall kindergartener, his voice pitched into that absurd, soft baby-talk tone he’d sworn to Alpine, and himself, he would never use in front of anyone else. Ever.
“You’re just a little menace, huh? A fluffy little, hey, no, don’t chew on that. That’s my sock, you demon, come on, ow, hey, rude.”
Alpine, as usual, gave zero shits about his authority and launched herself at his wrist with the kind of adorable savagery that would’ve made Bob coo and Yelena suspicious. Bucky just let her wrestle with his fingers, tired amusement softening the hard lines around his eyes for the first time in days.
He didn’t hear the footsteps. Didn’t even hear the door creak or the faint rustle of fabric or the wet slide of a towel being hung up.
No, what finally caught his attention was a voice. Your voice. Warm, smug, and just loud enough to freeze the blood in his veins.
“Well, well, Sergeant Barnes,” you said, leaning against the kitchen doorway like you’d been there the whole damn time. “I always knew you had a soft side, but that little baby voice? Adorable.”
Bucky’s head snapped up so fast Alpine bailed off his lap and fled to the couch. He scrambled to his feet with the reflexes of a man who’d been ambushed a thousand times before, only this time, it wasn’t a Hydra operative or a mission gone wrong. It was you.
Standing there like nothing had happened. Dressed in his clothes.
His gray T-shirt hung loose over your frame, sleeves falling just past your elbows. The drawstring of his old sweats was cinched messily at your hips, like you didn’t even try to tighten it properly. Your hair was damp, skin flushed from a shower, and you looked too clean. Too casual. Too smug. Like you hadn’t almost died in his bed. Like you hadn’t been unconscious for seventy-two hours straight.
His jaw locked. “What the fuck—”
“Language,” you said, lifting a finger, smile crooked. “You wouldn’t want Alpine to pick up your bad habits.”
“You, how the hell—” He pointed, flustered, like there was some rational explanation hiding somewhere in the space between you and the hallway you must’ve walked down.
“Nice water pressure, by the way,” you added casually, pushing off the wall and walking toward him like you belonged here. Like the apartment was yours. “And don’t worry, I cleaned up after myself. Put the towels in the hamper. Very polite of me.”
He was blinking too fast now, visibly processing about ten different crises at once. “You were unconscious. You were bleeding. I stitched you up—how the hell did you shower without me hearing it?”
You shrugged like it wasn’t that deep. “Quiet feet. Also, you were distracted. You and Alpine were having a moment.”
Bucky’s hands were clenched into fists, and not the angry, ready-to-fight kind. The panicked, overwhelmed, trying-not-to-lose-it kind.
Then, you tilted your head, that same glint sparking in your eye again.
“You know,” you said, grinning now, “you’re the first one who’s ever seen my face.”
That stopped him cold.
His expression shifted; wariness bleeding into confusion, confusion tangling with something heavier he didn’t have a name for. His eyes dragged over your features like he was looking at something he shouldn’t, like maybe it wasn’t supposed to be a privilege.
“And yet you didn’t kill me,” you added, voice a little softer. “Interesting.”
He didn’t say anything. Just stood there, breath shallow, Alpine peeking out from behind the couch like even she was trying to read the room.
You let the silence sit a moment longer, then sighed, stretching your arms overhead like you hadn’t just dropped a live grenade in the space between you.
“Anyway,” you said, spinning on your heel, heading toward the kitchen with zero shame, “I’m starving. What’s a girl gotta do around here to get some pancakes?”
Bucky didn’t say a word as he moved around the kitchen, but his silence was louder than most people’s screaming. Every slam of a cabinet, every muttered curse when he realized he was out of the good butter, every pointed glance your way as he flipped a pancake with far too much aggression, it all said the same thing:
What the hell is happening right now.
You were perched at the small table by the window, legs folded under you like you’d lived there for years. Still wearing his shirt. Still smelling faintly of his shampoo. Like this was just a Sunday morning and not the aftermath of a hostile takeover followed by a three-day coma nap.
He stole another glance at you. You caught it, of course. You caught all of them, and then you grinned.
“What?” you asked, chin in hand, absolutely lounging. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“You were supposed to be unconscious,” he muttered, jabbing at the pancake batter like it had personally offended him. “Bleeding out. Dying, preferably.”
“Wow,” you said, mock-offended, “that’s no way to talk to a guest.”
“You’re not a guest,” he snapped.
“Then, what am I?”
He didn’t answer, because he didn’t know. Enemy, maybe. Headache. Puzzle piece from a box he’d thrown out years ago. You were sitting there like a riddle he didn’t have time to solve, all casual confidence and chaotic charm, and Bucky didn’t know if he wanted to lock you up or ask you if you wanted syrup.
He plated the pancakes anyway. Stacked them, buttered them, then dropped the plate in front of you a little harder than necessary. You beamed as you picked up the fork and dug in like nothing was weird about this at all.
Bucky crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter, staring. “You’re not gonna explain anything, are you?”
You shrugged with a mouthful of pancake, then swallowed. “What’s there to explain? I got stabbed. Your apartment’s nice. My mind told me to come here.”
“That’s not normal,” he deadpanned.
“I’m not normal,” you replied cheerfully.
He let out a breath, slow and sharp, like he was trying very hard not to punch something. Probably the wall. Maybe himself.
“Why my place?” he asked finally. “You could’ve gone anywhere. You should’ve gone anywhere.”
You glanced up at him then, not teasing. Just honest. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
The silence hung between you like a wire pulled too tight. Then you scooped another bite of pancake, like you hadn’t just said something quietly heartbreaking.
Bucky sighed, long and low. Then, turned to pour himself a cup of coffee, muttering under his breath the entire time.
“You’re a menace,” he said, not looking at you.
“You fed me pancakes,” you replied.
He turned back, holding his mug, eyes narrowed. “This doesn’t mean I like you.”
You gave him a smile that was all teeth and no apology. “That’s okay. I like me enough for both of us.”
After breakfast, if you could even call your wild, syrup-drenched demolition of three and a half pancakes “breakfast”, Bucky had retreated into silence, the kind of silence that didn’t just fill a room, it watched you. He stood like a statue in the corner of his own kitchen, holding his coffee like it was the last thing tethering him to sense, while you wandered through the space with the gleeful wonder of someone fresh out of a bunker.
You had this habit of reaching for things with both hands. Like your fingertips didn’t trust the world yet but your palms wanted to feel it anyway. You ran them along the grain of the wooden table, over the framed photo on the shelf he thought he’d hidden well; an old picture, black-and-white, of a street corner in Brooklyn. You held it gently, like it might burn you. Then you set it back, reverent.
The living room was your next stop. You padded across the hardwood barefoot—because of course you’d ditched the socks, and of course you were still wearing his shirt, oversized and half-buttoned, paired with his oldest sweatpants tied tight at the waist in a knot that didn’t belong to him.
“Ooh,” you said, dragging out the syllable like it was your first word, “what’s this?”
“That’s a record player,” Bucky said, monotone, not even looking up.
“A what?” you asked like he’d spoken in Morse code.
You crouched beside it, nose practically pressed to the turntable, inspecting it like it was alien tech. Then you spotted the small stack of vinyl tucked into the crate beside it and gasped, actually gasped, as you slid one out. The needle had barely hit the edge of a Nat King Cole album before smooth, warm music filled the space, crackling softly like a memory.
Bucky exhaled hard through his nose, trying very hard to pretend his heart wasn’t doing something weird in his chest.
You kept going. The blanket drawer was next. You opened it, stared down at the folded fabrics like they were treasure, then pulled out the softest one and rubbed it against your cheek with a dreamy sigh.
“This,” you said with absolute conviction, “is the best thing I’ve ever touched.”
“It’s a blanket,” Bucky said again, this time more exasperated.
You turned toward him, standing in the middle of the room now, the blanket draped around your shoulders like royalty, eyes wide, sincere. “You have so many things. It’s like... it’s like you’ve collected cozy.”
That made him pause, because he hadn’t thought of it like that. He just knew what made him feel safe. A soft throw. A record spinning low in the background. The warm weight of Alpine curled behind his knees at night. These were things he clung to, not because they made sense, but because they made him feel like a person.
You danced, yes, danced, into the kitchen next, nearly bumping your hip into the counter as you spun with some leftover rhythm from the vinyl.
Bucky flinched, then glared. “Can you not treat my apartment like a playground?”
“But it’s so nice,” you said, pulling open drawers now like you were hunting for buried treasure. “You have a garlic press! What even is a garlic press? Wait, is this a cheese grater?” You held it up like a weapon. “Do you grate cheese? That’s adorable.”
“You’re going to break something,” he muttered, voice pinched with stress, as he stepped forward and tried to gently tug the cheese grater from your hand. You didn’t let go right away. You just looked up at him with that grin again, playful, wild, dangerous in a completely different way than he was used to.
“I think I’m having fun,” you said softly. “Is this fun? I think this is what it feels like.”
Bucky stared at you. Really stared. Your hair still damp from a shower he hadn’t heard, skin pink from steam, curled in his too-big clothes, standing in his kitchen like you had never known what a home was. He’d seen you rip apart a squad of trained killers like you were walking through a dance routine, and now here you were, cooing at Alpine and smelling every damn spice jar in his cabinet like you were cataloging the world one smell at a time.
“Do you not know how to... live?” he asked before he could stop himself.
You blinked at him, tilting your head slightly like you were considering it. Then you shrugged.
“I know how to survive,” you said. “This feels different.”
And then, like the moment never happened, you gasped again and darted toward the fridge. You opened it, squinted into the contents, then turned back with absolute delight.
“You have actual food in here! Like eggs! And leftovers! Bucky, are you secretly someone's grandmother?”
He groaned into his coffee. “God, please shut up.”
You only laughed louder. And for the first time in a long time, Bucky didn’t mind the noise.
You were on the floor again, legs tucked under you in some unholy pretzel configuration, hair damp, hoodie sleeves rolled halfway up your forearms as you dangled a fuzzy blue mouse above Alpine’s increasingly unimpressed face. The cat, stretched lazily on her back, was pawing at the toy like she was entertaining you out of pity, not necessity.
“You have no idea,” you whispered dramatically to Alpine. “If I ever master mind control on animals, it’s over for you. Over. You’ll be wearing capes. Matching ones. With me.”
Alpine blinked at you slowly, then rolled to her side, unimpressed.
Bucky, still pretending to read the paper he hadn’t actually touched in ten minutes, watched from the armchair. One brow twitched. “You good down there, or do I need to call someone?”
“She likes me,” you replied confidently, shifting to rub behind Alpine’s ear with both hands like you were kneading dough. “She told me.”
“She told you?” he repeated, dry.
You nodded. Dead serious. “Yeah. I can hear her thoughts.”
Bucky dropped the paper completely, eyes narrowing, a flicker of something ancient and curious crossing his face. “Wait, seriously?”
You looked up at him slowly. “Dead serious.”
He sat up straighter. “Okay, okay, what’s she saying right now?”
You paused, one hand pressed against Alpine’s soft side like you were channeling the deepest energy in the universe. Your eyes closed. You inhaled slowly, solemnly. Then you opened your mouth.
“Meow.”
It was delivered with the kind of reverent flatness that made it sound like a holy prophecy.
Bucky stared at you. Just stared. Then, you burst out laughing.
“Meow?” he echoed, incredulous. “You asshole!”
You were wheezing, now doubled over, head against Alpine’s belly like she was your emotional support pillow. “Oh my God, the look on your face. You wanted it to be real.”
“You’re the worst,” he said, but there was a small, reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. He leaned back again, arms folding across his chest. “I thought you were actually pulling some weird psychic crap. You had the voice and everything.”
“I am psychic,” you said through your giggles. “But only when it’s funny.”
Alpine chose that exact moment to get up, walk across your lap, and hop onto Bucky’s armrest like she’d just filed a complaint with management. You flopped onto your back on the floor, hands spread wide.
“You’re both so dramatic,” you muttered. “No wonder you’re roommates.”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “She’s not my roommate.”
“She sleeps in your bed, eats your food, and glares at your guests. She owns this place.”
Alpine let out a small chirp, as if agreeing.
You stayed on the floor a beat longer, grinning up at the ceiling like this was the best day you’d had in years. Bucky watched you, that smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth, like maybe he couldn’t quite remember why he hated you so much anymore, or maybe he still did, but it was harder now, with you laying there in his living room, wearing his clothes, pretending to speak cat.
“Do you always act like this when you’re not setting things on fire?” he asked finally.
You turned your head toward him, eyes bright. “No, sometimes I also sing showtunes.”
“Please, don’t.”
“I will if you make me do dishes.”
He groaned, but it was half-laugh, half-resignation, like maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Not yet, anyway.
After a while, Bucky had finally convinced you to sit on the couch like a regular person instead of lying on the floor talking to his cat like she was your therapist. You had your knees pulled up, your fingers picking at a loose thread on the hem of his sweatshirt. It hung off your frame like it had belonged to you once in another life. Maybe that’s what got to him most. How you made yourself look at home in a place he still sometimes felt like a guest in.
He didn’t ask any questions at first. Just sat at the other end of the couch, long legs stretched out, arms folded. Alpine was curled between you like Switzerland.
The silence wasn’t awkward. Not exactly. It just hung in the air, waiting. You were the one who broke it.
“You ever think about running away?” you asked quietly, still looking down at your lap.
Bucky glanced at you, brow twitching. “From what?”
You shrugged, still plucking at the thread. “All of it. The whole thing. The job. The expectations. The guilt. The ghosts. You ever think about just… vanishing?”
He didn’t answer right away. “Sometimes,” he said eventually. “But ghosts follow, and they don’t need passports.”
You nodded like you knew that already. “I tried,” you said after a pause. “Vanishing, like years ago. Had a new name, and lived in a new city. Stayed away from fights, from powers, from the whole damn mess. Got a job at a library, if you can believe that.”
He looked over at you again. “You worked in a library?”
You smirked a little, still not quite meeting his eyes. “Yeah. Quiet. Peaceful. Smelled like paper and old wood and safety.”
“What happened?”
You finally looked up. There was something there in your expression, something raw and unguarded. It didn’t scream pain. It whispered it. “They found me.”
“Who?”
You shook your head. “Does it matter? Hydra. SHIELD. The Thunderbolts. Some other three-letter acronym. They always find me. They always want to use me.”
“And…you ran again?”
You shook your head again, slower this time. “No, I just stopped running. Figured if I was gonna keep being hunted, I might as well bite back.”
Alpine yawned between you, completely unbothered by the weight settling into the room. Bucky studied your face, the way the laughter had drained from it, replaced by something older. Sadder. Wiser.
“You’re not what I expected,” he said finally.
You smiled at that, but it was tired. “What did you expect?”
He hesitated. “I don’t know. Something colder. Angrier.”
You tilted your head. “I am angry. But that doesn’t mean I don’t like pancakes and fluffy blankets.”
“You’re full of contradictions.”
“So are you,” you said gently. “Metal arm. Soft eyes.”
Bucky looked away at that, jaw tightening like you’d hit a nerve.
You let the silence linger again, then added, “I didn’t come here to mess with you. Not this time. I didn’t even know I was coming here, not really, but when I got hurt… it’s like my body brought me here on its own. And that should probably terrify me more than it does.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. So he said, “You want more pancakes tomorrow?”
You smiled. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I’d like that.”
Bucky didn’t say much when he stood from the couch and pointed down the hall. “Guest room’s second door on the left,” he muttered, rubbing at the side of his neck like the words tasted awkward on his tongue. “You should get some sleep.”
You raised your hands in mock surrender. “Hey, you’re the one patching up your nemesis. I’m just here for the free healthcare and the mystery cat.”
He grunted in reply and turned to head to his own room. He didn’t look back, but apparently, neither did you.
Because fifteen minutes later, when he finally switched off the lights and stepped into his bedroom with every intention of collapsing face-first into his mattress, he found… you. Sprawled out like a damn starfish. One leg tossed haphazardly over his blanket, arms outstretched like you were claiming the entire bed by divine right.
Alpine was curled up on your stomach, tail flicking once like she was daring him to say something. Bucky just stood there in the doorway, jaw clenched, deadpan.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered under his breath.
He looked over his shoulder toward the guest room, then back at the sight in front of him. You were already dead asleep, breathing steady, hoodie riding up just a little, revealing the edge of gauze he’d wrapped earlier. Your hand twitched once, fingers curling like you were chasing something in a dream.
“Second door on the left,” he whispered harshly at your unconscious form. “It’s not that hard.”
But you didn’t stir. Not even a snore. Just blissful, defiant sleep, like the chaos you carried had finally shut off for the night. Bucky sighed long and slow, raking a hand down his face. Alpine blinked at him once, then went back to sleep. Betrayer.
Fine.
He pivoted and walked back down the hallway, muttering a string of curses that probably would've shocked Steve if he were still around to hear them. The guest room bed creaked when he dropped onto it, too stiff, too clean, like a hotel room no one ever used. He stared at the ceiling for a while, letting silence settle over the apartment like a blanket, except it didn’t warm him. Not tonight.
He hated how easily you had slotted into the rhythm of this place. Like you belonged here. Like his quiet life wasn’t so quiet anymore.
By the time sleep finally came, it was thin and fractured. He dreamed of moonlight, laughter, and voices he couldn’t place.
The next morning, he woke to the smell of… confusion. That was the only way he could describe it. Something was burning.
He sat up fast, heart lurching before his brain caught up. Then he realized it wasn’t smoke. It was just… coffee. Bad coffee.
He pulled on a T-shirt and padded barefoot into the kitchen, blinking against the morning light. And there you were.
Standing in front of the coffee machine like it had personally betrayed you.
You were dressed in his sweatpants now, rolled up at the ankles, and the hoodie was still slung over your frame like it hadn’t moved all night. Your hair was tied back loosely, a little damp, like you’d showered again, but when? He’d heard nothing. Not even the pipes.
Your fingers hovered over the buttons like they might explode. “What the hell is a ‘descaling mode’?” you muttered to yourself. “Why does this thing have so many buttons? Why does it beep like that?”
Bucky leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a slowly growing smirk. “Need help?” he asked, voice thick with sleep.
You jumped slightly, then turned to him, face lit up like a kid caught playing with forbidden tech. “This machine is cursed,” you said solemnly. “I pressed one thing and now it’s asking me for a cleaning pod. I don’t even know what a cleaning pod is. What are you people doing in the 21st century?”
He rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “It makes coffee.”
“No, it makes demands.”
He walked over, reaching past you to tap the reset button and clear the screen. “You’re lucky I don’t make you earn your keep by washing dishes.”
You looked offended. “I washed the forks.”
“There were three forks.”
“It was still labor.”
He glanced sideways at you, then down at the shirt you wore. His shirt. “Did you… go through my closet?”
You tilted your head. “You weren’t specific, so I assumed guest rights applied.”
He blinked. “Guest rights?”
“You’re feeding me, bandaging me, and letting me sleep in your overpriced bed, so I’m practically family.”
His eyebrow twitched. “You’re insane.”
“Probably,” you said brightly, then turned back to the machine, hitting a random button again. It beeped in protest. “Seriously though, how do you use this thing without summoning a demon?”
Bucky just reached over, pressed two buttons, and poured you a cup like it was the easiest thing in the world. You took the mug, eyes wide, genuinely impressed.
“I’m gonna marry this coffee,” you muttered after your first sip.
He shook his head, watching you like you were a storm that blew in, turned everything upside down, and now acted like you owned the place.
Maybe you did, and somehow, that thought didn’t scare him the way it should have.
By noon, the sun was carving soft light through the blinds, slicing the living room into bands of gold and shadow. Bucky had cleaned up the coffee disaster with practiced movements, muttering under his breath the entire time about people who shouldn’t be trusted near kitchen appliances. You had followed him around like Alpine, eyes wide, hair damp, socks mismatched, like you’d never been in a home before. And maybe, in a way, you hadn’t.
That’s how it started. With you leaning against the kitchen counter, watching him dry a mug.
“Do you ever cook?” you asked, nonchalant. Too nonchalant.
Bucky paused, then gave a slow, wary look over his shoulder. “Define cook.”
You grinned. “Like… with fire.”
He stared. “What are you planning?”
“I want to cook lunch,” you declared, stepping toward the fridge with the posture of someone about to win a cooking competition they’d never trained for. “I’ve seen shows. I know the basics.”
“Shows,” he repeated. “Like what, Hell’s Kitchen?”
“More like Nailed It,” you said cheerfully, flinging the fridge open with enough force to make the condiments rattle.
Bucky stood very still, like if he didn’t move, maybe the chaos would lose interest and go away, but of course, it didn’t.
You pulled out eggs, cheese, and something he swore had expired last month, and dropped them dramatically onto the counter. “Voilà.”
“That’s expired.”
“It builds immunity.”
“That’s not how food poisoning works.”
You were already cracking eggs into a bowl, shells half-shattered and suspiciously crunchy. Bucky’s hand twitched toward the trash can, but he didn’t interfere. Not yet. He leaned on the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with an expression that wavered between horror and something too soft to name.
“You know,” you said while aggressively whisking with a fork, “the last time I cooked, the stove caught fire.”
Bucky blinked. “That supposed to make me feel better?”
“No, I just wanted to be honest.”
He sighed deeply, dragging a hand down his face. Alpine hopped up on the counter to supervise, her tail flicking like a metronome of judgment.
“Okay, step back,” he said finally, nudging you out of the way with his hip. “Before you summon another demon from the coffee machine or burn down my entire block.”
You stepped back with a smug grin, holding the bowl like a trophy. “So what you’re saying is... I’m charming enough to get out of arson charges?”
“No,” he said, cracking fresh eggs with one hand like muscle memory never left. “You’re lucky I don’t have the energy to deal with explosions today.”
You watched him move around the kitchen, calm and precise. Like he’d done this a hundred times. Like it was a ritual, not just survival. For a second, the silence between you was different. Not playful, not sharp. Just… still.
“Did you do this with Steve?” you asked quietly, the question barely louder than the sizzle of eggs hitting the pan.
Bucky’s hands stilled. Just for a second. Then he stirred the pan slowly, like he was buying time before answering.
“Sometimes,” he said finally. “Back in Brooklyn, before the war. He couldn’t cook for shit, but he made good toast.”
You smiled. “That sounds about right.”
“He always burnt bacon,” Bucky added, a ghost of amusement passing over his face. “Said it made it crunchier.”
You didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, gently, “You miss him?”
He didn’t answer immediately. “Every day,” he said.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t heavy. Just the truth, laid bare like it didn’t need dressing up.
You nodded like you understood, because you did. Maybe not Steve, but the aching hollow of what was lost. The weight of could-have-beens. “I miss people, too,” you said after a beat, quietly. “Though most of them weren’t exactly Steve Rogers.”
Bucky glanced at you then, a flicker of something passing between you. Mutual understanding. Shared grief, even if it wore different names.
You cleared your throat and clapped your hands once, the spell breaking. “So, pancakes, coffee, and now… eggs. I’m living the dream.”
He smirked. “You’re easily impressed.”
“I’m easily underfed.”
You sat at the tiny table in his kitchen while he plated the food, and for a while, there was no war. No Thunderbolts. No mask. Just two people who had bled in the same world, eating a mediocre lunch in a sunlit apartment.
You didn’t bring up your powers. He didn’t ask why you hadn’t run yet. And maybe that was the point.
Later, when you tried to make toast and somehow still managed to smoke up the kitchen, Bucky handed you a fire extinguisher with zero emotion, like this was just what came with feeding you.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he muttered.
You winked. “Takes one to know one, soldier boy.”
That night, The apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional chirp from Alpine as she pawed at the corner of the rug, her eyes flicking up toward you with feline judgment. You were sitting cross-legged on the couch, head tilted as you tried to figure out how to use the TV remote, muttering to yourself like the buttons had personally insulted you.
Bucky leaned against the doorway, watching from a distance, arms crossed and jaw tight. He hadn’t meant to stare this long. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure when he stopped pretending to fold laundry and just… stood there, staring at you like you were some damn puzzle he couldn’t solve.
You looked ridiculous. His shirt was too big on you, the sleeves half-rolled and the hem nearly touching your knees. Your hair was still damp from the shower you took that morning, and for some reason, you had clipped one of Alpine’s toy bells onto the collar like it was a fashion choice. Every time you shifted, it jingled softly.
He should’ve found it annoying. Should’ve been furious, really.
Because it had only been three weeks since you’d nearly destroyed his team. Since Ava’s shoulder got dislocated, since Alexei had to be half-carried into medbay, since Bob, sweet, soft-spoken Bob, couldn’t sleep for two nights straight because of whatever the hell you’d put in his head.
He remembered the look on Yelena’s face when they got back to the Watchtower, all bruises and grit and no answers. He remembered the silence in the debriefing room, the shame curling in the pit of everyone’s stomach like smoke they couldn’t cough up.
And now? You were here. In his space. Wearing his clothes. Using his soap. Cooking horrible eggs. Curling up with his cat like you belonged.
He should’ve thrown you out the moment you passed out.
Instead, he kept checking your wounds, changing your bandages. He let you shower. Let you touch things. Let you stay.
God, he was such a hypocrite.
You laughed at something on the TV, loud and sudden. The kind of laugh that filled a space. Bucky flinched at the sound, not because it startled him, but because it did something else. Something worse.
It sounded real.
You weren’t acting like a fugitive. You weren’t hiding, or planning your next attack. You were… living. And somehow, that made it harder, because if you were a villain, he could hate you without question. If you were a monster, he could put a bullet through your head and call it justice.
But you weren’t. You were just this strange, beautiful, annoying thing that danced through their missions like it was a game and then cried in your sleep when you thought no one could hear. He had seen it. The sweat on your brow, the trembling in your hands, the little sparks of red flaring from your fingertips when the nightmares crawled in. He had sat there in the dark, watching from the armchair while you turned in his bed like something was chasing you, and it made him ache in a way he hated.
It didn’t matter. None of it did.
Because what were they supposed to do? Let you stay forever? Let you make pancakes with expired milk and wear his t-shirts and pretend like you hadn’t almost broken Sentry’s mind in half? Like you hadn’t called them out, him out, for everything he was trying to fix?
He couldn’t keep you hidden. He couldn’t keep this secret.
So Bucky pulled out his phone. Slowly. Like it weighed more than it should.
He stared at the screen for a long minute, thumb hovering over the contact. Walker. Ghost. Val. Hell, even Yelena. He could call any of them. Let them know. Tell them he had you. Tell them you were weak. Bleeding. Vulnerable. Easy.
One press. One word. He could end this.
Behind him, you had flopped onto your side, one arm dangling off the couch. Alpine had climbed on top of your legs, purring like a damn tractor. You were humming now. Off-key. Happy.
Bucky swallowed hard, eyes flicking back to the screen.
Then he tapped the message open and typed out five words.
I know where Bandit is.
He didn’t send it. Not yet. He looked back at you one more time. You were holding the remote upside down and arguing with it. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to scream.
Instead, he hit send. The message disappeared. And just like that, something in him did too.
The guilt crept in before the knock ever came. Before the comms even lit up. It settled into Bucky's chest like an old friend, unwelcome and familiar, tugging at the edges of every breath he took.
He couldn’t stop watching you.
You were crouched in front of Alpine now, trying to teach her how to shake hands. Your hair was tied up with one of his old shoelaces, and you kept making little “pspsps” sounds while tapping your knuckles on the floor like it was a ritual. The cat wasn’t cooperating. Alpine rarely did. But you didn’t seem to care. You were laughing, eyes scrunched up, voice soft and focused, like the world wasn’t shifting beneath your feet.
Like you didn’t feel the weight of betrayal crackling in the air.
Bucky turned away. He busied himself with pretending to clean the counter, wiping the same spot three times, heart knocking against his ribs like it wanted to break out and run.
He didn’t even hear you get up. He just heard your voice. Low. Calm.
“I liked it here.”
He froze.
You were behind him. Close. Too close.
He turned slowly, eyes meeting yours. You weren’t smiling anymore. Your hands were relaxed at your sides, but something buzzed beneath your skin, like your powers were pressing up against the surface, waiting.
“I liked the couch. The quiet. The cat.” You tilted your head, studying him. “I liked that you didn’t ask too many questions.”
Bucky didn’t speak. You took a step closer, and the hum in the air changed. Faint red sparks curled around your fingers. Not threatening. Not yet.
“I really liked the shirt too,” you added softly. “Little tight in the shoulders, but soft.”
His throat worked, but nothing came out. Then, you looked at the counter. At the phone, at his face, and you knew.
You didn’t need to read his mind. You never had to. You were just that damn good.
“Oh,” you said quietly, breath puffing out like a laugh that didn’t quite make it. “You told them.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. You nodded once, more to yourself than to him. Your eyes flicked down to Alpine, still pawing at the air like she didn’t know the room was about to turn inside out.
“I figured,” you murmured. “Four days of kindness? That’s a record for you, right?”
The words hit harder than they should have. He clenched his jaw. “You don’t get to talk like you know me.”
“I don’t need to know you,” you said, eyes never leaving his. “I just needed to know the look you gave me when you brought me soup. Like you were trying to convince yourself I wasn’t real.”
You took another step. He didn’t move, and he couldn’t.
“And now you’re standing here like a man who’s waiting for backup. Like a man who regrets not locking the door.”
Then you smiled. Not your usual smirk, not the teasing kind. This one was tired, like you’d done this a million times before.
“You really think I didn’t hear the moment you made the message?” you whispered, voice just above a breath. “Your guilt's so loud, Barnes. It’s a wonder the walls haven’t cracked.”
He stepped back like he’d been slapped. Then, you did the thing that snapped the air clean in half. You reached out, slow, careful, and pressed two fingers to his chest, right over where his heart was beating too fast.
“You really think I’d stay in a place where I wasn’t already ten steps ahead?” Red light pulsed under your skin. “I came here because something told me to, but I’m staying because you made me want to.” You dropped your hand. “But now?”
You didn’t say the rest. You didn’t need to. The silence that followed was thick with everything you didn’t say. With the sound of sirens that hadn’t reached the building yet. With the weight of choices made too late.
And somewhere beneath it all, Bucky wanted to scream. Not at you. At himself. Because he knew then. He didn’t just betray you, he betrayed the only goddamn thing that had made him feel alive in years.
You turned toward the door without a word, hands clenched, your jaw set tight. The air shifted around you, that strange charge building like a slow breath held too long. One foot stepped forward, the other already following. You were halfway to the hall when Bucky said it.
“You could’ve said something.”
You stopped. It was not loud and sharp, but it dropped enough like a weight between you, and it hit something deep. You turned slowly, your voice flat. “Said what, exactly?”
He stayed near the counter, arms crossed now, like he needed to hold himself together or else throw something. “That you were leaving. That you used me. That you planned it.”
“Oh, screw you,” you snapped, the words out before you could think better. “I didn’t use you. You let me in. I didn’t ask for that. I was bleeding and half-conscious, and your door just happened to be the only one my body dragged me to.”
“You knew exactly what you were doing,” Bucky shot back, stepping closer. “You show up out of nowhere, manipulate everyone around you, make me, hell, make me feel something, and now you’re walking out like none of it meant anything.”
“I didn’t ask to feel anything,” you bit out. “You think I came here to make friends? To play house with a man who’s still trying to remember which parts of him are real?”
Bucky flinched, but you were too far in now. The anger was old and bitter, and you’d held it too long. “You think I wanted this? That I wanted to laugh at your dumb voice when you play with your cat? That I wanted to know how you take your coffee or what it looks like when you fall asleep sitting up on the couch?”
He stared at you, unmoving, but his chest was rising fast, shoulders tight like he was ready to swing or scream. “I didn’t ask for this either,” he said through his teeth. “But it happened, and you stayed. Don’t act like that doesn’t mean something.”
“It doesn’t mean I’m safe,” you threw back. “It doesn’t mean I belong here.”
“Then why the hell did you come to me?” His voice cracked then, just a little, but he didn’t stop. “Why me, out of everyone? Why this apartment? Why my couch, my bed, my goddamn t-shirt?”
You didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched thin between you, full of all the things you wanted to say but couldn’t without bleeding.
Then you exhaled hard, bitter. “Because I knew you’d understand.”
Bucky blinked.
“I knew you’d understand what it feels like to be made into something you didn’t ask for. To be hated just for surviving. I thought—” Your voice caught, and you shook your head. “I thought maybe that meant something.”
For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, Bucky muttered under his breath, voice heavy. “So why are you still running?”
You laughed once, but it was empty. “Because the second I stop, they’ll put me in a cage.”
“I wouldn’t let them,” he said quickly, and you turned on him again.
“Oh, come on. You already did! You told them, Barnes. You made your choice. Don’t pretend you’re some kind of martyr now.”
“I didn’t call them for you,” he snapped, louder now. “I called them because you hurt people. Because you messed with Bob’s head so bad he couldn’t talk for a day. Because you played with Ava’s fears like they were cards in your pocket. You messed with my team.”
“They’re not your team!” you shouted. “They’re a bunch of broken toys with government stickers on them. You think I’m the villain? Look at what they do. What you do. You’ve all just been dressed up and rebranded, like that makes you better than me.”
You were breathing fast now. The red light under your skin pulsed, slow and dim but present. Bucky took one more step, and now you were face to face, the space between you crackling.
“You still haven’t told me what you want,” he said, voice low. “Why me? Why now?”
You stared at him, eyes flicking over his face like you could read something there, something honest. Then, finally, you said it. Quiet, but sure. “Because when I close my eyes, you’re the only thing that doesn’t burn.”
And that, for a moment, shut him up completely, but the damage was done. The argument wasn’t finished. It never would be. And neither of you could look away.
Then, Bucky broke the silence. “Then, come with me, please. This is not you.”
Your hands lifted slowly, fingers twitching in rhythm with the red crackle dancing along your palms. Your voice slipped into something lighter, more venomous. “You think because I spent a few nights in your apartment I’ve suddenly forgotten who I am?”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Don’t do this.”
“What exactly am I doing, James?” You took a slow step back, but it wasn’t retreat. It was preparation. “Reminding you that I’m not your responsibility? That I’m not your pet project? That I’m not going to become your redemption arc?”
He flinched like the words hit a nerve, which they did. You could feel it. His silence was weighted, all frustration and guilt packed behind clenched teeth.
Then he stepped forward, voice low but sharp. “You don’t have to pretend anymore. I know you’re scared.”
You laughed. Short. Bitter. “Scared? Of you? Of them?” You gestured vaguely in the air, like the ghosts of the Thunderbolts were standing in the hallway waiting for a dramatic entrance. “You don’t get it, do you? I’ve always been the monster under the bed. I don’t fear cages, I survive them.”
“And what, you think that’s all you’ll ever be?” Bucky shot back. “You think this mask you wear, this whole ‘bitch-ass villain’ routine, makes you untouchable?”
“It makes me safe,” you said. “People don’t try to love what they’re afraid of.”
He took another step, so close now that the air between you tensed. “Bullshit. You’re hiding. You’re hiding behind your powers, behind your trauma, behind that damn mask you wear even when there’s no one around to be afraid of you.”
Your fingers flared again, the red light building. “You want me to stop hiding?” you asked, stepping in so close your chest brushed his. “You want the real me, Barnes? You sure about that?”
He didn’t back down. “I want the one who made Alpine a nest out of his own hoodie. I want the one who got excited about a damn toaster. I want the one who—” He stopped himself, looked away for a second like the truth in his mouth was too heavy. “The one who asked for help without asking.”
Your throat tightened, but you didn’t let it show. You smiled instead. Wide, empty. “That version of me doesn’t exist.”
“That’s crap and you know it.”
Then, all at once, you shoved him. It wasn’t a blow meant to injure. It was just enough force to spark something. A release. A scream without sound.
He stumbled back a step, then launched forward. You met him halfway, powers humming to life in your hands, but you didn’t use them, not really. It was instinct more than attack. A swing blocked. A shove dodged. His hand grabbed your wrist, and yours gripped the collar of his shirt.
It wasn’t a fight to win. It was a fight to feel.
Breathless, tangled, a mess of boots scuffing on hardwood and breath ghosting close enough to blur the line between anger and something darker. You twisted free, threw a flicker of red across his arm, but he caught your other hand and pinned it against the wall.
“Stop fighting me,” he growled, eyes locked on yours.
“Why?” you hissed, heart pounding. “So you can hand me over with a clear conscience? So you can sleep better knowing you tried?”
“I’m not handing you over.”
You froze.
His grip loosened, but he didn’t let go. “Come with me. I’ll deal with Val, with Walker, with all of them. I’ll make sure you’re not locked away.”
“You really think they’ll listen to you?”
“I don’t care if they do.” He leaned in, forehead almost against yours. “I’m not letting them cage you. I swear it.”
Your voice cracked around the edges, not from pain but from pressure. “I can’t be what you want, Barnes.”
“Then just be real,” he said. “Even if that version of you sets the world on fire.”
- Watchtower, Thunderbolts* Headquarters -
The briefing room had never felt more claustrophobic. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, faintly flickering like they were just as tired as the people sitting beneath them. The table was a battered slab of steel, peppered with coffee stains, old dents, and the ghost of a knife slash courtesy of Walker’s last tantrum. Everything smelled like burnt caffeine and old antiseptic, like this room never really aired out the missions it failed to forget.
Yelena shoved the door open with her hip and tossed her phone onto the table. She didn’t look at anyone as she dropped into her usual seat, legs crossed, one boot tapping against the leg of her chair.
“Barnes texted me,” she said flatly. “Just now.”
That got their attention.
Walker straightened from where he’d been leaning against the far wall, arms folded, scowling like that might summon answers faster. Red Guardian looked up from the ancient thermos he’d been glaring into for the past ten minutes. Ava appeared in the doorway a second later, wiping black grease from her gloves and glancing around like someone had called an emergency meeting she hadn’t approved of.
“What’d he say?” Bob asked quietly, already reaching for the phone.
Yelena pushed it toward him. On the screen: “Meet me. Midnight. Coordinates attached. Come prepared.”
The words hung in the air like fog. Blunt, and no signature. Just Bucky in his most Bucky form: sparse, serious, vague enough to make everyone nervous.
Ava let out a sharp breath through her nose. “Come prepared? What is this, a duel?”
“Midnight?” Alexei repeated, squinting at the screen. “Is ghost hour. Nothing good happens in midnight.” His accent thickened as he reached for the coordinates and plugged them into the projector on the wall. “Where is this, eh? Some forest? Swamp?”
“No,” Bob said as the map flickered to life. “It’s the old power plant. East sector. City’s been trying to tear it down for five years.”
The image settled into view: a sprawling husk of concrete and metal, fences rusted and torn, transformers collapsed like dying beasts. The main building was half-caved in, its windows dark holes. Everything about it screamed forgotten.
Walker leaned forward, arms braced on the table. “You think he dragged her there to finish it? Finally got the guts to do what the rest of us couldn’t?”
“Or maybe she dragged him,” Ava countered, arms crossed. “Maybe he’s not in control anymore.”
Yelena’s jaw ticked. “He’s not compromised. If he were, he wouldn’t have sent a location.”
“Unless she made him,” Ava said, raising a brow.
Alexei huffed, pacing to the corner of the room. “Bah, she twist minds. Turns strongest man into puddle.” He jabbed a finger at Bob, who had the decency to look sheepish. “Made you cry like baby in corner.”
“I wasn’t crying,” Bob mumbled, but it didn’t sound convincing.
“You were,” Walker confirmed.
Bob ignored them and went back to studying the map. “This place… if it’s a trap, it’s a good one. No power, no signal. Nearest responders are ten miles out.”
“That’s exactly why Bucky picked it,” Yelena said. “If this is his plan, it’s off the books. No outside interference.”
“Or he’s gone full Stockholm and she’s got him dancing around like a puppet,” Walker snapped. “And if that’s the case, we better be ready to put him down, too.”
Yelena stood slowly, her voice sharp. “You say that again, and I will put you down.”
A thick silence fell. The air felt heavier now, pressing into shoulders, settling like a storm waiting for the sky to break.
Ava cracked her neck. “So what’s the move?”
“We go,” Yelena said. “Gear up. Keep comms off. If it’s a trap, we deal with it. If it’s not…” She trailed off, and for the first time in a while, she looked uncertain. “We find out what the hell Barnes is really doing.”
Bob rose to his feet last, his gaze still fixed on the image on screen. The power plant loomed, silent and sunken. There were no answers in the dark, only the promise of confrontation.
The Bandit. Four weeks without a trace. No pings. No sightings. Not even a whisper across any of the channels they monitored, but none of them believed you had disappeared.
People like you didn’t vanish. Why? Because you went quiet before the storm.
The power plant loomed like the carcass of something that used to matter, steel ribs exposed, windows gaping, vines growing where glass used to be. The night was still, the kind of cold that crept under armor and made silence feel louder than any gunshot. Wind whispered through broken vents and rattled loose siding, like the place itself was holding its breath.
They arrived one by one, boots crunching against cracked asphalt, weapons slung, shoulders tight. Walker came in first, shield already drawn, his face pulled into a scowl like the wind had insulted his mother. Ava appeared next, half-phased through the side gate like a shadow with a grudge. Alexei and Bob weren’t far behind, the latter squinting at the sky like he wished it would give him a better excuse to turn around. Yelena came last, eyes sharp and chin high, a knife already in her hand even though she hadn’t spoken a word since stepping out of the van.
They found Bucky standing at the center of the yard, right where the main transformer used to be, half-buried under moss and rust. His arms were at his sides, fists clenched but not raised. He wasn’t pacing, wasn’t on edge. Just… still.
“Barnes,” Walker called out, tone already sour. “You gonna explain why the hell we’re meeting in a haunted scrapyard?”
Bucky didn’t answer right away. He let the silence stretch a little longer, long enough for discomfort to settle in their chests. Then he looked up, face unreadable under the low blue light of the half-moon, and said flatly, “She’s here.”
That got their attention. Bob stiffened. Yelena stepped forward. Walker’s hand tightened on the grip of his shield.
“She’s not armed,” Bucky added, before anyone could raise theirs. “She’s not here to fight.”
“Bullshit,” Ava said instantly. “That’s what she wants you to think.”
“She messed with your head again,” Walker said. “Didn’t she? Jesus, Barnes, tell me she didn’t crawl in and rewrite your loyalty.”
“She didn’t,” Bucky said, his voice cutting clean through the accusations. “I asked her to come.”
That landed like a slap. Yelena’s mouth opened, then closed again. Bob stared. Alexei mumbled something in Russian that definitely included a curse.
Bucky didn’t flinch. “She came to me. Hurt, and alone. Not fighting, not running. She could’ve turned my brain inside out, and she didn’t. She could’ve killed me already, but she didn’t.”
“You think that means anything?” Walker snapped. “You want a parade because the walking red flag didn’t kill you in your sleep?”
“She’s not what we thought,” Bucky said, jaw tight now. “You’ve seen how she fights. If she wanted us dead, we would be.”
Alexei scoffed. “She did try.”
“She pulled punches,” Bucky replied. “You don’t believe me, fine. I don’t care. But you’re going to listen.”
Ava folded her arms. “This is insane.”
“No,” Bucky said. “What’s insane is we keep pretending this team works, that we’re all on the same page when we can’t even agree on who the real enemy is. She didn’t start this war. We did. We treated her like a monster from day one, and now she’s exactly what we made her.”
“She’s not innocent,” Yelena said quietly.
“No,” Bucky agreed. “But neither are we.”
The wind picked up again, sharp and sudden, rustling through the weeds. A door creaked somewhere in the dark. Bucky stepped back from the center of the group and nodded toward the empty space near the edge of the yard. “She’s going to speak. That’s all. You don’t have to like it. You just have to shut up long enough to hear it.”
Walker muttered under his breath. “This is so goddamn stupid.”
“She’s not touching your minds,” Bucky said, scanning their faces. “No powers. Just words. You wanted a chance to bring her in. This is it. You want justice? Listen to her first.”
Bob, quiet as ever, finally spoke. “And if we don’t like what she says?”
Bucky looked at him. “Then you can do whatever the hell you came here to do.”
No one moved. No one lowered their weapons, either. Trust, it seemed, was still a long way off.
Yelena stared at Bucky like she didn’t know him. “And you trust her?”
“I don’t trust anyone,” he said, voice steady. “But I’ve seen enough to know she deserves a voice.”
He took one step back, arms raised slightly like he was stepping out of the line of fire, and turned toward the broken stairwell that led into the plant’s shadowed heart. “She’s waiting.”
And behind them, far off in the dark, someone, something, moved. You were coming, and none of them were ready.
The shift in the air was subtle at first. Just the faintest stir of something not quite wind, something heavier than breeze and lighter than storm. Then the shadows near the broken stairwell curled, like fabric caught in water, and you stepped out from the dark.
You didn’t swagger, didn’t smirk, didn’t let your presence come with theatrics or flames. You walked like you’d been here before, wearing the mask, like the world owed you the ground you stood on. The same dark red aura shimmered faintly around your hands, not flaring, not rising. Just pulsing like it knew everyone in the yard already had their weapons half-raised.
The team tensed as one. Ava’s fingers twitched. Bob blinked. Walker lifted his shield without being told. Even Alexei adjusted his stance like he wasn’t sure if this was going to turn into a fight or a funeral.
You didn’t flinch. Your voice, when it came, was low and clean, echoing against the rusted walls like it belonged there.
“I didn’t ask for a crowd,” you said flatly. “But I’m going to say this once, so listen close.”
Bucky stayed where he was, a few feet to your left, silent. You didn’t look at him.
“Back off from my life,” you said, louder now, each word landing like a stone in still water. “I don’t care what story they told you about me. I don’t care what version of me you built in your heads so you could feel righteous about hunting me down. You don’t know me.”
Yelena’s mouth twitched. Ava muttered something under her breath.
You stepped forward once, hands still at your sides, but your stance was anything but passive. “You want to know who I’ve killed?” you asked, tone steady. “Fine. I’ve killed people. I’ve ended lives. But every single one of them was someone who helped build the version of me that you’re all so scared of.”
Silence clung to the edges of the lot. The team didn't move. You let your words hang for a second, then filled the quiet.
“Men who chained me up and called it training. Women who made a living dissecting children like they were test subjects. People who signed off on war crimes and called it science. I didn’t kill innocents. I killed monsters in nice suits who thought no one would ever hold them accountable.”
You glanced at Ava. Then Yelena. Then Walker. “So tell me again,” you said slowly, “how you think you’re better than me.”
Walker opened his mouth to speak, but Bucky shifted just enough to stop him. You noticed. You didn’t thank him.
“This isn’t a redemption arc. I’m not standing here begging for forgiveness or trying to join your little squad of government leftovers,” you said. “I’m here because I’m tired of running. I’m tired of being painted as the villain just because I stopped hiding.”
The silence was thicker now, uncomfortable and raw. You took another breath, calmer, but your eyes stayed locked on the group in front of you. “I survived things most of you would lose your minds over. And instead of help, I got bullets. Instead of a chance, I got a hit list.”
Ava blinked, and for a flicker of a second, her face twitched like maybe, maybe, she felt it too.
You shook your head, almost disappointed. “I am not here to be your friend. I’m not here to be your ally, but I am not your fucking enemy either.”
You turned slightly, facing Bucky without fully looking at him. “I came because he asked me to. Because I thought maybe, just maybe, he was the only one of you not lying to himself.”
Then, finally, you let your voice fall quieter, but not softer. “But if any of you still think you can put me in a cage,” you said, “go ahead. Try.”
And you waited. The silence that followed your words stretched too long to be comfortable, too short to be thoughtful. It clung to the air like smog, and no one moved at first.
Then, finally, Walker scoffed. “Oh, that’s rich,” he muttered, taking a step forward like he just couldn’t keep the disdain in his bones any longer. “You come waltzing in here, mouth full of justifications and victim monologues, and you expect us to what? Nod along? Shake hands and say thank you for the trauma?”
He gestured with his shield, the motion jerky and full of heat. “You killed people. Government officials, agents, entire ops teams. I don’t care if they weren’t saints. They had families. You think your sad little backstory makes you special?”
Ava’s jaw was clenched. Her eyes never left you. “She’s lying,” she said quietly, almost like she was reminding herself. “It’s just another trick. That’s what she does. Gets in your head, twists the narrative. She did it to Bob.”
Yelena crossed her arms. “So what? We just forget Ghost spent two weeks in a med pod after your last stunt?” Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was sharp. “You think that’s something we can laugh about now?”
Alexei cracked his knuckles and stepped forward, voice low and firm. “In Russia, we do not negotiate with madwomen,” he said. “Especially not ones who disappear for weeks and come back smelling like trap.”
You tilted your head. “That’s oddly specific.”
He ignored the jab. “You talk good, yes. Very convincing. But words don’t erase what you did to Bob. He could have leveled this whole country when you snapped him.”
Still, Bob said nothing. He stood a few feet behind the others, silent, arms crossed, eyes on the cracked pavement. He hadn’t looked up once.
Walker turned to Bucky. “And you, what the hell were you thinking bringing her here? She could’ve killed you in your sleep. You know what she’s capable of.”
“She already did worse,” Ava said. “She got inside your head.”
“I asked you to trust me,” Bucky replied finally, voice tight but controlled. “That’s all. Just shut up and trust me.”
Walker threw his arms wide. “Trust? Barnes, are you serious? You went dark for five days and came back with her. That’s not trust. That’s a red flag waving on top of a nuclear warhead, dude!”
You didn’t flinch through any of it. You’d heard worse. You’d been called worse, but as the accusations flew, you could feel the thread starting to stretch thinner, snapping close to the edge.
Bucky’s jaw clenched as he looked back at them. “You think I’d bring her here if I didn’t believe there was something worth hearing?”
Yelena didn’t even blink. “Yes. Because you’re Bucky Barnes, and you think you can save everybody. Even the ones who broke everything first.”
Still, Bob said nothing. Not even a breath louder than the wind. And for the moment, it was clear. They didn’t believe you. The moment your mouth opened again, the tension in the air thickened like a thunderclap was waiting to drop.
“You know,” you started slowly, voice low and calm but lined with something that didn’t sit right, “it’s really funny that the team of former assassins and government toys are the ones talking about morality like you ever had it.”
Instant. Like flipping a switch. Every hand twitched toward a weapon. Yelena took half a step forward, hand hovering near the hilt of her knife. Ava’s body glitched for a second, already preparing to phase. Walker’s shield lifted automatically, his stance shifting wide like he had trained for this moment, hellbent on making it count. Even Alexei was ready, shoulders squared, eyes locked.
Bucky didn’t wait. His voice cracked through the rising noise, sharp and steady. “Back off. All of you.”
They paused. Just for a second. Then Walker said, “You hearing yourself right now?”
“I said back off,” Bucky repeated, stepping forward this time, placing himself between you and the rest. “No one moves. Not unless they want this to end the wrong way.”
Yelena narrowed her eyes. “You sound like him,” she said quietly. “Like Steve.” That landed hard. And she knew it would.
“You’re not Steve, Bucky,” she added, sharper now. “You’re not the guy with the speeches, and the trust-in-people bullshit. Just because she reminds you of what they did to you doesn’t mean she gets a pass.”
“You think this is about a pass?” he snapped, louder now. “You think I’m doing this because I feel sorry for her?”
He looked at all of them, really looked, and it was the first time they noticed how tired he was. Not physically. Something deeper. Like his patience had been peeled down to the bone.
“We’ve been chasing her like a ghost. Mission after mission, report after report, acting like this is some black-and-white crusade when none of us even know what the hell we’re fighting anymore.” He glanced at Bob, still silent in the background. “She broke Bob because the truth hurts. And none of us wanted to hear it. We’re not heroes, for God’s sake. We’re a patch job stitched together by people who don’t care if we live or die.”
Ava tensed, and Bucky held her stare. “I’m not saying she’s innocent. I’m saying you don’t get to decide what justice looks like when all you’ve ever done is follow orders like good little soldiers.”
“And what are you, then?” Walker shot back. “You’re defending her. That makes you part of the problem.”
“No,” Bucky said, calm now, too calm. “It means I’ve seen enough of the problem to know when it’s staring back at me.”
There was a beat of silence. Then, Yelena asked, her voice tight, “What are you saying, Bucky?”
He looked at each of them again. And this time, the line was clear.
“I’m saying leave. Walk away, because if you come for her again,” he said, voice like steel pulled tight, “you’re not just fighting her anymore.”
He stepped back, just enough to stand beside you.
“You’re fighting me.”
“You’ve lost your damn mind,” Walker said again, louder this time, his voice echoing off the exposed metal beams of the old power station. Dust drifted down from the ceiling, stirred by the vibration in his chest. “You think this is noble? This isn’t Rogers standing against the odds. This is you choosing her over the mission. Over us.”
Across the ruined floor, Ghost flickered like static, half-visible and humming with restrained energy. “She didn’t even deny it,” Ava said tightly, arms locked at her sides. “She ripped into us. She played with us like we were toys. You want to talk peace now?”
Alexei stood firm near the rear of the group, arms crossed and face shadowed in the flickering orange light cast by their headlights. “Barnes, you are making mistake,” Alexei muttered, low and sharp. “This woman? She is fire with no hearth. She will burn what is closest first.”
Bucky didn’t blink. He just stood there in front of you, unmoving, the cold breeze from the broken walls brushing at his back. His fists were loose at his sides, but his whole body was tight; shoulders squared, jaw set, like someone preparing to walk into a war they knew they’d lose.
Meanwhile, Yelena turned toward him slowly. She hadn’t moved since she’d arrived, but the tension in her neck said she was two breaths from lashing out. Her eyes were narrowed, not just with suspicion, but hurt. Like something in her trusted him once, and now it was being dragged across concrete.
“You’re not Steve,” she said finally. Her voice didn’t shake, but it cracked in all the wrong places. “I know you miss him, but don’t pretend like he’s here in this decision. Don’t act like she’s some lost soul you can pull from the fire. You don’t even know who she is.”
And all of them, in different stances, different expressions, worn-down, confused, furious, turned toward you.
The temperature in the room dipped. Your powers shimmered faintly at your fingertips again, dark red and whispering low like a song you didn’t remember writing. You tilted your head. Just a little. Just enough to test them.
That was all it took. Instinct took over. Uniforms straightened. Boots slid across the floor for better grip. Shields and weapons came up. All eyes locked on you.
You could’ve smirked. Could’ve flinched. But you didn’t. You stood like the still point in a turning world.
Then, Bob spoke. “I saw her.”
The tension in the air snapped, but no one moved.
Bob took a step forward. His face was unreadable, eyes dim but focused, the way only someone who’d spent time inside the minds of the broken could look. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t posture like the rest.
“I was in her head,” he said. “That day. You think she scrambled my brain? Twisted me up? No. That’s not what happened.”
Ava shifted beside him, her eyes flicking between you both. “What do you mean, you were in her head?”
“She let me,” Bob said simply. “She didn’t force her way into mine. Not like that. It was more like… like she opened a door and left it there. On purpose.”
Walker scoffed under his breath. “And you think that’s a sign of innocence?”
“I think it’s a sign she wanted someone to see,” Bob replied, sharper now. “Not the power. Not the mask. Her.”
You swallowed, but didn’t speak.
“I saw what she remembers,” Bob continued, eyes on the ground for a moment. “The Void. That place where time doesn’t mean anything. Where your thoughts eat each other. She was stuck there. And the worst part?” He glanced up. “She chose it. To keep something worse inside. She locked herself in.”
“I saw the men she killed,” Bob went on. “The ones who built her like a machine. Who tore pieces from her mind so she’d forget who she was. I saw their faces. The ones who called it control. The ones who gave her orders.”
He looked at you again, and you looked right back. “She remembers them every night,” Bob said. “Not because she wants to. Because she has to. It’s all still there. What they did. Who they made her become.”
His voice dropped, and somehow, it hit harder than any scream. “She killed monsters,” he said. “Not innocents. She was one, and then she stopped. And the world punished her for it.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was hollow. Like something sacred had been dropped.
Bob took another step back, folding his hands in front of him, head lowered slightly like he wasn’t asking for forgiveness, just patience. “She’s not evil,” he said again. “She’s just haunted.”
The words hung there, unmoving. You didn’t break the quiet. You let them feel it. Let them sit with it. And none of them could look you in the eye.
“No,” Walker said again, quieter now, but still defiant. “You don’t just get to say oops and move on. Not after what she did to us.”
“She didn’t say oops,” Bob replied, eyes steady. “She hasn’t said anything to make you forgive her. She doesn’t expect you to. But this?” He motioned to the team—all of them ready, armor scuffed, weapons charged, hearts pulled taut like bowstrings. “This isn’t justice. This is just chasing pain because we don’t know what else to do with it.”
Ava blinked hard, jaw flexing. Yelena looked down for a second, chewing on the inside of her cheek. Alexei exhaled loudly through his nose but said nothing. No one moved. Not yet.
Bob turned his gaze back to Bucky then, like he was done trying to argue with the rest. “Tell them, man. You brought us here. What do you want?”
Bucky hadn’t taken his eyes off the ground. His fists had unclenched. The anger had drained from his posture, but it hadn’t left him. It never really did. He finally looked up and stepped forward once.
“I want out,” he said simply. His voice didn’t tremble, but it was stripped bare. “I want out of this cycle where we call every threat a monster and never stop to ask who made them that way.”
He turned slowly to face the others. “You think I’m blind? That I don’t see what this is?” He pointed at you, then back at himself. “She’s me. Ten years ago. Broken and dangerous and already on the run from everything she could be. The only difference is someone gave me a second chance, and no one ever even gave her a breath.”
Walker scoffed, but Bucky cut him off with a look. “No, I’m done playing this game. If the cost of being on this team is hunting down people like her without asking and knowing why they’re running, then maybe I shouldn’t be on this team at all.”
Yelena shook her head, voice softer this time. “So that’s it? You just walk?”
“I didn’t say I’d walk,” Bucky said. “But I will leave if it means keeping her safe.” His voice turned steel again. “I’m not handing her over. I’m not letting anyone put her in a cage.”
A pause. Then, quieter: “Not when I know what it’s like.”
The words rang out and hit hard. Bob nodded once, then looked at the rest of the team. “It ends here,” he said, calm and certain. “We’re not dragging her back like a trophy. We’re not feeding another haunted weapon into another war.”
Yelena stared at you for a long, unreadable beat. Then, without a word, she stepped back. Ava followed slowly, her mouth drawn tight, eyes flicking toward Bucky, then toward you, before she finally sheathed her knives. Even Alexei muttered something under his breath in Russian and turned away.
Only Walker stayed planted. “Seriously?” he asked, voice rising. “You all just gonna—”
“Enough, Walke,r” Bob said, and this time the weight in his voice was enough to hush even Walker’s righteous fury.
Another beat passed. One more long moment of not-quite-trust, not-quite-peace. Then, Bucky turned to you, chest still rising and falling hard. “Let’s go,” he said. Not a question. A promise.
You didn’t say anything. You just nodded once and stepped to his side, your powers quiet now, breath steady. Together, you walked into the shadows.
- Seven Months Later -
The morning was quiet in the way only the countryside could be, with wind weaving through the tall grass like it had nowhere else to be. Sunlight poured soft through the trees, pooling across the porch and bleeding into the open kitchen window, casting honeyed streaks across the hardwood floor. Birds were chirping lazily overhead, like even they weren’t in a rush.
Bucky stood barefoot by the sink, mug in one hand, the steam curling under his nose as he stared out through the window. You were outside already, barefoot in the grass, laughing softly as a few scrappy chickens danced around your feet. You were wearing one of his old shirts again, sleeves rolled halfway up your forearms, and pants too big for you, cinched at the waist with a worn belt that used to belong to someone he couldn’t remember anymore.
You looked like you’d always belonged there. Like you’d been plucked out of some life that was never allowed to happen and dropped right here, in the one you made for yourselves.
He didn’t speak, and didn’t call your name. He just watched, because this, this quiet, simple morning, was the kind of moment Bucky Barnes thought he’d never live to see.
He used to think if he ever got a second chance, he’d waste it. That he wouldn’t know how to be a person again. Not after everything Hydra had carved out of him, but there you were, in the middle of a sun-washed field, feeding half-tamed chickens like you hadn’t nearly destroyed the world a year ago. Like you hadn’t walked into his life soaked in chaos and fire and made him look you in the eye and feel something again.
You turned your head toward the window then, maybe sensing the weight of his stare, and smiled like it didn’t scare you. Like you hadn’t seen the worst of him. You raised a hand and waved, still holding a scoop of feed, and Bucky’s chest tightened so sharply he had to exhale slowly just to let the air back in.
This life wasn’t perfect. The nightmares still came. The guilt still lingered. He still didn’t sleep some nights. But there was something about you, about your stubborn need to rebuild from ashes, that made him believe there might be a version of the future where he didn’t have to run anymore. Where healing didn’t mean pretending it never happened, but letting it matter and living anyway.
Maybe this wasn’t the life he was supposed to have, but damn it, it was the one he had now. And you were in it.
So he set his mug down and stepped outside, the porch groaning under his weight. The grass was cool beneath his feet as he crossed the yard toward you. You were crouched beside the fence, trying to coax a particularly moody hen into eating from your hand. You didn’t hear him approach until he was only a few steps away.
“You’re not supposed to be up this early,” he said quietly, hands in his pockets.
You looked up, eyes catching the morning light, and grinned. “You always say that, and yet, somehow, I keep waking up before you. Maybe it’s the farm air, or maybe our bed just really sucks.”
His lips twitched, just slightly. “It’s our bed,” he said. “Of course it sucks.”
You stood, brushing your hands on your thighs. “Well, tell that to Alpine. She’s claimed it as her personal throne.”
He took a step closer, then another.
And then he was right in front of you, the scent of sun-warmed grass and coffee still clinging to his skin. He reached up without thinking, brushing a smudge of feed from your cheek with his thumb. But his hand didn’t move away. Not yet. His fingers lingered there, tracing the softness of your jaw, the line of your face he’d only seen half-hidden for so long.
“You’ve got something here,” he said, voice low.
You blinked, confused. “What?”
He didn’t answer. He just leaned in and kissed you.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hungry. It was slow, and deep, and full of everything he didn’t know how to say. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything but gave all of itself anyway. His hand cupped the side of your face like he was trying to memorize the shape of it, like maybe if he held on tight enough, the rest of the world would stay away.
You kissed him back with that same softness. That same quiet hope.
When you finally pulled back, his eyes stayed closed for a beat longer. Then he opened them and looked at you like he was still trying to believe you were real.
“I used to wonder what kind of life I would’ve had,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Back before everything. Before Hydra. Before the ice. I thought I’d lost any shot at something like this.”
You tilted your head, voice soft. “And now?”
He looked at you. At the field, at the morning sun, and at the ridiculous chickens still clucking around your feet.
“Now I think maybe I had to go through all of that,” he said quietly. “Just to find my way to you.”
pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader
mcu timeline. tfatws.
synopsis. bucky can't help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you.
warnings. smut ( pwp, service dom!bucky, unprotected piv, oral sex - f receiving, clothed sex for like a sec, fingering, creampie, tummy bulge, dirty talk, dry humping, possessiveness, dumbification, praise, temperature play, food play, nipple play, pussy pronouns, hair pulling - m receiving, multiple orgasms, consent kink, implied competency kink and cum eating, bucky barnes begs agenda 2025™, both bucky and reader spend the whole fic towing the fine line between horny and pervy ), no use of y/n, angst, fluff, frenemies to lovers, roommate!bucky, cocky+flirty!bucky, also guard dog!bucky ( if that even makes sense ) ( it doesn't ), jealousy, pining, so much bickering, attachment issues, miscommunication bc these two combined have the emotional intelligence of a chihuahua, bucky's hobby is baking bc i said so.
reader inclusivity. bucky can pick the reader up ( but he's literally a super soldier so 🧍♂️ ), one mention of bucky trying to grab the reader's hair, reader has a nut allergy and does not speak russian ( neither do i, so please forgive the very small amount of google translated russian )
word count. 16.3k
hyde’s input. god bless sabrina for saving the summer again. also don't let this flop, it's my birthday tomorrow and i'm not above crying over poorly-received erotica ( i'm joking ) ( no i'm not )
Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.
He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”
That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.
Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.
“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.
Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”
You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.
“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”
“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”
“Better than waging a world war every few years.”
“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”
“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”
“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.
“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”
The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?
Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.
“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”
“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”
Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.
In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.
“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”
As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.
It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain.
“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”
Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.
“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”
You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.
Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.
Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.
Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.
“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”
You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.
“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.
Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.
“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”
Beer shoots to the back of your throat.
In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.
The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.
Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.
“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”
You need distance.
You need to move.
You need to leave.
“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”
“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.
Only one of those things ends up happening.
It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.
And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.
Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.
Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.
When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.
“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.
Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.
“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.
That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.
“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.
Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.
“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”
“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”
Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.
You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.
“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”
You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.
If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-
“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.
“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”
As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.
To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.
Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.
“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.
Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.
For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.
Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.
“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.
“Why?”
“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”
“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail.
“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”
“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.
“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”
“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.
“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”
“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised — Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.
If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.
“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”
“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”
“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.
You cave with no fight and give it to him.
Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.
Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?
A thought pops into your mind.
“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.
“You have a headache, right?”
“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.
“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”
Something inside of you stops.
Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.
This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.
When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.
Maybe it’s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.
“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”
“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”
No, really, it’s great.
“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.
“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.
After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.
“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”
“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”
The pair of you make up quite the sight.
An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.
Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.
After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.
Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.
“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.
“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”
His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers
“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”
“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”
“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”
“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”
“You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”
A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.
Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.
Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”
“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”
He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.
What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?
“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”
“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.
“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”
“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”
“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”
“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”
“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”
Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.
Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.
You swallow back the lump in your throat.
“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.
“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”
“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.
“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”
“I was in a rush!”
“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”
“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”
“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.
“What?”
“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”
Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.
You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.
“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”
“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”
Are you supposed to feel this relieved?
In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.
All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.
Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.
A series of beeps capture your attention.
At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.
Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.
“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”
There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.
For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin — with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.
Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.
Bucky is charming.
Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.
Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.
Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”
“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.
Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.
“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”
Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.
You clench your fist shut.
“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.
Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.
“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”
A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.
“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”
Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.
You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.
Bucky leaves.
Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.
It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.
Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B.
The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.
There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.
Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.
Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.
It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.
“You can go back to sleep now.”
You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.
So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.
The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.
It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’
You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.
There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice.
Then, why should you?
You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.
And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it.
Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!
After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.
“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.
You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.
Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.
“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”
“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”
And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.
Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.
“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”
“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”
“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”
Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.
“Oh, they’re nice!”
That does it for you.
“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”
“You see how she treats me, Vince?”
“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.
Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.
There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.
“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you and Sam still meant to be… I don’t know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?” The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the island’s stools.
“We finished early,” Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.
“Aww, don’t worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,” you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.
The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, who’s too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.
Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?
“How do you take your coffee?” One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.
Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.
“Mmm,” one sip of your coffee is all you need to know it’s perfect, made exactly to your taste. “Coffee and baked goods… I knew I kept you around for a reason.”
In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.
Heaven couldn’t taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds.
“So messy,” Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.
That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.
Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.
Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead there’s simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue
“You like that?” More than you’ll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course he’s enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? “Are you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?”
Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.
“My bad!” Your date — who you damn near forgot was even here — is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. “Where do you guys keep your dustpan?”
Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you weren’t fully back to your rational senses, you’d miss it.
“I’ll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.”
“Okay!” Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.
You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Bucky’s antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.
Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.
Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and there’s another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.
A crumpled bouquet of roses.
Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.
In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy that’s grown over the course of this last week, during which you’ve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.
Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Bucky’s company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence — most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed — when your patience ran thin and snapped.
Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.
Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of ‘Screw You, Barnes!’.
“Everything okay in there?” Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. “Thought you had your big date at seven.”
The gymnast’s text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, “He’s not answering my calls.”
“You’ve been stood up? By that loser?” There’s every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Bucky’s voice. Disgust, even.
There’s no point dwelling on the thought.
After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. He’s entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.
“Maybe he broke his phone?” The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.
Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.
“More likely he forgot to charge it.”
Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?
Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger you’re not willing to address. Not right now.
“Shut up!” It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but you’re too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.
Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, he’s gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.
That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after you’ve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.
“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?”
“Didn’t I tell you to move out?” Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.
Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.
“Don’t do that,” you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.
“Do what?” Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though he’s none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.
“That,” another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesn’t grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. “Reaching over me like you can’t just ask me to move.”
“Fine, if it really bothers you that much,” are the last words you hear before you’re airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.
The soldier doesn’t struggle, not even for a moment, the serum that’s altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream… Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.
The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.
“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.” With the rate he’s going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. “Is this princess’ first time being stood up?”
You’d slap him, right here and now, if it didn’t mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your ‘Things To Not Do’ list.
Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, “Why didn’t you call?”
“Are you serious?” Now he’s the one scowling and taking a step closer.
“Deadly,” you dig the spoon back into the carton. “Now answer the question.”
“You’re pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile I’m the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?”
He’s moving closer. You try to step backwards.
“Yeah, well, if you’d called like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have ended up with said asshole.”
Bucky’s eyes narrow, “Oh, so now it’s my fault that you date degenerates?”
The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.
“Wow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!” Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. “Okay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? It’s not exactly like there’s anyone else lining up to date me.”
“I am!” His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. “Maybe I’m the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers. I just… Fuck!”
You don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe.
Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.
There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.
Even though he’s shaking his head, he steps closer.
The kitchen counter is right behind you, there’s nowhere for you to run.
The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.
Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.
“I am,” he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.
A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heart’s in your throat, and there’s a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.
It’s unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.
The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. It’s a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.
The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, there’s the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Bucky’s eager mouth.
Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.
“Look at you, whining already. Where’s all that fire gone?” It’s practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. “Or were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?”
Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandora’s box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.
Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.
“Ah, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,” his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.
Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.
Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while he’s away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if you’ve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.
How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?
While you’re overcome with epiphany, he’s taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. It’s when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.
“Are you stealing my ice cream right now?” His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely a moment after you’ve scooped the spoon into your mouth.
“I’m warm, and it's melting,” his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. There’s a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. “Don’t want it to go to waste.”
His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, “Then let’s cool you down.”
At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dress’ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.
Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.
“So responsive,” he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers.
He’s studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.
When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men you’ve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.
A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.
Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.
Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but they’re already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.
Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.
He’s everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.
Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.
“No,” he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you.”
The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Bucky’s right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldier’s hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.
“She’s so wet, darling,” his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. “You gonna let me touch her?”
Something about the way he’s speaking to you, the words he’s choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a man’s hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But Bucky…
“Please, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,” he’s pleading for it, begging for you — wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. “Promise I’ll be real sweat, make you feel good.”
Too caught up in his own head, he doesn’t notice you nodding, until you’re granting him salvation verbally, “Touch me, Bucky.”
He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you he’s exactly where he wants to be.
As his middle finger slips in, it’s hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.
“Don’t hold back,” he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. “Let me hear what I’m doing to you.”
He must have a magic touch, you’re sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure he’s unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Bucky’s endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.
You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for he’s instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.
“Look at me,” his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and there’s a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. “Do you want to cum?”
Never has a more needless question been asked.
You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but that’s not what he wants, frown deepening.
“Say it,” needy, helpless, spoken like he’s the one on the brink of ecstasy. “Please.”
“Bucky,” it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. “I want you to let me cum.”
“Let you?” He’s offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. “I beg of you.”
No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Bucky’s fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.
He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.
You don’t let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Bucky’s bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.
Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.
“Is this what I do to you?” Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. “Say it.”
He doesn’t.
He says something much better.
“D’you even realise how many nights I’ve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?”
“That’s your generation's problem, you know?” You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. “You swear more than you breathe.”
“C’mere,” he’s rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like it’s been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.
Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.
A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.
“Lance would have fucked me by now.”
“Vince would have cum by now, too,” he’s still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.
Meanwhile, you’re a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.
“You- Oh!” Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. It’s a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before he’s retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. “You heard us?”
“Unfortunately,” and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. “I’m not great when it comes to timing.”
“I only slept with Lance because you-” Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.
“New rule,” a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. “No speaking another man’s name when you’re in bed with me.”
“Technically, this is the kitchen counter-” The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick — if it didn’t feel so damn good, you’d slap him.
He’s bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like there’s anymore space left between you to devour.
His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back — and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.
Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.
“Jesus, doll, you okay?”
“Please don’t stop,” you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when you’ve got him inside of you.
Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.
“Might have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?” He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.
If anything, you’ll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldn’t think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.
“You can give me a cockcussion for all I care,” head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.
“Adding that to the list,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.
Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.
The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe he’s aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.
Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.
The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderella’s gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.
Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.
There’s an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.
“The shoes stay on, but this,” Bucky’s fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. “I need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?”
There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you weren’t already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesn’t push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.
You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: you’re completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.
“Buck,” the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. “I don’t think we should… I mean, people eat off this counter!”
“Don’t worry,” reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. “I intend to eat.”
No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.
Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like you’re the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.
“You should see her, doll,” there’s a rasp in Bucky’s voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. “She’s drooling for me, all pretty and wet.”
Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.
Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. He’s renewing his effort, a touch that’s more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body — fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.
Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders — a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine — as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.
When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesn’t let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.
“Ja-mes,” a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.
He’s hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.
All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: “For a fossil, you’re pretty kinky.”
“War camps aren’t exactly known for being fun,” as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. “You find ways to keep yourself entertained.”
“Bet you were quite the pleaser, huh?” Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up at the ceiling, praying he doesn’t notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. “Probably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-”
“Jealousy looks cute on you,” he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.
“I’m not jealous!” You exclaim, barely believing yourself.
One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.
“I was,” his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. “Everytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.”
“Who knew,” your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. “All along I had my own loser at home.”
Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. You’re more interested in his jeans — in removing them, to be exact. It doesn’t take much, a sharp tug at the hem before they’re slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.
You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.
As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till he’s breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.
“You must be close,” a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet there’s still room for doubt — to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?
“Put me back down on my knees and I’ll cum to the taste of you,” the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.
Almost, if you hadn’t already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.
“Pretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.”
“My age may be a hundred and six but-”
“Exactly my point.”
“But my body isn’t,” he’s using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while you’re full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.
“Remind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?”
His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.
“I don’t remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,” admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.
“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Just like that, you’re drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before he’s moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.
Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.
“She fits me like a fucking glove,” his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. “Doing so good for me, darling.”
The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts — your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot — and grinds.
Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.
“Bucky,” his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.
“I know,” he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that he’s known, that he always knows when it comes to you.
You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.
“I lied,” an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. “About the apartment viewing. I didn’t go.”
“Bucky,” is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.
“Is that all you can say? Huh?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. “I’m giving pivotal revelations here, and you’re just gonna reply with that?”
Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.
“Bucky, Bucky,” he’s mocking you, a torturer’s laugh as he moans his name into your ear. “Keep going, you sound so pathetic it’s almost cute.”
Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.
A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.
“You see that?” You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag — innnnn and outtttt — until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. “See how full she is, how good I’m making her feel?”
Pressing your hand against it, you can’t help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.
You’re near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before he’s cutting them off with something new.
“Don’t deserve this-” He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. “C’mon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.”
“Want you to fall apart too,” you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. “Please!”
Like any good soldier, he obeys.
Crashing over you like a wave, he’s doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.
Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop he’s got. When your mouths meet, it’s less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.
“So,” you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. “Are you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?
Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.
Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how you’re still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.
With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, he’s quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, “think I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.”
He’s unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. It’s you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing — your own isn't any better.
“Sam’s going to kill me,” you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.
“I’m sorry,” you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you can’t fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. “Have I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?”
“There’s a serious chance I’ll die and you’re thinking with your dick,” he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. “You’re no better than the men on your list, Barnes.”
Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.
“Why would Sam kill you?” He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder. “He knows you have a crazy guard dog.”
Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.
“He made me swear I wouldn’t get involved with you. He said you weren’t in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.”
“Turns out inner peace is being inside of you,” you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. “So, Wilson’s to blame? I can get behind that.”
“To blame for what?”
His hand’s now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes.
“Why it took you so long to jump my bones.”
“You think I jumped your-” Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. “Wait, so these past few weeks, I’ve not been hallucinating? You’ve been… flirting?”
“It’s been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,” Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. “You don’t seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?”
“So you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!”
“Think the kitchen’s seen worse,” worse might be the understatement of the century.
Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldier’s only priority, and you weren’t in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.
A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.
“Stop fighting it, you’re tired,” you hear him whisper.
“I want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,” it’s nothing but a weak protest.
“We have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,” you don’t hesitate to comply when Bucky’s hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. “You’re going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.”
+ extra hyde !
· 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu!
· writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn.
· lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists:
