May I request Steve Kemp and vampire reader, please? Thank you in advance!
So Take a Bite
Pairing: Steve Kemp x Vampire!Reader
Word Count: 3.2k
Content: BLOOD, feeding from live humans, p in v sex, mentions of cannibalism & murder, Steve being manipulative & charming to get his way (ya'll have seen Fresh, he's a bad, delicious guy)
Synopsis: Steve supplies exactly what you crave... but what if he's offering you more?
A/N: I’ve never written anything like this so don't judge too harshly lol although I’d love constructive feedback - also thank you for this prompt because it made me write outside of my comfort zone and I had a TON of fun with it - thank you for your patience anon - I know this has been in my inbox for months ❤️ also thank you to @navybrat817 for reminding me that Steve can steal blood from the hospital because he’s a doctor (I have no common sense sometimes) also I listened to The Offering by Sleep Token A LOT while writing this lmao ok I’m done yapping
“I’m almost out, Kemp. I’m serious. Don’t fuck around with me. I can expose your sick ass in a second.”
Steve scoffs, “My sick ass? You’re the one that can’t survive without what I provide you. You need me. Just admit it, sweetheart.”
Steve hears you grumble over the phone and smiles, pleased with himself. There’s a market for everything - human meat & blood are his niche. And he’s damn good at both of them. Some people are just impatient and ungrateful. He waits for you to say something - he isn’t going to break first.
“Fine. Meet me tonight. I’ll pay you an expedience fee,” you say firmly.
“Double. You’ll pay me double. I’ll make sure it’s fresh, and you can have it tonight.”
He hears your breath intake on the other line before you answer, “Deal.” You hang up before he can.
-
Steve takes his scrub cap off and throws it in the laundry bin of the surgeon's locker room. Another day of routine procedures - a couple breast implants, a skin graft, a rhinoplasty, and a face lift to end the day. He walks to his locker and changes from his scrubs into his street clothes.
“You done for the day, Kemp?” A familiar voice asks.
Steve looks up to see Dr. Lowndes striding towards him.
“Yeah, all done,” he says politely, grabbing his bag and walking toward the door. “Just going up to see my Nana. She was admitted last night for chest pain.”
“Oh, is she in the ICU? They look swamped today.”
“Uh, yeah, ICU. But she’s going to be fine,” Steve lies. Lies about the whole thing. His Nana has been dead for a decade.
“I hope so. Have a good afternoon,” Lowndes says.
“Sure thing. You too,” Steve waves and darts out of the locker room like a man on a mission. He takes the stairs to the fourth floor and surveys who the nurses on duty are - Mandi, Alexis, Torriana, ah… there she is, Brynn.
“Hi ladies,” Steve says with a smile as he sidles up to the nurses station. He catches Brynn’s eye slyly and smirks. “Heard you guys are busy today.”
“Yes, very,” Alexis says, not looking up from the medical chart on her computer. She’s always a bit prickly with him.
“I, uh, think my Nana was admitted last night… Brynn. Can you help me out with that?”
“Of course, Dr. Kemp,” she says professionally.
“Walk with me,” Steve instructs, maneuvering her away from the desk. So ductile, so meek, such a good listener. She follows him with fervor.
“How many units do you need?” She asks quietly as they round the corner, getting straight to business.
“How many do you have?” Steve asks, entering an empty patient room and shutting the door behind them both.
“Dr. Kemp, I-,” she starts.
“I need 12-15. Tonight. Now, actually.”
“Okay, I don’t know if I can get them now,” she sighs, biting her bottom lip nervously.
“You know, you look really pretty today. Are these new?” Steve reaches up gently to look at her earrings. She closes her eyes and leans her cheek into his palm. “Are they from your fiancé?” He growls, tugging on one gently. Her eyes snap open and she pulls her face away from his hand.
“Yes, they are.” She looks at him with desperate eyes. “Pull your car around to the trauma bay. I’ll bring them out in a styrofoam cooler. And Steve?”
“Yeah?” He asks, hand on the door knob.
“I’d leave him for you if you asked,” she whispers, tugging on the earring he’d just touched.
“I know you would, sweetheart. We’ll talk about it later, okay?” He gives her a gentle smile before turning around and heading down to his car. The secret is to keep her hopes up - give her just enough to make her bend to his will. She’s a pretty girl, but too young and naive. He’d love to take her home and sell her for parts, but that damn fiancé fucks up that plan. Besides, he has her right where he wants her. And if she quits, he’ll charm another to do his bidding.
He pulls his sleek car around and sees her standing there waiting, cooler full of liquid cash. He pops the trunk and watches her set it inside. She walks around to the driver’s side and he cracks his window.
“Text me?” She asks sweetly, eyes full of hope.
“Sure thing,” he replies with a wink before taking off, knowing he doesn't even have her number saved.
-
Steve pulls out his phone as he parks in his driveway and sends you a text: It’s fresh. My place. 7pm.
You respond with a thumbs up emoji and count your cash out on your bed again, making sure you have enough to cover his exorbitant fee. You huff in frustration and thirst, but damn it’s worth it. Steve is the only one that provides exactly what you need - fresh human blood.
You’re going to be late on your rent payment again now because of this beautiful asshole, but what else can you do? Starve to death? Not an option. You put your money in your bra and get in your car to drive to his place. Motherfucker just has to live 20 miles outside of town. That’s gas money now too.
You pull up to his house into his weird fancy driveway that looks like Swiss cheese and park your beater next to his stupid sports car. Fucking Kemp. Such an asshole. You shoot him a quick text that you’re here and wait for him to come outside. Your phone buzzes and you look down to see that he’s texted you back: Come in. Door’s unlocked. You swallow, never having been inside Steve’s place. This whole exchange usually took less than five minutes before you were satiated and on your way. You knock on his front door and hear rustling on the other side before he opens and invites you in.
“What’s with the change of protocol?” You ask warily, looking around the entryway.
Steve chuckles and shakes his head. “I thought we could have dinner. We always rush the interchange. I figure it’d be nice to have a meal together.”
You shudder at the thought. “If you think I’m going to eat anything you’ve cooked, you’re out of your damn mind, Kemp.”
He utters your name, “It’s vegetable risotto. Now come in.”
You walk into Steve’s home and let him shut the front door behind you. It’s nice - retro, but the kind of retro where everything looks incredibly curated and expensive.
“Wine?” He asks, plating your food.
“Sure, thank you,” you reply, walking around his dining area and checking out all of his artwork. “Actually, can I just have some of my supply? I shouldn’t drink alcohol when my tank is nearly empty.”
Steve laughs lightly at your word choice and nods. “Sure, pay me now. I’ll even load the cooler in your car because I’m such a nice guy.”
You roll your eyes and sigh, taking the cash out of your bra and handing it over to him.
“Classy,” he notes sarcastically, taking the money from your hands. “Sit.” You watch him retrieve the cooler from the refrigerator and take a unit out. “You, uh, just straight from the bag or would you like a glass?” He asks.
You can’t help but laugh. “A glass would be nice.” He takes one from the cupboard and gestures for you to do the rest. You prepare your “drink”.
“Gimme your keys. I’ll run this out to your car,” he says nonchalantly. You toss him your car keys and he walks out the front door to stash your goods in your trunk. You lift the lid of the pan on the stove and inspect it closely. It looks and smells normal, but you’re still rightfully skeptical. Steve saunters back in at that moment, and you drop the lid loudly onto the pan.
“Vegetable. Risotto. I promise,” he reminds you sternly. “I don’t surprise anyone with my acquired tastes. Truthfully, I don’t have many dinner guests. But I bet you’re hungry, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but this is helping immensely,” you assure him, holding up your half empty glass. His eyes flit from the glass to yours and you shrug. “You think it’s weird," you say.
“I’m not one to judge,” he sighs, pulling a dining chair out for you. “Sit.”
You sit in the plush chair and watch him bring a plate to you. The food is still steaming. He puts his plate down and sits at the head of the table next to you. He takes a bite and smiles. “I’m a great cook. I’ll brag about that.”
You smile and take a bite. Damn. He is a great cook. You both sit in silence for a few moments, enjoying the first bites of your meal. You finish your drink, feeling the vitality course through your cold veins once more. Steve watches you finish off your glass and take a bite of the risotto.
“Feeling better?” He muses, looking at your eyes closely. “You look… revitalized.”
“I feel it.” You say with a grin. “There’s nothing like the feeling right after… drinking.”
“I think I know what you mean,” he says. “Like you’re high on life?”
“Yes, exactly,” you agree, leaning in closer over your plate.
Steve smiles and looks down. “You know, we have more in common than you think we do, sweetheart. You say I’m sick for how I choose to live, but how are you any different, really?”
You consider his question carefully. “I don’t hurt people. That’s the difference, Steve. Isn’t that obvious?”
He nods before smiling darkly at you. “You’ve never had it from the tap? Never tasted it hot from the source?”
You swallow against your better judgement, your body betraying your mind. “N-no… and I never will.”
“Who are you trying to convince? Yourself or me?” He stands up and grabs your barely finished plate from you before setting it on the kitchen island. “Come with me.”
You reluctantly follow him and he offers his hand. You hesitate, not sure what his plan is. “I want to show you something.” Charismatic fucker. You take his hand - warm, big, inviting - and he leads you to a large wooden door.
“Steve, I actually think I should go,” you say quickly, wishing it had come out more composed. You don't want him to know that you are slightly panicked.
“You’re free to leave at any time,” he assures you softly before bringing a hand up to push your hair behind your ear. “I just wanted to enjoy dinner with a beautiful woman. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
“No, no, you didn’t,” you assure him, shocked by his words. He thought you were beautiful? Steve Kemp thought you were beautiful? “Lead the way," you offer unsteadily now.
He smiles and rubs his thumb against the back of your hand as he unlocks the oversized door. You walk down a curved stone staircase into a cool, dimly lit, and extremely clean basement with a hallway of doors. “This is my favorite part of the house,” he whispers, peering down the hall.
“Why’s that?” You ask sweetly, still reeling from his earlier admission.
“It’s where I can be myself,” he answers matter-of-factly. His eyes meet yours and they crinkle at the corners as he smiles darkly. “I want to share it with you because you understand the lengths we go to to satiate ourselves. To satisfy our hunger. To indulge our tastes. To meet our needs. You know what’s necessary. Plus, I know you think about me, sweetheart,” he says the last part into your hair and a shiver runs down your spine. “Just like I think about you.”
Your knees nearly buckle at his confession. “I do… think about you,” you admit.
“I know you do,” he whispers. “I want to take care of you. Let me show you something special I’ve been saving for you.”
“For me?” You ask incredulously, following him down the hall. He unlocks a door and slides it open slowly, blocking the view inside with his body.
“I need you to promise me that you won’t freak out,” he warns you calmly.
“Uh, okay,” you agree hesitantly. Steve steps aside to reveal a small room with a floor bed, toilet, large mural of the beach, and… wait… a woman stands up slowly, eyes wide with fear. Her mouth is muzzled like a dog. She cowers into the corner.
“This is Noa,” Steve informs you emotionlessly. “She’s been a bit… disobedient lately.” He walks over to her and reaches into his jeans, revealing a pocket knife. The blade gleams in the light. “Come here,” he instructs you calmly.
“Noa, stay still,” he says gruffly, looking at her with an irritated expression. “This is my friend,” he says your name and introduces you to her. He slyly takes a syringe from his other pocket and injects it into Noa’s neck as she’s looking at you pleadingly. Her eyes flutter closed and her body slumps into Steve’s arms. “Good girl,” he whispers, lowering her onto the floor. “I’m eliminating her next week to fill an order and thought you’d like to taste the elixir of life from the source.” He says everything so calmly, like this whole evening is routine and not completely fucked.
He assesses your gaze, rubbing your arm gently in an attempt to calm you. “Look, I know this is a lot to take in. But it’s just business, just like how I supply what you need. People pay for this. I supply it to them. I just knocked her out for a bit. She’ll wake up in a few hours. Aren’t you curious? Just a taste.”
You lick your lips involuntarily at just the thought of sinking your teeth into her soft exposed neck. Your gums ache, even though you’d just had a drink upstairs. “Steve… I-I don’t know if I can. She’s a human being. You’re taking her life from her. This is kind of crazy. I mean, you’re a murderer.”
“It’s only crazy if you say so, just like anything else in this world. Look at me,” he says gently, cupping your chin in his hand and aligning your gazes. “Let me take care of you. I can provide you exactly what you need. Fresh. From the source. Whenever you want it. I just… I want you. We would make a delicious team.” Your eyes close at his offer and your dark instincts take over. Energy thrums through your body from your chest to the aching sweet spot between your legs. You open your eyes to see Steve smiling at you, knife raised to Noa’s neck. He makes a small slit and blood seeps through the gash. Your nostrils flare as your senses are filled with her scent - dark, heady, fucking exquisite. You don’t think before your mouth is on her neck and you’re drinking right from her. Your entire body feels like it’s floating. Nothing has ever tasted so perfect.
“There you go,” you hear Steve say next to you. “It’s like nothing you’ve ever had before, isn’t it?” His eyes are lit from within watching you feed on Noa. “You look so perfect like this. You’re fucked up just like me, pretty girl.”
You pull back and lick your lips, the hot, sticky liquid stubbornly dripping down your chin, and look at Steve. His eyelids are heavy with lust, pupils blown wide. He inches toward you, his eyes moving from yours to your blood-covered lips. His mouth parts slowly, and that’s all the invitation you need. You crash your mouth into his and he hisses, smiling into the kiss. You’re both on your knees, hands everywhere on each other, grasping at fabric, skin, and hair. You break apart from him suddenly and search his face, his mouth now covered in Noa’s blood.
“What’s wrong with you?” You ask suddenly, the heat between your legs growing hotter and more violent by the second.
“I could ask you the same question,” he breathes out, reaching for you. “This is getting you wet - all of this. The blood, the basement, fuck, you’re worse than me.”
You crack a smile, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “How’d you know?”
“Demented recognizes demented, darling,” he sighs, clutching you to his chest.
“Take me to bed, Steve,” you demand, leaning down slowly to nip at his neck. He lets out the smallest gasp and picks you up, wraps his arms around you, and carries you out of Noa’s room and upstairs to his. He lays you down on the bed and unbuttons his shirt, revealing a sculpted chest. You shudder at the sight of him. You’ve always thought he’s beautiful, but now you know for certain that he is. He climbs onto the bed and lies next to you, maneuvering your body so you’re straddling him. You lean down to kiss him and lick the leftover blood from his mouth. His eyes darken even more.
“Bite me,” he requests.
"I want to," you whine.
"So take a bite," he says again.
You shift in his lap excitedly before leaning down to kiss his neck, teasing him a bit. You feel your canines extend in pleasure and run your teeth over his flesh gently, getting him used to the feeling. Goosebumps prick up all over his body in response and you hum. His hands find your hips and press you into him so you can feel his growing arousal. You moan at the thought of him being turned on by you.
“Ride me while you feed on me,” he demands, running his hands up your back against your bare skin. Your resolve snaps again, and you remove your clothes quickly, tossing them around the room. He bucks his hips to remove his pants. You’re both naked and writhing with pain for the other. You slide onto him and indulge in the sensation of being filled to the hilt. Your hips start rocking on him as he pulls you down to his face and kisses you softly. “Feed,” he begs.
You smile at him, flashing your pointed canines and watching his eyes gleam with a mixture of arousal and fear, like he’s met his match. You find the hollow of his neck and sink your teeth in. His blood is a masterpiece - full of punch, energy, youth, and vitality. You thought Noa tasted incredible, but she has nothing on Steve. He moans beneath you, and you know you’re on the edge of losing it.
“My frenzied baby,” he whimpers, holding your head in his hands as you break free from your feed. “So precious.” His gentle praise makes you come as you toss your head back, riding it out on him.
“Fuck, that’s it, sweetheart,” he encourages, gripping your hips with certainty as he loses himself in you, moaning your name in satisfaction. You lie down beside him, tracing the two small puncture wounds in his neck and smiling. Finally, someone that wanted you for you - all of you.
“Stay the night,” he offers, pulling you close to him. “I’ll even let you take your pick for breakfast in the morning.”
You grin at the thought of drinking from the source again. “Sounds like Heaven.”
“Even though we’re going to Hell,” he whispers, nuzzling into you.
one-shot
bucky barnes x reader (university AU)
summary: you thought you’d ruined everything by loving him. but that was the moment everything finally made sense.
warnings/tags: slow burn, pining (mutual but oblivious), emotional suppression, jealousy (minor), insecurity, self-doubt, slight angst (mostly internal conflict), brief mention of past failed relationships, anxiety (mild, implied through behavior), childhood friends to lovers, best friends to lovers, oblivious! reader, writer! bucky
word count: 7.7k
author’s note: i couldnt let my first request wait for long 🤭 thank you for the love everyone it means a lot to me, i'm trying to answer every comment and every message too. i hope anon likes it, it might be different than you thought especially i couldnt figure out how i could connect with oblivious reader :(
also roomie bucky pt.2 can be updated in a day too, i'll create a taglist for that <3
Bucky didn’t even like group projects. He always ended up doing all the work or saying nothing at all. But when your literature teacher paired you up in sophomore year, he didn’t complain not because he liked working with people, but because you had smiled when you read his name.
He hadn’t known you well back then. You’d gone to the same middle school, passed each other in the hallways, sat a few rows apart in assemblies. But that day was the first time you really looked at him.
You stayed late after the final bell, working on your presentation about symbolism in Of Mice and Men. You sat backwards in your chair, feet hooked through the rungs, animatedly talking about how metaphors made everything “secretly emotional.” You gestured with your pen like it was a conductor’s baton, narrating Steinbeck like it was poetry.
Bucky remembered thinking, she talks like the world is soft. Like books are alive. Like words matter.
“Do you ever write your own stuff?” you asked suddenly, like the thought had just popped into your head.
He’d shrugged, not meeting your eyes. “Sometimes. I guess.”
“You should,” you said, like it was obvious. “You look like someone with a lot to say.”
That was it.
Not a dramatic realization. Not some firework moment. Just that, your voice, steady and sure, telling him he had something inside him worth putting into words.
That night, he opened a blank document and started writing differently. Not louder. Just… more honestly.
And somehow, after that day you never left his side.
You worked on more projects together. Shared playlists. Sat next to each other in every class you could. He started walking you home after club meetings, carrying your bag when your shoulder hurt, remembering how you took your coffee before you even started drinking it regularly.
By senior year, it was rare to see one of you without the other.
When you both got accepted into the same university — different majors, same campus — no one was surprised. Not your friends, not your teachers, not even your parents.
Some people actually did think you were already together that first year.
Sam had flat-out asked him at orientation.
Natasha didn’t ask she just smirked and said, “So how long have you been in love with her?”
Bucky didn’t deny it.
But you never noticed. Not really.
Maybe you thought it was just friendship. Or maybe you were just good at pretending not to see it.
And now, somehow, it’s year three — and he’s still the best friend. The one who waits. Quietly.
The library hums with life — soft conversations, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, keyboards tapping in uneven rhythm. It’s late, but the fourth-floor lounge is still warm and alive with the quiet, chaotic comfort of shared stress.
Their usual corner is taken, of course. It always is.
Steve and Natasha have claimed the far end of the couch, their bodies curved toward each other like they’ve forgotten there’s anyone else in the room. Sam is draped dramatically over an armchair nearby, flipping through his textbook with the energy of someone narrating a tragic epic.
And then there’s you.
Sitting across from Bucky, your legs folded up beneath you in that oversized chair you always claim first. Your hoodie’s slipping off one shoulder — like always — and your notes are a mess of highlighted text, tiny stars doodled into every margin. You’re chewing on the end of a pen, brows drawn together in that little look of focus he knows by heart.
He should be writing. He was writing. Or trying to.
But instead, he’s watching you.
And he hates how easy it is.
How natural it feels.
He pulls his eyes back to his screen, jaw tight.
The cursor blinks back at him.
There’s a kind of love that stays quiet for years. Not because it’s afraid — but because it doesn’t want to ruin what’s already beautiful.
He hovers for a moment.
Then deletes it.
“Ugh,” you groan suddenly, breaking the quiet. You drop your pen with a dramatic sigh and flop back into the chair. “If I have to write one more microteaching plan about vowel pronunciation, I’m going to start mispronouncing everything just to feel something.”
Bucky lifts his eyes again, biting back a smile. “Please don’t. You’re the one who fixes my essays.”
You straighten, pointing your pen at him with mock accusation. “Only because you add like thirty commas per sentence. You write like you’re constantly out of breath.”
Sam chimes in from across the room. “Honestly? Same. You’re all chaos. Except Steve.”
Steve just shrugs, completely unfazed. “There’s nothing wrong with being prepared.”
“You laminated your planner,” you remind him, grinning.
“And you once forgot to eat for sixteen hours because of a phonology spiral,” Steve counters easily.
Natasha raises a lazy hand. “Okay, he’s got you there.”
The laughter that follows is soft and familiar — the kind that comes from knowing people too well, from years of study nights and shared deadlines and stupid inside jokes. It’s comfortable.
Bucky doesn’t always join in, but he doesn’t mind sitting on the edge of it. Especially when you’re here. Especially when your laugh is the one ringing out loudest.
Then, just for a second, your gaze finds his.
You bump your foot lightly against his under the table, like a reflex.
And Bucky smiles before he even realizes it.
It doesn’t mean anything. You don’t mean anything by it. You never do.
Still, it’s enough to make his chest ache.
He turns back to his screen. Pretends to be productive.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees you scribbling something. Your pen moves quickly, lips pressed together in a tiny smile. Then you stand, stretch, yawn — and lean over just enough to slap a sticky note on the back of his laptop.
You don’t wait for a reaction. You just sit back down and return to whatever you were pretending to work on.
Bucky reads the note.
“Write the damn ending, Barnes :D”
He huffs out a laugh, quiet and breathless.
You don’t know. You never have.
That the story doesn’t have an ending.
That he’s never written one.
Because every version where he gets the girl -
where you look at him like he’s more than just your oldest friend -
still feels too much like fiction.
And right now, you’re three feet away, in the same room,
smiling like always, and still not seeing what everyone else already does.
The bell above the café door jingles softly as your group steps inside, chased by the chill of the evening. It’s muscle memory at this point sliding into the usual booth near the back window, tossing bags onto empty chairs, stretching sore shoulders after hours spent hunched over textbooks.
Steve and Natasha settle across from you, leaning into each other like gravity always pulls them closer. Sam’s already scanning the pastry case with intent.
Bucky heads to the counter to grab coffee for the table his version of buying peace offerings after dragging you all through another long study session.
You watch him go, eyes following the slope of his shoulders as he waits for the barista. He’s got that quiet posture again not tense, exactly, but contained. The kind of stillness that makes you wonder what’s going on in his head.
And then someone approaches him.
She’s pretty. Confident. Dressed like she didn’t just crawl out of the library like the rest of you. You can’t hear what she says, but her smile is obvious. So is the way she tucks her hair behind her ear and tilts her head just a little too much.
Your stomach sinks just a little. Just enough to feel.
Natasha glances over, then leans toward you casually. “Hey, your boy’s pulling attention again.”
You snort. “He’s not my boy.”
You say it too fast.
Then you add, more lightly, “He can date whoever he wants. Doesn’t need my permission.”
Natasha gives a hum in response - neutral, unreadable. Steve doesn’t say anything, just looks out the window like he didn’t hear.
You look back at the counter just in time to see Bucky shake his head politely but distant. The girl smiles, shrugs, and walks off.
When Bucky returns, he hands you your drink without a word, eyes flicking to yours like he’s trying to read something in your expression. You just thank him and avoid meeting his gaze too long.
He takes the seat beside you, shoulders slouching with the same casual comfort he always has around you. But there’s a subtle tightness to him today. Like he’s holding something just under the surface.
Conversation continues until Natasha remembers and glances toward the counter, casually tilts her head.
“Hey, wasn’t that girl the one from my syntax class? The one you said was cute, like… months ago?”
Bucky frowns slightly, caught off guard. “Wait, really?”
He hesitates. “Maybe. I didn’t recognize her exactly.”
Sam, glancing over the rim of his cup, raises an eyebrow. “She asked for your number?”
Bucky nods, slow and unreadable. “Yeah. I said no.”
There’s no pride in it. No dramatics. Just the plain truth, laid down like a piece of paper between all of you.
The conversation doesn’t pause, exactly but there’s a slight shift. A silence long enough to notice before Steve starts talking about their group project again.
You don’t say anything.
You just sip your drink, eyes on your sleeve as you roll it between your fingers. Your mouth doesn’t twist into a smile. You don’t make a joke. You don’t meet Bucky’s eyes.
Bucky’s thumb taps against his coffee lid, slow and rhythmic. He hasn’t said much about the whole thing with the girl at the counter. He just sits beside you, half-listening to the others, his shoulder close enough to yours that you can feel his warmth when he shifts.
Then, suddenly he asks, “Should I have said yes?”
You blink. “To what?”
“The girl,” he says, still not looking at you. “She was nice. I guess I could’ve tried. Dated someone.”
Your grip tightens slightly on your cup.
“You could’ve,” you say, keeping your tone casual. Too casual.
He nods once, then glances sideways at you. “Do you think I should’ve?”
Before you can answer, Natasha’s voice cuts in from across the table.
“Wait, wait, wait are you asking her opinion? On dating?”
Steve chuckles, clearly already on board with where this is going. “You might as well ask a raccoon to do your taxes.”
Natasha grins. “She can’t keep a guy for more than, what—two months? That’s her personal record, right?”
“Six weeks,” Sam chimes in helpfully, biting into his cookie.
You scoff, laughing despite yourself. “Okay, rude, first of all. Second of all — wow, glad my heartbreak is entertaining.”
Bucky looks at you then.
And not in a teasing way. Not like the others.
Something about the look in his eyes shifts, softens. Like maybe he’s remembering the guy you stopped texting back in October. Or that time you walked into his dorm room in freshman year and collapsed onto his bed mumbling something about "I'm never dating again unless the guy owns an island or something."
He remembers all of it.
But you’re laughing now, brushing it off, spinning your coffee cup like it’s all no big deal.
So he lets you. For now.
You glance at him. “Anyway,” you say, quieter, “if you’re actually thinking about dating someone… you don’t need my opinion.”
His voice drops just enough to feel intimate. “I kind of do.”
You freeze for half a second.
But before either of you can say anything else, Sam loudly asks, “So, road trip or study group next Friday?”
And just like that, the moment fades into the background noise.
But your hand is still close to Bucky’s on the table. Neither of you moves.
And that one look — the one he gave you after Natasha’s comment — still lingers, just beneath the surface.
You always knew Bucky was handsome.
Not in the overdone, flashy way. Not the kind of guy who took gym selfies or used three-in-one body wash and called it a day. No, Bucky was the kind of handsome that snuck up on you. He had kind eyes and quiet hands. That crooked half-smile he did when he found something genuinely funny. The way he always smelled faintly like cinnamon and old books and that stupid cedarwood lotion he pretended not to like.
The kind of guy who held doors without thinking. Who took notes in the margins of your books because he said it felt like talking to you when you weren’t around.
And yeah, people noticed.
Girls in your classes. Baristas. Random people on campus. That girl at the café last week who asked for his number with zero shame. You hadn’t thought much of it at the time maybe you were too busy pretending it didn’t bug you.
But now?
Now you’re curled into a beanbag in the boys’ apartment, half-watching whatever movie Sam insisted on, and Bucky’s across the room on the couch, his phone casting soft blue light onto his face as he types something — smiling just a little.
You recognize that smile. That quiet one.
You’d spent the last six years cataloging his smiles like a lunatic. This wasn’t the “meme Steve sent me” smile or the “Sam tripped on nothing” smile. This was a thoughtful one. A real one.
Maybe she texted him. Café Girl. Amelia.
He got her number after all.
You look away quickly, focusing on your lukewarm drink and trying to keep your face from doing anything... readable.
Across the room, Natasha tosses a pillow at Sam. “That’s your third bag of popcorn. Are you even watching the movie or just snacking on instinct?”
“I’m a man of many talents,” Sam says, mouth full. “Multitasking is one of them.”
Steve groans. “You literally missed the entire fight scene.”
“Popcorn is a fight scene. In my mouth.”
You laugh a little, but it feels thin.
Bucky finally sets his phone down and glances up, and your gaze skims past him like you weren’t watching. You weren’t. Not really.
Natasha stretches out beside you on the rug, nudging your leg. “You good?”
“Yeah,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “Just tired.”
She narrows her eyes slightly, but lets it go.
Bucky’s voice cuts in, soft but teasing. “Tired of the movie or tired of us?”
You roll your eyes, playful. “A little bit of both.”
He smiles, warm and easy. The kind of smile that makes your chest ache because it feels like home. Because it’s just for you.
Then, quieter, he says, “You can take my bed, if you want.”
You blink, caught off guard. “What?”
You already slept on his bed, many times. However, this time you feel weird.
“I mean it,” he says, shrugging a little like it’s no big deal. “You’ve been running on fumes all week. Three presentations in four days? And you woke up at like, what, six this morning?”
You open your mouth to argue — to say you’re fine, that the couch is enough, that you’re not that tired.
But you are.
And he knows.
“You’ll sleep on the couch?” you ask, already knowing the answer.
He nods. “Don’t worry. Steve snores louder than Sam’s popcorn bag. It’ll be like white noise.”
You laugh tired, but real this time. “Okay. But I’m stealing your hoodie too.”
Bucky grins. “Deal.”
The others are still half-watching the movie, half-talking about something unrelated, but none of them question it. No one asks why Bucky offers you his bed. No one jokes about it.
Because it’s not weird.
Not to them.
It’s just you and Bucky, being you and Bucky.
And yet, you remind yourself — again — that it means nothing.
Bucky was always like that. Kind. Gentle. Attentive in that old-soul kind of way. He held doors and remembered birthdays and made your tea the exact way you liked it even though you changed it every two weeks. But it wasn’t because he liked you.
That was just who he was.
You’d seen him do the same for strangers. He probably just didn’t know how to say no to that café girl. He probably didn’t even realize what that smile looked like.
He was just polite. Considerate. Maybe a little too much sometimes.
Not someone who would ever look at you like… that.
You glance over at him again just for a second.
He’s already looking at you.
Not smiling now. Just watching. Quietly.
You look away first.
You disappear down the hall with the sleeves of his hoodie already too long for your hands, and you don’t look back. But if you had — just once — you might’ve caught the way Bucky watched you go.
The soft hiss of the kettle fills the quiet kitchen, the only sound breaking the fragile stillness of early morning.
Bucky leans heavily against the cold countertop, his arms crossed tight, eyes dark-rimmed and unfocused. The chipped ceramic mug in his hand is warm, but it does nothing to settle the restless swirl in his chest. His fingers tap absently against its side, a nervous rhythm he’s barely aware of.
He stares out the window, watching the first pale light stretch across the city rooftops, but his mind is tangled somewhere else entirely.
Behind him, the kitchen door opens with a faint creak.
Natasha slips in silently, her presence calm and steady as ever. She moves with quiet confidence, a contrast to the storm brewing just beneath Bucky’s composed exterior. Her eyes meet his, soft but sharp, reading him like an open book.
“You always make coffee this early when she stays over?” Her voice is casual, almost teasing — but there’s an undercurrent of warmth and concern beneath the words.
Bucky snorts softly, forcing a humor he doesn’t quite feel. “She’s just tired.”
Natasha doesn’t smile. Instead, she leans against the counter next to him, her gaze steady and unyielding.
“You say that like it’s just her.”
He shrugs, avoiding her eyes. “Guess I’m just good company.”
Before Natasha can reply, footsteps approach from the living room. Steve appears in the doorway, his expression thoughtful and serious as he surveys the scene. He’s been listening.
“Buck,” Steve says, voice low but firm, “you’ve been in love with this girl since you were sixteen.”
The words settle between them, heavy and undeniable.
Bucky’s jaw tightens, a brief flash of vulnerability flickering behind his guarded eyes. He runs a hand through his hair, glancing away toward the window. “I don’t know if it’s love,” he admits quietly. “Maybe I’m just scared of ruining what we have.”
Natasha’s hand moves to rest gently on his arm — a grounding touch. “Or maybe you’re scared of finally getting what you want and realizing it’s exactly what you need.”
Steve nods, folding his arms across his chest. “You can’t have it both ways, man. You can’t pretend she’s just your best friend when she means everything.”
Bucky exhales slowly, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a little. “I’m scared of losing her.”
Natasha’s voice is soft but sure. “Then don’t lose her. Stop hiding.”
Steve grins, shaking his head with affectionate exasperation. “You’ve come this far, Buck. Maybe it’s time to stop running.”
The early sunlight spills into the room, casting a warm glow around them, as if promising something new.
For the first time in a long time, Bucky lets himself imagine what might happen if he stopped pretending.
The kitchen is warmer now, full of clattering plates and the soft buzz of overlapping conversations. Sam’s flipping pancakes with the overconfidence of someone who’s burned at least three. Steve’s trying to convince him to use less syrup this time. Natasha’s curled up on the arm of the couch, sipping black coffee and scrolling through something on her phone.
You walk in last, Bucky’s oversized hoodie still hanging off your frame, sleep still clinging to your eyes.
Bucky doesn’t look at you right away. He’s focused on the eggs, pretending they need this much attention. But Steve sees the way his hands hesitate when he hears your voice. Natasha does too.
You sit at the table beside Sam, grabbing a piece of toast and slathering on way too much butter. “Why do I feel like I got hit by a bus?”
“Probably because you slept like you were recovering from war,” Sam says, smirking. “You didn’t move for, like, eight hours. I checked to make sure you were breathing before waking you.”
“I was cozy,” you mutter, sipping orange juice.
“In Bucky’s bed,” Sam adds with a nudge.
You roll your eyes. “Like always? It’s not that deep.”
“Right,” Natasha says, lips twitching like she’s holding something back.
Bucky clears his throat then, carefully setting a plate of eggs down on the table. His tone is light a little too light. “So… I texted Amelia this morning.”
That gets everyone’s attention.
Steve looks up first. “Oh yeah?”
Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Really? After that talk?”
You pause, piece of toast halfway to your mouth. “Wait, what talk?”
“Yeah,” Sam echoes, brows lifted as he flops into a seat. “Did we miss a group therapy session?”
Steve and Nat share a look with the kind loaded with too much meaning. Steve shrugs smoothly. “Bucky finishing that book he’s been dragging out forever. Finally hitting some deadlines. Grades going up.”
“Wow,” Sam deadpans. “So mysterious.”
You laugh lightly, even as something flickers under your ribs. “What’d she say?”
Bucky keeps his eyes on the plate, doesn’t quite meet yours. “She said yes. We’re getting coffee next week.”
A beat of silence.
Natasha sips her coffee. “Good for you.”
Steve just hums, focused on his pancakes. “Hope she likes poetry.”
Sam points his fork at Bucky. “Is she cute? Like, actually cute, or just ‘you were flustered at the counter’ cute?”
Bucky shrugs with a half-smile. “I guess we’ll see.”
You try to smile too. It works — mostly.
You force a laugh. “God, now you’re dating and I’m the only single loser left.”
Sam raises a hand. “Excuse me? Still proudly losing with you.”
You clink your juice glass to his coffee mug with mock solemnity. “To being emotionally unavailable and vaguely self-destructive.”
Bucky chuckles — but something in his expression slips for a second. Barely noticeable. But Natasha sees it. Steve does too. Even Sam does.
You don’t.
You just go back to your toast, pretending it’s just another breakfast.
But something’s shifted and whether you admit it or not, you feel it.
The living room is quiet except for the occasional rustle of paper and your own frustrated sighs. Natasha’s stretched out on the couch, flipping through your presentation notes like she’s judging a mission briefing. She’s not even in the class — she offered to help you run it just because you asked.
You’re standing in front of her, cue cards in hand, blinking at the same slide you’ve messed up three times in a row.
“...and, uh… the objective of today’s — no, wait. Ahem. The objective of today's session is to—"
You stop mid-sentence. Your shoulders sag. You let out a long breath and drop the cue cards onto the coffee table.
Nat raises an eyebrow. “Again?”
“I’m gonna throw this laptop into the sea,” you mutter, flopping next to her with a dramatic groan. “I swear I knew this stuff yesterday.”
“You did,” she says evenly.
“Then why do I suck today?”
Natasha gives you a long, slow look. One of those I already know why, but I’ll let you pretend you don’t kind of stares. Then, she closes the laptop and tosses a pillow at you gently.
“Maybe because your brain’s off chasing a different kind of disaster.”
You scowl. “I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I am.”
She says nothing. Just sips her iced coffee and watches you try to pull the blanket of denial over your head.
You break first.
“It’s just a date,” you mutter, too quickly. “People go on dates.”
Nat hums. “People do.”
“And it’s not like I care. I mean, I do, I guess, but not in a weird way. Not like… I’m jealous.”
“You sure?”
You blink, then look at her. Really look at her.
“I just—” Your voice wobbles slightly, more tired than emotional. “He’s gone on dates before. It never got to me like this.”
“And this time it does.”
You press your knuckles into your eyes, like it’ll knock the thoughts loose.
“It’s different,” you admit quietly. “Because it’s me. Because he’s always been there. Because I never… I never had to imagine him with someone else seriously.”
Nat’s expression softens, her teasing edge gone. “And now you are?”
You nod.
There’s a long pause. Not awkward, just heavy with all the things you’re slowly realizing.
“I used to think I was just being protective,” you say, voice almost a whisper. “Like, oh, no one’s good enough for my best friend. But now? I think I just didn’t want anyone else to get the version of him I have.”
Natasha leans forward, resting her arms on her knees.
“He gives you the softest version of himself,” she says. “And you’re just now wondering why?”
Your heart stutters.
You want to laugh it off. To change the subject. To say something stupid like it’s probably just the hoodie he let me steal messing with my head.
But instead, you whisper, “What if I missed it? What if he felt something and I didn’t see it?”
You look away.
“I messed this up.”
Then, as if on cue, your phone buzzes on the table.
You reach for it without thinking, half-expecting a university email or a calendar reminder you forgot to turn off. But then you see the name.
Bucky.
Your thumb hesitates just above the screen. You blink once. Then again.
Bucky:
Hope your prep’s going okay :) Don’t let Nat bully you too hard.
The message is simple. Kind. Familiar.
It feels like him.
You just stare at the screen.
“…He texted me,” you murmur, voice soft and stunned.
Natasha doesn’t look surprised. In fact, she doesn’t look up from her coffee at all. “Of course he did.”
“No. I mean—” You sit up straighter. “He’s on a date, Nat.”
That gets her attention. She looks up, one brow raised in a calm, pointed arc.
“Exactly.”
You scoff, confused and off-balance. “What kind of person thinks about someone else while they’re on a first date?”
Nat doesn’t answer right away. She just watches you slowly piece it together the way your brows furrow, the way your thumb hovers over the screen but doesn’t type back, the way you look like someone realizing they left the door unlocked years ago and now something massive has walked in.
Your heart is stuttering. You suddenly feel very warm, too warm, like the air shifted in the room.
You whisper, almost to yourself, “He’s with Amelia.”
“He doesn’t even like texting,” you say suddenly, as if that makes it worse — or better. “He always says it’s awkward. He only texts when it matters.”
“Exactly,” she repeats.
You glance at the screen again. That little smiley at the end of his message shouldn't feel like a punch to the chest. But it does. It feels like something real. Something warm. Something completely unfair.
“…Maybe he’s just being nice,” you offer weakly. “I mean, we’re best friends.”
Natasha gives you a look. A long, quiet, flat look.
“Do you honestly think Bucky Barnes — who overthinks every text, who avoids any kind of drama like the plague, who probably practiced ordering coffee in his head five times before saying it out loud — would text you in the middle of a date just to be polite?”
You open your mouth, but no words come out.
Nat leans forward slightly, not unkind, just steady. “That’s not casual. That’s not friendly. That’s someone who’s thinking about you when his attention should be somewhere else.”
The realization finally cracks something open in your chest — something you’ve been pressing down for way too long.
You look at Natasha, voice quiet. “What if I really missed it? What if he’s been feeling this… for years, and I just never saw it?”
Nat’s voice softens. “What if he still does?”
You swallow hard.
The idea is terrifying. And exhilarating. And confusing.
And worse, it’s real.
“God,” you whisper, “I really messed everything up.”
But Natasha just shrugs. “Or maybe it’s finally starting to make sense.”
You fall back against the cushions, the phone still in your hand, Bucky’s name still glowing softly on the screen.
The message is right there — a small, simple thing.
But it feels like a question.
And now you’re the one who has to decide what to do with the answer.
The apartment smells like microwave popcorn and too-sweet soda. The lights are dim, the movie already paused on the home screen, and your friend group is spread across the living room like they’ve done this a hundred times.
Because they have.
But tonight, you’re not in your usual spot next to Bucky. You told yourself it didn’t matter - that you were just tired, or that Natasha needed more space on the couch. But you know it’s a lie.
You're avoiding sitting next to your best friend.
Because your best friend went on a date today.
And you can’t seem to look him in the eye without wondering if he’s still thinking about her.
The front door opens. You hear his voice before you see him.
“Hey.”
You glance up, quickly, too quickly. He’s in his hoodie, hair tousled like he didn’t bother fixing it after the wind. He’s holding a bag of chips like it’s a peace offering.
Your throat goes dry.
“Hey,” you say, trying for casual. You think you pull it off.
But Bucky’s brow furrows just slightly as he steps inside. His eyes flick over you for a second too long, like he’s cataloguing something.
She’s not sitting where she usually is.
Why does that bother me?
The last time he saw you, it was early morning. You were in sweats and frustration, mumbling about vowel pronunciation and cue cards. And now here you are, hair damp from a quick shower, hoodie half-zipped over your tank top, fidgeting with your sleeves like you don’t quite know what to do with yourself.
You’ve never looked less sure of your place in this room.
Bucky notices.
He doesn’t say anything right away — just takes his usual seat beside Steve and sets the chips on the table.
The conversation picks up again. Sam’s already talking about the terrible CGI in the movie trailer he just watched, Natasha’s pretending not to be entertained, and Steve’s trying to keep the peace.
You focus on the popcorn in your lap like it’s a delicate science experiment.
Then Steve — damn Steve — asks, “So, how’d the date go?”
The words freeze the air for half a second.
Bucky doesn’t hesitate. “It was nice.”
You don’t look up.
He clears his throat. “She’s smart. Funny. Really into documentaries.”
You nod slightly, eyes still on the popcorn. “That’s cool.”
But it doesn’t sound cool. It sounds small.
From where he’s sitting, Bucky’s not really paying attention to Steve’s next question. His mind is still stuck in that coffee shop earlier, sitting across from Amelia, who was all smiles and confident charm.
She was asking about his writing. He should’ve loved that.
But all he could think about was you — how you tilt your head when you’re editing one of his paragraphs, how you hum under your breath when you’re focused, how you once said his characters felt “a little too in love for page forty.”
Amelia had laughed at something he said. He remembered that.
But he remembered even more clearly how he instinctively looked at his phone after — wishing he could tell you about it instead.
Back in your apartment, Bucky sneaks a glance your way.
You’re biting your thumbnail, trying not to do it obviously. You haven’t met his eyes all night.
He leans in slightly, lowering his voice.
“Hey.” His tone is careful, quiet. “You okay?”
Your eyes flick up startled, maybe even a little guilty. You smile too quickly.
“Yeah. Totally. Just tired.”
He doesn’t believe you.
But he nods anyway. “Long day?”
You nod, eyes flicking back to the movie you haven’t processed a single frame of.
“Prep stuff. It was nothing. Nat yelled at me. I yelled at vowels.”
He chuckles softly. “Classic Saturday.”
But still, your voice isn’t steady. Not like usual. You’re always the one teasing him, bumping his shoulder, leaning your head on his arm when you’re tired. Now you’re sitting across the room like he might burn you.
And Bucky suddenly, quietly, hates that.
He leans back, trying to act normal.
He thought he was trying to move on.
But maybe he's just circling back — always — to you.
And tonight, you won’t even sit beside him.
The movie ends in a lazy sprawl of credits and commentary. Sam’s already halfway through his dramatic retelling of an alternate ending he claims would’ve “won three Oscars, minimum.” Steve is politely nodding. Natasha’s smirking into her cup.
You’re quiet. You’ve been quiet for hours.
“I should head out,” Steve says, stretching with a yawn.
Sam stands too. “Yeah, same. I got a meeting with my advisor in the morning. Can’t wait to be reminded of how behind I am.”
You walk them both to the door with a tired smile, letting the cool night air settle into your skin for a second longer than necessary. Just to breathe. Just to think.
When you turn back around, Natasha’s collecting the trash.
“I got it,” you say quickly.
She glances at you. “I know.”
And then — with zero subtlety — she calls out, “Bucky, help her with the dishes.”
He blinks from where he’s still sitting on the couch, startled. “What? I didn’t— I mean—yeah, sure.”
Nat shoots you both a quick look — too casual to be casual — and goes to her room.
“Night, lovebirds,” she mutters under her breath, just loud enough for you to hear.
You throw her a sharp look. Bucky misses it entirely.
When the door closes, it’s quiet.
Too quiet.
You head to the kitchen and turn on the tap, letting the sound of running water cover up your nerves. You hand Bucky a dish towel without a word. He takes it.
You wash. He dries.
It’s mechanical, practiced. You’ve done this a hundred times before.
And yet everything feels strange.
Your elbow brushes his once. You pull back too fast.
He notices.
The silence stretches. Not heavy. Just… tight.
And then, softly:
“Did I do something wrong?”
Your hands pause under the water.
You glance at him — really glance — and he’s looking down at the plate in his hands like it holds some kind of answer.
“What?”
“I don’t know.” He exhales a breath through his nose. “You’ve been… different. Tonight. Since earlier.”
You force a little laugh, shaking your head. “I’m just tired.”
“You’ve said that three times.”
“Maybe I’m really tired.”
Bucky smiles faintly at that, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I don’t want things to be weird,” he says, quietly. “I don’t want us to… change.”
You rinse another plate slowly, eyes fixed on the suds.
“They haven’t,” you say, too fast.
But you both know that’s not true.
He hands you the towel. His fingers brush yours. You don’t move for a second.
“Did the date bother you?” he asks, just barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to say yes. I just…” He shrugs. “You looked like it did.”
You pause.
Your heart stumbles, but your voice comes too fast, too rehearsed.
“No,” you lie, too quickly. “I mean—no, it didn’t bother me. You… you like her, right?”
Bucky goes still.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just tilts his head a little, brows furrowed, like he’s trying to read between the lines you’re not saying.
“Do I?” he asks softly, almost like he’s asking himself.
You glance at him, startled.
And for a split second, he looks at you differently, not like the best friend you’ve always known, but like someone trying to solve a puzzle he already knows the answer to.
You clear your throat and go back to scrubbing the dish. “I’m just saying you wouldn’t have asked her out if you didn’t.”
He leans back against the counter. You can feel his eyes on you even though you’re not looking.
You swallow hard. The air between you suddenly feels very small.
“I thought maybe I should try,” he says finally. “To like someone.”
“Did it work?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.
There’s a pause. The kind that stretches a little too long to be comfortable.
Then, Bucky exhales slowly and says, not quite meeting your eyes:
“Not really.”
You nod. Like that answer makes sense. Like your chest isn’t tightening from the weight of what you’re not saying.
You scrub at a dish a little harder than necessary. Try to sound casual.
“Maybe she just wasn’t your type.”
Bucky huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah. Maybe.”
Another beat of silence.
He doesn’t move. Neither do you.
Then he says, a little too quietly:
“It’s hard, you know?”
You glance at him, confused. “What is?”
He hesitates. Then just shrugs. “Nothing. Forget it.”
You want to ask. You want to press.
But instead, you nod. “Okay.”
The last plate goes into the rack. The faucet shuts off. The kitchen is quiet but your mind is not.
And when he brushes past you on the way out, his hand grazes your back for just a second too long.
You pretend not to feel it.
But you do.
And as the door clicks shut behind him, you realize you’re still holding your breath.
Even though nothing happened, something changed.
No confessions. No kisses. No dramatic fallout.
But the air between you and Bucky? It’s not the same.
It’s quieter. He’s quieter. And you’re overthinking everything.
He still texts you memes. Still saves you a seat next to him. Still laughs when you roast Sam or complain about lesson planning.
But he doesn’t look at you the same.
Not directly. Not for long.
And for the first time since you were sixteen, Bucky doesn’t know what to do with you.
You feel it in the silences that weren’t there before. In how his hands fidget with the strings of his hoodie. In how he hesitates before asking if you want to hang out — and sometimes doesn’t ask at all.
Natasha notices, of course. She always does.
But when you brush it off, she lets it go- for now.
Bucky, meanwhile, tries not to think too hard.
He tells himself it’s fine. That maybe he imagined the shift.
That maybe you’re just stressed.
That maybe he should’ve never said anything at the sink.
Eventually, he caves. After too many days of almost texting you, then deleting the message.
He finds himself standing outside the student gym, arms crossed, staring at Steve.
Steve, who’s just trying to finish his smoothie in peace.
Steve takes a long sip through his straw. “Did something happen?”
“No,” Bucky mutters. “That’s the problem.”
Steve squints. “But something changed?”
“Yes! Everything’s... tense. And weird. And—God, Steve, she flinched when I sat too close the other day.”
Steve winces. “Yikes.”
“I don’t know if I broke it, or if she knows, or if I should bring it up or leave it or—”
Steve holds up a hand. “You’re spiraling, man.”
Bucky stares.
Steve sighs, calm as ever. “You want a real answer?”
“I’m literally begging.”
Steve shrugs. “Then find out yourself.”
Bucky blinks. “That’s it?”
“You like answers?” Steve says, patting him on the shoulder. “Ask the question.”
And just like that, he walks off, leaving Bucky standing there, blinking at the sky like it might deliver a sign.
It doesn’t.
But later that day, when he sees your name light up his phone, his heart kicks anyway.
Maybe it’s time to stop guessing.
You haven’t cried.
You haven’t panicked.
But you haven’t felt like yourself either.
You’ve been floating through the day, through your readings, through your chores, through brushing your teeth like it meant something.
But your thoughts keep circling back. Not to her. Not even really to the date.
To him.
And that moment in the kitchen. His voice, barely above a whisper:
“Did I do something wrong?”
You’d brushed it off. Lied to both of you.
You keep trying to tell yourself it’s fine — but your chest feels too tight for something that’s supposed to be okay.
So when the knock comes, soft but insistent, you already know who it is, or you feel it.
You open the door without hesitation.
And there he is.
Bucky. In an old hoodie, hair slightly messy, shoulders tense. Eyes worried.
He looks like he hasn't slept either.
“Please,” he says, before you can speak. “Just tell me what I did.”
You blink at him, caught off guard. “What?”
“Tell me what I did,” he says again, stepping inside. “Because you’re pulling away, and I swear I’ve gone over every second trying to figure it out, but I—I don’t know. And if I hurt you, just—please tell me.”
You don’t answer right away.
Because something about seeing him like this — worried, not for himself but for you, for the two of you — breaks you open.
You step back, slowly closing the door. The quiet of your apartment swallows you both.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you whisper.
He stares. “Then why—?”
“Because I’m the one who’s messed up.” You shake your head, blinking too fast. “I’ve been lying. To you, to myself.”
Bucky’s lips part, but you keep going — afraid if you stop, you’ll never get it out.
“It’s just…” You let out a shaky breath. “I didn’t expect it to bother me.”
His brows knit. “The date?”
You nod, staring at your hands. “I mean, you’ve gone on dates before. And I always thought- I always told myself it didn’t matter. That you’d find someone amazing and I’d be happy for you.”
You look up.
“But then you did. You went out with someone you like. And I—” You shake your head, words tumbling faster now. “I hated it, Bucky. Not because of her. Not because I didn’t want you to be happy. But because I couldn’t stop thinking about me. And how I’ve spent all this time pretending I don’t feel the way I do.”
He’s watching you now. Completely still. His chest rises slowly, carefully. Like he’s afraid one wrong breath will end the moment.
“I think I’m in love with you,” you say, voice trembling. “And I think I’ve known it for a long time. I just didn’t let myself see it.”
Silence.
Heavy, but not cold.
You bite your lip, blinking too fast. “I don’t expect you to say anything. I just— I needed you to know. Because I can’t keep pretending I’m fine when I’m not. And if this ruins everything, then... I’m sorry. But at least it’s honest.”
For a long, stretching second, he doesn’t move.
And then—
“Can I say something now?” he asks softly.
You nod, heart hammering.
He exhales — this slow, disbelieving breath — and then smiles. Not wide. Not cocky.
Just real.
“Thank God,” he whispers.
You blink. “What?”
He moves a little closer just enough to brush his knee against yours.
“You think I’ve been in love with you for how long and wouldn’t wait for this?” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
And suddenly, it is.
You laugh - shaky, disbelieving. Your whole body feels like it’s vibrating with adrenaline and something that feels a lot like relief.
His hand finds yours. Careful, still a little uncertain, but steady.
“I’m sorry I was so slow,” you say, your voice catching on the words.
Bucky shakes his head, still smiling, still looking at you like you hung the stars.
“You weren’t slow,” he murmurs. “You were careful. And worth waiting for.”
And when he speaks again, it’s quieter like a secret meant only for you.
“I thought I was being selfish.”
Your brows pull together. “Selfish?”
He nods. “Wanting more from you when I already had so much. Your trust. Your time. Your laugh. I didn’t think I deserved anything beyond that.”
You let out a soft breath. “You never asked.”
“I was scared to.”
The silence that follows doesn’t feel heavy anymore. It feels sacred.
His eyes flick to your mouth for half a second — just enough for your heart to skip — and then back to your eyes, asking.
Not pressuring. Just waiting.
You close the distance first.
The kiss is soft, hesitant at first, like you're both still surprised it’s happening. His hand lifts to your cheek, thumb brushing gently along your skin. Your fingers curl into the sleeve of his hoodie, grounding yourself.
When you pull back, breath warm against his, you smile.
“I don’t know how to do this,” you whisper.
“Yeah, you do,” he says softly, forehead resting against yours. “We’ve been doing this for years. We just didn’t know it.”
And you kiss him again - this time with laughter in your chest and his name on your heart.
And for the first time in weeks, maybe longer, everything feels right.
Loveeee the idea of Bucky being super talkative when he's balls deep in your pussy
he brings a hand to the nape of your neck, supporting your head and bringing your gaze to watch his thick cock slip in and out of you with lidded eyes.
Bucky presses a long kiss to the top of your head with a choked groan, "Yeah, look at that," his balls press up against your soaked folds and you keen, brows furrowing and plush lips falling open at the delicious stretch of him.
"you okay?" he asks against your hair, still pumping into you.
you nod shakily, letting a soft moan fall past your lips, "feels so good." in the same moment, you reach down between your bodies to spread the lips of your cunt open.
Bucky moans from above you — "Oh shit, yeah, I like that."
you whimper, wrapping a small hand around Bucky's metal arm for leverage when he sinks alllll the way into your sopping heat.
Bucky presses his forehead to yours, circling his hips with a soft groan, "christ, you're tight," he leans back some to watch your folds hug his girth as he pulls out and pushes back into you, earning a squeal from you.
"Juuuusssst like that," the smirk is evident in his lofty tone, "ain't that right, sweetheart."
"Mhm," you pull your bottom lip between your teeth. Your tight walls squeeze around his length and you feel him shiver above you.
"You keep that up, and this isn't gonna last much longer."
You mumble a 'sorry,' that breaks into a heated moan when you feel his balls tap against your folds.
"Don't be sorry," he slips his thumb past your swollen lips, pulling your bottom one down, "just sit there and look pretty fr'me, 'kay?"
i once saw a post somewhere about fucking a man with dog tags and they accidentally hit your face and you can’t help but laugh so he takes them in his teeth and fucks you harder… that’s all I think about now when I hear phrases “Bucky” and “dog tags”…
He’s deep inside you — hips grinding slow, strong arms braced on either side of your head, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. The weight of his dog tags swings with every thrust, clinking gently against your chest, your collarbone… your chin.
Then, one good thrust, and they bounce up — smack — right against your lips.
You let out a surprised giggle, biting down on the sound, but it’s too late. Bucky hears it. His rhythm stutters. He pauses, cock twitching inside you.
“What’s so funny, doll?” he murmurs, already smirking.
“N-nothing,” you pant, breathless and wide-eyed.
But the tags swing again — click, clack, a little more chaotic now — and you giggle again, covering your mouth.
Bucky chuckles once, low and dangerous. Then, without a word, he dips his head, catches the chain between his teeth, and bites down.
The sound of the metal muffled in his mouth is sinful. His eyes stay locked on yours. And then he fucks you — hard. Deep. Relentless.
Your laughter is gone, swallowed by gasps and the slap of skin. His dog tags no longer hit your face — they bounce wildly against his lips as he holds them in his mouth like a threat.
“Still funny?” he growls through clenched teeth, mouth full of metal, sweat dripping from his temple.
You can only whimper.
He doesn’t let up. Just keeps driving into you with brutal precision, eyes burning, chain still clenched in his teeth like you’re something he refuses to let go of.
You swipe up the shot set before you, downing it without so much as a wince. You cross your arms, keeping your chin defiantly raised as you settle further into the couch, "I'm not telling you anything."
“Boo,” Sam playfully heckles, his drink sloshing in his hand. “Come on, it’s not that big a deal. Just tell us.”
“Absolutely not, I already took the damn drink.”
Sam quirks an eyebrow, refusing to back down, “Unless it was someone here?”
“Oh my God.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Sam, I did not hook up with anyone in this room.”
“Yes!” Sam teases. “That explains everything! That’s why you drank!”
“Or maybe I just don’t kiss and tell.”
“You’ve been drinking all night. And there’s only one reason you won’t tell us anything - because it’s someone in this very room!”
“Settle down, Sherlock,” Bucky cajoles.
You swipe the glass from Sam's loose grip, “You’re drunk, Sam.”
Sam boops your nose, swiping the glass back, “I’m not the one that’s been drinking for every question.”
“And yet, I'm still not nearly as drunk as you are," you shoot back, setting your drink on the table. You pat Bucky's shoulder, standing up from the couch, "And now, I’m going to bed. Goodnight, children.”
“Come on,” Sam drunkenly whines. “Don’t be a sore loser!”
“I have a debrief first thing, and I’m the only one of you assholes that won’t need to be carried to my room.”
Sam shouts after you, “Boo!”
Not a moment later, you feel a warm hand tap your shoulder, “Hey, wait up! I’ll walk you up.”
“Oh, sure.”
As you walk together, Bucky leans in conspiratorially, “So… now that it’s just us… Who was it?”
You groan, “Not you too.”
“Come on! It’s me! You can tell me!” Bucky cajoles.
“It’s none of your business.”
"I’m not asking for details. I just wanna know."
"You’re pushy when you’ve been drinking that Asgardian stuff, you know that?"
"Come on. It really can't be that bad. I probably don't even know the guy... unless I do?"
You hold his gaze for a moment, silently pleading with him to just drop it, "Bucky... enough."
"Was it Sam? Steve? Come on, I won't judge you if it was."
"Bucky, stop."
"Come on, just tell me!"
"No! Now drop it!" you snap.
Bucky freezes, his eyes widening, "I'm - I'm sorry, I didn't think it was that big of a deal."
You start to storm off, tossing a sharp retort over your shoulder, "Maybe not to you."
"Hey, hey, I'm sorry." He jogs after you, resting his warm, gentle hand on your forearm to stop you, "Really. You don't have to tell me. I was just being a dick. You’re right, it’s none of my business."
You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling the guilt pooling in the pit of your stomach for yelling at Bucky. "I can't tell you."
His brows furrow, "What?"
This was it. This was when everyone found out your deep, dark, embarrassing secret. You take another deep breath, bracing yourself for Bucky’s laughter and ridicule, "I can't tell you... because it hasn't happened yet."
His worry and confusion only compounds. His neck cranes slightly, almost like he believes his super solider hearing failing him is more plausible than your complete and total inexperience, "What?"
You take another massive breath, your cheeks heating, "I've never - it never happened for me."
“Huh?”
“Please don’t make me say it again.”
"Wait, wait, but earlier - earlier Natasha asked you about your first time. You said - you said it happened later than people might think."
You couldn’t believe he really wasn’t getting it. It was something you had come to accept about yourself. There was just something fundamentally wrong with you. Something not quite right. Something unloveable - at least in the romantic sense.
Shame heats your face, and you have to clench your fists in some hopeless attempt to keep it together in front of Bucky.
You try to shrug as casually as you can, "It's not technically a lie. Most people don't think someone can make it this long without your first kiss happening."
“Wait, wait.” If he was struggling to understand before, this may have just broken him. “You haven’t had your first kiss?”
You swallow the knot in your throat, hoping the word doesn’t sound as strangled as it feels, “No.”
Your shoulders sharply rise with a forced intake of breath as you wait for it. You wait for the litany of platitudes. The halfhearted consolations and excuses.
While you’d never told anyone about this missed rite of passage, you had mistakenly confided in a select few. You never said too much. Never said that you hadn’t ever been kissed. You usually offered something offhanded about not really dating much.
They didn’t need to know just how deep your inexperience ran. It didn’t matter anyway. The response was always the same. Some surface level words of comfort or dismissal.
You could practically hear the words falling from Bucky’s lips.
'It'll happen when you least expect it.'
'You just have to stop looking.'
'Put yourself out there.'
'You should lower your standards.'
'You're not missing out on much.'
The words you know all too well never come.
He chews on his bottom lip, his own mental turmoil as clear as day on his face. He didn’t know what to say and that was clear. He opens his mouth and your brace yourself for impact.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
You freeze, a little shocked by his response. “Don’t be.”
“No, no, I was being a dick and pushing you to talk about something you’re not comfortable with. I should understand that better than anyone else here.”
“I just - I don’t really tell people. It’s embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing?”
“Yeah, Bucky,” you scoff, a little too defensive. “It’s a little embarrassing. I’m a grown ass woman that’s never been kissed. I’m a grown woman that no one’s ever show the least bit of interest in.”
His hands stop mid air, “I’m sorry, what?”
“What?”
He quirks an incredulous brow, “No one’s shown interest?”
“No…”
His entire head twists with disbelief, “No one? Really?”
“I’ve never even been asked on a date before,” you confess.
“What?”
“Will you quit saying that?”
“Sorry, sorry! It’s just a little hard to believe.”
You can't help but roll your eyes, “Why is that hard to believe?”
“Because it’s you! Look at you! Someone must’ve shown interest at some point.”
You try to shrug it off again, desperately hoping that Bucky doesn’t see how much this actually does hurt, “No. It’s always just been me.”
“Not even like a schoolyard crush or something?”
“Well, I had crushes, sure. That doesn’t mean that anyone had them on me.” Bucky’s face remains frozen in that confused, disbelieving grimace for a beat too long after you’ve finished speaking that you feel desperate to paper over the emotional cracks. It’s fine. That’s what you’ve told yourself your entire life, and that’s exactly what you’ll tell him, “Listen, I’m fine with it now. I’ve come to terms with it. I’m content. Maybe romance just isn’t in-“
“Can I kiss you?”
Now, it was your turn to look confused and taken aback, “What?”
“Can I?” he offers again, his eyes flicker to your lips so quickly you can’t be sure you didn’t just imagine it. “Kiss you?”
You immediately begin to backtrack, taking a half step back to put some distance between the two that seems to shrink with every passing moment, “Bucky, you really don’t have to do that.”
“What if I want to?”
Your eyebrows pull together in disbelief. “Do you?”
“Yes.” His answer is so immediate and reflexive it’s hard not to believe him. “I want to. Please.”
His whispered ‘please’ is your undoing. You nod ever so slightly, your voice nothing but a choked whisper, “I won’t be good at it.”
“I don’t believe that.” At this point, he’s staring at your lips more than anything else. His flesh hand raises to your cheek, softly cupping it. “Just relax.”
Your breathing comes faster as his breath dances across your cheeks, “Bucky…”
“I want you to remember this.” You’re not sure he meant to say that out loud, but the words sent a pleasantly unfamiliar shudder down your spine.
And without another word, his lips gently brush yours. For a long moment, you just stand there, not moving an inch. Until your hand moves of its own accord to rest on his chest. It slowly trails up his shoulder and down to the nape of his neck. Your mouth hesitantly moves against his, slowly becoming more relaxed with each little breathy sound he pulls from you.
It feels like forever and a split second all at once. Especially when he slowly drags his lips away from yours. As he pulls away, he licks his lips like he’s savoring the taste of you while it still lingers on his lips.
He rest his head against yours for a long moment. His lips are puffy and glistening under the low light of the Compound hallway, “There. Now, you’ve been kissed.”
synopsis: you've never been able to surprise your husband considering he's an ex trained assassin, but he'll make an exception for you and your daughter on fathers day. not proofread.
wc: 1081
"Mommy when is it gonna be done?" your daughter tugged at the hem of your shirt.
"Shh baby, we don't want to wake daddy." You smiled and whispered to her as you finished plating your husbands food.
Giggles and the smell of breakfast filled Bucky's senses as he woke, eyes fluttering open from the couch that he most likely fell asleep on from being to tired to get to bed after getting in from work last night. He watched his four year old daughter clumsily walk into the living room with a marker and paper in her hand. Placing the paper on the coffee table, she locked eyes with her father and let out a gasp.
"Mommy he's awake!" She ran back to the kitchen shouting.
You looked down at your daughter who had the cutest little pout on her face, you opened your mouth to speak before you felt an arm slither around your waist.
"Mornin' love." Bucky mumbled into your neck, the grogginess apparent in his voice.
You turned to face your husband and gave him a slow kiss on his lips, "You aren't supposed to be awake mister."
"Daddy ruined the surprise." You looked back down to your daughter who was now teary eyed staring up at her father.
You glanced up at your husband who was now looking at you wide eyed before he crouched down to pick your daughter up, "I'm sorry sweetheart, I didn't mean too."
She sniffled in his arms and you watched as he gently wiped away your daughter's tears, Bucky tried to get her to stop crying but nothing was working.
You walked over to the two and placed a hand on your daughter's back as she cried, you slowly placed your head beside hers on Bucky's shoulder, "Don't be upset honey, daddy didn't know."
Bucky could feel his heart twist at his daughter's upset, especially since he's the one who caused it. The moment was too sweet for Bucky to handle, seeing his daughter cry over something so innocent while you consoled her so gently. Becoming a mother came so naturally to you, you were nurturing, loving and so selfless when it came to your family.
Your daughter wouldn't let up about the problem her poor father unknowingly caused, so Bucky decided to try and create a solution.
"How about I go back to sleep, hm? And then you and mommy can finish the surprise?" Your husband suggested in a hushed tone. Gaining not only your attention, but your daughters as well.
Your daughter's head shot up and she nodded with teary eyes. Bucky set her down and walked back to the couch but not before grabbing the hands of your and your daughter, "You and mom gotta tuck me in though, okay?"
"Okay!" Your daughter replied cheerfully, the way her could change so abruptly always surprised you and your husband.
You rolled your eyes playfully at Bucky earning a wink from him, as the three of you walked into the living room. Bucky returned to his original sleeping position and gave you a cocky grin while you placed the blanket over him.
You were just about to walk away before your daughter grabbed onto the hem of your shirt, "Mama what about goodnight kisses? Daddy needs them to sleep!"
"Yeah mama, I want my goodnight kisses." Your husband restated, the man was quite literally beaming while awaiting your kiss.
You giggled and bent down to give Bucky a peck on his forehead, but he swiftly angled his head upwards and your lips landed on his as he gripped your face gently, causing you to squeal slightly before pulling away.
"Okay, Daddy is going to bed now." You picked your daughter up as Bucky shut his eyes and went back to 'sleep'.
You walked back into the kitchen and finished setting up the breakfast tray with your daughter. You carefully walked with the tray in your hands as your daughter held a handmade drawing and a small wrapped rectangular box.
You set the tray down on the coffee table and signaled for your daughter to wake up her father. Bucky pretended to stir in his sleep earning a small chuckle from you.
"Mmm, m' so tired princess. How about you and Mommy join me?" Before either of you could respond, Bucky pulled both of you on top of him and squeezed you both. Your daughter shrieked with excitement before somehow freeing herself from Bucky's grasp,
"Daddy look what I made!!" She revealed the drawing to your husband, it was a picture of you and Bucky holding your daughter's hand along with a scramble of letters that didn't spell out anything, but he wasn't gonna tell that to his little girl. "Look I drew your arm!"
"Oh my. I love it, princess." Saying he loved it was an understatement. Bucky was on the verge of tears, he had been all morning. Bucky never thought in a million years that he would get to experience peace like this. He never thought he would ever deserve to live the domestic life, hell he still doesn't think he deserves it.
"Sweetheart, give daddy the present you got him. " You whispered.
You watched as her tiny fingers handed Bucky the small box. Your daughter watched eagerly as your husband opened the box to reveal a necklace with a small silver rectangular locket, similar to the shape of his dog tags he always wore around his neck.
Bucky's heart almost stopped as he opened the locket, inside was a picture that he had taken of you and your daughter on the beach during his birthday two years ago. The photo was of you holding your daughter in your arms, the two of you smiling in on the sand as the sunset painted the background with beautiful shades of pink, red, and orange.
That was it.
That was Bucky's breaking point, he could no longer hold back the stinging in his eyes. Tears slipped down his cheeks, he wiped them away quickly but not without you seeing.
"Daddy? You don't like it?"
"No no, I love it princess. Thank you." He said while clearing his throat, he pulled the two of you into his lap and smotherd you both with kisses.
"I love you both," He said softly
"I love you too." You pulled him into a kiss before your daughter separated the two of you.
"Ewww."
Bucky snorted out a laugh,
"Let's eat hm? Im starving."
a/n: this is completely self indulgent but idc. also late fathers day post, this was supposed to be posted three days ago oops. anways this is like a test run for me maybe posting a bucky mini fic I've been working on lol.
Warnings: 18+ ONLY MDNI, oral (f receiving), fingering, smut, I wrote this on my phone so minimal layout and editing
A/N: hi hello I know I haven’t posted in forever I’m sorry, please take this as a peace offering 🥺
Bucky couldn't even remember what you were fighting about earlier. He knew it was stupid, childish even. You two bickered all the time, you always had ever since he met you. He liked to rile you up, see how angry and frustrated he could make you - the kind, polite, quiet one. Something about how you scrunched your brows, bared your teeth, and let the sweet girl facade fade. It made him feel alive.
But the second those words left your mouth, his mind had gone blank, and the argument ready on his tongue fizzled away.
"Maybe if I sit on your face, that'll shut you up."
You'd threatened him with bodily harm and spewed hate-filled words at him. But this kind of retaliation was a first. And, oh did he like it.
He more than liked it.
You'd followed him to his room earlier in the heat of your argument so there was no need for pause, or hesitation, or secrecy, before his lips landed on yours, silencing you. Your body slumped against his, all the tension and anger fizzling out into nothing as your hands gripped the front of his jacket. His feet guided you to the edge of his bed where he turned and sat, finally releasing you.
"Then do it." He'd countered, daring you to follow through with your threat for the first time. And when your eyes locked with his, your pupils blown wide and a hesitant look on your face, he smirked, "C'mon, you know you want to." And when you still didn't move, "unless you're all talk."
That'd done it. You hiked up the skirt of your sundress as you crawled on top of him, his smirk growing as you hovered over him, the damp spot on your panties on display for him. He instantly wrapped his flesh hand around your waist to pull the fabric to the side, using his metal one to guide you to his mouth.
He let out a low groan as soon as the taste of you hit his tongue. He never realized how badly he'd wanted you. He was still navigating being normal again, not being The Winter Soldier, that oftentimes the way his body reacted or his heart thudded against his chest went unnoticed, or left him in a stupor. But with you now grinding down on his tongue, it all clicked for him.
But he'd tuck that little secret away for now.
He could tell you were hovering, not letting him have the full weight of you and he pulled his mouth off you, chuckling at the pathetic whine that slipped past your lips as you looked down at him.
"Don't hover," He ordered, "I want all of you."
Your brows pinched and you only replied with, "And I want you to shut up," Before fully taking your new seat. The authority in your tone and the true weight of you on his mouth had his pants growing tight but he didn't want to take his hands off of you. Not as he reached up with his vibranium hand and gripped one of your breasts, massaging it as he pulled it over the fabric of your dress, lightly tugging at the nipple once it was free.
The moan that left your mouth at the coldness of his hand on your skin was pornographic with your head tipped back and your hands laying over his own, guiding them to how you liked to be touched, tightening his grip over your skin.
He decided then and there as you looked down at him, your jaw slack and the most beautiful sounds falling from your mouth, that he could do this forever. You were so beautiful like this, on the edge of release with him being the one to get you there.
He was never letting you go after this.
He slipped his hands out of yours, reaching his flesh one up to grip what he could reach of your neck, the other sliding under your ass to slip a finger in your soaked core. Your hands dove to tangle and tug at his hair as your moans pitched higher and louder, his name a chant on your tongue as he pumped his fingers in and out of you, tongue circling and lips closing around your clit while you practically fucked yourself on his fingers.
He wanted you to cum - needed it. So when his fingers curled and your moans turned to begging, he copied that same motion over and over and over until a gasp tore your breath from you.
As quickly as he could, he pulled his fingers from you, replacing them with his tongue just as you fell over the edge, all but screaming his name, your legs clamping around his head as he swallowed your release, groaning into your skin.
Your hands left his hair and wrapped around his arms that were holding you up, holding on like he was your life line. He traced a few lazy circles around you with his tongue as your body relaxed before lifting you and sliding you down to sit on his chest.
When you looked at him, your confidence started to slip away, a sheepish, “sorry,” falling on his ears. He sighed with what he knew was the dopiest smile he’d ever let you see as his hands reached up to cradle your cheeks.
“Babygirl,” he’d laughed, “you can shut me up like that any time you please.”
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Ahhhh omg I love gentleman Bucky. Like so chivalrous and respectful. But with him being feral and obsessed with you at the same time. Being obsessed with pleasuring you and treating pleasuring you like his life’s honour. NEED HIM
oh god, i do too. i wrote this in my hotel room and i'm thinking about how much i want bucky 😭.
here's a little something before i crash for the night ❤️
warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni
Bucky's the kind of man who would open doors, carry your bags and kisses the back of your hand like it's the most natural thing in the world.
He is polite to a fault—chivalrous, old-school, the kind of gentleman who calls you baby, sweetheart, darling with a softness that could melt steel.
But underneath all that clean-shaven charm and quiet smiles is something much darker. A need that simmers just beneath the surface, sharp and hungry, and so intense it borders on obsession.
Because you know what they say—gentleman in the streets, freak in the sheets—and Bucky god damn lives it.
In public, he’s all warmth and patience, touching the small of your back, pulling out your chair, kissing your hand like you’re something fragile.
But behind closed doors? He’s anything but gentle.
Because when he has you alone, the gloves come off—figuratively and literally.
That pretty mouth, the one that whispered yes, sweetheart at dinner? It’s filthy now—groaning against your inner thigh, spitting on your pussy just to watch it drip down before he licks it clean.
He doesn’t just want to make you cum. He wants to break you with it. Wants to feel you scream his name, claw at his back, sob through your orgasms until your voice gives out.
He’ll have you shaking, begging, soaking the sheets—and he’ll still ask for more.
He eats you like he’s starving, like it’s the only thing that’s ever tasted good to him. Tongue buried deep, moaning into your cunt like your pleasure is air in his fucking lungs.
He keeps you spread for him, held down and worshipped, hands gripping your thighs like he owns them.
Like he owns you.
And maybe he does—at least in that moment, when you’re crying out his name and he’s murmuring, “That’s it, princess, just like that. Gimme another. I need it.”
He doesn't just want you to cum—he needs it. Treats your orgasms like they're sacred, like his purpose is to bring you to your edge, over and over, until you're trembling and slick and gasping into his shoulder, and even then, he doesn’t stop.
God, he can’t stop. Not until you’re spent and messy and ruined, soaked thighs draped over his shoulders and voice hoarse from your pretty cries.
Don't even get me started on the way he fucks you.
It’s brutal. Raw. Like he’s been starved of you for too damn long and now that he’s got you under him, he’s going to devour you from the inside out.
He slams into you, thick cock stretching you wide, splitting you open with every desperate, punishing stroke. He keeps one hand wrapped around your throat, anchoring you, to remind you exactly who you belong to.
His other hand is everywhere—gripping your ass, spreading your legs wider, shoving them up until your knees are almost hitting your chest so he can get deeper. Just so he can hit that spot that makes your vision blur.
“Listen to you,” he grits out, lips brushing your ear as your soaked cunt sucks him in again and again. “Dripping all over my cock. Fuckin’ obsessed with it, aren’t you?”
And you are. You can’t even deny it—not with the way you’re clenching around him, begging without words, just breathy little whimpers and moans that only make him fuck you harder.
His hips are relentless, slapping into you with wet, obscene sounds, his balls tight and heavy against your ass as he drives in so deep it feels like he’s fucking you right into the mattress.
He doesn’t stop when you cum.
Fuck, he barely slows down—just grins, wicked and dark, as you tremble beneath him, whining from the overstimulation.
“That’s one sweetheart,” he mutters, dragging his cock out just enough to watch your slick coat him before slamming back in. “You’ve got more in you. Gonna fuck you until you forget how to fucking breathe.”
author's note: i couldn't stop thinking about bucky being able to use his metal hand as a vibrator and therefore this was born.
warnings/tags: SMUT, oral (female receiving), fingering, bucky being used as a human vibrator, multiple orgasms, language, consumption of alcohol, reader is afab, no use of y/n, slightly possessive bucky, 18+ only
“You’ve got to be fucking joking,” Natasha mutters through a mouth full of popcorn. “Tyler from the statistics department? Are we talking about the same Tyler from statistics?”
“Nat, for the fourth time, yes. Tyler from statistics. The only Tyler from statistics that I know.” You reach for the bottle of Moscato that the two of you are sharing, pouring yourself some more wine.
“Nuh-uh,” Natasha shakes her head. “I don't believe you. There's no way he could be that bad.” She takes a sip from her own glass of wine. “He's too gorgeous,” she shrugs, turning to face you on the couch. The romantic comedy you had picked out for your bi-monthly movie night plays forgotten in the background.
“Trust me,” you sigh. “I was just as shocked as you are. But I swear on my life, he stuck his tongue in my ear. In my fucking ear, but wouldn't go down on me.” You can tell by the look on her face that Nat is trying her hardest not to laugh.
“He said his dick game is ‘too good to need to eat a girl out’.” You shake your head, cringing at the memory. “Which is also what he said when I merely suggested that he use my vibrator on me instead. He looked like I had kicked his dog.”
“Well?” she asks, a pained expression across her features. “Was it? Too good?”
“I didn't stay to find out,” you admit. “I faked a work emergency and dipped.” A laugh breaks through her pursed lips.
“I'm sorry–” she says, although her face says otherwise. “I shouldn't laugh. You just have the worst luck with men. Isn't that the third failed hook-up in what? Six months?”
“Don't fucking remind me,” you groan, throwing your head back on the couch and staring up at the living room ceiling. “I think I've lost all hope of ever having an orgasm given to me by another person again.”
Nat opens her mouth to speak, but quickly closes it when you both notice voices approaching from the hallway.
Sam and Bucky enter the room a moment later, both dressed uncharacteristically nice. You suddenly feel the desire to conceal yourself with the fleece throw blanket laying across your lap. You and Nat usually plan your movie nights for when the tower is relatively empty, so you're just wearing a pair of old sweatpants and a tank top. Bare-faced and hair unstyled, the fact that Bucky's gaze is locked on you as the two of them approach where you and Nat are lounging doesn't help. He's not smiling - but there's a look on his face that you don't quite understand. The ghost of a smirk on his lips and a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.
It's a look that makes you nervous - in addition to already feeling flutters in the pit of your stomach at how fucking good he looks.
“Hey, boys,” Nat greets them cheerily. “Where are the two of you going so dolled up?”
“There's a new nightclub in Brooklyn that a group of SHIELD trainees are going to tonight,” Sam answers. “They invited us and we've got nothing better to do. Figured we'd go check it out, get a few drinks. You ladies want to tag along? Or are you too busy watching - what is this, 10 Things I Hate About You?” He gestures towards the screen.
“Couldn't hurt to get out of the house for a while tonight, right?” Nat looks at you for confirmation, a knowing gleam in her eyes. “Who knows, you might even meet someone,” she adds, nudging you with her elbow.
Bucky lets out a sound halfway between a laugh and a cough, which he tries to play off as the latter. You narrow your eyes at him before glancing back to Natasha.
“For sure,” you agree, trying to ignore Bucky's bizarre behavior. “Couldn't hurt. You guys go on, we'll get ready and head there soon. Text us the name of the club?” You direct the last part to Sam in particular.
“You got it,” Sam says as he pulls his cell phone from his coat pocket. He turns to leave when both your and Nat’s phones chime with the club information. “Let's go man, our Uber's here,” he directs at Bucky.
“See you both soon,” he says before turning to follow Sam, though his gaze is still only on one of you.
“I'm gonna go throw on some make-up, curl my hair, and hope I can find something somewhat cute to–” Nat starts as soon as Bucky and Sam have turned back down the hallway.
“Was he acting kind of odd?” you interrupt her in a hushed tone.
“Barnes? Always. I've stopped reading into it too much.”
“Some spy you are,” you mumble. “Meet me back here when you're ready.”
— — — — —
One hour later, you're applying some last minute mascara and lip gloss in the backseat of an Uber on your way to downtown Brooklyn. Natasha sits beside you, ranting about an assignment that Fury has tasked her with and you swear you're trying your hardest to absorb everything she's saying - but your mind keeps going back to the way Bucky was looking at you just an hour ago.
What was with that little smirk? That curious glimmer in his eyes? Had he overheard your conversation with Nat? Had he developed the ability to read minds and knew you were thinking about how fucking hot he looked? Or was that thought simply written all over your face?
You knew you couldn't deny it. Bucky does look exceptionally attractive in his black suit, with his perfectly tousled hair - but you had found him to be ridiculously good looking since you'd first met him. Even in casual, everyday clothes, even in gym shorts and drenched in sweat, even covered in blood after particularly brutal miss–
“You girls have a great evening,” your Uber driver interrupts your train of thought as he comes to a stop in front of your destination.
You really need to get fucking laid. You definitely shouldn't be having these kinds of thoughts about Bucky. He's your coworker, your teammate, your training partner on many occasions, your friend…
Natasha thanks him and hands him a generous cash tip before climbing out of the car right after you.
“Thanks,” you tell her. “I'll buy our drinks.”
“Don't worry about me,” she tells you with a sly grin as you both flash the bouncer your IDs and enter the club. Despite the night still being relatively young, it's already bustling inside.
“You just focus on meeting people, mingling, maybe hitting it off with a super hot guy and taking him back to your place for some mind-blowing–”
“Super hot guy? Are you talking about me?” Sam’s voice interrupts Nat. You both turn around to see him and Bucky walking towards you, drinks in hand.
There's a roguish smile on Bucky's face as his eyes skim up and down your figure.
“You both look wonderful,” he compliments, but once again, his stare is focused only on you. If Natasha notices, she says nothing.
To be fair, you were impressed with how well you managed to put yourself together with such little notice. You found a black, backless mini dress crammed in the back of your closet that you had forgotten all about after snagging it on clearance forever ago. The form-fitting material hugs you in all the right ways, and paired with your favorite pair of strappy black heels, you're feeling infinitely more confident than you were when Bucky saw you just an hour prior.
“Thanks!” You chirp quickly, averting your gaze from him to take in your surroundings. To your left, the dance floor is lively, though not too overcrowded for your liking. To your right, there's a bar surrounded by tables filled with groups of people conversing - you vaguely recognize a couple of SHIELD agents huddled around one. The entire room is illuminated by the faint blue-green glow of the mood lighting, and the bass of the music vibrates through the floorboards.
Sam and Bucky excuse themselves to go say hey to the group of agents that had invited them, while Nat all but drags you over to the bar. You order a double shot of whiskey and throw it back as quickly as you can.
“I see what you mean now,” Nat whispers to you after downing her shot of tequila. “About Barnes,” she clarifies. “He's been eye-fucking you since we walked through the door.”
If you hadn't already swallowed your liquor, you would have spewed it all over her.
“He has not been eye-fucking me, Nat,” you say in an almost scolding tone.
“I'm just saying,” she throws her hands up. “There’s no way he could possibly be any worse than the last few guys you've gone for. I think you should go for it,” she shrugs.
“It's not that I don't think he'd be good,” you say defensively, forcing yourself to look away from where he and Sam are socializing with the small group of SHIELD agents a few tables away. “I just don't want things to be weird afterwards. We work together nearly every day, and we have a bunch of mutual friends–”
“Suit yourself,” she cuts you off in a tone of voice that very much says if you say so. “Now, are you going to dance with me or not?” She adds as she begins tugging you towards the ever-busying dance floor.
You spend the next half hour dancing with Nat before she's swept away by some black-haired doctor looking type. Good for her, you think as you watch them converse intimately at a small booth on the other side of the room.
Thanks to the liquid courage that runs through your veins, you're okay with the fact that Bucky stands just twenty feet away from you, watching you as you dance among the thick crowd of people.
You've made eye contact with him a few times now - on accident or on purpose, you're not sure at this point. But each time, your eyes lingers on his for a moment longer than the last.
You're mentally daring him to come here, to make a move, to do something other than stand to the sidelines of whatever conversation Sam and the others are engaged in.
The slightest bit of pressure on your waist snaps you back to the now congested dance floor.
You look up to find that the hand on your waist belongs to a tall man with shoulder length, sandy blonde hair. He's conventionally attractive enough, though not who you were hoping would come grab you on the dance floor.
“I'm Shawn,” he introduces himself, loudly enough for you to hear him over the roaring music. You tell him your name, pushing aside the pang of disappointment in your chest.
“Do you want to go somewhere a bit quieter to talk, maybe? Let me buy you a drin–”
“There you are! I've been looking everywhere for you,” a voice booms from behind you.
Shawn immediately retracts his hand from your waist, backing up a few inches as Bucky comes into view beside you.
“Must not have been looking too hard, I've been right here this whole time,” you jab back with a smug smile.
“Sorry, I didn't mean to–” Shawn says as he starts to back away.
“No worries, bud,” Bucky says in an overly friendly voice as he moves to stand in front of you, blocking you from Shawn's view entirely.
“Took you long enough,” you tell Bucky once the man is out of ear shot, once again beginning to sway to the music. “Get bored of listening to Sam hype himself up to the newbies?”
He takes a step closer, angling himself behind you. The crowd of people surrounding you edges you closer to him - your bare back brushing against the cool satin fabric of his suit.
“Maybe,” his chest vibrates against your skin when he speaks. He places his hands on either side of your hips - eliciting goosebumps across your skin in a way that no one else has in a long, long time.
“Or maybe I just wanted to save you from wasting your time on another guy who can't make you come.”
Your movements come to an abrupt pause as his words hit you.
He had fucking overheard your conversation with Natasha.
At a loss for words, you turn to face him. There's a shit-eating grin spread across his face. He thinks this is hilarious and it's obvious.
“Hasn't anyone ever told you it's rude to eavesdrop?”
“Is it really eavesdropping if I have superhuman hearing?” He takes a step closer to you, closing what little distance was separating you. The peaks of your breasts brush against his chest.
“So what happens now that you've saved me from another unsatisfactory hook-up?” You challenge, staring up at him in the neon blue lighting.
You can smell hints of cedarwood and sage from his cologne in your close proximity. It's so delicious that it's dizzying.
“Let me take you somewhere more private than this dance floor and I'll show you.”
“You seem to have a lot of confidence in your ability to give me a better experience,” you say, leaning forward so that your face is just inches from his.
He responds by placing his flesh hand on the small of your back and pulling you flush against him. The tips of his fingers continue to dance down the skin of your exposed spine. His vibranium hand comes to cradle your jaw, his metal thumb tracing your bottom lip.
His mouth forms a dark smirk - and then you feel it. It starts soft and subtle and then gradually increases in intensity.
His fucking thumb is vibrating against your lip.
If you hadn't been standing in the middle of a crowded dance floor at a nightclub in downtown Brooklyn, you would have taken that thumb into your mouth and sucked on it right then and there.
“What do you say?” he asks, now tugging on your bottom lip with the pulsing digit. “Are you going to let me take you to the first empty room I can find in this place and make you come?”
“I say show me the way.”
He removes his hand from your face and turns you in the direction of the back of the club. He guides you through the throng of dancers, keeping his hands placed firmly on either side of your waist from behind. His vibranium fingers still hum softly, reminding you of what he says is to come.
Directly past the dance floor, there's a hallway blocked off by a rope with a sign that reads employees only. Taking a quick look around, you see that all of the patrons surrounding you and Bucky are paying you no mind. Bucky unhooks the flimsy rope and the two of you slip down the hallway.
He jiggles the handles of several doors that all turn out to be locked. Not wanting to waste any time or draw any attention to yourselves with picking locks, you continue down the dark corridor until the heavy music from the heart of the club fades to a muted roar.
The very last door opens without a hitch.
Thanks to the pale orange glow of a table lamp on a desk in the corner of the room, you can see that you're in a makeshift office/supply room - a couple of filing cabinets, cleaning supplies, extra glassware, and some sound equipment strewn haphazardly throughout the limited space.
Bucky clicks the lock into place as soon as he closes the door behind him.
You're going to turn around him and tell him that he doesn't have to do this - that as badly as you want this, you don't want to ruin your friendship, that as badly as you want him, he doesn't have anything to prove to you - but his lips are already on yours as soon as you start to open your mouth.
He doesn't take his lips off of yours as he guides you backwards to the rickety wooden desk. The backs of your thighs hit the table and Bucky effortlessly lifts you to sit on the edge, giving him the perfect angle to deepen the kiss - with his tongue exploring your mouth, you're unable to stop yourself from groaning into the kiss.
You fist your fingers into his hair, tugging just hard enough so that he hisses into your mouth. His own hands trail from the sides of your stomach and down your thighs, until he reaches the tail of your dress. You instinctively part your legs for him, as much as the restrictive fabric will allow, and his vibranium hand shoots between your thighs.
He teases you, dragging his index finger along the cloth of your panties that you know you're close to soaking through already. Just as the tip of his finger pauses above your clit, his finger begins emitting the softest vibration.
You break the kiss, breathless as you throw your head back at the sensation. Bucky takes it as an opportunity to attach his lips to the pulse point of your throat, nipping your flesh with his teeth followed by a wet kiss.
He continues with the ministrations through your panties until you're rutting against his hand, needing more. He tugs your underwear to the side and increases the intensity of the vibration before nudging his middle finger past your entrance.
You have to hold onto his shoulders to steady yourself - despite the fact that you're sitting, your body feels like jelly beneath his touch. He adds in his index finger with ease before cupping your pussy in his palm - the heel of his hand pulsating against your clit.
“Fuck, Bucky,” you cry against his mouth.
“You're so fucking wet for me, you know that?” He coos, thrusting both of his fingers against the spongy-flesh of your walls.
You can feel the vibrations of his hand all the way from your belly to your toes.
You begin grinding your hips to meet the movement of his fingers, fucking yourself against his hand. There's a familiar knot forming in your lower belly as he curls his fingers inside you -
“I want you to think about me and how good I'm making you feel every time you think about letting some fuckin’ nobody touch you,” he says in a low voice next to your ear. “I want you to think about riding my fingers until you come all over my hand.”
His words send you over the edge and you do exactly that - your pussy clenching around his fingers as you ride them through your orgasm. While you're still coming down from the high of your climax, Bucky pulls his metal fingers out of you and brings them to your lips, inserting his index finger in your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the slick metal as he brings the vibrations to a halt and then slowly pulls the finger from your mouth.
He picks you up off the edge of the desk and plants you back on the ground - your legs still shaking from how hard you had come.
“Turn around and lean over the desk,” he instructs you, soft but authoritative.
You don't know if it's because of the way he's looking at you or because of how good he's already made you feel, but in that moment, you would've done anything he asked of you.
You bend over the desk, supporting yourself by leaning on your forearms. You peak back over your shoulder to look at Bucky - he hikes your dress up, baring your ass to him.
He lets out an audible groan before he has even pulled your panties down to your ankles.
He kneels on the ground behind you, his face inches away from your cunt. He uses both his flesh and metal hands to spread you open for him, and then his tongue is licking up your center from behind.
God, you hope no one tries to come into this room. The door may be locked but the sounds that someone would hear if they even walked up to the door…
Bucky knows just how to make you writhe above him. He's soft when he's kissing up your folds and unsparing when he's sucking your clit between his lips. His hands hold your ass in a firm grasp that teeters between pleasure and pain.
You grind back against his face and he moans so deeply that you feel the vibration of it up your core. Your eyes roll back into your head as you clutch the sides of the desk to better support yourself.
His enthusiasm alone has you spiraling towards a second climax embarrassingly fast.
“You know,” he murmurs against your sensitive pussy. “When I overheard you say that someone had refused to go down on you, I couldn't believe it. What a fuckin idiot to pass this up.” He gives your ass cheek a firm slap with his flesh hand before diving his face between your legs once more.
It's just seconds before you feel the telltale pressure growing in your lower belly once more. You go limp against the table, Bucky placing his hands on the backs of your thighs to help keep you upright as you ride out your orgasm on his face.
You continue to lay against the desk as you regain control of your breathing. Bucky stands up, tugging your panties up your legs and back around your waist as he does. He then shimmies your dress back down into place so that you're once again looking club-appropriate.
When you turn around to face him, he's wiping your slick from his lower face on the sleeve of his suit, once again displaying a shit-eating grin.
“What was it you said?” He asks in mocking contemplation. “You had lost all hope of ever having an orgasm given to you by another person again?”
“I think you've made your point. You're fantastic at eating pussy and you're a walking human-sex toy.” You roll your eyes at him and start to walk towards the door, but he grabs your wrist in his metal hand, stopping you.
He pulls you back to him and brings his flesh hand to cradle your jawline. He stares at you in a heavy, uncertain silence for a split second before bringing his lips to yours.
It's a kiss that's a bit more hesitant, and a lot less rushed than the one before. You taste yourself all over him, warm and salty. He takes his time getting lost in your mouth - you savor every second and it still comes to and end all too once.
“Couldn't help myself,” he smiles softly when he pulls away. “Just had to kiss you one last time.”
You can't help the way your heart skips a beat when he says the word last.
You clear your throat. “We should probably go find Sam and Natasha,” you say, giving him a small smile in return. “I'm sure they're both wondering where the hell we are.”
You spend the rest of the evening attempting to mingle with friends, but there's one thought that torments you for the remaining duration of the night - just a few hours ago, you doubted that you'd ever have a satisfactory hook-up ever again.
Now, you had to wonder if anyone else could ever make you feel as good as Bucky did.
♡♡♡♡♡
i left this kind of open-ended soooo leave it to your own interpretation what happens next for them 🤭
as always comments/reblogs are infinitely appreciated. thanks for reading!
Currently thinking about being on the run with Bucky in Romania, and getting fucked to tears in that tiny ass apartment.
Like, he has you on your side, one of your legs laying between his, while he holds your other leg over his shoulder. His grip is bruising on your ankle. He has to sink his teeth into your calf to keep from making embarrassing noises.
You’re writhing beneath him, worn sheets clutched in your fists as you moan.
“Gotta be quiet,” Bucky grunts, “the neighbors…”
He’s making these deep, depraved noises as he grinds his hips into yours, making your walls flutter around him. Your stomach feels tight, full. You can’t catch your breath.
You nod lazily into the pillows, but your jaw hangs loose. “I can’t-“ you pant.
Maybe Bucky just lets you whine helplessly as he snaps his hips against yours, or maybe he slips a few fingers into your mouth to shut you up.
Maybe you suck on them, drool on them, maybe your teeth sink into his knuckles.
Or maybe his palm smoothes over your mouth, his thumb pressing into your cheek as he fucks you.
He can’t steady his pace, switching between slow and deep, to fast and punishing- because fuck it feels so good. And you take it, moaning into his hand, the taste of him lingering on your tongue.
Maybe it’s quick and you fall asleep after, or maybe he draws it out, his heightened libido dragging you through hours of positions and muffles moans.
Maybe your eyes roll back at some point and you lose track of time, until eventually you’re passed out as the first rays of sun peak through the windows.
And it’s easy, like a routine.
All you have to think about in those moments is the pleasure, and the domestic task of being quiet for the sleeping neighbors.
Synopsis: After a successful yet traumatizing mission, you dream of losing Bucky for the first time in years. In a fit of panic, you call him. He answers. Not the phone, but the call your heart makes to his.
Warnings: Slow burn, fluff, minor angst if you squint, best friends to lovers?, mentions of; blood, injuries, burning bodies, crumbling buildings, nightmares, death, loss, panic attacks, and religious imagery, down!bad bucky, very obvious they are in love, WC: 3k
A/N: Thank you for the request! I really do love slow-burns. I wrote this in like, forty minutes so if it’s bad, I’m sorry! Also, listen to the song! it elevates the experience. Reblogs & Comments appreciated!
The quinjet landed just after midnight.
The compound’s landing pad lights flickered against the sheen of metal, casting long shadows as the ramp lowered with a hiss. The mission had ended hours ago, but the adrenaline hadn’t faded, not really. It clung to your skin like sweat, and its success didn’t account for the blood caked beneath your fingernails or the tremble in your fingertips when you keyed in your ID. It didn’t reflect the way your chest still heaved like you were mid-sprint, lungs not quite convinced you were out of danger.
The inside of your suit was stiff with dried blood—some yours, most not.
As you stepped down into the quiet night, your body ached with exhaustion, but your mind wouldn’t slow. Not even with the hum of familiarity beneath your boots. You were safe and the mission was over.
And still, you felt like the rug was going to be pulled out from under you any second.
You chose to go on this mission alone. You had done your research, accounted for all the mistakes that could have been, memorized the facts and mission brief, and yet. Muscles aching, you leaned your head against the cool metal.
The elevator hummed as it carried you back up to the main floor. The doors opened to the familiar click of Tony’s boots echoing from the kitchen, and Natasha’s soft voice somewhere behind him. Laughter floated down the hallway—Sam, probably, cracking jokes at this late hour.
You stepped into the glow of the kitchen and the moment your boots hit tile, all heads turned.
“Hey, hey—look who made it back alive,” Sam called, voice low but teasing as he leaned against the counter. His eyes raked over your bloodied body and softened a fraction.
Natasha looked up from her tea. “You’re late.” She had kept tabs on you in the beginning. She had no idea how horrible it had gone, how it had all unravelled.
Tony grinned from the bar, nursing something with too much tequila and not enough sense. “She walks in looking like a murder scene and you’re giving her shit?” He raised the glass towards you in a silent salute. “Welcome back.”
You let out a breath of laughter, slow and tired. The kind that pulled from your chest more like a sigh.
“Just took the scenic route,” you said, voice hoarse. “You know how I enjoy a pretty view.”
The words felt like bile on your tongue. There had been nothing pretty about anything you had seen. You knew they’d see bits and pieces in the morning, how their concern would flood your senses, but for now, you shoved it all to the back of your mind.
The last thing you needed was Sam sitting you down or Natasha hovering.
You felt his eyes before you saw them. Warm, filled with knowing.
Bucky stood near the wall, arms crossed, his figure still as stone. His hair was brushed back, strands curling loose around his face. The dark t-shirt stretched over his chest like it didn’t want to let go of him. His eyes followed every subtle movement you made—the slight limp, the way your shoulders curled inward, your haunted silence.
To others, you were fine. A little bruised, shaken up, but smiling.
To him, you were a storm waiting to break. Something scraped and aching.
Both of you had a tradition, something that had started years ago. A simple nod and smile after a mission, just to assure the other that you were okay, that you hadn’t let the mission come back home.
You avoided his gaze and set your bag down with a soft thud. You knew, knew he’d read you too easily. He had offered to come with you, not because he thought you couldn’t handle it but because two sets of hands were always better than one. He wanted to help you, be someone you could lean on, but you had refused with a smile.
Flashes of burning bodies and crumbled buildings hit you like a truck and you blinked.
You didn’t smile or nod, just dodged his burning stare. He clenched his jaw.
“Gonna shower,” you murmured. “See you guys in the morning.”
“You want dinner?” Sam offered. “We saved—”
“I’ll grab it later,” you cut him off, turning. “Thanks.”
Bucky watched you disappear down the hallway, the tension in your spine making his own body coil tight. He hated seeing you like this, hated that things had gone wrong and he hadn’t been there to help you.
“Don’t follow her,” Natasha said quietly, not unkindly.
He didn’t move. Not yet.
But later, when the kitchen had emptied, goodnights shared, and lights dimmed, Bucky made you a plate anyway. Put your favourites on it. Covered it in foil and tucked it into the fridge. Maybe, just maybe, you’d listen to your body and eat something.
He couldn’t force you, but he could make it easier.
Quietly, he made his way down to his floor, but stopped at yours first. The elevator doors opened silently and he was greeted with a dark floor, eerily quiet. He moved towards your bedroom, eyed the bandages and medkit on the counter.
He paused at your door for a moment, eyes narrowed, trying to listen through the silence. He heard nothing, just your soft breaths, a rustle.
Then, slowly, he walked away.
Sleep didn’t come easily anymore, not for you. It hadn’t, for years.
But when it finally did, it came hard and fast—dragging you under into a memory that wasn’t quite a memory. The sky was red. Your lungs burned. In the middle of the smoke and gunfire and screaming. You were running toward him.
“Bucky!”
Your voice tore out of you in a ragged scream. He turned, slow and silhouetted in the haze, blood on his shirt—so much blood—and then he was gone.
Shot. Chest ripped open. Dying.
You dropped to your knees. You were screaming. Shaking.
He was bleeding out in your arms, dog tags slick with blood, his blue eyes wide and fading.
You woke up gasping.
Your sheets were damp with sweat, clinging to your skin like a second, suffocating layer. The room was too dark. Too quiet. Your chest felt like it was collapsing in on itself, like your heart was breaking from the inside. You could barely breathe, throat raw.
He had died.
No, No—that wasn’t real.
You scrambled for your phone with shaking hands, barely able to put in the passcode. Your fingers shook as you tapped his name. It was instinct, muscle memory.
One ring. Two—
Panicked, you ended the call, dropping the phone like it burned. Your hands were in your hair.
“No, no, no—” you whispered, tossing the phone aside as you covered your mouth with both hands. You couldn’t breathe. Your body rocked with panic, your mind caught between now and then and that awful dream where he’d died and you couldn’t save him.
You hadn’t had a dream like this in years. You used to dream about loss—death—like it was family, but then you gained a new family, real and tangible. Hours at therapy had made you comfortable in your skin, had convinced you that loss could be prevented and how to deal with it.
But this—this was new. This was personal. This was Bucky. Your Bucky.
Pulling your legs up to your chest, you rocked back and forth, trying to breathe. The tears leaked out of your eyes anyways.
The phone vibrated once on the nightstand.
He was up before the second buzz.
Bucky didn’t waste time. Didn’t hesitate. He was already moving. Barefoot, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, dog tags clinking softly as he grabbed his gun from the nightstand. His metal hand clenched instinctively.
He glanced at his phone. Your name was on his screen.
You’d called and hung up.
That was enough to make his blood run cold.
You were only two floors up. He ignored the elevator and threw open the large metal doors, running quicker than he ever had before.
He didn’t knock. The door creaked open quietly. You didn’t hear it. He was silently glad you had granted him fingerprint access months ago. He didn’t need Jarvis alerting and disrupting you.
He stepped inside like he belonged there, in your space—because God, didn’t he?
His breath caught when he saw you—sitting up in bed, knees pulled to your chest, body trembling. You were sobbing. Your eyes vacant.
His heart cracked clean in half.
“Sweetheart…” His voice was soft, barely a breath.
You flinched. Then, your eyes met his—and he saw the exact moment they focused. The panic didn’t fade, but it shifted, turned into something raw, deeper.
“Bucky,” you gasped. His name felt like a prayer on your lips.
He crossed the room in three steps. Sunk to his knees in front of you, at the edge of your bed, like he’d done a hundred times before.
“Hey, hey,” his voice was soft, coaxing. “I’m here, Y/n. I got you.” He held his hands out, giving you the option to hold on or push him away. Either way, he wasn’t moving.
You stared at his hands for a second before you folded into him. You leaned down, off your bed, and wrapped your arms around his neck. He wrapped his arms around you like they’d been sculpted for this—holding, grounding, anchoring. Like these very hands hadn’t caused mass destruction.
He pulled you onto his left knee, pressing your trembling body into his. He rubbed your back, pressed his cheek into your hair. “It was just a dream,” he murmured into your hair. You didn’t need to tell him, he knew. “You’re safe. Look at me, Y/n.”
You did, slowly. Your hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging in. You hadn’t even realized he was shirtless, just holding on like you’d fall apart if you didn’t.
His eyes, blue and stormy were so soft, so calm as he stared at you. His eyes flickered across your face, taking in the light bruising and cuts. Gently, his arms went under your knees and around your waist and he stood up.
Your hold on him tightened and for a moment, you thought he was going to drop you onto the bed and leave. You whimpered, wounded.
Bucky’s heart clenched in his chest and he pressed you closer to his chest as he sat down on the edge of your bed with you in his lap. “None of that, sweetheart. I’m here. With you.”
He rubbed your back as your face fell into the nape of his shoulder and he held onto you tight, wanting nothing more than to take on whatever burden rested on your chest.
“You were—God, Bucky, you were gone,” you choked out, still breathless. “I watched you die.”
He exhaled hard, holding you tighter. He pressed his chin into your hair, hoping you hadn’t felt the shiver that ran down his back. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
You nodded against his skin but he could tell his words hadn’t fully registered. He remembers the first time he had dreamt of you dying. It had been years ago, when you had first made him laugh. He was trying to stay away from everyone, keep them out of harm's way, but you’d slowly but surely clawed your way inside his heart.
He hadn’t spoken to you in a week.
It wasn’t until you cornered him, told him that avoidance didn’t mean protection, that he tried to be better. For you.
He can’t remember if he’s ever died in your dreams. You hadn’t told him. He knew you used to dream about loss, but he wasn’t sure if he’d ever been included.
It was a terrifying feeling, he decided. Being on the receiving end of such a revelation. It meant too much. He meant too much and he didn’t know how to carry that weight with pride. If you were dreaming about losing him then that meant you had him.
And you did.
Irrevocably so.
You were the only one who ever had.
But this fear, the picture of him in your arms—it wasn’t one he wanted you to see, to experience. He hated that you had. He lost you in his dreams often, but that was because he didn’t have you. Couldn’t. It was his burden to bear.
You pressed your forehead to his chest, the steady beat of his heart grounding you. His body heat helped with your shivers, his scent a calming balm. You didn’t realize how hard you were crying until his fingers were brushing away tears from your cheeks.
“I’ll get you some water, okay?”
Part of you wanted to refuse, beg him not to leave you, but instead, you nodded, small and shaky.
You slid off his lap and he stood quietly, hand on your shoulder until he had no choice but to drop it as he moved quickly, stepping outside your bedroom door and into the kitchen. He opened a cabinet and pulled a large glass out, filled it halfway with water and downed it.
He sighed and braced the sides of the counter, head tipping down. He hated this, hated that you’d been alone on the mission and that things had gone wrong, hated that you’d been woken up by such gruesome nightmares.
He wasn’t a very religious man but he’d beg God for all of your pain. If he never had to see that vacant look in your red-rimmed eyes again, he’d thank the God that had once abandoned him.
He hadn’t heard. Hadn’t heard the soft patter of your feet or your shaky breathing, too caught up in his mind.
But he felt you, felt your arms slide around his waist as you pressed into his back. He stilled before he sagged at the contact. You rested your cheek against his back, his hands resting on yours.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” you whispered, guilt dripping onto the floors.
“You didn’t,” he lied. He had been, but that wasn’t your fault. “Just needed to see you.”
The silence that followed was soft, fragile. Sacred.
“I couldn’t save you.” You sounded broken, like even the words were pulling you under.
“You called me,” he said gently, tilting his head. “You reached for me. That means something.” He slowly turned in your arms, his arms wrapping around your waist as he looked at you, eyes having fully adjusted to the dark.
“Why’d you get out of bed?”
You looked away at the question, mildly embarrassed. But his eyes didn’t move, just watched you. “I needed to see you. Touch you.”
His lips parted at the admission. His arms around you tightened and he tipped his head down, chin resting on your head. “I’m here, sweetheart. I’m okay. Alive.”
“Yeah,” you said. But it didn’t feel like enough.
Unbeknownst to either of you, you had begun to sway. It was soft, a whisper of muscle movement, but Bucky rocked you, side to side. It felt a bit like slow dancing, like if a candle had been lit and some 80s jazz had been playing, everything could have been warm and filled with love.
It was a little like that now.
The floors were cold and the room was dim but there was warmth between you, a press of chests as his body heat slowly enticed yours. There was love in the air, flickers of it wrapping around you like it couldn’t be helped.
Bucky didn’t want to be anywhere else. Here, in your arms, swaying with you in the kitchen was everything he wanted—needed. But you needed more, needed sleep and a restful night.
With an arm around you, he leaned back and filled the same glass with some water. Still close, he brought it to your lips and smiled softly when you let him tilt the glass up. The cool water soothed the dryness in your throat and you sighed, forehead against his bare chest.
“Come on,” he whispered into your ear. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
He filled the glass to the top before he flexed his arm and crouched down a little. “Jump, sweetheart.”
With practiced ease, like it was second nature and maybe it was, you wrapped your legs around his waist and his hand, his warm, strong hand rested under your thigh. It was intimate, sweet, and it broke through the clouds that were in your head.
Made something warm, something delicate and treasured curl up in your stomach.
Holding you with one arm and the glass with the other, Bucky made his way back into your bedroom.
If these were any other circumstances, if you weren’t quietly still mourning him in your mind, you would have fully appreciated it. Bucky holding you and taking you to bed had been a dirty little secret of yours, something you’d think about and imagine when you were alone.
It—with his genuine love and affection—was all you wanted.
You didn’t know you already had it.
“Do you want me to go?” he asked softly, already knowing the answer.
Your arms tightened around him as he eased you back into bed, carefully, never once letting go of you. You shook your head. “No. Can you stay? Please.”
He didn’t hesitate.
Bucky slid under the covers beside you, careful not to crowd. But then you turned and curled into his space, borrowing into his chest, your body instinctively molding to his, your face in the crook of his shoulder.
He wrapped himself around you instantly.
One arm tucked under your neck, the other holding you tight against his chest. His dog tags were cool against your skin. His hand pressed to the small of your back. You breathed in his scent—soap and cedar and wood—something so distinctly him.
“I don’t wanna lose you, Buck,” you whispered into his skin, heart settling but still afraid.
He exhaled sharply and buried his nose in your hair. “You won’t, Y/n. I’m here, with you. I’ll always come back to you.” He pressed his lips to the crown of your head. “Just how you always come back to me.”
“Okay,” you whispered, focusing on his steady heartbeat, feeling safe for the first time in a week.
And in that quiet, the hush of your room, wrapped in his arms, the steady rhythm of two hearts finally beating in sync, your eyes drifted shut.
Summary: For the first few months you worked with the avengers, they barely knew you. Beyond what you were like during a mission, you were a mystery to them. It was truly marvelous how well you worked with the team and yet there was so little they knew about you.
You barely went to team bonding and you NEVER went to Tony Stark's parties. Well, not until last night. And you’re never going again.
A/N: this is the longest thing I’ve written, WHOOPS. I couldn’t stop with this one so hope some of y’all enjoy it! Ps: no I don’t know what card game Steve and Bucky are playing, make believe (shrugs) beta read by my friend @whats-yesterday00
It’s official. You’re never leaving your room again.
Not after what happened last night.
From this moment forward you are not leaving your room. No matter the reason. No matter how much they beg.
Actually that’s a lie, you would have to leave your room at some point.
But you’re going to camp out in your room for as long as possible.
There’s a chance that if you do leave your room, and risk running into him, you’ll melt into a pile of goo on the floor. Or maybe you’d implode from the mortification.
Either way, you shouldn’t risk it.
You should just revert to the old version of you. The girl that didn’t ever leave her room. Was too intimidated by the other avengers to spend time with them. The girl who — even though you had been given a warm welcome — didn’t feel like part of the team yet.
For the first few months you worked with the avengers, they barely knew you. Beyond what you were like during a mission, you were a mystery to them. It was truly marvelous how well you worked with the team and yet there was so little they knew about you.
Steve would occasionally organize team bonding events. After you joined, Steve planned them more frequently. A subtle way to get you to open up to them.
Sometimes you would attend. Key word, sometimes.
Usually, it would take some convincing from a few of them. Like when Sam would crack some jokes about how this week you HAD to be there because they were doing XYZ and so on. At some point you’d feel guilty for missing it and show up only to sit there quietly the whole time. You’d speak when spoken to, but never intentionally join a conversation.
A majority of the time, you wouldn’t feel up for socializing and gave some excuse as to why you’re not feeling well. Steve never pushed you to show, but his eyes grew soft with concern whenever you told him you couldn’t attend.
But, at some point, the Avengers noticed a change in you. You stopped turning down bonding events and started actually participating. They would find you hanging out in the lounge more often or sticking around to watch movies.
After a long and brutal game of Uno during game night, they were all left surprised by how excited and competitive you were. The game ended with a stare down between you and Clint.
You were still a relatively shy person, just more willing to open up and be yourself around them. None of them knew what caused this sudden change, but few of them had their theories.
The first time you were tempted to leave your room was about two months after you started living in the compound.
You were standing on the only chair available in your room which happened to be the swivel desk chair. Was it the safest way to hang up your room decor? Probably not. But you wanted to decorate your walls and this was the only way to do it.
Your arms were starting to grow tired. One hand was holding up the poster, desperately trying to keep it straight, while the other was trying to rip off a piece of tape.
Somehow the chair moved just the right way and you lost your balance. You stumbled to the floor and took the chair with you.
“Shit!” You loudly groaned after landing on your side with a thump.
As you carefully stood back up, you heard a voice from the other side of your door.
“You okay in there?”
Your stomach dropped at the realization someone heard you fall. The urge to ignore the voice was strong, but you also knew they were just trying to check on you.
With a slight limp, you approached the door and opened it. Behind it was a concerned Bucky Barnes. Up until now, you’d never gotten this close of a look at him before. You never noticed how blue his eyes actually were. It was almost hypnotizing the way you were so easily lost in them as he stared back at you.
“Are you alright? I heard a crash.”
You blinked back to reality. “Yeah I’m fine. I fell trying to put up a poster,” you gestured towards it- now discarded (and thankfully not ripped) on the ground.
He peeked inside to see the fallen chair and poster. “Want some help?”
His kind gesture shouldn’t have surprised you. There was no indication Bucky Barnes was a bad guy. He was a great partner to work with in the field and his friends spoke very highly of him. But it did surprise you because outside of that, you never really had the chance to actually interact with him.
You also heard a notorious amount of grumpy old man jokes from Sam that you didn’t exactly know how to interpret.
“Yeah sure,” you nodded.
He followed behind and entered your room. He examined the decorations you managed to put up in the time you’ve been living there.
There were various music and movie posters of pop culture he mostly didn’t recognize. There were fake plants littered all around the room, scattered on different surfaces. The shelves were also covered with books. Rows and rows of books, that would’ve taken him years to get through. Close to the ceiling were strings of lights that gave the room a soft warm glow.
While he stood in the quiet of your room he noticed the faint music playing in the background. His face grew with curiosity as he looked around for where the sound was coming from.
“What song is that?”
You walked to your desk and grabbed the chair off the floor. “I’m not sure. It’s a playlist of old music I found online. Sometimes I like to put on old music from the 30s and 40s to have as background noise.”
You pointed to a YouTube video playing on your computer.
“You like old music?” He inquired, looking slightly surprised.
“Yeah, but I don’t know much about it,” you shrugged. “I don’t know what was popular back then or have any favorites.”
He glanced at the video playing on your computer, “I could give you some recommendations if you want.”
“Really?” you asked with growing enthusiasm.
The corners of his mouth threatened to perk up. “Yeah why not? If you wanna get into that type of music. Who better to learn it from?”
“That sounds great,” you said with a shy smile.
The realization dawned on you that now you were both just standing in the quiet of your room. You grabbed the poster and cleared your throat to grab his attention.
“Oh right,” he mumbled, looking a bit flustered and ran a hand through his short hair. “Where did you want to hang it?”
“Up here,” You pointed to the empty space on the wall next to your desk.
He took the poster from you and carefully stepped on the chair as you held it still. He placed it against the wall, following your directions for where to hang it. You handed him a few pieces of tape and he slowly flattened out the poster before sticking it to the wall. When he was finished, he stepped off the chair and took a step back with you to get a proper look at it. The picture hung high above your desk. A starry sky with a collection of different constellations.
“It looks nice. I like what you’ve done with your room,” he complimented.
“Thanks. And thank you for helping.”
“It was no problem. Wouldn’t want you breaking a bone from falling off a chair,” he lightly teased.
You started to blush at the embarrassing reminder. “Please don’t tell anyone about that.”
Bucky pressed his pointer finger and thumb to his lips and ran them across his mouth, showing you his lips are sealed.
After he left, you admired the poster on the wall, listening to the music still playing in the background. The image of him still fresh in your mind.
Bucky was nicer than you expected. Not that you expected him to be an asshole. But he was one of the few Avengers you hesitated to talk to because they were a bit intimidating outside of work. Bucky had a consistent glare or grumpy look on his face that kept you at arm's length.
The day after the poster situation when you made yourself coffee in the morning, someone stopped near you and waited for their turn to use the coffee machine.
“Hey, I made that song list I was telling you about.”
You looked to see Bucky standing next to you and digging something out of his back pocket. He handed you a folded piece of notebook paper.
“Most of them are from the 30s and early 40s, songs I used to listen to. But I also included some late 40s and 50s songs I was introduced to after the war and … everything.”
When you took the paper from him your stomach swirled with something you haven’t felt in a long time.
“Thanks,” you replied sweetly, “I’ll give them a listen later.”
He offered you a small smile before filling his mug with coffee.
That was probably the first time you started to see through his tough exterior and he let his real self shine through the cracks.
_____
After that day you started to pay more attention to Bucky. In the field, in the compound. Just in general.
While you still didn’t spend much time with the team, in the brief moments that you did, your attention would drift towards him. You were more aware of his presence when he was near.
And you did in fact give the songs he recommended a listen. You listened to them quite often actually.
You were still listening to those songs weeks later.
You were in the kitchen listening to your new “oldies” playlist. It was late in the night and you needed to focus on something that wasn’t the chaos swarming in your brain. So, you decided to break out the baking supplies and royal icing you bought weeks ago.
As you flattened out the dough with a rolling pin a figure appeared from the dimly lit hallway.
“What are you doing?” Bucky asked once he noticed your presence. His voice was laced with sleep.
“Making cookies,” you answered, grabbing the cookie cutters.
He walked closer to the kitchen island and leaned his forearms on the counter. “Why are you making cookies at one in the morning?”
“Stress baking.”
There was a pause as he watched you cut flower shapes out of the dough.
“Can’t sleep?”
You shrugged without looking up, “something like that.” You didn’t feel like elaborating.
This guy you barely know definitely does not want to be hearing about how you can’t sleep from anxiety. He didn’t need to hear that after the last mission you went on with the team your brain was constantly screaming at you all the things you did wrong and could’ve done better.
“Do you do this a lot?” he gestured towards your work. "Bake in the middle of the night?”
“I have once or twice. It also helps that no one is coming and going so I get some peace and quiet.”
Bucky visibly tensed at your explanation, “sorry I ruined it.”
Your head perked up immediately to prove him wrong. “It’s alright, you didn’t.”
He looked relieved to hear that.
“What are you making?”
“Sugar cookies, but I’m gonna put icing on when they’re done.” You placed the cut out dough on the baking sheet.
Your stomach coiled with nerves before speaking again. “I could save you some. If you want,” you said in a quieter voice.
His eyes softened and he smiled at you. “That’d be great.”
As you continued placing cookie dough on the sheet, he walked over the fridge to fetch what he came down to the kitchen for.
Now that the room was quiet, he could fully process the music that was playing in the background. For a moment, he stared at the inside of the fridge as he listened to the beginning notes of the next song.
He finally grabbed the bottle of water and closed the fridge door before eyeing you with a quirked brow.
“Billie Holiday?”
You looked up from the cookies in confusion. You momentarily registered the song playing in the background was “What a Little Moonlight Can Do” by Billie Holiday. One of the songs from the list he gave you.
“Oh yeah I finally made my own playlist. Most of the songs are the ones you gave me,” you grabbed the baking sheet and carefully placed it in the oven.
“You liked the songs?” His voice sounded like it had a hint of surprise.
You nodded as the corners of your mouth perked into a grin. “I do yeah. They’re really good. It’s different from the normal stuff I listen to but it’s really growing on me.”
Joy inched its way onto his face as he listened to you. “That’s great. I’m glad.”
You leaned back against the counter and took off the apron you were wearing. “You have good taste in music.”
The ends of his ears turned red, “Thanks.”
Silence returned to the kitchen. you both stood there not knowing what to say next. The air between you was thick, like you wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words.
The song continued playing in the background, almost taunting you.
You’re in love
You’re hearts a flutter
And all day long,
You only stutter
How dare Billie Holiday tease you right now with him in the same room. Who gave her the permission to take a peek into your heart and put it on display in front of him.
The music was disrupted by Bucky clearing his throat, “well, I should go back to my room.”
You shoved your hands in your pockets, “hope you get some sleep.”
He nodded before making his way out of the kitchen and walking down the hall.
A few seconds after you were sure he left, you took a long deep breath. You stood there grappling with the fact that you definitely were starting to feel something for him.
Something strong.
Something you couldn’t get rid of.
The next morning you stood on the other side of Bucky’s door with a small plastic container in your hands.
This was starting to feel silly. You’ve stared down countless criminals and kicked the crap out of them. But this was making you nervous.
With a shaky hand you finally knocked, and hoped that he was actually in his room.
It took only a brief moment for Bucky to answer. He must have just showered. His hair was a bit messy, slightly damp and he smelled nice. He was wearing one of those black compression shirts that hugged his muscles all the right ways.
It should be illegal for him to look that good.
“Hey, what’s up?” He asked, surprised to see you.
His question paused your ogling and brought your attention back to why you were there in the first place.
“I saved some cookies for you,” you offered him the tupperware.
Bucky’s eyes softened as he glanced between you and the dessert. He took the container from you and opened the lid, looking down with a smile at the flower cookies with purple, yellow and pink frosting.
“Thanks, they look amazing,” he complimented. “Hope you didn’t stay up all night making them.”
You shrugged, “It’s fine, I ended up getting some sleep. It helped me clear my mind.”
Only because something else obsessively invaded your thoughts. Someone that cleared away the anxiety from your job.
_____
As the weeks rolled by, you started to leave the sanctity of your bedroom and brave the common areas.
Was it because of Bucky? Maybe.
You found yourself intrigued by the man. And it didn’t hurt that he was easy on the eyes.
That’s why you slowly but surely started to hang out with them more. You needed an excuse to be around him.
It was almost embarrassing how much your crush on Bucky was affecting you. You were so worried about talking to the other teammates, yet desperately wanted to talk to him. Even if it was for a fleeting moment.
The team took notice of your increased presence around the compound. Some were quiet about it, others weren’t, and loved to tease you.
In a weird way, the teasing made you feel more welcomed. Like you were really part of the team.
“Well well well,” Sam started with a smirk as he walked into the gym. “Look who’s training while the sun’s still out.”
You froze in the middle of wrapping your hands to look up at him, Bucky, and Steve about to start their workout.
”I’m not nocturnal Sam,” you joked back.
Usually, you would visit the gym at night before you went to sleep while no one else was there. As of lately, you had a slight change in routine.
“Could’ve fooled me. I heard that you bake in the middle of the night.”
Your eyebrows raised at his comment, “How’d you know that?”
“Little birdie told me.” his grin couldn’t get any wider.
You looked to the only possible suspect. Bucky’s eyes quickly averted from you as his ears turned pink.
Steve shook his head with a smile at his two friends. He tapped Sam’s shoulder before making his way to the bench, “c’mon quit bothering her.”
Sam playfully rolled his eyes at Steve before pointing in your direction, “I better see you at game night later.”
You shrugged, “Maybe I could stop by.”
“You better stop by. We’re breaking out Uno,” he beamed before following behind Steve.
You smiled to yourself as he left and finished wrapping your hands. Before you could hit the punching bag, you realized Bucky didn’t leave to join Sam and Steve.
“You want some help?” he offered while pointing towards the bag.
You nodded as nerves turned your stomach. “Yeah sure.”
He walked closer to the punching bag, held it, and prepared for you to strike.
You exhaled and prepped your stance while staring at the bag in front of you. Your punches started off weak and hesitant — mostly because of his presence — before you slowly relaxed and drew more of your strength.
Besides Sam and Steve, another Avenger that always tried to rope you into social functions was Tony. Occasionally he would throw some party for a holiday or even for no special reason, simply because he wanted to.
The only party of his that you attended was the first one he threw after you joined. Only because he didn’t give you much of a choice. After that, you never attended another Stark party.
Well, until last night.
“I’m going all out for this one. Thor’s coming back to earth and man does that guy like to party,” Tony boasted about his plans for the weekend in the lounge. Or what would soon become last night's party.
You silently sat in the corner of the couch “reading” a book. Well, you were reading but now you were nosy and listening to the people around you. As part of your attempt to be more social with the team, you bravely chose the lounge instead of your room.
You heard earlier that Thor was returning after being away from earth for a few weeks doing some Asgardian space duties you didn’t know the details of.
“Don’t set anything on fire this time,” Wanda teased before taking a sip from her mug.
Tony spun on his heel to point at her. “That was not me!”
A few chuckles could be heard throughout the room, even a quiet one from you. You’d heard the same story from three different people about how Tony swears it wasn’t his fault that his drink spilled and caused a small electrical fire.
“Regardless, it’s going to be amazing and I better see you all there on Friday,” he then pointed at Bucky playing cards with Steve. “And that means you Barnes. Don’t think I forgot you missed out last time.”
”Looks like I lucked out considering you almost burned the place down,” Bucky quipped back without looking up from his cards.
Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. “It wasn’t me,” he mumbled under his breath.
Steve nudged his best friend before placing another card down on the coffee table. “Come on Buck, it’ll be fun.”
Bucky gave a long stare to Steve. You noticed he tended to do that a lot. Turn a normal glare into a staring contest with Sam or Steve. A few seconds passed before he placed his next card down with a sigh. “Fine.”
Having sensed that your eyes were on him, Bucky glanced up at you from across the room. Your gaze darted away and back to your book in an instant.
Tony noticed this and walked closer to the couch, studying you trying to read. He could clearly tell you were listening in and watching. “What about you, wallflower?”
Your head perked up in confusion.
You knew he was addressing you because of the nickname. At first Steve was worried about Tony calling you that, but you actually secretly liked it. It was like the teasing, made you feel more included.
“You wanna step out of your comfort zone? Ready to mingle?”
You let the question hang in the air for a moment, contemplating your response. After hearing Bucky’s answer, the idea of attending Tony’s party was sounding more and more appealing.
“I might.”
You tried to ignore how a few sets of eyes landed on you. Including his.
“Seriously?” Tony asked, not expecting you to actually accept his invitation.
”Yes seriously, I’m considering it,” you answered with more confidence.
Tony excitedly snapped and pointed at you. “That’s a yes! You can’t take that back.”
You awkwardly smiled in return.
“Finally! I knew this day would come,” Tony cheered as he left the lounge.
You attempted to actually read your book now but felt Bucky’s gaze lingering on you. When you met his eyes, they returned to the pile of cards on the coffee table. You then finally went back to your reading.
_____
You don’t know what feels worse. The pounding headache from last night's drinks, or the anxiety pulling you apart from the inside out.
While you laid in bed, the lights were kept dim to not aggravate your headache further. You were admiring the poster Bucky helped you hang up. For so long you’d look at it and your thoughts would drift to the man who helped you hang it. Your mood would lift or your heart would flutter making you feel giddy.
Now, you wanted to rip it off your wall.
It stared back at you as a reminder of what you did last night. You couldn’t stop thinking about how it only took a little liquid courage and one single brave moment to embarrass yourself. You most likely ruined your chances of becoming real friends with him, or even something more.
There’s no way Bucky actually wants to be with you. There’s no way Bucky felt the same way, held the same admiration for you that you did for him. He’d probably be nice about it and let you down easily.
Well, he tried to let you down easily, but your fear interrupted him before he could inevitably ask you to forget about what happened. You couldn’t listen to it. You didn’t want to hear the heartbreaking reality that he didn’t want you beyond a spur of the moment fling.
You’d rather just let the whole thing blow over. Let Bucky take your silence as a signal to let this pass. Let everyone forget about it and go about their business like normal. Because words always travel fast here. And by now everyone probably fucking knew about you and Bucky.
As the hours rolled by and the sun was setting, you couldn’t ignore the fact that you ran out of the water and food stashed in your room.
You have to leave. As much as you don’t want to, you have to.
It kind of felt weird, spending all day in your room. You’d just started getting used to being around everyone, that now it felt kind of normal. You almost looked forward to the social interactions. Even if you didn’t speak a lot or join in some conversations. Just being around them felt … nice.
You rolled over in bed and reached for your phone left on the nightstand. After turning off do not disturb, the screen was flooded with notifications. Part of you was surprised that they were checking in on you considering it used to be normal for you to live like a hermit.
Natasha: Morning sleepyhead, you hungover? Feeling alright?
Clint: I got doughnuts, you better get down here before Thor wakes up and eats them all
Steve: Hey, you doing okay?
Let me know if you need anything
And 1 missed call followed by 2 texts from Bucky:
I know you’re hiding in your room
Can we talk?
You really didn’t want to talk. Because you knew he wanted to talk about last night. You weren’t ready to have that conversation yet. You weren’t ready when Bucky tried knocking on your door hours ago and you still weren’t ready now.
Maybe later tonight. Depending on your bravery.
You didn’t answer any of their messages. Just got out of bed and shoved your phone in your pocket.
You hoped there wasn’t a large crowd or any crowd period in the kitchen. But unfortunately, you weren’t so lucky. As you approached the kitchen you heard voices that only got louder as you got closer.
You stayed behind the doorway while you listened. Not exactly intentional eavesdropping. More like you froze at the realization they were talking about you.
“What the hell did I do now?” Tony complained, he sounded offended.
“You told everyone about me and Y/N,” Bucky scolded Tony, his tone sounding bitter and angry.
“Correction, I told two people last night,” Tony countered. “It’s not my fault that the gossip was so juicy it spread like wildfire.”
“You’re unbelievable,” Bucky grumbled.
“What’s unbelievable is you and your girl not making out sooner.”
You heard Bucky sigh and after a pause he quietly mumble, but it was loud enough for you to hear. “She’s not my girl.”
Those words echoed in your ears as if you heard it up close. She’s not my girl.
A suffocating ache wound itself around your chest. Your fists clenched so tight, your fingernails made an imprint on your palm.
His girl. You could only dream of being his girl.
You almost went back to your room. Almost. But you were already here, and the kitchen wouldn’t be empty for hours.
During the pause in their conversation, you passed the threshold. The room fell silent. The sound of a pin drop could bounce off the walls. You felt the tension in your bones with every single step you took.
You didn’t look any of them in the eyes. You couldn’t. Just kept your focus trained on the floor as you moved the counter.
From the cabinet, you found a large refillable water bottle to stock up and keep in your room. You waited at the fridge for it to fill.
All their eyes on you made your whole body tense. You couldn’t see it, but you could feel it. Their looks weighed like a heavy blanket and they practically saw right through you.
Steve was the first to break the silence. “How’ve you been? Are you feeling alright?”
You cleared your throat before speaking. You don’t know the last time you said something, your voice was probably hoarse. “I’m fine. Was a bit hungover this morning, didn’t feel well.”
The second the water bottle was filled, you tightened the lid and turned back to the counter where you found the box of doughnuts that Clint texted you about. With a nervous hand, you grabbed the last chocolate frosted doughnut.
You belined for the hallway, eager to leave when Bucky called your name. His voice reached through your chest cavity and squeezed your heart. You didn’t stop walking. You couldn’t speak to him. Not yet.
____________________________
“And that means you Barnes. Don’t think I forgot you missed out last time.”
Instead of actually acknowledging that he was absent during Stark’s last party, Bucky opted for poking fun at the man. He didn’t even have to look up from their card game to know that Stark was rolling his eyes or pinching his brow in frustration.
Bucky felt Steve’s elbow nudge his side before he placed another card on the coffee table. “Come on Buck, it’ll be fun,” Steve tried to encourage.
Bucky stared back at his best friend, trying to silently tell Steve that he would rather Stark actually burn down the building.
Bucky hates parties.
Actually that's a lie.
Bucky Barnes used to love parties. Before HYDRA, he used to be the life of the party. He’d be cracking jokes with his pals or going out dancing with dames. The music was loud and the excitement ran through the room and into your bloodstream, carrying you across the dance floor.
After everything that happened, he didn’t have much party left in him. It left him more reserved, more introverted. His blood ran cold now.
He always went to those team bonding things Steve organized because, well it was Steve, but they were also smaller, more intimate. He even found himself having fun. Some of the movies the team chose were weird, but some he really liked. During game nights he was more engaged then he expected he would be.
But the large parties he wished he could avoid. Now, the loud music irritated his ears. The modern music that played wasn’t to his taste and hard to dance to. The very few festivities he did attend, Steve managed to convince Tony to play one or two old songs from the 40s or at least the 50s, but that was it.
Steve stared back at him with an expression he was all too familiar with. It was the same look that Bucky would give scrawny little Stevie back in the day when he tried to convince him to join.
Bucky sighed and placed a card on the table. “Fine,” he grumbled.
In his peripheral vision, he sensed someone looking in his direction. When he turned away from their card game, he was met with your eyes. But only for a second, before they retreated back into your book.
Steve's mouth curled into a smile as he put down another card. “Who knows you might like it. And maybe your girl will go,” he whispered.
“She’s not my girl,” Bucky muttered back. The words tasted bitter in his mouth. He didn’t want a reminder that he didn’t have the luxury of calling you his girl.
From the moment you met, he knew he needed you in his life. Not just because you were pretty. And God damn it you were so pretty. But because you were enchanting.
It was like you had some magnetic pull on him he couldn’t avoid.
He’d worked with you on multiple missions because of course Steve immediately caught whiff of Bucky’s interest in you and paired you guys up. He saw first hand the power you wielded during a fight. The mysterious way you hid in the shadows and snuck up on people rivaled only him and Natasha. He almost got knocked out once because he stood there watching you attack a guard that towered over you like it was nothing.
Steve wouldn’t shut up about that for a whole week.
But when you weren’t beating up criminals or sitting in silence during mission briefings, he barely saw you. You almost never showed face at team functions and (more importantly) you never spoke to him.
He was worried you didn’t like him, or even worse you hated him. Steve and Sam tried to convince him that wasn’t true but it still never left his mind. It was still in his mind when he passed by your room and heard that crash. Bucky remained cautious, scared that you would ignore him or act coldly, but he still felt compelled to make sure you were okay.
And when he did finally get the small chances to talk to you, to see the parts of you that you often hid, he felt a thousand times lighter. Bucky saw the light in you grow brighter as you became more comfortable with the team.
In the moments you let your walls down, you shined like a diamond.
But he never saw you shine like that at Stark’s parties.
Bucky shook his head as he placed a new card, “besides, she never shows, you know that.”
Bucky noticed Stark approaching you to test the waters with an invitation for you to attend. He shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but then again, it isn’t exactly a private conversation. And he had enhanced hearing anyway.
“You wanna step out of your comfort zone? Ready to mingle?”
“I might.”
His head immediately snapped in your direction. He couldn’t hear what Stark asked you, he was too focused on your response.
“Yes seriously, I'm considering it.”
As of lately, you had a habit of saying you might go instead of actually saying yes. He noticed this because every single time you said ‘maybe,’ you showed up. It seemed like a way to give yourself an escape. A safety net to land in the roaring sea of anxiety.
But if you were considering it, that definitely meant you were going.
He tried to not linger on the fact that his heart rate increased the more he thought about it.
Stark seemed quite excited at your answer. “That's a yes! You can’t take that back”
You gave a bright smile in response. Bucky loved your smile. He’d go to hell and back to see you smile.
He didn’t realize he was still staring until you looked up from your book. He quickly returned his attention back to the cards in his hand.
Bucky cleared his throat, “is it my turn?”
“Nope,” Steve tried to hide the humor in his voice as he placed a winning card.
Bucky sighed while tossing his remaining cards on the table. He wasn’t too bummed about losing the game though. He was still thinking about seeing you Friday night.
_____
Steve Rogers is a traitor.
Well, at this very second he is a traitor. Because he is on the dance floor, dancing with you.
Slow dancing with you.
Bucky was watching from afar. Wait, that sounds creepy when he thinks about it like that. He was observing the party, and naturally his gaze landed on you. How could it not? In every room he entered, he looked for you.
The party had started by the time you showed up. He was in the middle of conversation with Sam when he saw you walk in by yourself, fashionably late.
He could’ve sworn his heart skipped a beat at the sight of you. The burgundy dress you wore made his head dizzy.
Bucky had a plan. He originally was going to catch you on the dance floor with a song that was easier to dance to, aka an older song. But you were already dancing with Steve and Wanda when one of those newer Sinatra songs came on. Well, new to him. A while back Natasha gave him a crash course in 20th century music after the war.
Should he be bitter and maybe just a tad jealous? No, he shouldn’t. He had all night to ask you to dance and yet he stood off to the side. Then Steve swooped in and ruined his plans.
And now the little punk was dancing with you.
Of course you wanted to dance with Steve. You were closer with him then you were with Bucky. Steve was the first person you started opening up to. And why shouldn’t you? Steve’s amazing. He’s sweet, courageous, a gentleman, someone to look up to. Hell, Bucky looked up to him. Even when Steve was that scrawny kid in Brooklyn, Bucky admired his bravery and good heart.
Steve was a good man. Bucky was a broken one.
“Oh no, who’s victim to your impenetrable stare now?” Natasha asked as she approached him.
“I’m not staring,” he mumbled, pushing off from where he was leaning on the bar and turned his back to the dance floor.
“Sure, and Tony isn’t drunk.”
“Got the fire extinguisher on deck?” He downed the rest of his drink and left the glass on the bar.
She chuckled, “yup.” Natasha walked around behind the counter and grabbed herself a fresh wine glass. “You know, if you ask her to dance, she’ll say yes.”
Bucky hated it when she saw right through him. For a woman with no enhanced abilities, Natasha sure had a way of reading people.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’ve been watching her all night, Barnes.”
He cringed, “It sounds creepy when you put it like that.”
Natasha shook her head and smiled as she continued to pour herself a glass of red wine. “Then don’t put so much distance between yourselves. Maybe actually talk to her, ask her to dance.”
“She’s already dancing with Steve,” he answered, looking down at the counter.
She raised an eyebrow at him in fake confusion. “That’s not jealousy I hear, is it?”
“I’m not jealous,” Bucky quickly rebutted. He paused while his jaw clenched. “I just don’t wanna bother her.”
Natasha sighed as she put the bottle away. “You don’t bother her. Believe me.”
He crossed his arms, “how would you know that?”
She carefully swirled the red liquid in her glass. “The same way I know that you’ve wanted to dance with her all night.”
Bucky stared at her with annoyance and disbelief written all over his face. Natasha stared back at him with a slight smirk knowing she was right.
Their staring contest was abruptly interrupted by Thor stumbling towards the bar.
“Romanoff! Barnes! How are you enjoying the festivities?” Thor beamed. Bucky couldn’t tell if Thor was just that excited or if he was bordering on intoxicated.
”I’ve been having a wonderful night but“ —Natasha gestured towards Bucky— “I don’t think he’s in a partying mood.”
Thor looked at him with a slight pout. Yeah he was probably a bit intoxicated, Bucky thought.
”That sounds terrible. We need to fix that right away.” Thor rushed to the cabinet to grab a fancy looking bottle and two clean short glasses. He set the bottle on the counter across from Bucky and waved a hand behind it to show it off.
“I brought this back from my most recent trip to Asgard. It has aged for a thousand years. It’s too strong for mortal men, but you my friend” —he patted Bucky on the shoulder— “are well suited for it.”
Thor poured some of the drink into each glass and pushed one closer to Bucky. “This should help raise your spirits.”
He stared at the honey colored liquid hesitantly before picking it up. “Thanks pal.” He offered a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Thor raised his drink to the man across from him. Bucky took another look before raising his drink and clinking it with Thors. He took a sip and found it to be sweeter than he expected.
It was also much stronger than he expected.
Thanks to the discount super serum he received, he couldn’t get drunk. Bucky hasn’t been drunk since 1945, the last time he went out to a bar with the howling commandos.
After two and a half of whatever that Norse drink was, he was starting to get that dizzying buz he hasn’t felt in decades. He wasn’t as drunk as Thor or Tony were, but he was feeling more confident than he had been earlier in the night.
He wouldn’t bother to hide the glances he threw your way. At some point he got rid of his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. If someone asked if he did that because he was warm or because he wanted to show off to you, he wouldn’t have answered. But it was pretty clear when he noticed you looking at him and he would stand up straighter or flex his arms.
Then of course when you caught his eyes he winked at you and then smiled when he saw how bashful you looked.
Bucky was definitely having a better night than before. And it just kept getting better the more he interacted with you.
His favorite —but also least favorite— part of the night was when he accidentally ran into you.
He was leaving the bathroom at the same time you were. As he turned the corner he stumbled into your side, not expecting you to be there. As Bucky collided with you, you yelped and almost fell down yourself.
“Shit, I’m so sorry,” he apologized as he tried to regain his balance.
You grabbed onto his arm and helped him stand straight. “It’s fine, no worries.”
His chest ached at the feeling of your hands on his bicep.
A look of confusion crossed your face before you asked, “are you drunk?”
”No.”
You raised an eyebrow at him; your expression screaming that you don’t believe him.
“Maybe,” he mumbled.
You scoffed and let go of his arm, cautiously as you made sure he wasn’t going to fall over. “I thought guys like you and Steve couldn’t get drunk.”
“We can’t. But Thor gave me this funky Asgardian beer.” Bucky's words slurred together as he explained.
“I think it’s mead.”
He looked baffled, “what’s mead?”
You shook your head amused, “not beer.”
He scoffed and pointed an accusatory finger at you. “Don’t talk like I can't smell the tequila on your breath,” he joked.
You playfully swatted at his arm away using very little force. “Shut up, it’s the first time I’ve let loose in a long time.”
He loved seeing you riled up. You looked so adorable.
”You should do it more often.”
”Drink?
“No, come to these stupid parties,” he gestured down the hall to where music was coming from.
“I will if you’ll be there,” you replied in a sweet tone. You sounded more forward than he was used to. He was a bit surprised but decided to lean into it.
“Is that a promise?”
“Maybe.”
“Good,” Bucky smiled as he remembered what it meant when you said maybe to plans.
He hoped you would keep showing up. He’d go to every single one of those dumb parties if he knew he’d see you there.
“I like seeing you like this. More social, having fun. No more hiding in your room.”
“I didn’t hide,” you protested, even though you knew he was right.
“You avoided us like the plague,” he countered. “For a while I thought you didn’t like me,”
Your jaw dropped at his confession. “You thought I didn’t like you?” Your voice sounded both a bit worried and surprised.
“You never spoke to me!”
“I gave you cookies!”
“But that was like-“ he paused to do the mental math, “three months after we met. Before that I wasn’t sure.”
You relaxed as you settled with the information. “Okay, but it wasn’t just you. I didn’t talk to anybody,” you answered with a shrug.
“And look at you now.” He gestured to you with a small smile of admiration. “Going to parties, spending time with us. You looked like you were really having fun.”
Your eyes lit up with a look of realization as you leaned back against the wall. “Wow, you were watching me?” You teased him.
Bucky should’ve known that would come and bite him in the ass, again.
“I wouldn’t say watching.”
You squinted at him, that glimmer still present in your eyes, “hmm sounds like you were.
“I can’t help it, not when you look like that,” he said in a sultry voice.
You tilted your head, “like what?”
Bucky licked his lips as he fully took you in. Even as your makeup took the toll of the night, you still looked perfect to him. Your eyeliner was a bit smudged and your lips still shimmered from the left over gloss. He gazed down at your dress, it had a flowy skirt that hid some of your curves but a slit down the side that gave him a view of your leg.
“Like the most beautiful woman at this party.”
You rolled your eyes at him. “Come on,” you playfully dismissed his compliment.
Bucky took a step closer to you. “I’m serious, I couldn’t take my eyes off you,” he continued as his voice got lower.
Your cheeks turned pink and your voice raised in pitch, “you’re such a flirt, Barnes.”
“Maybe,” he returned with a smirk. “Doesn’t change the fact that you are breathtaking.”
Now your face was crimson. You tried to bite back a giddy smile but he could see right through you.
“Stop being so sweet, it’s making me want to kiss you.”
Bucky's heart pounded in his ears and he felt his face start to heat up. He desperately hoped you weren’t kidding.
He quickly glanced at your lips and leaned closer. “Oh yeah? What’s stopping you?”
Your eyes slightly widened at his question, like you weren’t expecting him to take you so seriously. He watched the contemplation in your features as you stared back at him.
Hidden behind his confident exterior, Bucky’s stomach was churning as he awaited your response. Even with the alcohol swimming through his bloodstream, he still had a lingering cloud of anxiety telling him you really didn’t want to kiss him. Telling him that you didn’t want him.
“Right now?” You whispered. You looked up at him with those doe eyes that made him weak in the knees.
Your gaze darted between his and lingered on his lips. “Nothing,” you breathed before capturing his lips in yours.
Bucky was taken by surprise at your forwardness, his lips froze for a split second before moving in rhythm with yours. You reached up, placing your hands on his neck and face. He sighed against your mouth as you pulled him down closer to you, desperate to taste him.
Bucky’s hands traveled up and down your hips, starved for more of your touch. His metal hand settled at your waist while his right hand slipped past the slit in your dress and grabbed at your thigh. You leaned into him, your back arching off the wall you were pressed up against and your leg wrapped around his, pulling him closer. He continued to paw at your thigh, his hand sneaking higher and higher, finding its place on your ass. A soft moan escaped you, trapped against Bucky’s lips. The sound tasted like heaven to him.
Asgardian alcohol was nothing compared to the intoxicating drink that was you. Bucky was lost in the touch, the smell, the feel of you. He breathed you in like it was his first breath of fresh air in years.
It was like the earth stopped spinning just for you two. Time was put on pause and there in that secluded hallway, you and Bucky were the only people in the world.
Of course, you were in fact not the only people in the world, let alone that party. While your lips were still interlocked and hands grabbing at each other, footsteps inched closer.
Immediately you pulled away from each other at the startled gasp of, “holy shit!”
Bucky and you froze in horror at the man across the hall.
Neither of you noticed Tony approaching around the corner. He stared at you with shock written all over his face, which then transformed into a cheeky grin.
“Wow, and to think you two almost didn’t show up.” He pointed at both of you, “If you guys get married, I better get credit in your vows.”
“Stark,” Bucky warned in a sharp tone, staring daggers at the man in question.
Tony raised his hands in surrender. “Don’t mind me. Please, go back to eating each other's faces.” He chuckled before retreating down the hall back to the party.
Bucky sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Even after he cut it he couldn’t shake the habit.
He couldn’t look you in the eyes yet, still too flustered. “He’s such an ass,” he joked, shaking his head.
You fixed your hair and offered a nervous smile. “Yeah, I know,” you mumbled.
The air in the room wasn’t the same after Tony walked in. The realization of what you were doing had caught up to both of you. Bucky had wanted to kiss you long before now, he just never expected it to be a spur of the moment first kiss.
That doesn’t mean he regretted it. Not one bit.
“We should probably return to the party.” Bucky cleared his throat, “listen I know it might be a bit awkward when we get back but, I wanted to ask if-“
”I’m sorry, I um,” you interrupted with a slight panic in your voice.
“I’m gonna go. Have a good rest of your night Bucky,” you excused yourself with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
Bucky watched you shuffle away and down the hall, in the opposite direction of the party. His posture deflated as his stare lingered from where you left. He tried to ignore the slight ache in his chest but it stayed, infecting his heart like a poison.
Finally when he had the chance and nerve to ask you to dance, you ran away.
_____
From when he returned to the party to the next morning when he woke up, that ache didn’t fully go away. It became quieter, more tolerable to deal with. But still present.
He tried to dilute it with reasonable answers. You might have still been flustered from being caught in the hallway. You might have been more drunk than he thought and didn’t feel well.
But his train of thought always returned to anxiety and doubt. The voice in the back of his head that told him you didn’t want to be seen with him. You were embarrassed to be seen kissing him. The voice that screamed he wasn’t good enough and you would never have feelings for him.
For now he would shove down those left over doubts. Try to ignore them the best he could.
Unfortunately that wasn’t an option when he was hounded at breakfast.
When he walked in the kitchen, he felt the tone change. It was subtle, but as Sam, Clint, and Yelena’s conversation died down, he sensed multiple pairs of eyes landing on him.
“So Bucky, how was your night?” Sam asked before sipping his coffee.
Bucky walked to the coffee machine and grabbed his own mug from the cabinet. “It was good,” he muttered.
Yelena spun in her chair to face him, “you had fun?”
“Sure, I guess.”
Sam quirked an eyebrow at him. “You guess?”
“Why do you care so much?” Bucky groaned as he poured a fresh cup of coffee for himself.
“No reason, just wanted to see what you thought of the party.”
Bucky shrugged, turning back around to face the group. “It was like every other party.”
“You don’t get drunk at every other party,” Sam countered in a snarky tone.
“I was not that drunk,” Bucky protested.
“Drunk enough to get freaky in the hallway?”
Sam’s question had Bucky gripping his mug so hard he almost shattered it. Anger seeped into his bloodstream that made his veins hot.
Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and hung his head. “Stark, that son of a bitch,” he grumbled under his breath.
Yelena's interest was piqued at Bucky's reaction, confirming her suspicions. “So it’s true? You and Y/N kissed?”
“Oh they did more than kiss,” Sam added.
“Sam,” Bucky warned with a sharp tone.
“Did you see him peacocking? He kept flexing his arm muscles at her and at one point I think I saw him wink. I guess all that paid off.” Clint finally added his thoughts, amusement creeping its way onto his face.
Yelena sat with a smile, still processing the information. “Wow, I didn’t think you two would get together for another month or more.”
“We’re not together,” Bucky corrected. The words tasted like a nasty poison on his tongue.
“You will be soon,” Clint insisted.
“Don’t bet on it.”
“What are you talking about? Sam asked. “You like this girl. You’ve been crushing on her for months!”
Bucky’s jaw clenched before. His stomach boiled over with the feelings he tried to push down.
He shook his head and waved them off. “Never mind.”
Yelena leaned forward, eager to understand. ”No wait, Bucky what happened?” She asked calmly, voice filled with concern.
He sighed and stuffed his hands in his pockets. His lips sealed shut while he stared at the floor, contemplating how honest he should be with them.
“It’s nothing. After Stark walked in on us she didn’t exactly tell me how she felt about the kiss.” Bucky nervously ran a hand through his short hair. “I tried to ask her to dance. She left before I could spit it out.”
“She’s a shy girl. She was probably overwhelmed and embarrassed.” Clint offered.
Not embarrassed because of you, Bucky tried to remind himself.
Sam stepped closer to Bucky, his tone of voice much more serious than before. “Just talk to her about it. I’m sure she feels the same way.”
Bucky looked down in his mug, the hot black coffee staring back at him. “Have any of you seen or talked to her yet? It’s still early. I don't know if she’s awake.”
”No, she hasn’t been down here yet,” Yelena answered.
Clint grabbed out his phone, “I’ll text her-“
”No, Clint,” Bucky cringed.
Clint held up a hand to him, still typing away on his screen. “Calm down, I’m telling her about the doughnuts I bought.”
Bucky’s tense shoulders relaxed at the explanation.
“Let me know if you find out she’s awake. I’d hate to wake her up just to pester her about this.” He grabbed his coffee and a doughnut for himself from the box on the counter.
“Leave a chocolate frosted,” he instructed as he walked to the lounge. “She only likes those.”
____
It’s been three days.
In the last three days, he’s seen you once. When you tip-toed into the kitchen, barely looking him in the eyes.
He already thought about you every day. He’d leave his room with anticipation, eager for the chance to see you.
Now that same anticipation had a sour taste. Bucky would go to the gym, lounge, or kitchen with hope that he would see you there. And every time he was crushed at the sight of a room without your presence.
You had gotten pretty successful at staying hidden. After that brief awkward encounter on Saturday, you made yourself completely undetectable. He should’ve known it would be an easy feat for you considering you were a spy before joining the Avengers. The only indication that you were even still in the compound were the clean dishes on the drying rack and the missing food from the fridge.
Not only was Bucky missing and craving your presence, but he had to sit with the unknown meaning behind your kiss. He had no idea how you felt about him, and it drove him mad.
The lustful look In your eyes and the desperate touch of your hands on him told him that you might feel the same way. But the way you recoiled and shut yourself out said something else.
One thing he did know was that all this overthinking was going to be his downfall.
It was past midnight and instead of staying in bed, struggling to fall asleep, he decided to go to the gym and let out some stress.
Little did he know he wasn’t the only one with that same idea.
He wasn’t that surprised to see some of the lights on as he approached the gym. Every so often someone was working out late at night. Who he didn’t expect to see was you, laser focused as you striked at the punching bag.
Bucky stood still for a moment, watching you, debating whether or not he should leave you be or talk to you.
His legs seemed to be moving on their own as he approached you.
“Want some help?”
You jumped, startled out of your focus. “You scared the shit out of me!” You placed a hand over your heart, probably felt it pounding.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “You didn’t answer my question though.”
You looked at him with puzzled, furrowed brows.
“Do you want some help?” He repeated, gesturing towards the punching bag.
You paused before answering in a calm tone. “No thanks.”
You shifted your weight and prepped your stance, attention returned to the bag.
“I thought you didn’t work out this late anymore,” Bucky commented with fake innocence.
You shrugged before you started punching again. “Guess old habits die hard.”
“Like hiding in your room?”
You hesitated. He watched your jaw clench before you punched again.
“I am not hiding.”
“I haven’t seen you in three days.”
Your punches got stronger while your voice stayed calm. “Didn’t feel well. Needed rest.”
“I texted you.”
“Sorry,” another punch. “Didn’t see it.”
Bucky exhaled, “Why are you lying?”
“I’m not-“
“Yes you are,” he interrupted, a bit of frustration leaking through his firm voice.
“We’ve barely seen you. And this isn’t like when you first got here, because I still saw you back then. You’re ignoring us.”
You’re ignoring me, he wanted to say.
Your attention broke from the punching bag. Your hand landed limp against it as you turned to him.
“Why do you care?” You asked with more curiosity than you showed on your face.
“Because I’m worried about you. And I know something’s wrong.”
You didn’t reply. Just stared at the floor and picked at the wraps on your hands.
Bucky didn’t want to pester you about it, but he had to stop you from isolating and keeping everything bottled up. He knew better than anyone what that felt like. The desire to hide away and run.
He could see the walls you built up slowly starting to crack, but you held on so tight to that security. Desperate to not let it fall down.
He was going to get you to open up, whether it hurt him or not.
“Is this about the kiss?”
Your eyes squeezed shut and fists clenched. “Bucky, I really don’t want to talk about that right now.”
“Well when do you feel like talking about it?” He interrogated, folding his arms. “Tomorrow? A week from now?”
“Fine!” You snapped back at him. “We got drunk, flirted a little and kissed. Can we just put this behind us and forget about it?”
Forget about it? You really want him to forget about the kiss? The best kiss of his life. The kiss that brought warmth back into his cold veins. Forget the kiss that made all the decades worth of tension fall off his bones and disappear for a few minutes.
He scoffed, “I’m sorry but I can’t just forget about it.”
Your cheeks that were previously pink from your work out turned red.
Bucky kept his gaze trained on you. He watched your eyes repeatedly dart away from him, still trying to hide while you stood right in front of him.
“Why did you leave after we kissed?” He asked, keeping his voice steady even while his insides were twisting.
“Bucky,” you groaned, pleading with the man in front of you.
“I gotta know.”
You looked down at your hands and resumed picking at the wrappings.
“Did you mean it?” You inquired, deflecting from his question. “What you said that night.”
He pursed his lips, trying to mentally sort through all the things he said. “Which part?”
You paused your fidgeting, hands tense as you spoke. “All those nice things you said about me. When you said I was the most beautiful woman at that party.” You finally looked at Bucky, eyes swimming with uncertainty.
“Did you mean it, or were you just flirting?”
You were trying to hide behind a guarded expression, but Bucky could see the vulnerability in your eyes and hear it in your voice.
You felt the same way about him.
But just like him, you didn’t believe your feelings were reciprocated because of the overwhelming fear. Your vision was clouded by fear and doubt.
He took a few steps closer. You took a half step back.
His eyes stayed on you. He never wavered.
”I meant all of it,” he answered softly. “Every single word.”
Your eyes widened and lips parted.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”
You gave him a nervous grin and shook your head as you tried removing the wrapping from your hands. ”That’s overselling it a bit,” you lightly joked. You fought the hand wrap with a shaky hand, struggling to take it off.
Bucky inched closer. Before you could register what he was doing, he reached forward and gently grabbed your hands. He separated them and continued undoing the wrapping for you. His touch was soft as he handled you with the utmost care.
“I’m being serious,” he started, eyes trained on your hand. “Whether you believe me or not.”
He finished working on your left hand and moved to your right. You didn’t protest. You didn’t stop him.
“If you really want to forget about the kiss. Go ahead.” But now he knew you didn’t want to forget about it. He swallowed, preparing to place his own heart in the palm of your hand. “I don’t think I could ever forget it. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since Friday.”
He chuckled as a blush crept its way on his face. “Actually, I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the first time we met.”
He felt your hand freeze against his. “Bucky, that was over 6 months ago,” you reminded him breathlessly.
He finished unwrapping your hand, looked up at you, and nodded. “Yeah, I know,” he muttered.
Bucky still held your hand, neither one of you moved away from the other.
You took a deep breath, the expression on your face looked like you were mentally wrestling with yourself.
“What were you going to ask me before I left?” You asked cautiously.
“If you wanted to dance with me.” The corners of his mouth turned up into a smile as his cheeks turned pink. He softly caressed the back of your hand, “I’d been trying to ask you all night but never got the chance. Or the nerve.”
Bucky searched your eyes and found wide pupils in a sea of emotion. He wasn’t sure if they shined from the lighting or if they were glossy.
You licked your lips, “I would’ve said yes by the way. If you asked.”
He smirked back, stomach fluttering with butterflies. “You mean if you let me ask?” he asked, tone laced with sarcasm.
You rolled your eyes and sighed, “yeah. I was just being an asshole.“
“You’re not an asshole,” he countered, genuinely.
You squinted and tilted your head. “I was a little bit.”
He chuckled in defeat, his thumb still tracing your skin.
You peered down at your hand intertwined with his, swallowing down the nerves caught in your throat. “I uh- I was scared and catastrophizing. I thought of the worst case scenario and let it control me. I shouldn’t have run away, I’m sorry.” You sounded small, defeated.
With his free metal hand, Bucky gently pulled your chin up to look at him. “You’re not the only one who gets stuck in their own head,” he comforted. Your breath shuttered as his touch traveled to the side of your face before brushing your hair behind your ear. “Just don’t shut the world out okay?”
You nodded, with a bashful smile. “Okay.”
Bucky’s mouth curled up in a way that matched yours. “I love your smile,” he complimented, his voice dripping with admiration.
You bit your lip as a blush danced across your face. “Don’t say sweet things about me. It’ll make me want to kiss you,” you warned with a teasing hint in your tone.
Bucky's smile turned to a wicked grin. He leaned closer, his lips ghosting over yours as he caressed your cheek. “What’s so wrong with that?” He whispered with desire.
He felt your breath against him as you whispered back.
“Nothing.”
Bucky wasted no time and captured your lips with his. He instinctively reached for your waist and pulled you closer, flush against him.
This kiss was different from the first one. You still tasted the same on his tongue, your lips left the same imprint on his. But the rhythm was different. No rush of passion. No hunger that needed to be resolved.
It was slower, more delicate. Like the two of you were absorbing the others' existence into your bloodstream.
When you separated from him Bucky chased after your lips. You giggled as he pecked all over your lips and cheeks. Your laugh only spurred him on more as he grabbed on to your face to keep you still and smiled against your skin.
You made him feel lovesick. He felt like he used to, back in the 40s, before everything went wrong. He felt like Bucky Barnes.
Bucky chuckled as he finally retreated from his kissing attack on your face. He stared at you lovingly, his hands traveling back down to your hips.
“So, hypothetically, if I were to ask if you wanted to go dancing, like we find somewhere in the city we can go to dance one night, what would you say?”
You looked up at him with a sweet smile. “Is this a hypothetical or are you asking me out?” You pondered with a mischievous tone.
Bucky loved it when you teased him like that. You were going to drive him insane.
“I’m asking you out.”
You stood up straighter, your eyes pierced him with confidence. “Then do it.”
Warmth stirred in his chest as he finally asked what he’s been meaning to for so long.
“Would you like to go dancing with me?”
You wrapped your arms around his neck and placed a soft, quick kiss against his lips. “I’d love to.”
_____
The lounge was quiet. Yelena sat on the couch with Wanda as a movie played in the distance. Steve sat on one of the chairs ignoring the movie, his nose deep in a small notebook he liked to sketch in. Natasha sat on the other chair, her back and legs against the arm rests as she focused on a book.
The elevator dinged when it reached the floor. As it opened, Bucky walked out and passed through the lounge with you in his arms bridal style and barefoot, holding your heels in your hands.
All of their eyes slowly peered away from what they were doing and towards you and Bucky.
Natasha was the first to comment on the display, “uh, Barnes, why are you carrying your date?”
“I complained my feet hurt on the way home and now he won’t put me down,” you announced back to her.
Bucky abruptly stopped in his tracks. “Do you want to walk back to your room?” He asked, voice deep with a teasing tone.
You sunk further into his chest as a blush crept onto your face. “No,” you mumbled quietly.
He chuckled and continued walking. “That’s what I thought.”
“Awe, what a gentleman,” Yelena remarked.
“Anything for my girl,” Bucky yelled back as he walked away with you in his arms.
“Finally, I’ve been waiting for them to get together for weeks!” Yelena joked as she turned back to the group.
“Try months. I knew that when she started leaving her room it was because of him,” Natasha added.
Steve looked up from his notebook, a small glint of amusement in his eyes. “Why do you think I pushed for him to go to that party? I had a feeling she would go if she knew he would be there.”
“Seems like everyone knew but them,” Yelena remarked.
“I’ve known the whole time.” Wanda chuckled, “For two quiet people, their thoughts are awfully loud.”
