Summary: You lived a quiet life in Brooklyn, happy in your routine running your bakery, a small fish in a big pond until an encounter with the King of New York, the Mob Boss himself James Buchanan Barnes & his determination to make you his queen turns your entire life upside down.
Since he was fifteen years old, Bucky Barnes has only been sure of two things; the club should be the most essential thing in his life, and he’d burn it all down for you.
You’re the only thing in this world that matters, and he’ll do whatever it takes to win you back, even if that means destroying everything he built. None of it mattered without you
Swallows choose a mate for life, and will only nest with that bird and no other; they travel long distances apart only to find their way to back to each other, again and again. Bucky knew the second he met you.
You’re his other half; you’re his swallow.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
(Biker!Bucky x Reader/ High school sweethearts AU)
Characters/Pairings: soft dark Bucky Barnes x curvy Millennial female!Reader
Word Count: 7.8k
Summary: Your super soldier next door neighbor puts some of his old skills to good use. (Unspecified post-Endgame Bucky)
Notes: This is my week WEEK SIX submission for @buckybarnesevents' Hot Bucky Summer - "please, I need help" and sex pollen.
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
As the Winter Soldier, they made him master many skills, including branches of chemistry specifically so he could create compounds necessary and advantageous to fulfilling and expediting his missions. He was so good he even helped develop some of the compounds used by Hydra and in The Red Room.
It had been years since he’d applied the long dormant skill.
But it had also been a year since you moved in next door, and he was tired of waiting.
You were so sweet, so good, and he would treat you so well if you were his.
And you were so deserving.
You ought to have someone dote on you, take care of you. You were fiercely independent, fully capable, but you shouldn’t need to be.
He was more than willing to take care of you. He always insisted it was no trouble to hold a door open for you, to help carry your groceries, to pick up your mail when you were out of town, to help you put together the table you ordered online when it was delivered. Not only was it no trouble, he liked doing those things for you.
He wanted to do more.
He heard you late at night with your vibrator.
He could give you so much better.
How many times had the super’s wife said to him what a sweet couple the two of you would make?
What was the harm with hurrying you along into something he was so sure you wanted with a little sex pollen?
Before he’d been The Winter Soldier, the efficient and essentially untraceable assassin for decades, he’d been a damn good soldier as Bucky Barnes. He was still an asset now whether he was consulting or going into the field. Constantly valued for his keen mind.
Why shouldn’t he use his expertise and strategy now?
It was just traces at first. You hardly noticed.
There’d be the odd moment when you hesitated in a sentence, blinking, eyes glossy as you lost your train of thought. That little fluster was delicious, but not enough. He watched you closely, reading the microexpressions that drifted across your features: confusion, a tiny flicker of heat, embarrassment you squashed down. You’d shake your head briskly, recenter yourself, and apologize with a laugh he could tell was forced.
And he always smiled warmly at you, but inside, it was with the energy of a satisfied smirk.
It was working.
He made minute adjustments. Ratcheted the levels up and down, spiked your mail with just enough to make you breathe deeper when you opened it. He traded in your regular coffee beans for a new bag from the “cool indie shop on the corner,” slipped the powder into the grounds. It was a delicate balance: he never wanted you to feel sick, just hungry. Desirous. Needy.
Once, he heard you through the wall, weeping with frustration. He’d never heard that in your voice before, and it made him burn with satisfaction and anticipation.
But he was always successful in his missions because of his expertise, his ability to gage proper timing.
He struck early, before the city could shake off its Saturday morning haze. Heat already radiated from the bricks, the kind of July swelter that made people yearn for lemonade and picnics and pools. He moved in darkness as much out of habit as necessity, crossing the handful of feet between your fire escape and his with the ease of a man who’d spent too many years navigating roofs and ledges and the soft places between shadows.
The mixture was clear, almost invisible, but he applied it in a glistening line along the edges of your window frames, working methodically. His hands did not shake.
He returned to his own apartment and pulled up the port he’d developed to control your HVAC system, and shut it down just before he knew you were typically up and stirring around on a Saturday morning.
And then he waited.
By 8:37 a.m. your apartment was growing warmer than usual, and you woke with a slick hairline, a sheen of sweat over your skin. He watched you from the camera he installed as you slipped out of bed and down the hall. You pawed at the digital thermostat first, muttering under your breath, but only the error message blinked back at you: HVAC ERROR. CALL MAINTENANCE. You let out a laugh, brittle and bitter, and trudged to the windows, pushing up the panes to at least get the fresh air. You left every window open, desperate for a through breeze.
You braced your palms against the sill and he could see the relief already blooming in your posture as the pane slid open. The breeze was gentle but constant, carrying with it the faintest hint of the compound’s sharp, metallic sweetness. It was immediate, the way it worked instantaneously: you inhaled, unaware, then blinked rapidly. Your jaw slackened for a fraction of a second, mouth parted in an unintentional invitation. Your hands lingered on the window frame, before you pulled them back and wiped one over your brow, while the other went to your chest, and no wonder since he assumed that you’d be feeling an uptick in your heart rate.
And now, he would wait.
He watched you pad into your little kitchen, tugging at the hem of your sleep shirt. You filled the kettle, set it on, and stood at the counter, hands fluttering as if you’d forgotten what to do with them. You took a breath—he could see the shudder of your shoulders—then craned your neck, face tilted to the open window, and inhaled again, a long, greedy drag.
Inside a minute, you began to fidget. Your thighs pressed together, then parted, then pressed again, the rhythm building. Your head tipped forward, eyes closing as you gripped the countertop, knuckles going white. A slick little shiver wound through you. The kettle whistled, shrill and out of place, and you startled so hard the mug tumbled from your hands, landing on the floor with a muted thunk.
Bucky chuckled.
This was going to be fun.
You were not, generally, this unbalanced. You could ride out a wave of sexual frustration for weeks, even months, and never let it show in your polite smile or the hand you’d lend to old Mrs. Lopez on 5B with her packages. You had learned to live with your little obsession with your neighbor Bucky Barnes in the same way you’d learned to ignore the drip in your bathroom sink: a low-level, constant irritant, a fixture of your life that you could, with sufficient self-control, simply tune out.
It was only a quarter past nine in the morning and you were already panting like you’d just climbed six flights in July, not merely rolled out of bed. Something was wrong with your body. Not sick—more like your skin had outgrown you overnight, every inch of you thrumming with an ache that had nothing to do with exercise and everything to do with need.
Because as bad as the heat was, you’d woken up at 3:21am, rolled onto your stomach and pressed your thighs together and rocked your hips, humping your mattress to no avail. It was as unfulfilling as the dream you’d woken up from, a dream featuring your neighbor Bucky Barnes pinning you in place, fucking you so well, so close you could taste the climax, only to have jolted awake, desperate and empty.
Now with no AC, it just figures that the universe would align for the worst day of your sexual frustration to peak when your AC went out.
You had lived through enough New York City summers to know the heat would try to kill you, but you’d never expected it to go for the slow, erotic smother instead.
Great. Now your brain was writing romance copy.
You took a cold shower, or as cold as the pipes allowed, and stepped out feeling more feverish and frustrated than ever. After that you stood in front of the open fridge for several minutes, eating string cheese in small, desperate bites, willing the chill to transfer from your tongue to your bloodstream. It didn't work. Cold air kissed your shins momentarily, but it was already evaporating.
Your phone, sticky with sweat, offered no solutions. The building super had already responded to oyour texts, but with the city-wide sweltering temperatures, he said it was going to be difficult to get someone to come look before Monday. You scrolled through social media, found only posts about the heat, people frying eggs on their windowsills, and, for some reason, an uptick in thirst traps. You slammed it facedown on the kitchen table, stood there, and considered your options.
Maybe you would have to resort to leaning on your own personal thirst trap and endure the torture.
Look but not touch.
As always.
You jogged your memory for Bucky’s likely status. His AC always worked, a source of neighborly gloating he pretended to feel sorry about. You’d seen him on the fire escape last night, watering an improbable pot of basil, so he hadn’t left for one of his mysterious, week-long trips.
You counted on him to be up, and you counted on him to be kind and neighborly. How many times had he said to let him know if you needed anything?
You slipped your feet into flip-flops and padded across the hall, the chill of the corridor almost pornographically relieving. Ignoring the urge to just lie down in the communal patch of coolness, you knocked. Not politely, but as un-desperately as you could manage.
His door opened before the second knock. He wore an old t-shirt and gym shorts in the way of a man who didn’t expect guests but was always ready for them. He grinned, broad and easy, and you wanted to slap it off his face or maybe—maybe—sink your teeth into the soft underside of his jaw, alternate violence and adoration. If it weren’t for the white socks on his feet, he would have been wholly unapproachable. He blinked at you, a little surprised, before his expression softened in recognition.
His blue eyes slid from your face down the length of you—bare-legged, sweat-sheened, half-dressed. If he noticed how untethered you looked, he didn’t say a word.
He just leaned against the doorframe, forearm braced above his head, a little smirk twitching at the edge of his mouth. “Hey, neighbor,” he said, voice just hoarse enough to sound like he, too, had just woken up. “You okay?”
You opened your mouth, then closed it. No, you were not okay. “Yeah, no, my AC’s dead. Reuben says maybe Monday.”
“Damn. That’s rough.” He stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come on in, you can cool off in here. It’s like an igloo compared to the hallway.”
You tried to say “thanks” but it came out thin and breathy. You hesitated in the threshold, pulse hammering in your ears, palms sticky. You were acutely aware of every inch of your skin and the patches where your tank top clung and stuck to your warm skin. You kept your arms tight at your sides and followed him in, trying not to look too hard at the wide set of his shoulders and the deliciously lived-in swoop of his hair.
His apartment was frigid. A gasp left you, startled, as the coolness curled around your ankles and up your shins, relief so sharp it tasted almost like salt. You braced a hand on the wall, felt your knees threatening to buckle for a whole, embarrassing second.
Bucky closed the door behind you and put a hand in his pocket, rocking his weight once up and back on the balls of his feet. As you adjusted to the temperature, your brain came back online, time stretching out but your thoughts not clearing so much as multiplying, all scrambling around the same basic theme: need.
Every little physical sensation felt magnified and weirdly erotic—Bucky’s clean-laundry scent, the chill bristling your nipples, your own rapid breathing, every sound echoing in his silent apartment.
Bucky peered at you with gentle concern, vaguely amused, like he could hold both those things in his expression at once. “You want some coffee?” he offered, casual, normal.
“Only if it’s iced,” you answered, following him into the kitchen.
You perched at his breakfast bar, gripping the edge, trying to appear unbothered. Up close, the scent of his skin and aftershave filled the air, a dizzying magnetism that was entirely unfair. You shifted, restless, gnawing the inside of your cheek.
Bucky moved with measured, assured movements behind the counter, opening a cupboard for glasses, filling them from a pitcher of cold brew. You couldn’t help but follow the flex of his forearm, the way his veins pressed up beneath the thin skin, the way his hands dwarfed the glass when he reached to set it in front of you.
His close proximity, the press of cold air from the vent above, the frisson of want that kept pooling in your belly and lower—god, was there anything left of you but need, at this point? It was getting hard to think, and you had to grip the glass hard to keep your hand from trembling. The iced coffee gave you the jitters. Or maybe it was just him, and the way he looked at you—just for a second, a slip out from behind his affable neighbor mask. It made your skin flare with fresh heat, the want sharper now for the momentary suggestion that maybe he knew exactly how ruined you felt by him.
He didn’t sit, just stood at the other counter a few feet away, tilting back his own glass.
He watched you over the rim, unhurried, eyes steady and watchful, and you thought, briefly, incoherently, that if you didn’t put something else in your mouth besides ice, you were going to say something reckless and humiliating. The coffee wasn’t helping at all. The caffeine sharpened your need, made it into a nervous, electrified ache, made you more aware of the incessant want.
“How’s your week going?” he asked, mild as ever. His voice was a low vibration, something pleasant you wanted to crawl inside.
You tried to recall anything that had happened since Monday, but it all seemed distant, unrelated to the desperate present. “Um. Work’s a lot,” you said, then, quickly, “How about you?”
He waited a beat, as if debating whether to give the default “fine” or to try for something more interesting. “You know. The usual. Little consulting, some paperwork, surveillance for an old friend. Watered the plants.”
There was a small silence. When you spoke, your voice was tight. “Your place is always freezing.”
He shrugged, a smile tugging the edge of his mouth. “Just lucky for once, I guess.” He was looking at you—really looking, with that steady, disarming focus of his, like he was cataloguing everything from the way you shivered to the fact that you couldn’t seem to unclench your legs. “You can hang out as long as you want. I’ve got snacks, TV, whatever you need.”
You needed something, and it was not TV.
But you had worked so hard to manage this—all your strange, out-of-joint attraction to Bucky, your embarrassing daydreams about what it would be like, the impossible softness that sometimes came over his face when he listened to you talk. You knew it was only the pheromones, the chemical trick of proximity that had you feeling so desperately out of control.
God.
He was just being the nice neighbor and friend he always was, and here you were actively fighting some itchyearndesperateneed to fuck him.
Maybe it wasn’t the heat or the coffee. Maybe it was just you, and the unsolvable, hungry problem of wanting him.
You finished your glass with a gulp that left your throat sore. The chill bloomed through your veins, hitting the heat in your core and swirling the want into a sharper, thinner line that tethered you, drove you. You wiped condensation from your lip and found Bucky staring at your mouth. You caught him, or he let himself get caught, because he didn’t look away—he watched, and then, slow and unapologetic, he smiled.
You could feel the edges of yourself getting fuzzy, your boundaries dissolving in the cold and the ache. His name was a bell in your head, a reflex: Bucky Bucky Bucky. You wondered what it’d be like to say it while he was inside you. Or after. Or never.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, but he came closer, leaned over the counter, invading your space as if he knew you weren’t, as if he needed to be sure.
Instead you cleared your throat. “Yeah. Sorry. I think I’m just a little, uh, loopy from the heat.”
His gaze flicked purposefully down your throat, over the pulse jumping there, then back up to your face. “Don’t apologize,” he said, softer than before, which made it worse. “It’s not your fault. Heat’s a killer.”
You tried to laugh it off, but the sound that came out was so thin it hurt. “Is it weird if I jus sit here for a little?”
“You sure you’re okay? No fever?” he asked, his eyes on the exposed column of your throat as you swallowed.
You shook your head and then realized that wasn’t entirely true. “I don’t know. Kind of feels like it.”
“Want me to check?” His question was so innocent you almost missed the note beneath it, the glimmer of amusement in his gaze. “Had to pick up some medical skills in the field. Got really good at feeling foreheads.”
Some combination of mortification and anticipation made you pulse all over. But you wanted the excuse—needed the contact.
“Sure,” you managed, low and hoarse as you scooted your stool a few inches closer to the counter.
He reached across the bar, his cool metal fingers a sharp relief, thumb feathering just under your jaw, palm broad and hot against your cheek. You wanted to press into it like a cat, you wanted to be ruined by it.
He drew in a breath, slow, deliberate, as if he were inhaling more than just your scent. His thumb brushed the hair back from your forehead, and his skin was so much colder than yours—you tingled where he touched you, the contrast as intoxicating as his closeness. “You’re burning up,” he said, with a gravity that made it sound like it was your fault and also exactly what he wanted.
You must have made some noise, some keening thing, because he chuckled, low in his chest. “You okay?” he said again, but this time, not moving back, not letting go.
It wasn’t the move of a guy checking for fever in a platonic way, not really—the way he cradled your chin, thumb brushing over your face, was too familiar, too practiced. His callouses rasped against your skin, a roughness you liked maybe too much.
He started to draw his hand back, and your own moved lightning fast to catch his wrist and bring his touch back to your face. “I…”
“Yes?” he asked, infuriatingly patient.
“Please, I need help,” you whimpered.
The words hung between you, unbearable. He held there, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You stayed, rooted, nails warm on the metal of his wrist, breath short and staccato.
He ducked his head just a fraction, eyes still on you, as if waiting for more. “What kind of help?” he asked.
You couldn’t say it. Not outright. Your grip on him was enough, maybe. You hoped. You hoped not. It trembled out of you: “I don’t know. I just—” You let go, finally, as if releasing his wrist would break the spell. Instead the ache in your palms was replaced instantly by the ache everywhere else.
“You can ask me anything,” he said, as if the answer was simple. You felt the tenderness in the way his hand returned to cup your cheek with unexpected gentleness, thumb stroking along the apple of your cheek, cooling it, coaxing you to keep going.
You shuddered, half in mortification and half in surrender. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you managed, voice high and thin. “It’s not just the heat, I swear, I just—” You pressed your thighs together, pulse jackhammering. “I can’t even think.”
His smile softened, the smugness replaced by something darker, intent. “Hey,” he said, voice lower now, “it’s okay. You trust me, right?”
You nodded, feeling the flush climb to your ears. “Of course I do.” Because you did, more than you’d ever admit. If you didn’t, you’d never be here, letting him touch you, letting your body confess the truth your voice couldn’t find.
“Tell me what you want,” he said, so steady, so direct it made you dizzy.
You tried to answer, but it caught in your throat, a wordless plea. Maybe the problem wasn’t just the heat. Maybe the problem was that your body had been braced for so long against this tidal pull; now it was finally time to give in.
You pressed your thighs together, yet again, and his eyes dropped to the movement immediately.
Then he leaned in, crowding your space, his presence as immediate as the frozen air and the thump of blood behind your ribs. You held your breath, and when he spoke, the words ghosted over your cheek.
“Let me help,” he said. It wasn’t a request.
You nodded, and it was like the cord inside you snapped. He moved so fast, so fluid, that you barely registered being turned—his hands a gentle but unbreakable grip as he rotated you on the barstool, so your knees faced him directly. His palms, one human and one metal, slid up your thighs, thumbs stroking the inside seam, and he sunk to his knees in front of you, the nearness of his face a gravitational force.
The world funneled down to the place where his hands pressed, and you realized he was holding you apart. Not obscenely, not yet, but enough that you were completely open to him, the thin cotton of your shorts doing nothing to hide the flush, the damp.
You made a soft, startled sound—the kind of sound that would have mortified you any other day, but now just seemed like a necessary release valve. The edge of the counter pressed into your back, bracing you, and there was nowhere to look but at him.
He glanced up at you, eyelashes impossibly dark, the blue of his eyes cool and unhurried as the rest of him. “Is this what you need?” he asked softly, one thumb circling closer, not quite touching you where he must have known you needed it most.
“I—” You gripped the counter as your own breath left you high and bright. “Yeah,” you whispered, then stronger. “Yeah. Please.”
Something old and hungry flickered in his eyes; for a second, it was like witnessing a mask falling away, exposing the pure, adoring greed underneath. He nodded, almost formal, and then both his hands bracketed your hips, holding you steady on the stool.
He started at your knee, a glancing scrape of blunt nails and calloused knuckles that sent shivers up your thigh. He traced the seam of your shorts slowly, as if there was all the time in the world, as if he wasn’t about to devour you.
His eyes didn’t leave yours, even as his mouth hovered over the thin cotton barrier. He ghosted a breath across the damp spot he found, and you lost all chance of composure. There was no longer any you, only some open, yearning thing perched on a stool, barely holding itself together. He thumbed the edge of your shorts aside just enough to press against you directly, the heat of his mouth and the shock of his cool fingers alternating in a way that broke your sanity into a thousand flickering, animal senses.
You grabbed at his hair without even meaning to, the urge so primitive it felt like a survival reflex. He hummed appreciatively at the contact, as if you’d pleased him, as if you were doing him a favor by yanking his mouth closer to your cunt. The sound vibrated through you, under your skin, rattling your bones. You tipped your hips, your nerves on fire, and his tongue licked a slow, deep stripe from your inner thigh up, not touching your clit, not yet, just lavishing the tender skin in a way that felt almost teasingly reverent.
You made a strangled noise, one part protest and one part plea, and Bucky’s hands tightened ever so slightly, anchoring you. He mouthed softly at you through the cotton, kissing and tasting like he had planned this moment, fantasized about it, orchestrated it down to seconds.
“God, Bucky, please—” you heard yourself say, shame gone, language stripped down to pure imperative.
He obliged, finally, dragging the fabric aside with both thumbs and kissing you directly, a cool blast of breath ghosting over your slick heat before his tongue pressed flat and broad against your clit. The relief was so acute you almost sobbed, hands convulsing where they tangled in his hair. You heard the low, satisfied growl in his throat as he set in, slow at first, until your hips bucking.
He didn’t tease, not in the sense of withholding; he controlled the pace only so you wouldn’t go off too soon, so you wouldn’t lose yourself before he had you in exactly the state he wanted. He gripped your thighs, thumbs stroking up and down, pinning you gently but completely, and sucked softly at your clit, laved it, flicked it until you heard yourself choking on a sob. Your hands curled into his hair, desperate for more, for anything, and he let you grind against his mouth, so attentive that he’d match every desperate movement with the exact pressure you needed.
It was embarrassing how quickly you came, shameful and glorious at once. You still had enough self-awareness to gasp his name in something like apology. “Bucky, Bucky, ah—fuck, so close.”
He growled, mouth pressed to you, and angled his tongue just-so, and the orgasm hit with staggering force, a white-out that blitzed your vision and stole any words from you. He didn’t stop. He held you through it and past it, swallowing down the shudders and the desperate sounds you made, like he’d known exactly how this would unfold. When you came down it was only because he let you, retreating from your cunt with a last, obscene kiss to your inner thigh.
He stayed on his knees as you caught your breath, looking up at you through the mess of his hair with a carefulness that could almost have passed for concern, were it not for the dark, starved edge to his gaze.
“It’s not enough, is it?” he asked, voice warm and hoarse, a dangerous temptation.
You shook your head before you realized what you were doing. The need was still there, louder if anything, a metabolic demand your body had never known before. The aftershocks of your orgasm didn’t blunt it; they just made you more sensitive, skin electric, greedy for any touch. The taste of his name was still burning on your tongue.
“I don’t—” You tried to get your breath, but every inhale was a plea, an invitation. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.” It sounded like a lie as soon as you said it. You did know, and so did he; the only thing you didn’t know was how far either of you would let it go.
Bucky’s hands slid up your thighs, palms broad and possessive suddenly, not the gentle friend but a man answering a hunger of his own.
He rose in a single uncoiling, smooth and predatory, and you found yourself wanting to press back, to get some space, but you didn’t want space—what you wanted was to be pressed under him, to feel the full weight of him locking you down, holding you together.
He didn’t say another word, just bent and swept you up. His hands were careful, but the grip was decisive, one arm braced under your ass, the other curling around your upper back so your body instinctively folded against his chest. You clung to his shoulders, dizzy from the abrupt motion, but he was already hauling you past his kitchen, navigating the hall with a single-minded purpose. In the living room he set you on your feet behind the couch, spun you so you faced the window, city sun slicing in through the blinds and painting stripes over the room.
He nudged you forward until your hips bumped the cushion, then planted his hands on your waist, pressing you down in a gentle but unmistakable command. You braced your palms on the back of the couch, arms locking to hold yourself upright, the cool leather shivery against your bare thighs. His breath ghosted over your shoulder as he leaned in, mouth at your ear.
“You’re desperate for me to ruin you, aren’t you, pretty girl?”
His tone was so wicked, so knowing, that you felt your knees threaten to buckle. Before you could respond, Bucky’s hands slid down, splayed wide over your hips, and then he used a foot to nudge your legs apart.
The movement was so natural, so certain, that you obeyed without thinking, planting your feet wider, arms braced. Your shorts were still tangled around one thigh and even that didn’t matter, there was nothing in the world but the way his hand slid between your legs and the sound you made when he did. He pressed the heel of his palm right to your cunt, pushing up against the fabric, feeling exactly how soaking, how frantic, you were for him.
Bucky made a low, appreciative noise, and you could feel the shape of his cock, hard and urgent, as he moved in closer behind you. He raked his thumb up your spine and you arched for him, made yourself an offering.
There was a trembling pause as his hands found the elastic, hooked under it, peeled the shorts and your underwear down in a single, devastating motion. He left them tangled around your knees, a shackle you could feel, and then he was there—close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the shape of him, hard and insistent, through his gym shorts.
You heard the rustle of his clothes behind you, the elastic snap of his waistband, the uneven jolt of his breath. You tried not to turn back, to break the spell, but his hand fisted gently in your hair, holding you forward, not cruelly but as if he worried you might float away from him. You felt the graze of his knuckles against the small of your back and then the soft, heavy head of his cock against your inner thigh, thick and achingly hot. You made another helpless sound, impossible to disguise as anything but want.
You half heard him whisper, “Good fucking girl,” and it was more grounding than anything—the way he said it, not for praise but as a pure statement of fact, as if you’d always belonged to this moment.
A heartbeat later you felt him line up, one broad hand bracing your hip, the other guiding himself between your legs. He slid in slow, first just crowning the tip, then a steady, unhurried advance until you pulsed around him, all the breath knocked out of you. He was big, God, he was fucking huge, and you felt every inch of him, slow and relentless, until your body gave up its resistance and let him in all the way.
You choked on a sob and he stilled, letting you adjust, the metal of his hand biting into your hip in an anchoring grip that kept you from collapsing. He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, feather-light, before rolling his hips forward, testing. The drag was so exquisite, so sharp, that your eyes filled up and spilled over before you understood you were crying. It didn’t feel sad or even humiliating; it felt like relief, like every nerve in your body finally tuned to the right frequency.
“There you go,” Bucky murmured, and the silk in his voice slid down your spine. “Let me take care of you.”
You arched back into him, jaw gone slack, and he took the cue, holding onto your hip with steel precision as he drew out, then thrust in to the hilt. The both of you made sounds then—animal, necessary, a tangled braid of shameless arousal. You were seared open, body and brain in ruins for him, and Bucky’s every move felt designed to keep you right at the rawest possible edge without letting you tumble off. With each slow, grinding thrust, he’d flex his fingers into your skin, and you were glad for the force. Otherwise, you might have rocketed apart.
He fucked you like he had nowhere else to be for the rest of his life. Each pass in and out was deep, so deep you saw stars, and he bit down on every gasp and whimper you made like treasure, hoarding them, making sure there was nothing you could give that he wouldn’t take. When you shuddered, he braced you. When you tried to hide your face in your arms, he made you look out the window.
“Imagine how wrecked you look if someone could see you like this, how good you are, how pliant, how utterly fucked out and feral for me.”
You could only groan beneath him.
But that wasn’t good enough.
“Because you are, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” you managed to gasp.
“Fuck yeah, you are. Should film you next time so you can see.”
And that promised sentiment or threat or blessed assurance of a next time only barely registered in your head.
You felt the shape and girth of him everywhere, not just inside you but in your fingertips and jaw and even your toes, curled white-knuckled against the plush carpet. It felt like a breaking-open, a shudder that rattled the cage of rib and skull and emptied you in the best way. After the first spasm hit, it didn’t really stop; it just crested and broke, and then again, and again, as he drove you relentlessly through every aftershock.
Your throat was raw from the sounds you made, but you didn't care. Let the whole damn building know, let the heatwave carry it down to the street—anyone who heard would only know what you’d always suspected: that you were made, and remade, by the hands and cock of James Bucky Barnes.
He came with a groan that sounded like it had been torn up from the pit of him. You felt it, impossibly deep, an anchoring warmth at your core. He didn’t pull out right away, just pressed you down and into the couch, his breath ragged against your shoulder, sweat mixing with your own. The sun striped you both, pale and blurred, in the window’s glare. He cupped your waist, held you like he was scared you might disappear. The sound of your pulse was everywhere, in your mouth, your cunt, the tips of your fingers.
Eventually he eased out, then tossed you gently over the back of the couch and onto its cushions, hoisting himself immediatle after you, and settling between your thighs.
You wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders, he cupped your jaw in both his hands, and you met halfway in a kiss. Slow, charting, but eager to map, to pour into each other.
You should be spent, you knew that, and yet there was still a flickering need for even more, and ultimately you couldn’t keep from squirming your hips up beneath him like a bitch in heat.
Bucky growled but grinned against the crook of your neck. "Already? Thought I wore you out." He was half-teasing, half hopeful, and all of it made you ache more.
You panted, little strains of whimper leaking out as you shifted beneath his weight. "It's not—" You couldn't catch your breath. "It's not gone."
He drew back enough to see your face, the marvel and hunger written in every line of him. He was giddy on it now, drunk on you, the endlessness of your need. His thumb traced a path under your eye, along your jaw, a tenderness just as striking as the force when he'd bent you over the couch.
His hand was already sliding down, finding the tremor in your thigh where you'd hooked your heel into the small of his back. “C’mon, pretty girl, take what we know you need.”
He was still hard, not as superhumanly so as thirty seconds ago, but the evidence of his stamina pressed hot and thick against your thigh. The animal edge to his smile dared you to test him. So you did.
Your hand slid down between the bodies, still trembling, and guided his cock back home. Then you canted your head up, eyes wide, mouth open to him even before he took it. The kiss was deep and viscous as he slid his thick length back into you.
“You gonna let me fill up this tight cunt all day?”
Your head fell back, the surrender automatic. “Yes,” you managed, “please, Bucky—just—”
He didn’t give you time to finish the thought before he buried himself again, the shock of it so perfect you clenched hard around him, a plea and a welcome and a thank you all at once. You couldn’t believe there was anything left in you to give, but every stroke proved you wrong, dragged up a new, desperate need that was only satisfied by the relentless rhythm of his cock and his hands and the way his mouth fixed on you, starved.
He took you harder this time, body layered over yours on the couch, arms caging you in, fists in the cushions, the infected animal in your belly delighted to be conquered. The slap and drag, the obscene wet noise of your bodies meeting, should have been mortifying, but you couldn’t care less. All you could think about was the way he felt inside you, the fullness.
You fucked up into him like it could ever be enough, like you could reach the end of it, but all it did was ratchet higher the more you got. Illogical. Perverse. You wanted it so bad you felt like you might splinter from it.
He kept his eyes open, watching your every twitch and lost syllable, and when he spoke, it was a benediction and a dare all at once. “That’s it,” he cooed, “—take it, sweetheart, take every fucking drop.”
This man who you’d pegged as your polite, kind, helpful, funny neighbor, a gentle giant, a friend but not possibly interested in anything more… how could you have been any more wrong about him? It seemed his need was as insatiable as yours, as rough as yours.
He braced a hand on your ass and fucked into you so deep your vision actually blurred, and you had a moment of floating, refracted through heat and sensation, no thought in your head but the total occupation of Bucky’s cock and Bucky’s hands and Bucky’s words, which were now a white-noise loop of fuck, that’s so good and look at you and you greedy little thing.
You lost count of how many times you came, whether it was three or four or one long endless melt that crested and crashed and kept cresting again. Each time you clenched harder, he grunted, all approval and gratitude, like you were thriving on the mutual destruction. The only thing that finally stopped him was the way your body seized under him, shaking with exertion, whole frame slick with sweat and blown wide open—and even then, he only slowed to kiss the tears off your cheek before pumping in shallow, locking thrusts, filling you a second time.
He rolled and shifted so he was below and you were arranged on top of him, cock still inside you, and petted your head and back, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
But somehow your body still wasn’t done. The pitch of wasn’t as feverish, but you still ached for more, and you shifted, pressing your hands firmly onto his chest and pushing your hips back.
He growled and grinned up at you in approval, letting you take the pace, lazy hip rolls and shallow thrusts, like he was content to be used if only you’d keep him inside your cunt.
"That’s it, baby," Bucky murmured, hands cupping your hips in living brackets of steel and warmth, "workin’ it all out of your system, huh?" He let you ride him at your pace, let you grind and flex and arch your spine in a slow, deliberate torture, as if the last hour hadn’t emptied you. He watched the place where you were joined with worshipful fixation. Sometimes his hands drifted up your plump sides, moving over the sweat slicking over your ribs, sometimes they hovered beside your tits, thumbs circling the soft underside without quite squeezing. He wanted you to take, to use.
It was so much. The room, the man, the way your senses flattened and then sharpened around only the pressure and friction, the molten bracket of his thighs under yours. You could feel the outline and density of him in your gut, could feel the part of him inside you as an ache in your own bones.
Your hair stuck to your face, skin flushed and slick. You looked down at him, saw the blue of his eyes gone wild with something that wasn’t just lust but an infatuation so raw it jolted you harder than any thrust. You felt gorgeous and filthy and alive.
You braced your palms on his chest, the sweat-slick warmth of him grounding you to the world, to the precise coordinates of this couch, this apartment, these four walls where everything inside you had been rewritten. You rolled your hips, slow at first, test-driving this new sense you’d grown this morning. Each drag, each grind made the both of you moan, made his jaw go slack with admiration and something wild behind it.
“You look so good like this,” he whispered, almost reverent. His hands continued to wander, kneading your waist, your ass, committing every detail like a man who’d been in a famine so long he didn’t trust that the feast would last.
You uncurled from his chest and sat up, knees braced against the outside of his thighs. The angle changed everything—it let you drop down with gravity on your side, and the sudden invasion made you gasp, then laugh a little at the reckless power of it.
“Didn’t know you had this in you, pretty girl,” he said, eyes bright with admiration and a little awe, as your bodies met again and again. You shuddered, every nerve ending tuned to the raggedly sweet friction. You braced one hand on the couch back for support, the other pressing his chest flat to the cushions so he couldn’t move, so you could wring every last drop out of him.
He let you, his hands only guiding, though you could feel they itched for more, alternately cupping your ass and tracing the slick line along your spine. He never looked away, and you couldn’t either, not really. Part of you was afraid if you stopped, you’d never start again, that all of being alive was compressed into this blinding, needy cycle, the slow slide up, the brief gasp at the crest, the smashed-together bodies and the static-burst of coming apart.
You both dissolved into it, rode out the rhythm together, a storm system of skin and sweat and salt air. You wanted to memorize every flicker in his face, the way his jaw tensed when you clenched around him, the soft snarl of delight when you scraped your nails up his stomach, the groan from somewhere ancient when you rocked down, hard, and took him to the hilt. Like this, you were animal and angel at once, an ache shaped just for him, every ounce of pain and pleasure remade as a message to Bucky that he could have you, all of you, if only he asked.
This time when you came, it was a slower surrender, a low-voltage tremble that climbed your spine and made you shake all over. You fell forward onto him, collapse and comfort in the same gesture, and Bucky wrapped his arms around you, rocked you gently even as you whimpered from the aftershocks. He kissed the top of your head, and it was tender but also bespoke a possessiveness that you felt curl happily inside you.
“That’s it,” he crooned, lips against your hairline, “breathe. You did so fuckin’ good.” His hands swept over your back, grounding you, stoking the heat that was already beginning to spark again in the depths of your belly. You wanted to fight it, or at least express some normal human embarrassment at the way you’d let yourself melt into a horny puddle in your neighbor’s arms, but the pleasure sparked with every breath and touch, making defiance impossible.
It was fortunate that this man was a super soldier and could give you what you needed.
You wondered how many times you would come before you burnt out completely, or if you’d just fuse into something new, a singularity of slick and want and Bucky’s name.
Bucky knew he could see you through all of it.
He looked forward to being the conduit you found your relief in since he was the architect of this sweet, filthy, exquisite destruction.
And he couldn’t imagine that this brain-altering type of experience wouldn’t yield him exactly what he’d been waiting so long for: you, surrendering to him completely, admitting there was more than neighborly friendship between you, content and eager to finally be his.
The chemicals would burn out of your system in a few more hours, and then he’d take such good care of you in your recovery. He’d keep the AC off in your apartment so he could coax you to accept his invitation to stay all weekend.
He was sure two days was all he needed to secure you forever.
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
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Series Synopsis - The Universe shows you your soulmate when it feels like you need them most. When you least expect it, you're given yours - Bucky Barnes. Your Dad's best friend. You can try to refuse it all you like; but the universe wants what it wants. There's no denying fate.
Pairing - Dad'sBestFriend!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader - soulmate au
Warnings - smut. age gap (but all legal and consensual). cursing. angst. alcohol consumption.
Word Count (so far) - 60k
Author's Note - another idea i've had for so long!! set in a beautiful coastal beach town - picture sunshine, sailing, beaches and your dad's hot best friend. what more could you want?
you're popular among horror fans. he's well-respected among film critics. though you work in the same industry, you couldn't be more different - but your managers think a pr romance is just what your careers need.
series warning: actor!bucky x f!actress!reader, mature themes, fake dating, enemies to lovers, bucky is an asshole, grumpy x sunshine vibes, angst, smut, slow burn (or at least my attempt at a slow burn).
Summary: The shower is a sanctuary, and Bucky can't resist joining you.
Word Count: Over 1.2k
Warnings: Established relationship, implied smut, tenderness and feels, thoughts of marriage and kids, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: A nonnie inspired me. I'm picturing this before Bucky gets married, but you can view it however you'd like. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
You stood under the spray of the water, not bothering to lift your hands to wash yourself just yet. It was just the right temperature with the perfect amount of steam to surround you without feeling like you’d choke on it. You tipped your head back and closed your eyes, wishing that time could stand still. Showers were a necessity as well as an enjoyment and it felt wrong that time had to continue when you wanted a moment of peace.
Your temporary sanctuary was interrupted by a familiar presence at your back. No, not interrupted. If anything, your sanctuary was more alive. “Sorry if I scared you,” Bucky whispered, slipping his arms around your waist.
“You didn’t,” you whispered back, sinking into him. “Never have, never will.”
“That’s good to know.”
Every chapter of your life since you met Bucky had him written in it. He had been a beautiful stranger who exuded danger and comfort, a heady and contrasting combination. He became a wonderful friend, opening up and trusting you with his secrets and vice versa. It wasn’t long before he became your boyfriend and allowed you to love each other the way you both deserved. He would be your husband one day, and the father of your children if you went down that path.
“Sorry though,” he said, his fingers barely skimming you, but making you shiver just the same. “I should’ve asked before joining you.”
You smiled, noticing that he didn’t sound apologetic in the least. “You made a mess on your shirt again, didn’t you?”
“Sure did,” he replied. Your man had stained more white shirts than you thought possible. He joked that it was one of the reasons he usually stuck with black. At least he was decent with laundry. “Want me to go?”
You put a hand over his to stop him from letting you go. “Don’t you dare,” you warned, which earned you a warm chuckle in response. You hadn’t initially asked him to join you because you were impatient and wanted to feel the cascading water on your skin.
Now you wanted to feel him all over you.
“Fine, I’ll stay,” he teased.
“Smart man,” you teased back.
Bucky was a man who appreciated showers just like you. When he still accepted missions, he would take the opportunity to self-reflect in a peaceful environment, especially if the mission was a long or tough one. The water helped his muscles relax and reduced his stress. It gave him a sense of well-being. The mood he was in when he joined you often determined whether he would be loving and tender or rough and intense.
You welcomed him either way.
“Feels nice,” he sighed, his breath dancing over your skin before he softly kissed your neck.
“Me or the water?” you sighed.
“Both,” he said, kissing directly over your racing pulse.
As your mouth parted and your head fell back further, a shallow breath escaped. His hands and lips enticed you, igniting a slow spreading fire in your veins. You were the match for each other’s flames and the heat was going to consume you both.
“Can I tell you a secret?” he asked, his hands tracing along your skin like an unspoken promise. “You take my breath away.”
Your heart pounded and you turned your head with a soft smile. The angle was just enough to catch the blue of his eyes and the drops of water dripping from his long hair. He was so beautiful. “You take my breath away, too.”
“Yeah?” His smile didn't just rob you of your breath, it snuffed out all the noise in your mind until all you focused on was him.
“Yeah,” you smiled back.
When his lips touched yours, the slow spreading fire erupted into an inferno. His hand slowly slid down your stomach, the other moving up to tease your breasts. “You're so responsive,” he whispered, his thumb grazing a nipple.
Your breath hitched when the hand moving south dipped between your thighs, a tremor running through your body when he gently moved a finger along your slit. The hand cupping your breast pulled you closer, drawing another gasp when he slowly rolled his hips to tease you when his hard cock brushed against your ass. You wanted him to tear you apart.
“And so wet,” he rumbled, suddenly turning you so that your back was against the wall. His hungry gaze had you choking on your next breath when he brought his hand back to your pussy, slowly rubbing it like he had nowhere else to be. Your essence coated his thick fingers, and he hadn’t pushed them inside you yet.
“Please,” you gasped, lost in his touch and wanting more.
But Bucky didn't rush. He merely moaned when he leaned in and kissed your lips, tenderly lavishing you and forcing you to be patient. While your hands dug into his arms to hold on for dear life, he touched you as if it were an honor, cherishing every part of you. He was an artist who molded your body like it was his own creation, a masterpiece for him and him alone. The pleasure building within you was overwhelming, the kind that left you trembling and on the verge of breaking to pieces. The cracks filled with parts of him, piecing you back together in a way that was still you and yet forever changed.
“Can we just stay like this?” he murmured, as if he wasn’t setting you ablaze when his thumb circled your clit.
“Yes,” you whispered, wrapping a leg around him. If that was what Bucky wanted, you’d give it to him.
Just like when he asked for your heart.
His tongue traced a water droplet down the columb of your neck before he gently bit down. “Say my name,” he whispered, moving his hand away to replace it with his cock.
“Bucky,” you breathed, your back arching when he began to push into you. You’d chant it, scream it, let the whole world hear it. Everyone would know who you belonged to and who you chose to be by your side.
His warm body pressed against yours and your heart squeezed in your chest when he whispered, “I love you.”
You breathed him in, your eyes shining with unexpected tears. “I love you, too.”
He didn’t thrust yet, even when you tightened around him. “Forever mine?” He phrased it as a question, but you were his from the start.
This man had burrowed so deep into your heart and soul that you would never be able to carve him out. You didn't want to. If you ever dared to put a wall up, he’d either crash through it or bring it down brick by brick, whatever you needed to get back to him. And you would do the same for him, burning the world if you had to if it meant you’d be together.
Moving a hand to his chest to feel his racing heart, you whispered, “Forever yours.”
You loved being his, loved that he was yours, and you would cry his name to the heavens above before the shower was over.
And under the water and steam, you’d stay wrapped up in each other and enjoy your sanctuary together.
summary | bucky lets his relationship slip into the background for the sake of duty and public image. but when the distance starts to break them, he realizes he’ll do anything to fight for the love he almost lost.
tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, p in v, THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, soft!bucky, miscommunication, established relationship, mentions of mental health/trauma
a/n | I enjoyed writing this so much omg. an apology for my last angst fest fic, based on this request. just two emotionally constipated dumbasses in love.
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ
The first thing you felt was the drag of his mouth along your collarbone—hot, wet, unhurried.
Then his body—solid, heavy, familiar—settled deeper between your thighs, pinning you to the sheets like he belonged there.
Like he knew he belonged there.
“Fuck,” Bucky rasped, hips rolling in slow, punishing thrusts that pulled gasps from your throat. “You feel so good—always feel so fuckin’ good…”
Your legs tightened around his waist, heels pressing into the curve of his ass, urging him deeper.
“You gonna come for me, sweetheart?” he panted, forehead resting against yours. “Come on, I know you’re close.”
You could barely form words. Everything was heat and friction and the slow climb to a peak that had been building for days. He’d been gone—missions, briefings, whatever other bullshit Val had piled on him—and you hadn’t had this, hadn’t had him, in far too long.
Now, you were starving for him.
And from the way he was panting against your mouth, he was just as gone for you.
Bucky’s rhythm faltered for a second—just a split moment—as his cock pulsed deep inside you and he moaned, low and wrecked.
Then—bzzzt.
The phone on the nightstand lit up.
The sound sliced through the heat like cold water.
You groaned, your hands clawing into his shoulders, nails dragging down the flex of his back. “Ignore it,” you muttered, voice thick.
He nodded without looking, mouth already on your throat again. “Wasn’t gonna stop.”
Bzzzt.
He hesitated. You felt the tension in his hips, the shift in his weight. The way his hand twitched like he wanted to grab it—like his fucking conditioning made him twitch toward the sound.
“James,” you growled, pulling his face back to yours. “Focus.”
He smirked—flushed, wild-eyed, strands of hair clinging to his sweat-damp forehead. “Yes, ma’am.”
He rocked back into you, deeper this time, harder. You gasped, arching into him, fingernails biting into his arms.
“You’re such a good girl,” he grunted, “always take me so—”
Bzzzt.
The sound felt louder now.
Persistent.
You tensed beneath him, and he slowed—just a fraction. His head dropped into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged.
You whispered, dangerously low, “James Buchanan Barnes, don’t you dare.”
He paused. Exhaled. “I won’t,” he murmured.
And he didn’t.
Not when you kissed him. Not when your legs tightened around him again, pulling him back into that rhythm. Not when your hips met his in frantic, greedy movement, the sound of skin on skin filling the room.
But then—
Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt.
Buzzing. Relentless.
Like it knew it was ruining something.
His rhythm faltered again. Slower this time. His breath hitched.
And you could see it—feel it—his mind slipping.
“Two seconds, baby,” he whispered, barely coherent.
Then he reached.
You froze. Staring.
He reached for the phone.
“For fuck’s sake—” You shoved his chest, hard enough to make him fall back slightly, the weight of him disappearing as you slid out from under him.
“What?” he asked, dazed, already answering the call. “Where’re you going?”
You grabbed your robe from the edge of the bed, slipping it on in one fluid motion, not even sparing him a glance as you stalked toward the kitchen.
“To make a goddamn sandwich,” you snapped over your shoulder.
And then Bucky was left there, shirtless and half-hard, with the call pressed to his ear and the echo of your frustration ringing louder than the goddamn phone ever did.
────────────────────────
The quiet creak of the bedroom door broke through the stillness as you stood at the kitchen counter, barefoot, chewing slowly on the sandwich you’d slapped together out of spite and mild hunger. Your tiny silk robe hugged your hips, and the morning light from the window behind you cast a low, golden glow across your back.
You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.
You could feel him watching you—feel the apology radiating off him before he even spoke.
A few seconds later, Bucky padded into the kitchen fully dressed, freshly showered, dog tags glinting faintly beneath his shirt collar. His hair was still damp, slicked back lazily with his fingers.
Your stomach twisted.
He stopped beside you, hands in his pockets, jaw tense. “It’s the team.”
You nodded, still chewing.
You didn’t need him to say it. You’d known the second that phone buzzed three times in a row.
“In the city?”
He nodded. “Watchtower. Just a briefing. Maybe recon. Shouldn’t be long.”
You nodded again, finishing the bite and setting the crust on the plate. The silence stretched.
Bucky leaned in, crowding into your space slightly like he always did when he needed you to ground him. “You angry?”
You sighed, licking a crumb from your bottom lip. Then you turned, finally facing him, and your arms slid easily around his neck.
He exhaled the moment you touched him—like that one gesture released the tension wrapped around his ribs.
“No,” you murmured, voice quiet but firm. “I’m not angry.”
His arms circled your waist, pulling you flush against him. “You sure?”
You nodded into his shoulder. “I know what I signed up for. You’re out there saving the world.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, brows furrowed, voice softer now. “Still. Doesn’t mean I don’t hate leaving.”
You looked up at him for a long beat, reading the guilt in his eyes. Then, deadpan:
“Well. You did spend the last ten minutes of our morning trying to ignore your phone while balls-deep in me. I’d call that balance.”
He huffed a low, surprised laugh, forehead dropping to yours. “Jesus Christ.”
You shrugged, lips twitching. “Hey. You asked.”
He kissed you, slow and lingering, and whispered against your mouth, “What did I ever do to deserve you?”
You pulled back just enough to give him that classic stare—the flat one that usually made Bob flinch.
“Honestly?” you said, voice dry. “Just the luck of the draw, hon.”
Bucky barked out a real laugh this time, low and raspy. “That sounds about right.”
You smiled—small, real—then leaned in and brushed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. His hand trailed down your spine, fingers resting at the hem of your robe, his lips ghosting along your jaw now.
“I told them I’d be there in fifteen.”
“Mmhm.”
“But the drive’s only ten.”
You hummed, finishing your sip of water, eyes moving to your sandwich.
“So,” he murmured, mouth back at your ear now, voice dipping low, “technically that gives us five minutes to finish what we started.”
You turned your head, meeting his gaze under lowered lashes.
The look in his eyes was full of hope. And want. And a little desperation.
You kissed him—once, slow and sultry—letting him feel your mouth move over his.
Then you pulled back, just enough to whisper against his lips, “Mm. No.”
He blinked. “What?”
You turned, picking your sandwich back up and walking away toward the couch. “You already finished once today. Let a girl eat.”
Behind you, Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re evil.”
“And yet, here you are,” you called over your shoulder, settling down and flipping through the remote like your thighs weren’t still sticky from him.
He watched you for a second longer, eyes lingering like he was committing you to memory. Then he sighed, picked up his jacket, and headed for the door.
“Call me after?” you said casually.
He looked back, already halfway out.
“Always.”
────────────────────────
The conference room in the Watchtower was, unfortunately, real. Sterile and over-lit with its polished black table and transparent display screens, it felt more like the waiting room of a tech-startup funeral than the nerve center of the New Avengers.
Bucky sat at the far end of the table, jaw clenched, half-listening as Val paced in front of a projected graph that looked like it was bleeding red. His phone buzzed once in his pocket—his eyes flicked down—but it wasn’t you, and the hollow ache behind his ribs twisted a little deeper.
This was the thing that had pulled him away. Not a mission. Not a world-ending threat. Just PR bullshit.
Val tapped the screen with her manicured finger like it had personally offended her. “The numbers are bad. Public trust in the New Avengers is declining, and fast. People don’t like what they don’t recognize. And right now, you’re a bunch of strangers with messy optics and zero cohesion.”
At her side, Mel nodded without looking up from her tablet. “Engagement down 22% week-over-week. Headlines are skewing nostalgic. Keywords trending: ‘wish Cap was back,’ ‘where’s the heart,’ and ‘vigilante vibes.’”
Yelena lounged back in her chair like she’d rather be anywhere else. Her feet were propped on the table’s edge, one boot bouncing with slow, deliberate disinterest. “Maybe they’re just mourning the glory days,” she muttered, twisting her gum around her finger. “Old team got shiny deaths and glossy documentaries. We get memes.”
Ava, seated across from her, gave a quiet snort. “We’re not here to trend. We’re here to finish missions.”
Val didn’t even blink. “You’re here to represent global security and inspire public trust. And without that trust, you’re nothing more than privately-funded vigilantes in almost matching gear.”
“I like our gear,” Alexei rumbled helpfully from the end, arms crossed over his chest like a stubborn bear.
Val spared him a look. “You’re the closest thing we have to comic relief, Alexei. Lean into it.”
“Is that what they call ‘noble heroism’ now?” he huffed.
Walker sat ramrod straight, jaw working, his suit perfectly zipped. “You think Cap worried about popularity? We’re not running a fashion campaign.”
“No,” Val said flatly. “But Cap didn’t publicly decapitate someone with a shield on live television either.”
Yelena snorted. “Yikes.”
John’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
“Point is,” Val continued, “you all need a rebrand. Yelena—your personality makes you relatable. Media loves you. You’ll handle most interviews.”
Yelena rolled her eyes. “Great. I’ll practice my ‘Good Morning, America’ smile.”
“Ava,” Val said, turning, “your trauma narrative plays well. But lean into redemption. Soft lighting. No more disappearing mid-interview.”
Ava’s response was a flat stare. “I’ll try not to phase through my own dignity.”
Val didn’t even acknowledge the jab.
“John,” she said, and his head snapped up like a soldier awaiting orders. “Less cowboy, more Captain. Smile more. No threats on-camera. Pretend you like people.”
He scoffed under his breath, muttering something about “hand-holding and fairy tales.”
“Alexei,” she said, deadpan, “people like the Soviet uncle bit. Keep it up.”
Alexei beamed.
“Bob, you’re doing fine. Stay polite. And no more jokes about punching through tanks, they’re fact-checking you.”
Bob looked vaguely hurt. “It was metaphorical.”
Val finally turned her gaze to Bucky, her expression shifting slightly—not warmer, but sharper, more calculated. She paced a slow step closer to where he sat, hands clasped behind her back like a politician delivering bad news with a smile.
“You, Barnes, are the key,” she said simply. “You’re the most recognized face on this team, and not just because of your past as the Winter Soldier.”
She gestured toward the screen behind her, now displaying a montage of Bucky’s appearances—post-congressional interviews, old wartime footage, newer press photos where he stood stoically beside Sam.
“You were a war hero before you were ever the Winter Soldier. Sergeant James Barnes, the Howling Commando, the man who fought beside Captain America during the most iconic conflict of the 20th century. And, until very recently, a U.S. Congressman advocating for post-snap veteran reform. Your file reads like a patriotic fantasy novel.”
Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. But something in his jaw ticked.
Val leaned in a little, her voice softening, but not with kindness—just control.
“What we need now is that Bucky. The leader. The charming, respectful, golden-era face people want to believe in. Friendly. Accessible. And most importantly…”
She paused.
“Available.”
That made Bucky’s eyes lift, expression tightening. “You do know I have a girlfriend, right? I’m in a committed relationship.”
Val didn’t miss a beat. “One the public doesn’t know about. And doesn’t need to.”
He sat forward slightly, steel entering his voice. “You’re asking me to lie.”
“No,” Val said, waving a hand. “I’m asking you to protect her. Think of it this way—if no one knows who she is, no one can leverage her. No threats. No gossip. No crossfire. It’s smarter this way.”
Mel tapped her tablet again. “We’ve already scrubbed mentions, just in case. Nothing linking her name to yours comes up in connection to the New Avengers.”
Bucky clenched his jaw. He hated this. Every inch of it.
“Why is it so important that I look ‘available’?” he asked flatly.
Val’s smile sharpened. “Because people want to like you. And people like what they want. It’s a psychological pull. You become more desirable, more approachable—someone they imagine they could know. That they could be with. It builds trust, makes you more likable. Marketable.”
He stared at her for a long beat.
“You want to make me into a fantasy.”
“I want to make you into a symbol,” Val corrected coolly. “And symbols don’t get girlfriends.”
Across the room, Yelena let out a low, mocking whistle. “Wow. That’s not creepy at all.”
Ava shook her head. “What’s next? Tinder profiles and fan edits?”
John rolled his eyes. “It’s optics. We all knew this came with the job.”
But Bucky barely heard them. His mind was already drifting—to you, still barefoot in the kitchen, silk robe sliding over bare thighs, chewing your sandwich with zero interest in who he was to the rest of the world. Just who he was to you.
And now, he had to pretend you didn’t exist.
He didn’t respond. Just sat back in his chair and regretted every second he hadn’t spent in your arms this morning.
────────────────────────
The Watchtower always smelled like metal and over-sterilized air. You hated it.
Fluorescents buzzed overhead as you stepped off the elevator, holding a small, zippered pouch in your hand—the charger Bucky had forgotten, again, even though you reminded him three times before he left.
The place felt like a cross between a tech firm and a concrete bunker: all gray walls, touchscreen doors, and state-mandated potted plants.
The main floor—what passed for a communal living space—was half chaos, half nap zone. Yelena was sprawled on one end of the sectional couch, flipping through something on her tablet and eating dried mango slices from a bag she probably stole from someone else.
Ava stood leaning against the wall nearby, arms crossed, watching the room like she was waiting for someone to step out of line so she could phase them through a floor. Bob was sitting cross-legged on the floor with a comic book held way too close to his face, murmuring what you assumed was commentary under his breath.
Alexei was telling a story. Loudly. And probably badly.
Bucky spotted you first. He was standing near the open kitchen area, talking with Mel—Val’s too-efficient assistant who always looked like she was plotting the next step of a corporate coup.
His entire expression changed when he saw you. The tension in his shoulders dropped a little, the corner of his mouth lifted, and for a second, he didn’t look like the unofficial leader of a barely-tethered government strike team. He just looked like your boyfriend.
You handed him the charger without ceremony.
“You left this.”
He took it with a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck like it was the first time he’d ever been caught forgetting something (it wasn't). “Thanks. Thought I had it packed.”
“Nope,” you said, popping the “p.”
You didn’t mean to stay. You weren’t supposed to linger. But Bucky motioned for you to walk with him, and you didn’t say no.
Up close, you noticed the tired edge in his face. Like whatever conversation he’d been having before you arrived had worn him down more than a mission ever could.
He told you about it—about Val’s latest brainstorm. That the team needed to be more “media-friendly.” That they wanted him to lean into the good ol’ days: Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes, WWII hero, former Congressman, the smile-that-could-end-wars poster boy.
You listened without interrupting, arms crossed, eyes squinting toward the ceiling as you tried to think through what he was actually saying.
When he finished, you just shrugged.
“Well,” you said, “sounds like when celebrities fake relationships before a movie comes out. Or pretend they’re single to sell tickets.”
Bucky blinked. “How do you even know that?”
You gave him a flat look, expression unreadable. “I was born in 1995, babe. Not the fucking 40s.”
Behind him, Walker snorted loudly. He’d been pretending not to listen, but of course he was.
“Damn,” he said, leaning against the fridge like he was waiting for someone to ask for his input (nobody did). “My wife would’ve never let me get away with that.”
You turned to look at him. Not annoyed. Not even angry. Just blank. Like staring at a particularly ugly lamp in a hotel room.
“That’s why she’s your ex-wife,” you said, voice calm. “And good for her.”
Yelena, without looking up from her tablet, let out a noise that might’ve been a laugh. Ava smirked quietly. Even Alexei stopped mid-sentence to grin like someone had dropped his favorite sitcom back into rotation.
Bucky watched all of it happen with a complicated kind of amusement. But it didn’t last.
Because then he had to say the next part.
He rubbed his hands down your arms, slow and hesitant, like bracing you.
“Val advised…” he started, then caught himself. “She recommended that maybe—for now—you don’t come around the tower. Or get seen with us in general.”
He didn’t say “hide.” He didn’t have to.
Your face didn’t change much. Not really. But he saw it. That tiny prickle of tension in your jaw. The slight shift in your eyes when you looked away from him for just a second too long.
You muttered something low. A lazy, “Whatever.” But the way you pulled your arms away said everything.
“I need to go anyway.”
Bucky stepped closer, voice soft but strained. “You don’t have to leave right away.”
You didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him, eyes unreadable, lips pressed in that almost-smile that wasn’t really a smile at all.
Then you leaned in and kissed his cheek, slow and warm, the way you always did when you were trying not to let the weight of something show.
“See you at home,” you murmured.
Your voice dipped at the end, barely above a whisper as you pulled back. “If you’re still allowed to come home, anyway.”
It wasn’t angry.
It wasn’t bitter.
It was worse.
It was tired.
Before he could answer, before he could say anything at all, you turned and walked to the elevator, the soft sound of your footsteps swallowed by the Watchtower’s chaos.
He didn’t follow.
And that hurt more than you cared to admit.
────────────────────────
It was slow. Almost imperceptible, at first.
A missed call here. A text left on “read” longer than usual. A two-day mission becoming a four-day stretch at the tower. No big fights. No yelling. No doors slammed.
Just quiet.
But that was the thing about quiet—Bucky had lived in it for too long. He knew its weight. Knew how it filled rooms like fog, hiding the way things shifted underneath.
Now, it was in everything.
He sat on the edge of his bed in the Watchtower, staring at the wall, phone still in hand from a message he hadn’t sent. His thoughts weren’t here—weren’t in this too-bright room, or with Val’s next debrief, or on the press event they had the next morning.
They were in Brooklyn.
Your shared apartment. The one with the soft light and creaky floorboards, and the tiny espresso machine you swore was better than anything Bucky had ever tasted. That place was home. It smelled like your lavender detergent and your coconut shampoo and your weirdly specific collection of candles labeled things like “wet grass” and “Scandinavian night.”
His body ached to be there. Just... there. On the couch. Next to you.
He used to spend three days a week here, tops. Two, if he could push it. The rest he’d guard selfishly for you—days spent sleeping beside you, cooking breakfast together, reading on opposite ends of the couch while your foot found his thigh and stayed there. You’d talk to him, let the silence stretch and snap and re-stitch. You never pushed. You never pried.
You were his quiet. The right kind of quiet.
Now? Now he barely remembered the last night he’d actually fallen asleep next to you. Really slept. Not just crashed on the bed after some back-to-back PR gig that left him in a suit with aching teeth from smiling too much.
He hated it.
He hated talking to the press, hated the way they asked questions like they already had the answers written. He hated being told to laugh, to charm, to tell stories that didn’t feel like his anymore. He hated Val’s smug reminders that likability mattered. That perception mattered.
Sometimes, he wished he’d never gone to Congress. That he hadn’t let convinced himself into the platform, the speeches, the idea that he could do good with a microphone instead of a mission.
Sometimes, he wished he’d just… faded.
Found a quiet nine-to-five. Something with a routine. Something boring.
Something normal.
Like you had.
You worked corporate communications. You clocked in and out. You had a clean desk, ergonomic chair, sarcastic co-workers. You went for runs in the park on weekends, had lunch dates with your girlfriends, took yoga classes when you weren’t too exhausted from the week.
You lived in the world like a real person.
And he’d wanted that so badly. Not for himself—but with you.
Because you were his normal. His constant. The stillness that didn’t suffocate. The grounding he’d clung to after years of floating through someone else’s chaos.
But now?
Now he didn’t know how to reach for it without dragging it into the spotlight with him.
And every time he came home and found you already asleep, back to him, or out with friends instead of waiting, or just… quiet in a way that wasn’t yours anymore—
He felt it.
The drift.
And he hated it.
────────────────────────
You didn’t talk about it.
You didn’t let yourself think about it.
The distance. His absence. The too-quiet apartment, the untouched half of the bed, the silence when your phone didn’t buzz all day. It wasn’t worth thinking about. People were dying in the world—actual, breathing, bleeding people—and you were going to be pathetic about your boyfriend missing dinner?
No.
Absolutely the fuck not.
So you cleaned. You ran. You worked. You answered emails with snide internal commentary and booked your usual yoga class for Tuesday even though you hated the new instructor’s voice. You refused to call it coping.
It was just living.
And tonight? Tonight was fine.
It was Saturday. He’d said he’d be back for dinner.
You didn’t text to confirm because you didn’t want to hover. Didn’t want to be needy. He’d said it, he’d meant it, and you would trust that. Like always.
So, you cooked.
Beef stew—slow and thick and comforting. Heavenly mashed potatoes, made with way more butter than you’d ever admit to aloud. Roasted vegetables, because Bucky needed something green on his plate or he’d sulk. It was all simmering gently on the stove while you lay curled on the couch in your oldest pair of yoga shorts and a hoodie, eating straight from a pint of mint chocolate chip.
It was fine.
Okay, it was your cheat day.
Okay, you’d had more cheat days than planned recently.
You’d also bought a new pair of jeans in the next size up, but that was irrelevant. You were not stress-eating. You were just... adapting to your changing lifestyle.
Had Bucky noticed?
The thought came and went before you could kill it.
He hadn’t said anything. Not that you needed him to. But still.
The sound of the TV murmured in the background, some fluff piece news channel you’d forgotten to mute while scrolling your phone. Something about the New Avengers. You tuned in just enough to glance at the footage—drone shots of a crumbling government facility somewhere in Eastern Europe, flames curling up the side of a building like hands.
You recognized the team instantly. Yelena, tossing her baton mid-air like it annoyed her to carry it. Ava disappearing through smoke. John looking way too pleased with himself.
And then—there he was.
Bucky.
His tactical suit was soot-streaked, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, face streaked with ash. He was helping someone—no, two people—down the fire escape, guiding them through smoke with one hand steady on their backs.
Then it happened.
One of the women—civilian, blonde, maybe late 20s—turned and kissed him on the cheek. A hard, grateful kind of kiss. The kind that left a smudge of ash on his jaw.
She clung to him like he’d saved her life.
Maybe he had.
And Bucky? He smiled.
Not his press smile. Not the tight, practiced one. But something else—softer. Real.
You blinked.
Let out a breath through your nose. “Jesus Christ.”
It wasn’t like he kissed her. It wasn’t like he meant anything by it. She’d probably thought she was about to die, and then Bucky Barnes dragged her out of a collapsing building, and she just… reacted.
You weren’t jealous.
You were just being dramatic.
This was not about you.
But somehow, that one moment served to curdle the rest of the evening.
You changed the channel without saying anything, the ice cream melting slowly in your hands. The scent of stew floated in from the kitchen, warm and rich, but you didn’t move.
Dinner would keep.
You weren't sure if he would.
────────────────────────
It was past ten by the time Bucky stepped into the apartment.
The hallway had been dark. The front door had creaked louder than usual. And the only light inside was the kitchen, glowing soft and golden like a memory. It lit the space just enough to reveal the forgotten dinner plates covered in cling film on the counter, the quiet hum of the microwave keeping your meal warm—like it was still waiting.
But you weren’t.
His breath caught in his throat as he toed off his boots, silence wrapping around him like a punishment.
He said six.
Not “around six,” not “if I can swing it.” Just six. Sharp. He said it with his hands on your waist and his lips in your hair the night before. Said it like he meant it.
And now it was 10:18.
He could barely look at the time. The guilt clawed at him, sharp and low and constant. Every second he’d spent at the tower—every extra minute talking to reporters, doing damage control, smiling on cue—had eaten at him like acid.
He was supposed to be here.
In your shared space. In this soft, too-warm apartment that smelled faintly like roasted vegetables and your perfume.
And the worst part wasn’t just that he’d missed dinner. It was that he knew exactly what you’d done in his absence.
You wouldn’t have texted. Wouldn’t have called. You would’ve made his favorite meal anyway. You would’ve set out two bowls. You would’ve eaten alone, probably on the couch, probably in silence. And you would’ve told yourself—it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine—like you had any interest in believing it anymore.
The bathroom door clicked open.
He froze.
You stepped out, already dressed for bed—an oversized button-down, sleeves rolled up to your elbows. Your hair was twisted up and pinned in the messy, practical way you always wore it when you were done for the day. Slippers scuffed softly against the floor as you walked into the hall, blinking slightly at the light.
You stopped when you saw him.
Both of you just stood there for a moment—frozen in that strange tension where neither of you knew which role to play yet. He looked at you like he didn’t know if he was allowed to speak.
Then he remembered how to breathe.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said quietly, voice rougher than he meant. Like he’d been holding it in all night. “I—I got caught up. I didn’t mean to—”
You didn’t answer right away.
Just blinked at him. No surprise on your face. No anger.
Just quiet.
Then you gave a little shrug—small and tired, the kind of shrug that said what else is new?—and turned toward the kitchen.
“There’s food in the microwave if you’re still hungry,” you said simply.
And then you walked past him.
No kiss. No touch. No sarcastic jab.
Just your scent, and the ache of knowing that he wasn’t even sure if he was following you to the bedroom or to the guest room tonight.
The door clicked softly behind you.
And Bucky stood alone in the glow of a kitchen he didn’t deserve.
────────────────────────
It was almost midnight when Bucky finally walked into the bedroom.
Not because he was tired. He’d been tired for hours.
He just needed to be sure you were asleep.
The microwave had long since gone silent. He’d eaten half the stew in distracted mouthfuls, barely tasting it, then spent an hour sitting in the living room in the dark, elbows on his knees, forehead resting on steepled hands. The guilt gnawed at him—not loud or dramatic, just steady, like water dripping against stone. It never stopped.
He pushed open the door slowly, as if afraid it would creak too loud. The room smelled like your shampoo, your skin, your cocoa body butter. His sanctuary. The place he used to walk into and feel immediate calm.
Now it just reminded him of everything he was missing, even while it was still right in front of him.
You were already in bed.
Covers pulled halfway up. Lights dimmed. Hair pinned back in the soft way you wore it only at night. You slept with your back to the door—back to him—and it made something inside him pinch.
He hesitated in the doorway, watching the gentle rise and fall of your breath, the way your fingers curled under your pillow. Still. Quiet. Entirely out of reach.
He stripped silently, down to boxers and a threadbare black t-shirt, and slid beneath the sheets with a care that bordered on reverent.
Then—inch by inch—he moved closer.
It was tentative. Like approaching a deer in the woods. Like if he moved too fast, you might flinch and disappear.
His arm slid around your waist. Cautious. Testing.
You didn’t move.
So he let his chest press against your back, warm and slow. Let his knees curve behind yours, let his other hand reach up and tuck gently under your ribcage, pulling you flush.
Then—finally—he buried his face in the crook of your neck. Breathed you in like he hadn’t seen home in weeks.
A beat passed.
Then another.
Still, you didn’t stir. No tensing. No pulling away.
Just the soft, subconscious hum of sleep.
And that—that tiny, unconscious mercy—was enough to let him exhale for the first time all night.
It wasn’t much.
But it was something.
And he held on to it like it might save him.
────────────────────────
The apartment smelled like detergent and coffee. Morning light streamed in through the windows, dust catching in the gold. On the surface, it looked like a Sunday—peaceful, slow, quiet.
But it wasn’t.
You sat on the couch, folding laundry with the precision of someone who needed something—anything—to occupy your hands. T-shirt, fold. Socks, fold. Hoodie, fold. The pile on the coffee table grew in neat little stacks, organized by drawer and category.
Bucky leaned in the doorway, watching you. Barefoot, hair tied up, one of his sweatshirts hanging loose around your shoulders. It should’ve been comforting. Familiar.
It wasn’t.
He moved to the kitchen, filled two mugs with coffee, brought yours over without a word. Set it down next to your knee. You gave a nod, murmured “thanks,” without looking up.
His stomach twisted.
He sat across from you, mug cradled in both hands, trying not to overthink it. Trying to act normal. Pretend that everything didn’t feel like it was three steps left of what it used to be.
“So,” he said, voice easy, like he was just easing into the day with you. “You still going to that yoga class on Tuesdays?”
You didn’t look at him. Just kept folding a pair of socks, thumbs pressing the fabric into place. “Yeah.”
He waited for more.
Nothing.
“You like it?”
You shrugged, moved onto a fitted sheet. “It’s fine.”
Bucky nodded slowly, feeling the distance like a cold draft under a closed door.
That was how you talked to people you didn’t want to get stuck in a conversation with. To strangers. To coworkers who overshared. To the people you were polite to but had no desire to know.
He remembered how your voice used to sound when it was just the two of you—low, dry, threaded with sarcasm and occasional sweetness you tried hard to hide. He remembered the way your eyes used to flick up mid-conversation just to check that he was still smiling. He remembered you saying, “I hate everyone but you,” with a hand on his chest and a smirk you couldn't keep down.
Now?
Now you sounded like someone tolerating him.
And it broke something inside his chest that he didn’t know how to fix.
He took a sip of his coffee, staring into the steam, words catching behind his teeth.
You weren’t angry.
You weren’t cruel.
You were just... gone.
And it was killing him.
The silence had stretched too long. Not peaceful. Not content. Just tense.
Bucky watched you fold a hoodie and set it aside like it mattered. Like it was worth more attention than him. He had tried—coffee, questions, anything to coax out that sliver of warmth you used to give him without thinking.
Now it was measured. Distant. Like he was on the other side of something neither of you had noticed building until it was too high to climb over.
He stared into his coffee like it might offer an answer. It didn’t.
So finally—quietly, but not gently—he asked, “Are we okay?”
You froze mid-fold.
Your hands stilled, holding one of his long-sleeve shirts in your lap, fingers curled around the soft fabric.
And then, for the first time that morning, you looked at him.
Not a glance. Not a nod. You looked at him.
There was a frown on your lips. A deep furrow between your brows. The kind of look you gave when something was broken and you weren’t sure whether to fix it or walk away from it.
“I don’t know,” you said honestly.
The words hit harder than he was ready for.
You didn’t know.
And that terrified him.
He nodded slowly, like he was trying to process it, but nothing quite stuck. His hands tightened around the mug in his grip.
You looked down again, slowly folding the shirt in your lap. Your voice dropped, softer now. Barely above the hum of the fridge.
“I try not to think about it.”
Bucky’s throat tightened.
You weren’t trying to hurt him. But it hurt anyway.
Because that was the truth of it, wasn’t it? Neither of you had talked about it. You’d just lived in the quiet space between exhaustion and effort, pretending the love was enough to keep everything from shifting.
You still loved him. He knew that.
But love wasn't fixing it. Not when you felt like strangers in the same home.
“I miss you,” he said, voice rough. “Even when I’m right here. I miss you.”
You didn’t look up.
Didn’t answer.
Just smoothed your fingers across the folded shirt like maybe if you kept them busy, the truth wouldn’t get too loud.
He wanted to reach across the coffee table, wanted to take your hands, wanted to say something to undo it all.
But neither of you were good at this part.
You were good at sarcasm. At quiet nights. At sex in the kitchen and lazy Sundays with pancakes and him pretending not to burn the bacon.
You weren’t good at asking for what you needed.
And right now, neither of you knew how to say what came next.
So the silence stretched again—thicker now, heavier.
The laundry was folded.
That’s what you clung to, bizarrely, like it meant something. Order. Control. You stacked the last shirt on the table and smoothed your palms down your thighs, blinking at nothing in particular.
You hadn’t spoken since I miss you.
Not because you didn’t want to.
Because you didn’t trust what might come out if you did.
Across from you, Bucky hadn’t moved much either. Just sat with the cooling coffee in his hands, elbows on his knees, staring at the place you used to lean into him without hesitation.
The silence thickened until it felt like breathing through gauze.
You stood up, grabbed your coffee, and walked into the kitchen. You weren’t thirsty. You just needed something to do.
Behind you, Bucky’s voice broke the quiet.
“This isn’t what I wanted,” he said.
Your back tensed. The mug clinked slightly against the counter.
“I didn’t want this either,” you said, not turning around.
“You used to talk to me,” he murmured. “Even when you were annoyed. Even when you were tired. You still talked.”
You closed your eyes.
“It’s hard to talk,” you said, voice flat, “when you’re not around to listen.”
The armchair scraped back against the floor. Footsteps. Closer.
“I am listening,” he said, more desperate now. “I know I’ve been— I’ve been stretched. But I’m here now. Just talk to me.”
You turned around slowly, coffee mug still in your hand. You looked at him, really looked. And something inside you cracked—not because you didn’t love him.
Because you did.
That was the problem.
“I don’t want to be another thing you manage, Bucky.”
He froze.
You shook your head slowly. “You manage the media. You manage the team. You manage your image. I don’t want to be another box you tick at the end of the day.”
“I don’t think of you like that—”
“I know,” you interrupted softly. “That’s what makes it worse.”
He stared at you, helpless.
“I don’t doubt you love me,” you continued. “But I can’t keep living in the spaces between your obligations. You show up late, you leave early. You touch me like you’re scared I’ll vanish. And maybe I will, because I don’t know how much more of this I can take without losing myself.”
Your voice didn’t shake.
Your hands didn’t clench.
You weren’t yelling.
But you might as well have torn your heart out and set it on the counter between you.
Bucky swallowed hard. “So what? You’re done?”
You looked at him, and for the first time, there was no sarcasm. No tight-lipped smile. Just a hollow kind of truth.
“I’m tired,” you said. “And I don’t know how to not be tired anymore.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it again.
Your voice dropped lower. “I can’t be the only one holding the thread, babe.”
The silence returned. Bigger now.
You stepped around him, walked to the bedroom, and closed the door behind you—not slammed. Just shut.
Soft. But final.
While Bucky stood in the kitchen, frozen.
The coffee in his mug had gone cold.
The apartment felt foreign, like he’d wandered into someone else’s life and forgotten how to get back to his own.
He sat down on the edge of the couch, hands in his hair.
He couldn’t lose this. He wouldn’t.
You were it. His peace. His pulse. The only thing in his life that ever made him feel real.
He didn’t care what Val said, or what public image they wanted to build, or how many staged smiles he had to fake for camera crews.
If it meant losing you?
Then it wasn’t worth anything.
And he would fix it.
He didn’t know how yet.
But he would.
Because if this ended, if you walked away and didn’t look back—
He’d be nothing but a name in a file again.
And he’d already spent too much of his life feeling like a ghost.
────────────────────────
Bucky had never cared for formal events, especially not since becoming the public face of a team that didn't particularly want one. But tonight wasn’t about optics. It wasn’t about strategy or good PR.
It was about you.
The invitation had landed on Val’s desk a week ago—a high-profile charity gala for Clean Futures, an international organization funding mental health programs for post-Blip survivors. Your company had a long-standing partnership with the group, which meant you’d be there. Representing. Smiling for photos. Dressed to kill.
And you hadn’t told him.
You didn’t need to. He hadn’t earned that kind of openness in weeks.
So Bucky had taken the opportunity and run with it.
He stood in front of the full-length mirror in the Watchtower’s prep room, tugging at the lapels of the black suit that Mel had somehow sourced last-minute. The cut was sharp, classic, tailored to emphasize broad shoulders and trim waist. His hair was slicked back, jaw clean-shaven, cufflinks engraved with the new Avengers insignia.
It felt like armor.
It wasn’t for the cameras. It wasn’t for the team.
It was for you.
Because maybe if he showed up—not as a soldier or a symbol or a ghost of a man who couldn’t keep promises—but as your man, he might finally break the wall you’d built brick by slow, exhausted brick.
"You look like a magazine ad for heartbreak,” Yelena said flatly as she passed him in the hallway, already halfway into a glittering black gown. “That is not a compliment.”
Bucky didn’t flinch. “You know she’s gonna be there?”
“Do I look like her personal assistant?” she replied. “You’re the one who made Val jump through hoops to drag us into this.”
“It's for a good cause,” he said.
Yelena narrowed her eyes. “Uh-huh. Sure. Purely selfless.”
Ava walked by next, heels clicking. “You’re nervous,” she noted, glancing at him sideways.
“I’m not—”
“You’re sweating through a thousand dollars worth of tailoring. That’s nerves.”
He rolled his eyes.
Alexei, coming down the stairs in a tux that looked like it belonged to a different century, clapped him on the back. “You want advice? Make her laugh. Women like a man who makes them laugh.”
“Or,” Bob said quietly, trailing behind them with his bowtie untied and suit wrinkled, “you could just apologize. That works too.”
Bucky ignored them all as he fastened his bowtie and adjusted the cuffs one last time.
He didn’t know if you’d speak to him.
But he’d be damned if he stood across a ballroom from you and didn’t try.
────────────────────────
The camera flashes started the moment the New Avengers stepped out of the sleek black convoy outside the grand hotel.
Reporters lined the ropes, shouting names and questions, bulbs flashing like strobe lights in a storm. Val stood smug just off to the side, soaking it in like she’d orchestrated the whole damn thing.
Inside, the ballroom was already humming with rich voices, tinkling glassware, soft jazz echoing beneath a grand chandelier. Politicians, CEOs, heads of NGOs, tech royalty—all of them looking to shake hands and write checks.
Yelena rolled her eyes as a photographer barked her name, whispering something to Bob, who stayed glued to her side. Ava immediately veered away from the attention. John lapped up the press like a plant under a grow light. Alexei was already loudly asking where the vodka was.
But Bucky wasn’t looking at the cameras.
He wasn’t smiling.
He was scanning the ballroom, eyes darting over sequined gowns and tuxedoed silhouettes with laser focus. Looking. Searching. Waiting.
And then he saw you.
It hit him like a sucker punch.
You descended the marble staircase on the far side of the ballroom, a vision in crimson. He hadn’t seen the dress before—he would’ve remembered. The deep red clung to your body like it knew exactly where you wanted to be touched.
It shimmered subtly under the chandelier light, catching the gold in your skin, the delicate slope of your collarbone, the shape of your legs moving with slow, elegant precision.
You were talking to someone—corporate, probably. Networking. Smooth and composed, all polished charm and business poise. The person in front of you was smiling wide, laughing, but your expression was mild, professional. Exactly what it needed to be.
But then—
Like you felt him.
You turned.
Your eyes swept the crowd and locked on him like gravity itself had bent the light to make it happen.
Bucky froze.
Time narrowed.
The din of the gala dulled. His heartbeat went hot in his ears. All he could see was you—standing there in that goddamn dress, looking like a memory he hadn’t earned and a future he didn’t deserve.
And for a second, just one second, your expression broke.
Just a little.
Recognition. Surprise. And something else—something softer. Sharper.
Then, just as quickly, it was gone.
You turned back to your conversation, spine straightening, mouth curving into that polite smile you wore when you wanted to end something without causing a scene.
Bucky stood rooted in place, jaw clenched, hands curled at his sides.
Right.
He’d told you not to be seen near them. Told you to stay away, for safety. For PR. For a million reasons that didn’t mean a damn thing anymore.
And now?
He couldn’t just walk up to you. Couldn’t confess his love in front of the board members and donors and paparazzi. He knew you. Knew you’d hate it. Knew it would make you glare instead of melt.
So he’d have to find another way.
One that would mean something.
One that would be yours.
And Bucky Barnes had never been more ready to fight for something in his goddamn life.
────────────────────────
Bucky spent most of the night like a man caught in the wrong timeline.
The team had dispersed—mingling, sipping wine, taking photos they didn’t want to take. Yelena charmed a table of older donors by being blunt and hilarious.
Ava was already in a corner having a serious conversation about resource allocation. Bob, somehow, had gotten pulled into a group selfie with a senator. Even John had managed to slap on a half-decent smile and talk to two reporters without saying anything arrogant.
But Bucky?
Bucky stood there.
Dark suit, jaw clenched, drink untouched in his hand.
Watching you.
You moved through the room like you weren’t breaking his heart a little with every step. Laughing politely at something someone said. Holding your glass just so. The fabric of that crimson dress whispering around your ankles as you walked.
Every now and then, your eyes flicked to his. Brief. Electric. Then gone again.
He didn’t know what to do with himself.
And then—heels clicking, voice like an ice pick—Val appeared beside him.
“You’re up.”
Bucky blinked. “Up for what?”
Val gave a thin, dry smile. “Speech. On behalf of the New Avengers. Seeing as the rest of your team has at least attempted to behave like functioning public figures, and you’ve done nothing but stand here looking like an emotionally repressed Greek statue all night.”
He blinked again. “I wasn’t told—”
“You are now,” she interrupted, already turning away. “It’s already been cleared with the host. Mic’s ready. Try not to say anything too traumatic.”
And with that, she pivoted away, already bored of him.
Public speaking. God help him.
But then his eyes found you again.
Still glowing under the chandeliers. Still you.
And he thought, maybe this is it.
He walked onto the stage to the quiet hum of low conversation and the gentle clinking of glasses. The host introduced him with a few polite words—"Representative of the New Avengers, veteran of WW2..."—and then stepped aside, leaving Bucky with the mic and a ballroom full of people who had no idea what he was about to say.
He gripped the podium tighter than he meant to.
Cleared his throat.
You were near the center, now seated at a table with your company’s execs. And your eyes were already on him.
God.
He hadn’t even started yet, and he was wrecked.
He cleared his throat. “Good evening.”
A few polite nods from the audience.
“I’m not… great at speeches,” he started, eyes sweeping the crowd once—but only once—before settling back on you.
“But I’m honored to speak tonight. Because this cause… matters. Mental health support for Blip survivors—that’s not just a talking point. It’s life-saving.”
People leaned in.
“I’ve seen firsthand what coming back can do to someone,” he said slowly, carefully. “What it feels like to be displaced. Lost. Like time’s moved on without you, and you’re just… dragging behind it, trying to catch up. And the worst part of that isn’t the confusion. It’s the loneliness.”
His voice was low, careful. This part, at least, he could manage.
“I think we talk a lot about the logistics of the Blip—people gone, people returned, the chaos. But we don’t talk enough about what it did to the people who stayed. Or the ones who came back and didn’t recognize the world anymore. People who survived, but didn’t feel alive.”
You shifted slightly in your seat. His eyes never left you.
“And I’m saying this not just as an Avenger or a veteran… but as someone who’s been there. Someone who came back from the dead—twice. And there were days I didn’t know how to keep going. I’ve spent years working on being more than what happened to me. I’ve sat in rooms trying to explain why it still hurts. Trying to find meaning.”
A pause.
“And I wouldn’t have made it if I hadn’t had someone to come home to.”
That’s when the shift happened.
Eyes widened. A few murmurs from the crowd. Even Val froze near the back.
“I’m not… great with this kind of thing,” Bucky said, adjusting the mic slightly. “But I’m standing here in front of all of you, not because I’m part of a superhero team, or because someone handed me a title. I’m standing here because there is a woman in this room who keeps me tethered.”
He didn’t blink.
Didn’t glance away from you, not even once.
“She’s my rock. My clarity. The only person who ever looked at me and saw something worth saving. She didn’t ask me to be a hero. She just asked me to be me. And somehow… she still loved what she saw.”
A breath.
“She is the reason I believe I deserve peace.”
Your eyes were locked on him, wide, unmoving.
Some of the audience was blinking. A few whispering.
But Bucky didn’t care.
Because he wasn’t talking to them.
He was talking to you.
“I was a soldier. Then a weapon. Then a politician. Now I’m trying to be a man. And I can’t be that without her.”
He swallowed, but didn’t falter.
And for the first time in weeks, his voice felt steady. Because for once, he wasn’t hiding. Not his love. Not his pain. Not what you meant to him.
He took a breath.
Then finished, simply:
“So thank you for supporting this cause. It’s not abstract. It’s personal. For all of us.”
A pause.
Then the room erupted in applause.
But Bucky didn’t hear it.
He was still looking at you.
And for the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel the distance.
────────────────────────
The applause was still echoing faintly through the ballroom, conversations blooming again like nothing had shifted—but Bucky knew better.
Something had shifted.
He stepped off the stage and straight into the tide of well-dressed bodies. Donors, board members, media people—shaking hands, smiling, complimenting him, dropping half-formed praises about “moving” and “authentic” and “genuine vulnerability.”
But he didn’t care.
He barely registered any of it.
His eyes were scanning the room. Looking for you. Like if he could just find you, ground himself in your orbit, maybe he could believe that what he’d just done was enough.
But you weren’t by the bar. You weren’t at the staircase. You weren’t by the back exit or near the dance floor or—
Then he felt it.
A hand—your hand—sliding around his arm, fingers warm against the fabric of his sleeve.
He turned, heart already beating faster.
You didn’t say anything.
Just gave him a look.
And gently, almost imperceptibly, tugged him away from the crowd.
Bucky followed without thinking, letting you lead him through a discreet side corridor, past a curtained alcove where the sounds of the gala dulled to a hum.
And when you stopped, when you turned to face him, he opened his mouth—
But he didn’t get a word out.
Because your hands were on his face, firm and sure, pulling him down into a kiss that knocked the breath from his chest.
It wasn’t slow.
It wasn’t cautious.
It was needy. Real. Like you’d been starving for weeks and finally allowed to taste again. Like he was something you couldn’t help but want.
He melted into you with a sound that wasn’t quite a sigh, wasn’t quite a groan—just relief. One hand gripping your hip, the other tangling in your hair like he couldn’t believe this was real.
When you finally pulled back, breath warm against his lips, you didn’t let go.
Didn’t step away.
You just leaned your forehead to his and whispered, voice tinged with a half-smile—
“You’re gonna be in so much trouble.”
He huffed out something like a laugh. “Worth it.”
Your fingers lingered against his jaw.
The soft glow from the hallway barely reached the small alcove where you stood, still tucked away behind velvet drapes and polished columns. The noise of the gala felt far-off now—like another world neither of you belonged to.
Bucky wouldn't let go of you. His hands still rested on your waist like he didn’t trust the moment to last. Like if he blinked, you might fade again.
You leaned your shoulder into the wall, breathing finally steady. He looked at you—really looked at you—and reached for your hand.
“I’m gonna try,” he said, voice low, steady in the dark. “I know I’ve said it before, but this time… I mean it. I’m gonna try, really try. I don’t care how many speeches they want. I don’t care what the media says or what Val plans next. You’re it. You’re my whole damn life.”
Your lips parted, but he kept going.
“I love you,” he said. “And I know that’s not always enough to make it easy. But I want you to know that if you asked me—if you looked me in the eye right now and said to walk away from the Avengers, from all of it—”
His hand cupped the back of your neck.
“I would.”
Your heart twisted, eyes burning in that way they always did when he got too sincere.
You reached up and cupped his cheek, fingers brushing along his clean-shaven cheek, thumb skimming the line of his jaw.
“I know,” you whispered. “But you know I’d never ask that.”
He leaned into your hand, eyes fluttering shut for just a second. “Doesn’t change the fact that I would. You come first. You always do.”
You smiled, so gently he almost missed it.
“I don’t need you to walk away,” you murmured. “I just need you to walk back. To us. To me.”
He nodded. “I will.”
You kissed him again—slower this time. Like a promise. Like you were giving him something he already owned but forgot how to hold.
And when you pulled away, his mouth curved, that old smirk creeping back into place as his hands slid subtly down your back.
“You know,” he said, voice dipping, “this is a pretty dark corner. Not a lot of foot traffic.”
You snorted. “James.”
“I’m just saying,” he grinned, leaning in, “no one would see.”
You arched an eyebrow. “Keep it in your pants, Barnes.”
“What about when we get home?”
You kissed his jaw and murmured against his skin— “When we get home, Sergeant.”
His grin bloomed—lazy, boyish, free—and before you could say anything else, he kissed you again.
Summary: Bucky doesn’t mean to call. It’s late. He’s bleeding. The motel room smells like metal and dirt, and the weight of the mission is still heavy on his chest. He just wants to forget—for a few minutes. That’s all. But then she answers. Her voice is sweet like honey, smooth like sin, and it slips past every wall he’s built. She doesn’t just flirt—she soothes. Makes him feel wanted. Soft. Like he’s more than what the world turned him into. He calls for the distraction. He stays for her. And by the end of the night, he’s already craving more.
Bucky flicks at the edge of the label of the beer he’s nursing, torn tactical shirt feeling like a second skin from the now dried blood that had dripped steadily down his temple hours earlier. Sam's beside him flipping through channels on the crappy TV at the half decent motel they managed to find a vacancy at.
His friend sighs from next to him, fingers still searching. “You know man, if you keep staring into that bottle like it owes you something, it still won’t call you back.”
Bucky rolls his head, eyes following, “Wasn’t expecting it to Wilson. Unlike some people, I don’t need to sweet-talk glass to feel better.”
His friend grins, pausing his search to look over at the brooding brunette. “Right, cause you’re the king of emotional stability.”
Bucky doesn't rise to the bait. Just leans further into the hard, stale chair, he slumped into when they arrived jaw tight. Sam’s grin falls, an understanding passing over him as he nods at his friend.
“Tough one today.”
Bucky grunts as he takes a sip of his now luke-warm beer, grimace kissing his lips as he swallows it down. “They’re all tough.”
Sam nods, a pause as he takes a sip of his own beer, his grimace worse than Bucky’s as he lets out a discontent hiss. “Hey, you ever try one of those,” Sam tilts his head side to side as if debating sharing his next words, “late-night call lines?”
Bucky frowns brows furrowed, beer froze mid-way to his lips. “Like tech support?”
Sam laughs a full bellied laugh shaking his head, “No, man like a ‘spicy’ hot line. You know, ‘Talk to a stranger, share your deepest desires,’ all that nonsense.” He shrugs when all Bucky does is continue to stare at him, “got bored one night and tried it for a laugh.”
Bucky stares at his friend for a moment longer before shaking his head. “Of course you did.”
Sam rolls his eyes, “Oh c’mon don’t judge. Wasn’t about the sex talk. Some of them just talk to you. Like real conversations. One woman,” he sighs as if recalling the night, “had this voice, man Bucky you should have heard it; like honey and sin. She could’ve told me my transmission was broken, and I’d have said thank you.”
The brunette raises a brow, a scoff bubbling past his lips, “You’re telling me you paid five bucks a minute to be read bedtime stories by a stranger?”
“You’d be surprised what people need at 2 a.m. Buck. Sometimes it’s not the words it’s the voice. The way someone talks to you, like they’re not afraid of the mess.”
Bucky doesn’t answer, watching as Sam leans over to pull something from his tactical bag, his friend hands him a gold-plated card, a single number on it.
“What’s this?”
Sam shrugs his shoulders, “It doesn’t hurt if you ever want to give it try. There are worse things than letting someone talk you off the ledge. Even if you don’t know their name.”
The conversation drops; Bucky still flipping the gold-plated card around in his fingers.
He wouldn’t call, he thought as he slipped into the pocket of his muddied cargos.
The air is thick with dust and sweat, Bucky sits on the edge of the sagging mattress, a dim yellow lamp casting sharp shadows on the peeling paint barely coating the walls. Blood crusts at his temple, knuckles split and bruised, shirt half-peeled off his shoulder from where he took scissors to tend to a stab wound. His fingers are curled around the card, his other holding the burner; the burner he stares at like it’s a loaded gun.
He doesn’t think; doesn’t chastise himself as he dials the number Sam passed him days ago. He brings the burner to his ear, the device hot against his skin.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
A voice as sweet as velvet soaked in red wine comes through a second later;
“I was wondering when you’d call.”
Bucky goes still, his breaths halting. Not because of what you said, but how you said it. Like you had truly been waiting for his call, already picturing who it was that would be calling.
He clears his throat, “This a,” he sounds rough, “line where you talk people through their nightmares?”
Even your laugh, is soft, warm, teasing. “I mean, I usually offer a different kind of dream. But I’ve got time for whatever kind of night you’re having.”
His eyes close on a soft exhale that he lets slip past his lips. He lets the sound of your voice wrap around him, soft as it is sinful. And God, it works. He lets out another slow exhale, he hadn’t even realized he was still bracing for a fight.
Your voice is softer now as you speak to him, he finds he likes it. “Rough night?”
He nods stiffly though you can’t see it. “Yeah.”
You hum, he likes that too, his mind wondering what other sounds you might make. “Want to tell me about it? Or should I just distract you?”
Bucky swallows hard. “I - I don’t know what I want.”
“That’s okay. You don’t have to. We can figure it out together.” You say it like it’s easy. Like he’s allowed to not know. His grip on the phone loosens just slightly. “Tell me your name, handsome.”
Bucky hesitates for a moment. “James.”
There’s light in your voice when you answer, he imagines you might be smiling. “James, that’s a nice name. James you sound like someone who carries too much.”
Bucky smiles though barely, “You could say that.”
“Hmm.” you hum playfully, “you need someone to help you put it down for a little while?”
He huffs a breath, almost a laugh. Almost. But it’s the first time his mouth curves in hours.
“There it is, see I knew there had to be a smile under all that silence. You’ve got a nice laugh, James. Bet it doesn’t come out often, does it?” you question.
“No, it doesn’t.”
The silence between the two of you stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable like he imagined it might become. It’s almost intimate, like you’ve carved out a little space in the world just for him.
Your sweet like honey voice speaks again, “I like the sound of your voice, too. All low and gravelly. Like you’ve seen some things.”
“Seen too much, sweetheart.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I’m not afraid of the dark, James. You can bring yours here. I promise I can handle it.”
He closes his eyes again, chest tight
“Now, I could tell you what I’m wearing, or not wearing, if you want. But something tells me what you really need is someone to just be here. Am I right?”
His voice is thick with emotion when he replies, “Yeah.”
“Then I’m not going anywhere. You’ve got me, James. I’m all yours for tonight. Are you alone right now, James?” you question softly.
“Yeah, I am.” He answers truthfully.
“Good. Then I can talk to you the way I want to, the way you deserve to be spoken to.” you purr, tone teasing, flirty.”
Bucky shifts slightly on the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking beneath his weight. His shoulder throbs, his ribs ache every time he breathes too deep. But your voice, God, your voice cuts through all of it like silk across broken glass.
“Do something for me James, close your eyes for me. Can you do that?”
“Yeah, I can.” he husks, eyes slipping shut just for you. The dingy motel disappears, in a world of black; the blood, the bruises, the weight on his back fades.
Your voice is speaking to him again, “I want you to imagine my hands. One of them sliding into your hair, gentle at first, slow. Just to touch you, not to take. You’ve had enough of people taking, haven’t you?”
Bucky swallows hard; his metal hand clenching on the itchy bedsheet. “Yeah.” he croaks.
You continue, “And the other hand? It’s on your chest James. Right over your heart. Feel that?”
He nods even though you can’t see it. And he does feel it, your words sinking into his skin like heat. Like balm. He’s trembling, barely breathing now, and it’s not from pain. It’s the gentleness of it that’s undoing him.
“Not pushing.” you breath life into the receiver again, “not pressing, just reminding you that it’s still beating. That you’re still here. And you deserve to feel good. To feel wanted.”
“I don’t know if I do.” he whispers.
“I do. And until you believe it, I’ll say it for you.”
A silence stretches, thick and heavy with emotion. And then your voice changes, still warm but laced with something more. “I bet your skin is still hot from the adrenaline, huh? I bet your muscles are tight. Hard. Like they’re begging to be touched.”
Bucky lets out a ragged breath he didn’t know he was holding, “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll start wanting you.” He wonders if that surprises you, because it surprises him.
“Maybe I want to be wanted.” you return.
He closes his eyes tighter, the edges of the world blurring with the sound of your voice curling into him. It’s not just arousal he feels, it’s need. A craving for closeness, for permission to let go. But he doesn’t touch himself, he doesn’t have to. Every word from you strokes across his skin like a hand he’s starving for.
“I’d kiss every scar, James. Slowly. Like they matter. Like you matter.”
That undoes him.
He makes a low sound in his throat; half growl, half breathless ache. His bloodied hand lifts toward his chest instinctively, pressing flat where your voice said to imagine your touch. His ribs shift beneath his palm, heartbeat pounding.
“What’s your name?” he questions on an almost silent whisper.
There’s a pause on the line, you smile softly against the phone, knowing full well you can’t give that.
“Tonight, I’m just yours. That’s all that matters. Are you still with me, James?”
“I’m here.”
“Good.” you murmur. “I want you to lay back for me just let yourself feel. Can you do that?”
He shifts, gingerly easing back against the thin pillow, the mattress dipping beneath him. His bruised body protests, but he listens to you like its instinct, like your voice is the only thing keeping him tethered to something human.
“Now I want you to let your hand drift lower. No rush. Just follow the heat. Let your fingers skim your stomach. Feel how your skin responds to me. To my voice.”
He obeys, his fingers skimming his stomach like you asked. His metal fingers stay fisted in the sheet while his bloodied flesh hand trails beneath the waistband of his sweats. He swallows hard. He hasn’t done this in - God, too long. Touching himself has always felt like punishment. But with you guiding him, it feels like a gift. Like healing.
“I want you to stroke yourself,” you breathe, “nice and slow. Pretend it’s my hand, soft and greedy, wrapped around you. Just for you, baby. No one else. You deserve this.”
A ragged groan leaves his chest choked off, like it slipped past his defenses before he could catch it. His hips twitch up into his own hand, the movement automatic now, desperate.
“Jesus” he gasps.
“No, baby. Just me.” You let that land, purring the words into his ear like you’re right there beside him, whispering against his sweat-slicked skin. “You’ve been strong all day. Brutal. Bleeding. But now? Now, I want you soft for me. I want to hear how good I make you feel.”
His breath stutters. He’s trembling. One hand fisting the sheet, the other working himself slowly, precisely, like he’s finally remembering what it feels like to want. His metal arm creaks under tension, every muscle drawn tight, but it’s not violence in him anymore, it’s need.
“Don’t stop talking.” he begs.
“I’m right here baby.” you coo, “Not going anywhere, I want to hear you fall apart. I want to be the one who undoes you.”
And he does. Quietly, desperately. His climax crashes over him like a wave he didn’t see coming jaw clenched, chest heaving, body curling in on itself with a muffled groan pressed into the crook of his arm. A beat passes. Then another. Silence, save for his breathing and the faint buzz of the motel light.
“That’s it, baby. You did so good.”
“Why do you talk to me like that?” he questions breath ragged.
“Because you sounded like you forgot what it feels like to be wanted.”
The line goes quiet after you wish him a good night and remind him softly, almost shyly, that he can call again anytime. That you’ll be here.
Bucky stares at the ceiling. The phone still warm in his hand. Sweat drying on his chest. His body sated, but his soul shaken. He should feel stupid, ashamed even, but he doesn’t. All he can hear is your voice.
"You did so good."
And God help him; he wants to hear it again. Not the sex. Not the release. Just you. That voice. That impossible warmth, like you reached into his chest and reminded his heart it still had a rhythm.
He sets the phone down gently. Sits in the dark, quiet motel room, surrounded by bloodstains and cracked wallpaper. But for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel completely alone.
And even though he won’t admit it yet he already knows:
Summary: Politics is a game that requires secrets, just like love.
Pairing: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader
Tropes: CampaignStaff!Reader, politics, boss x employee, opposites attract, romance, fluff, idiots in love, pining, age gap (he's over 100 years old), separate warnings in each chapter
Chapter 1 : Working overtime has its surprising moments.
Summary: It's a beautiful day that turns even more beautiful when you run into the most handsome man you've ever seen...and the grumpiest. Will his good looks be enough for you to stick around and get to know him?
Author's Note: I love a grumpy!Bucky and a reader who just won't give up on him! Kind of sunshine/grumpy trope with enemies/lovers mixed in a little too. This was fun to write and I hope you enjoy! Thank you so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy 🥰
Warnings: fun, flirty tension, a tiny bit of angst, grumpy!bucky, fluffy sweetness too
Waiting in line at your favorite coffee shop is always worth it and today, after a restless night, you really need the extra boost. Even though you’re behind schedule the stop is a necessity and despite the busy morning rush the line is moving quickly but apparently not fast enough for the person behind you who lets out a loud and frustrated huff.
Trying to be discrete you turn and look out of the corner of your eye.
The sight of him strikes you in a way you’re not prepared for.
Then the barista calls your name. You blink, dazed but thankfully able to recover well enough to give the barista a warm smile and thanks.
As you grab your napkins and gather your things you can’t help but steal glances at the man. He’s tall and broad shouldered, wearing a leather jacket that shows his biceps shaping the fabric, his long legs are clad in well fitted dark denim, and he’s the perfect mix of masculinity and male beauty.
His brooding expression doesn’t falter as he retrieves his drink order, but he does say ‘thank you’ and to your continued surprise, ‘excuse me,’ to whomever he passes.
With one last longing glance you head for the door, walking out into the sunshine and crossing the street to your favorite bench to enjoy your coffee before work.
You’re focused on your phone while you sip slowly so at first you don’t notice the dark shadow looming over you. But the rumbly and gruff voice startles you.
“You’re in my seat.”
You look up, shielding your eyes from the sun to see nothing more than a large shadow.
“What?” you ask, feeling discombobulated.
The shadow shifts and your eyes widen when you see the man from the coffee shop, his glower ferocious despite your now big smile.
“This is your seat?...It’s a whole bench.”
“Yeah…well.”
You look at the open space next to you and offer out a hand. “There’s more than enough room for both of us.”
His eyes narrow but he sits.
“I’ve never seen you here before,” you say brightly.
“I’m here almost every day,” he answers.
You keep your smile in place.
“Well, I’m running late so that must be why I haven’t seen you before.”
“Then why are you sitting on this bench talking to me?” he asks.
You bristle inwardly but your smile doesn’t falter.
“I still have time. I usually get in early, so it won’t be a problem.”
He stares at you, the breeze catching his scent and blowing it your way.
You try not to inhale, focusing on the fact that he’s super grumpy instead of the fact that he’s super hot and smells really good.
“I enjoy sitting out in the sunshine. It helps me feel grounded before I really start the day.”
The words tumble out unprompted but under his narrowed gaze you find yourself feeling less confident than usual.
He just “hmphs” in response and looks away, taking a sip of his drink.
“You say you sit here every day so what’s with all the…” and you motion to him, “grumpy? Is the sunshine not good enough for you?”
He turns your way again, lips pressed together but his eyes flaring with surprise. Before he can respond his phone rings. He looks at the screen with another mild puff of air then swipes his thumb over it.
“Wilson,” he says gruffly.
His voice drops low, and you look down at your phone, trying not to listen. Most of the conversation on his part is a series of grunts and mumbled responses so it’s hard to follow anyway.
After hanging up he stands abruptly and looks down at you, his gaze lingering before he gives you a barely perceptible nod of acknowledgement and starts to walk off.
You yell after him, “I hope you find some sunshine!”
He doesn’t turn around but you’re sure you see his steps falter for just a second.
It’s only after you finish your drink that you stand and start the short walk to work, surprised to catch sight of the grumpy stranger across the street at the local VA, squatting down in front of an older man with a dog.
The grumpiness is gone, replaced by a warm smile that crinkles his eyes. All the air goes out of your lungs.
He looks up at that moment, noticing you stopped in the middle of the sidewalk across the street. His smile fades and you drop your head, speed walking away.
It’s Saturday morning and you’re standing outside the bakery, texting your friend to get their donut order. The door opens and you barely have time to register the whiff of familiar scent that floats by you when you look up and lock eyes with Mr. Grumpy himself.
You smile in greeting.
“You,” he answers.
Your grin widens. “Me. What are the chances? Your favorite bench stealer!”
He sighs heavily and glances back at the door to the bakery before pinning you with his stare again.
Now that the sun isn’t shining in your eyes you have a better chance to see the color of his. They’re blue. A gorgeous ocean colored blue framed by long, dark, and thick lashes.
His attention strays down your body and you feel tingles everywhere his eyes touch.
“Here for something sweet?” you ask.
He never gets the chance to answer because a man comes up behind him and grabs his shoulder, giving him a slight shove to move in front and say hi.
“Barnes! Aren’t you going to introduce me to your beautiful friend here?”
You smile warmly.
“Sam. Sam Wilson,” the friend says in introduction.
“Hi Sam!” you greet and give him your name.
“Barnes didn’t tell me he made a new friend,” Sam says.
“Barnes?” you repeat.
You direct your question to Mr. Grumpy whose been standing there silently murdering Sam with his eyes since he appeared.
Sam smiles triumphantly. “This here is James, but his friends call him Bucky.”
“Hi Bucky. Nice to officially meet you!”
Your tone is light and airy, and you wave.
“Hey,” Bucky answers, then turns to Sam. “Let’s go, the guys are looking forward to these donuts.”
“Is he always this grumpy?” you ask Sam.
Silence falls between you all, but it only lasts a moment, broken then by Sam’s loud cackle.
“Oh, I like her already!” Sam says.
Ignoring your comment-and Sam’s-Bucky repeats, “let’s go Wilson!”
Sam returns the favor, ignoring Bucky and focusing on you. “You should come down and visit us at the VA sometime. He’s never grumpy around the guys.”
“So just me then?” you ask with a laugh.
“That’s just because he thinks you’re beautiful,” Sam winks.
You steal a glance at Bucky and note the slight pink color that paints his cheeks.
“It was nice meeting you Sam. And you too Bucky.”
With those last words and a smile, you skirt past them and walk into the bakery. After placing your order you’re shocked to find Bucky standing at the pickup counter, hands in his pockets and shuffling on his feet.
“Miss me already?” you tease.
He doesn’t answer and instead hands you a business card. You take it and look down, reading the information for the VA and Bucky’s name.
“Thanks,” you say, meeting his eyes again and noting the pink still coating his cheeks.
He doesn’t answer but you think you see his lips lift into what might be a small smile before he casually strolls off.
His jeans are molded perfectly to his perfect ass, and you sigh.
“Are you going to go visit him?” Diana asks through a mouthful of donut.
“Nah,” you answer.
Diana’s eyes bug out of her head with a gasp.
“Um you said he was insanely hot. I don’t’ get it. You don’t NOT go visit.”
“You do if he’s a grumpy jerk.”
Diana laughs. “Maybe he needs to eat more of these donuts!”
You roll your eyes. “He had a whole box of them. He was with his friend Sam who was also hot. I should go visit him.”
“Ohhh make Mr. Grumpy jealous. I like it.”
You shove the card into your bag and grab a donut.
“I think we need more donuts for this day,” you retort.
After a long donut filled debate with Diana you decide to make the call to the VA office. To your happy surprise Sam answers.
“Hi Sam,” you say and tell him your name, thrilled he remembers you.
“I was just thinking I’d like to bring some treats down to the office this week. Is there anything in particular I should get?”
You can practically hear Sam’s smile through the phone. He rattles off some orders and then tells you the days and times that would work. When you hang up you feel lighter just knowing you could do something kind.
You’ve never been in the VA building before even though you’ve passed by it many times. The interior is warm and inviting and has a large walnut desk and matching benches nearby.
At the sight of the benches, you laugh to yourself, wondering if Bucky claimed these seats too.
“Hey.”
You barely catch the quiet greeting but look up to see Bucky standing by a doorway. You suddenly feel hyperalert, every inch of your sensitive tingling and awake. You almost forgot how gorgeous he is, his light blue henley fitted around his broad chest and his dark jeans showing off those long and muscular legs.
Your heart flutters as he crosses the hallway, hard expression on his face, before he stares down at the box of donuts.
“You can’t eat them all!”
He gives you a quelling look, though you’re sure you catch a hint of amusement in his eyes.
“I can actually,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone, “but when I’m here I share.”
“What if I want one?” you ask, feeling brave and maybe a little flirtatious.
It takes him a moment to answer as he holds you under his keen regard, sweeping his gaze down your body before it lingers on your lips and finally returns to your eyes.
“Maybe,” he grumbles, then turns on his heel. “Follow me.”
You enter a room with tables and chairs set up and one long counter and cabinets in the back where you see a coffee machine, refrigerator, and small microwave.
“Do you have a favorite?”
His question surprises you and it takes you a minute to realize he’s referring to the donuts.
“OH, yeah definitely. The Bavarian cream is the best!”
“Hm,” he replies.
He doesn’t indulge you with his favorite, so you decide to ask.
“What about you?”
“Glazed,” he says, then adds, “with sprinkles.”
You stare at him for a beat then a laugh bursts out of you.
“I was not expecting the sprinkles!”
You’re too busy laughing to notice his smile.
“Well, I’ll keep that in mind for the next time I visit,” you tell him when you finally catch your breath.
“You want to come back?” he asks, eyes narrowed.
You don’t have a chance to answer because Sam enters the room with a boisterous greeting.
“There you are!” he says. “So glad you stopped by to see us.”
“And I brought donuts!”
“Perfect,” Sam says, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”
You look back at Bucky as Sam leads you out of the room. “Don’t eat any of those!”
Bucky’s scoff is the last thing you hear before you step out into the hallway.
After Sam gives you a tour you meet some of the veterans while you share donuts. It’s wonderful to talk with them and make them laugh and you’re happy you made the visit.
Right before you leave you run into Bucky who’s hovering over the last of the box of donuts.
“Slim pickings huh?” you say as you look into the mostly empty box.
“Yeah,” he huffs with a scowl.
“Lucky for you,” you say and open the cabinet above your head, “I stashed one in here earlier before we gave them out.”
You pull out the paper plate and take the napkin off to reveal a glazed donut with colored sprinkles.
He studies you in such a way that your thighs press tightly together in reaction. His expression is irritatingly unreadable as your eyes meet again.
He shifts as if he’s uncomfortable, an awkward silence hanging between you, before he blurts out, “thanks doll.”
His expression morphs into one of surprise and it matches yours, but you recover quickly enough with a warm smile.
“You’re welcome Bucky. Thanks for having me.”
You’re just getting situated with your book on the couch, rain pelting the window outside, when your phone rings.
Sam’s name lights up the screen and you answer with an excited, “Ghostbusters, whaddya want?”
The silence your met with is unexpected as you were hoping for one of Sam’s bright laughs.
“Tell me that’s not how you answer your phone normally.”
At Bucky’s weary comment your smile falls. “Bucky? I thought it was Sam?”
“You sound disappointed,” he points out.
“Only because you seem bothered by my amazing phone answering skills. I’m sorry that one got lost on you. Sam would have loved it.”
“So, if you knew it was me calling what would have said?” he asks.
“Uh…hello?”
“Uh hello?”
“No…just, hell, ugh! Why are you calling me from Sam’s phone.”
Silence again.
“Bucky?”
“Yeah…I didn’t have your number and wasn’t sure you’d answer if I called from mine so…”
“Ok,” you say. “And now that you have mine just text me and I’ll have yours.”
He’s quiet again before he continues in a rush of words.
“So, we’re having our annual fundraiser gala soon and Sam mentioned that you said you’d like to volunteer more, and we could use some help planning.”
“I’m definitely interested,” you cheer. “When should I come by?”
You get all the information you need from Bucky and then hang up, his conversation stilted when you started getting more excited and telling him that you were looking forward to working with him and helping. He hung up with a mumbled goodbye and never text you to give you his number.
It makes your thoughts of his disinterest solidify and you try to let it go and focus on the good you’ll be doing.
The week moves slowly but when Friday comes around you feel the same lightness from the last time you visited the VA. It gives you renewed energy, and you open the door with a smile, searching for the familiar face of Sam or Bucky.
You don’t see either of them, so you head down the hallway to the small dining room. Sam is at the front by one of the windows. He waves, pointing to his phone to signal he’ll be right off, and Bucky is at the counter.
He turns to face you, and you walk over.
“Hey,” you say.
“Hiya doll,” he answers.
Confusion washes over you at his sweet endearment, but you push it down and focus on what he’s holding.
“More donuts!” you exclaim.
“We always have them,” he says lightly. “I got you a Bavarian.”
At your silence you feel his eyes on you, and you drag them away from the perfectly powdered and filled deliciousness in the box.
“Why didn’t you text me?” you ask without thinking.
“What?” he says, his brow furrowed.
“You never text me to give me your number.”
His attention never leaves you, his gaze drifting from your head down to your feet. When he reaches your face again he stares and pulls his phone from his back pocket.
“Can I have your number?” he asks quietly.
“Sure,” you say and take his phone to program it in.
“Thanks,” he says.
“And thank you for my donut,” you finally say. “That was really thoughtful.”
He nods and grabs a glazed before motioning for you to follow him. The rest of the day is spent pouring over invites and food orders as well as any little detail that needs to be squared away before the event.
Most of the time it’s you, Sam and Bucky seated at a table, but Sam leaves occasionally to take a phone call or manage something in the office.
During the down time you learn more about Bucky, asking questions and mostly getting abridged but not unfriendly answers. He seems genuinely interested in what you have to say and that, again, confuses you more as to his intentions-if he has any at all.
Once the sun has set and you’re worn out you help them clean up then gather your things.
“How are you getting home?” Sam asks as you walk together to the door.
“I think I’m gonna walk,” you tell him.
Bucky makes a sound of disapproval behind you.
“What?” you turn and ask.
“It’s late,” he states.
“And?” you answer.
“It’s not safe.”
“I appreciate your concern but after sitting most of the afternoon I want to walk.”
“I’ll walk with you.”
At Bucky’s statement both you and Sam give him a wide-eyed look.
“You don’t have to do that,” you tell Bucky.
“Nah, he’s right,” Sam chimes in. “He should go with you. I would offer but I’m in the opposite direction.”
Sam tries to hide his smirk, but it’s written all over his face, so you just smile and accept Bucky’s kind and gentlemanly offer.
“Just gimme a sec. I want to grab something from my bike.”
“Bike?” you murmur as you track his movement toward a sleek black motorcycle parked at the curb.
Holy shit.
He doesn’t say a word as he walks back toward you.
“I didn’t know you had a motorcycle,” you say.
“Yeah,” he says while running a hand through his hair. “You know…easier in the city.”
“Smart and badass. It’s beautiful.”
That’s when he smiles at you, a real smile, for the very first time.
You nearly swoon.
“Yeah?” He looks boyishly pleased about your reaction.
You nod and give the bike one last look before you fall into step beside him. You chat about everything from the upcoming event to how he met Sam and even find out more about his motorcycle. He’s more open and comfortable and indulges you with more details about anything you ask.
As you pass by a bar a large crowd of young people come out, clearly drunk and rowdy as they sway and swerve as a mass toward you.
Bucky links your fingers together and deftly slides you out of harms way. Your skin tingles, little sparks of feeling shooting up your arm and it’s all you can concentrate on until the group passes by and continues down the street in a clamor.
“They seem like they’re having fun,” you giggle. “Thanks for the save there.”
The corner of his mouth starts to tilt upward and then he remembers he has a hold on your hand and his eyes drop and widen and he quickly let’s go, clearing his throat and mumbling, “no problem.”
“Did you ever go out like that and get wild?” you ask after a beat, hoping to lighten the mood again.
“Who me?” he asks and blows a raspberry. “Nah. I’m not really into big crowds much.”
“Then you should really enjoy the gala next week,” you say wryly.
“Right?” he answers. “If it weren’t for such a good cause and important to me, I’d skip it all together and stay behind the scenes.”
“Well at least you’ll have Sam!” you say in support.
“Actually…he’s usually caught up in everything since I leave all the talking and canoodling to him.”
“Canoodling,” you repeat and cover your mouth to stifle your laughter.
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I can’t imagine you not wanting to canoodle.”
Your delivery drips with sarcasm, and he throws you another killer smile.
He has the sexiest smile ever. Of course he does. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t smile a lot, because of its killer effect? Or is he really just Mr. Grumpy? One or the other.
When you reach your apartment you walk toward the double doors, thanking him for walking you home. Searching for your keys in your bag you end up dropping your phone, bending to pick it up at the same time Bucky does.
You bump heads and he immediately apologizes and rests his hand gently on your forehead.
“You ok?” he asks, rubbing his thumb soothingly.
“Yeah,” you say, slightly breathless.
His gaze drops to your lips and lingers before coming back to your eyes.
“Hey um…” he starts, those beautiful blue eyes studying you, sweeping over your features, as if tallying every little detail he finds.
“Yeah?” you ask, giving him a sweet and reassuring smile.
“Uh, thanks, for the help today. I’ll see you soon.”
You deflate at his quick departure; telling him it was “your pleasure and you’ll see him later.”
You’re not even to your apartment door when your phone chimes. You retrieve it from your pocket and see Bucky’s name on the screen.
You open the text and nearly drop your phone again.
'Do you want to be my date to the fund raiser?'
Like sunshine bursting through a cloud, you feel butterflies erupt in your stomach, a fluttery warning that you’re way in over your head.
“What are you going to wear?” Diana asks as you stand in front of your closet.
“I have no idea!” you sigh. “I asked for a dress code, and he said ‘formal’…and that’s it. Then I asked what he was wearing, and he said, ‘a tux.’”
“Not very chatty, is he?” she mutters.
You shrug at stare at your closet that has nothing appropriate in it.
“Looks like we’re going shopping,” Diana says as she jumps off the bed and grabs her bag. “Come on, we’re gonna find you something that will knock his socks off.”
Bucky picks you up in a town car, and you smile graciously as he opens the door for you, your internal nerves wild as you wait for his reaction to your appearance.
Unfortunately, his reaction isn’t worth the nerves because he stares blankly at you before giving you an abrupt nod of greeting.
All the while you try not to drool over him in a tux.
When you arrive inside you can’t hide your beaming smile. It looks beautiful. All the details having come together perfectly to create an elegant yet comfortable atmosphere.
“You’re really doing wonderful work here,” you tell Bucky.
He holds out his arm for you and smiles. “Thanks doll.”
“You’re here!”
You turn at the familiar voice. Sam hurries over and takes you in.
“Wow,” he says, raising his brows. “Lucky man Barnes.”
He claps Bucky on the shoulder. “Enjoy yourselves. I’ll be around if you need me.”
Bucky places his hand on your lower back and leads you across the room to the table. Your breath catches at the sensation of his hand on your bare skin, but you try to shake it off.
His hand presses deeper into your back, and you follow his guide. People greet him and he says hello, but he doesn’t stop to chat.
“Shouldn’t you be taking the time to talk with these people?” you ask.
“Probably,” he says as he pulls out your chair.
You snort because he sounds like he couldn’t care less.
You’re the first people at the table and you stare at the fancy centerpiece.
“It really does look amazing in here.”
Bucky glances over it all, bemused.
“It does. I guess it’s necessary.”
“What do you mean,” you ask.
“I come to these events for Sam and the veterans. I want to raise money and help but if it were up to me it would all be quiet and low key. This kind of socializing isn’t my first choice.”
Turning to study his handsome face, you smile. “Is any kind of socializing your choice?”
He throws you a dark but amused look. “You’re funny”
You hold back more laughter and touch his knee, giving it a soft squeeze. His eyes meet yours and you swallow around the sudden sensation of your racing heart.
Needing to break the intense eye contact, you turn to observe the room, noting that more people are heading to their tables.
You spot Sam talking to a lovely woman and you feel Bucky’s smile.
“Sam likes her,” Bucky says quietly.
“Who is she?” you ask in a whisper.
He leans into you, his breath tickling your cheek as he murmurs, “the daughter of one of our veterans. They’ve met a few times, and I can tell he’s totally taken with her.”
You turn your head slightly, bringing your faces just inches apart. “She’s lovely. I’m sure she likes him too.”
His attention moves from Sam to you, and his eyes narrow as he realizes how close you are. But he doesn’t move back. Instead, he searches your eyes.
Your heartbeat skips and you’re almost afraid to breathe.
Needing to break the tension once again, you wrench your gaze away and find Sam shooting you a quick glance.
“I have the sudden urge to run over there and embarrass him,” you say with a devious smile.
Bucky’s answer is to move away but only because he throws his head back in laughter.
“I’d pay to see that,” he replies, mischief dancing in his eyes.
Before long, your table is filled, and Bucky introduces you to the people he knows. The older couple sitting nearest to you is just smitten with both you and Bucky, peppering you with questions and hanging on your every word.
They tell you their life story too, how they found each other and fell in love and have been together ever since. It warms you and you give his thigh another squeeze under the table.
He places his hand over yours and brushes his thumb across your knuckles.
The food comes and you turn his way, lightly tugging on your hand.
“I need that to eat,” you giggle.
“Oh, right,” he says with one more sweep of his thumb before he releases you with a soft expression.
The food is delicious, and you find yourself smiling between every bite.
“You two look like you’re having a good time.”
Bucky stiffens next to you, and you wait for his move before following his gaze to the older woman standing behind you.
“Don’t you look handsome as always James,” she comments then flits her eyes to you but doesn’t say anything more.
Bucky smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Mrs. Whitman. How are you?”
“Fine, just fine. Now I need to steal you away for a moment.”
Bucky’s eyes lift over Mrs. Whitman’s shoulder and his lips turn down in a frown.
“I can’t, sorry Mrs. Whitman. I’m here with someone.”
He looks at you and smiles.
Mrs. Whitman sighs, clearly annoyed.
“You can’t spare just a moment?” she pleads, trying to appear genuine.
“Sorry,” Bucky says as kindly as he can.
Without a goodbye she huffs off and you wait until she’s far enough away before looking at Bucky. His frown melts away as your gazes lock.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Her husband was a veteran, and he recently passed. She’s been trying to set me up with her daughter since, but I’m not interested.”
“I hope I didn’t cause you any trouble,” you tell him.
“No. Not at all doll. She can be rude sometimes, but I think she’s just struggling with grief and doesn’t know what to do with herself. I feel bad, but like I said. I’m really not interested.”
You smile reassuringly then excuse yourself to the bathroom, needing a little air. When you return, you see Bucky hasn’t moved from his seat and his gaze is zeroed in on the hallway to the bathroom.
As you cross the room toward him, his eyes drift down your body. His gaze lingers on your bare shoulders and the sway of your hips and by the time you reach the table, you need another restroom break to cool off.
He doesn’t move out of the way, so you have to brush up against him to sit back down. When your eyes meet, his are heated. You stare at each other, the music and chatter around you fading away.
The lovely old woman next to you breaks you out the haze when she asks where the restroom is. You point her in the right direction, telling her you’ll happily escort her, but she refuses kindly and slowly makes her way through the crowd.
Once she’s safely down the hallway, you look away and find yourself staring at Bucky. His face is close.
Too close.
Or maybe just close enough depending on how you look at it.
His eyes search yours and you ignore the rushing in your ears as you close the distance between you and gently brush your lips over his.
Your mouth tingles from the brief touch as you pull away.
He scowls hard at your mouth, but you’re not sure if it’s because you kissed him or because you barely kissed him.
“What…?” he starts to ask roughly, but a loud banging at the front of the room, startles you and pulls your attention away.
Sam stands at a small podium, a smile on his face as he greets everyone.
Nice timing Sam.
‘How’s work today?’
You smile at you phone and Bucky’s name on the screen.
‘It’s going…’ you type back. ‘How about you? I know you said your day was going to be busy.’
‘Up and down. We made some really good progress with one of our veterans today, but we lost one of our oldest members to cancer.’
‘Oh Bucky. I’m sorry it’s been a tough day. Do you need anything? I can come by on my lunch break.’
‘Thank you doll, I appreciate it. But it’s unfortunately something I’ve gotten used to. Comes with the territory.’
‘I’m here if you need anything.’
‘Thanks.’
You’re just clearing your desk at the end of the day when your phone rings. You smile at the sight of Bucky’s name, and you’re not surprised considering you’d received a text to inform you that your delivery had been successfully made.
“Hey,” you greet.
“Hey.” His voice is low, a little hoarse. He clears his throat. “You sent me donuts.’
You grin at how confused he sounds. “I did and cookies.”
In fact, you sent him a dozen glazed- with sprinkles of course- donuts and a box full of assorted cookies from your usual favorite bakery.
“I wanted you to have a little treat after a long day. I know you might be used to it but that doesn’t mean it isn’t hard on you.”
He’s quiet so long you have a horrible feeling that you may have crossed a line. But then he speaks.
“Thank you doll. I really appreciate it.”
You smile and try to quell the butterflies dancing around your stomach. “You’re welcome!”
“I’ve never had so many glazed donuts to myself!” There’s a teasing tone to his confession.
“But you have to share the cookies!” you tell him, trying to sound stern.
“Yeah, I’ll do my best,” he laughs. “But really, thank you.”
“It was nothing,” you say trying to shake off the giddy feeling he’s giving you with a shrug he can’t see.
His voice is gravelly when he promises, “it’s not nothing to me.”
You teeter on your feet. “Well, I’m glad it cheered you up a little. I’m just heading out of work so…”
“So, I’ll let you go.”
Did you hear a smile in his voice?
“I’ll see you this weekend for Sam’s BBQ?”
“Yes! Looking forward to it,” you say.
“Great doll, see you then and I am too.”
With that, he hangs up and you stand at your desk and try to slow the rapid beating of your heart.
Bucky picks you up on his bike and you’re barely ashamed at how excited you are to ride with him.
He revs the engine when he pulls up at the curb where you’re standing and settles the bike with his leg on the sidewalk.
“No helmet?” you ask with a wave.
He sucks in a breath and his eyes are glued to your legs.
“Wrong outfit?” you say as you track his gaze. “I can go…”
“Nope,” he says quickly.
He hops off the bike and offers a hand to help you get on, squeezing his eyes closed when you get close to him and your shoulder brushes against his chest.
“Are you ok?” you ask him, looking up into his blue eyes.
“Yep. All good,” he says, voice strained.
You narrow your eyes at his sharp tone but take his offered hand and help onto the bike. Once you’re wrapped around him and pressed to his back you lean up and say, “what’s going on? You seem grumpy today?”
“Nothing,” he replies before revving the engine and pulling away from the curb.
It doesn’t take long to get to Sam’s and when you arrive Bucky parks his bike and hops off lithely and you wait for him to offer his hand to help you off.
To your surprise he takes you by the waist and lifts you off the bike in one easy movement. Your body is plastered to his as your feet slide to the ground.
You shiver at the contact.
“You cold?” He frowns at you.
“Nope,” you answer, looking away and straightening the bottom of your dress.
Over his shoulder you see Sam walking your way.
“There you two are!” he yells.
You wave and smile.
“You look gorgeous as always,” Sam says.
Sam leads the way to the backyard and Bucky places a hand at your lower back. Your brain fritzes and it’s all you can think about as you walk through the yard saying hello to people as you pass.
When you reach Sarah, Sam’s sister, you greet her with a warm hello, having met her once before at the VA. Bucky joins in the conversation, his fingers still warmly pressed into your skin when he starts to draw little circles on your lower back.
You suck in a breath and trip over your words and then he splays his palm and slides it around to your hip, drawing you into his side.
Your heart stops.
Sarah doesn’t seem to notice or if she does she doesn’t make it known and when Sam calls for her help she rushes off with a promise to come back and chat after.
“You seem to be in a better mood now that we’re here,” you say as you turn your eyes to Bucky.
His eyebrows draw in. “I…you look gorgeous.”
Your lips part and your mouth falls open.
“You always do. You did at the fund raiser. You do today. It’s just…I’m not good at…”
He trails off, his words dying on his lips and his cheeks turning your favorite shade of pink.
His words fill you with relief and you swear that it’s the lingering heat of that barely there kiss from the gala that you can’t seem to forget because the next thing you know you’re grabbing him by the front of his shirt and pulling his lips down to yours.
You intend it to be a quick kiss, but he brings one of his hands to the back of your neck and the other presses deep into your back as he takes over. Your small gasp turns into a moan, and it ignites him. He deepens the kiss, hungry and desperate and it sets every inch of you on fire.
“Uh, there are children present.”
Sam’s voice cuts through the moment like a bucket of cold water and you move back. Bucky’s hand flexes at the back of your neck as if to stop you from moving away from him. You breathe hard and state at each other.
Best. Kiss. Of. Your. Life.
Bucky appears dazed enough for you to believe maybe it was for him too.
The party around you comes back to life and Sam’s broad smile fills your vision. He claps Bucky hard on the back. “I knew ya had it you Barnes!”
Sam saunters off with some extra pep to his step and you watch him walk back into the house. Bucky’s fingers close around yours and he tugs you away from the crowd.
“Where are we going?” you ask.
He doesn’t answer but just holds tightly to your hand until you reach a small garden enclosed by a low white fence. At the back there’s a wrought iron bench just big enough for two.
“This is so pretty,” you whisper as he walks you through the garden.
When you reach the bench he turns your way.
“You’re really going to share the bench with me?” you ask playfully.
His answer is to lift his hand to cup your jaw, his eyes dropping to your mouth. You hold your breath as he leans in. The first contact he makes is just a brush of his lips over yours. The briefest sweep.
“I’m sorry I was such an ass that first day we met,” he whispers against your lips. “I was having a rough day but it’s no excuse.”
“It’s ok,” you breathe out. “I forgive you.”
He does it again. Sweeps his lips along yours and you hear the quietest moan escape his throat as he leans in closer, pressing his soft, strong mouth to yours and taking your top lip between his.
With a smile forming against your mouth, he tilts his head and kisses you with a heat that rivals the one only minutes ago. His free hand slides around your waist and smooths along the curve of your spine, dragging you up against his body.
Without an audience he kisses you long enough to have you pulling back for need of air.
“Bucky,” you whisper, grabbing his biceps for support.
“I really am sorry,” he murmurs.
“You’re good at that.”
“At what?” he asks, distracted by your mouth again.
“Kissing.”
He hums. “That’s only because I’m kissing you. And I plan to keep kissing you. For as long as you’ll let me.”
“Forever sounds good,” you whisper at the feel of his lips hovering over yours.
Life update. Oh hello. I haven't posted anything properly in a while and while I'm deeply ashamed, here is whyyy. I have a boyfriend now. I met a nice Italian boy which means I now have a pretty 6'1 blue eyed boy manifested right out of booktok walking around the house. You know you know when you know? I know. 🥺️This man matches every Bucky I've ever written for; I'm talking every single sweet, unhinged, feral, sexy, perfect thing under the sun. Idk what to do with myself. I didn't know these existed. He might as well be out of a build-a-man because how has he matched everything I've ever imagined. I swear he's been conjured through magic. He messes up the bed, lays down the towels, softest aftercare, calls me his feral lil gremlin, reads my fics, has a little bunny, takes care of stray kittens and loves and respects my parents. All with lots of cuddles and forehead kisses. He also has a fucking massive curved uncut co-, he's absolutely ruined me.
Just a warning, you'll probably most definitely will get sick of me but I won't stop yapping about him. I love him, your honor. Any filth you see in fics will now be 100% inspired from real life because this boy is more feral than me and you've seen what I'm capable of writing, do with this what you will. Everyone say hi to my precious bb cause he picked the way I wanted to announce him. ❤️️
Summary: Reader is the assistant to New York's most feared mob boss, James Buchanan Barnes. He had the picture-perfect life: status in the mob, friends, and beautiful wife. So why can't he keep his mind and eyes off of reader?
Authors Note: I just wanted to remind everyone who reads this, there are heavy moments of cheating/having an affair in this story. You might not agree with the actions of "reader" or Bucky but it does pertain to the storyline. If anyone is interested, tags are open for this! Just send me a message or comment!
Tags: @cjand10 @generalmoonpolice
The rain pelted against the glass window, the moonlight spilling over my bed as I slept soundly, the sounds from the current strom easing me into the dark slumber. My phone was perched on the table next to my bed, no new messages or phone calls from the one person I had spent the night texting. 3 texts in total I had sent Bucky, with no response.
Please tell me that you’re going easy on Parker.
Remember he's a kid.
Happy Birthday, Bucky. I hope you got to do something fun.
After spending all night waiting to hear from him, I decided to stop feeling so pathetic and get some sleep.
Four loud, persistent knocks echoed on my front door which roused me from sleep and I groaned while rolling out of bed.
Three more knocks.
“I’m coming!” I grumbled as I reached the door.
As it was fully opened, a gasp fell from my lips at the sight in front of me.
“What the fuck, Bucky?!”
He leaned against the door frame with his hands deep in his pockets, water from the rainstorm falling off the ends of his hair onto his suit jacket that was now soaked. But that wasn’t what I cursed at, it was the blood pouring from an open wound on his cheek.
“I was told that there was a present for me to open here,” he smiled cheekley at me.
I turned away from him briefly to look at the clock on the wall behind me.
12:32 A.M.
“It’s not your birthday anymore,” I informed with my hands on my hips
Bucky stood straighter with a hiss of pain. “Can I come in please?”
I chewed on the inside of my cheek before stepping to the side, allowing him to step inside.
“What happened tonight?” I asked.
Bucky sighed. “Parker grew some balls and thought that it would be a good idea to get the jump on me.”
I cupped his chin to get a better look at the wound on his cheek and sucked in a breath. “Well, it looks pretty deep but I don’t think you’ll need stitches. What did he hit you with?”
Our fingers linked and we walked down the hall towards my bathroom where I instructed Bucky to sit on the edge of the bathtub while I rummaged around for the first aid kit.
“A fucking wrench. He found it on the tool bench in the basement of the office.”
I stifled a laugh.
“It’s not funny,” Bucky muttered.
“A little bit,” I shrugged before standing between his legs, bringing his chin up towards me.
Even with the lowlight from my bathroom, his eyes were so bright and I found myself swimming in them, they were as blue as the ocean or the day sky.
“Sorry.”
Bucky looked at me with confusion but yelled out a few curses when I pressed the cotton ball soaked with peroxide on his wound, his vibranium fingers digging into the bare skin of my thigh.
“Oh, stop being a baby,” I chastised him.
“It fucking hurt,” Bucky insisted.
This time I couldn’t hold back the laugh that fell from my lips and continued to clean his wound and the dried blood from his face. Silence fell between us, Bucky watching me with his intense eyes and his hands sliding up and down my legs, causing goosebumps to rise all over my skin.
“What happened to Peter?” I forced myself to ask.
“He finally learned his lesson and won’t be dealing on other’s streets anymore.”
The coldness behind Bucky’s voice caused me to shiver with worry and he noticed.
“I didn’t kill him,” he reassured me.
“Good,” I nodded while throwing out the bloody rag. “All finished.”
I went to step away from him but Bucky wrapped his arms around me and pulled me into him. His cheek pressed into my stomach and with a soft sigh, I ran my fingers through his hair.
Bucky hummed in content, his eyes fluttering shut.
“How was the rest of your birthday?” I asked.
“Natahsa ended up going out with friends,” Bucky said.
I couldn’t help but feel angry. It was her husband's birthday and she chose to go out with friends instead of doing something with him?
“That’s kind of shitty,” I said.
Bucky looked up at me. “I was the one who told her to go out with them. There was something important I had to do.”
Vibranium fingers sneaked up underneath my night shirt and began tracing over the skin on my back and I realized he was talking about me.
“Can I ask you something?” I traced a finger alongside his jaw.
He nodded so I continued. “Why are you with her if you don’t love her?”
Bucky stiffened in my grasp.
“Whenever she comes around, I’ve noticed that you never tell her you love her,” I observed.
“It’s complicated,” he hesitated.
My lips pulled in a hard line and I nodded while detaching myself from him, getting the feeling that he didn’t want to answer my question with the truth.
“Y/N,” Bucky stood to his feet. “I want to tell you but I’m afraid of what you’ll think.”
I motioned between us. “I don’t think I have the right to judge someone on their actions when I’m literally your mistress.”
With the both of us now standing, my bathroom that I thought was large suddenly felt small as Bucky stepped closer to me.
“It was an arranged marriage. Our fathers knew each other growing up and they promised us to each other,” Bucky stated.
“Oh,” was all I could say.
I was unsure on what to say exactly. Their entire marriage wasn’t built on love but an arrangement. Why would he still be with her?
“Why are you still with her then?” I wondered.
Bucky rubbed the back of his neck. “I may not love her but I still care for her. It’s hard for me to actually love someone, if I’m telling the truth.”
My heart dropped out of my ass at his revelation. If it’s hard for him to love anyone, then what was the point of this? Was there even a future for us?
I mentally smacked myself at those thoughts.
You’re the fucking mistress, Y/N. There is no future for the two of you.
“Doll,” Bucky noticed my demeanor change and lifted my chin with a finger. “I’m trying to be honest with you. Please don’t be upset.”
My bottom lip trembled as I let out a shaky breath, blinking away the fresh tears that pooled in the corner of my eyes.
“I understand. But you know what, I’m actually really tired. Can you lock the door on your way out?”
I avoided his gaze so Bucky wouldn’t see the tear that spilled over my cheek, the saltiness falling on my tongue.
He let out a broken sigh. “I was hoping to stay for a bit.”
I shook my head, still keeping my eyes trained on my bare feet. “I don’t want to have sex tonight, Bucky. I’m not in the mood.”
This time he palmed my cheek and I softened into his touch, finally gazing up at him.
“I don’t care about that,” he shook his head. “All I want to do is lay with you for a while, that’s all.”
Bucky’s eyes were my kryptonite, how large they were as he silently begged to stay. I let out a quiet breath and finally nodded while linking our hands together to bring him into my room.
Summary: The reader wakes up early to make breakfast for Bucky, hoping to make up for the awkwardness between them, but is interrupted when she hears him arguing with his ex-fiancé, Natalie, over the phone. During a work meeting, Theo flirts with the reader and asks her out, but she awkwardly declines, only for Theo to hint that he won’t give up, leaving the reader unsettled as Bucky storms off with Steve.
Word Count: 5.6K
Part 2 --- Part 4
The early morning light seeped through the blinds, casting a soft glow over the room. You woke with a start, the events of yesterday rushing back to you. The tension in the office, Bucky’s frustration with you, and then his unexpected offer to stay at his hotel suite. You glanced at the clock—6:30 AM. You had always been an early riser, and today, you felt an urge to do something kind for Bucky.
You knew you couldn’t repay him for everything he had done for you, but you could at least show some appreciation. You silently got out of bed, being careful not to wake him. Bucky had taken the living area of the suite last night, leaving you the bedroom. You weren’t sure what time he had gone to bed, but it had been a long day for both of you.
The kitchenette in the suite was small but well-equipped. You found eggs, bread, fruit, and coffee—simple ingredients for a breakfast. It wasn’t anything extravagant, just something to get the day started. You moved quietly around the small kitchen, trying not to disturb the calm of the suite, and set to work cooking.
You made a fresh pot of coffee, the rich aroma filling the room as you scrambled the eggs and toasted the bread. It wasn’t much, but it felt like the right thing to do. As the meal came together, you couldn’t help but feel a bit nervous. You didn’t know Bucky well, and certainly didn’t want to overstep, but the gesture felt necessary. He had been nothing but professional and kind, offering you a place to stay when you could’ve easily ended up stranded.
The scent of breakfast seemed to carry throughout the suite. You glanced toward the bedroom door, still shut. A few minutes passed before you heard the soft thud of footsteps coming from the hall, and the door to Bucky’s room opened.
“Smells like something’s cooking,” he said, his voice deep and rough from sleep, and you turned to see him standing in the doorway, a little bleary-eyed but still imposing.
You couldn’t help but smile. "I made breakfast," you said, trying to keep your voice light. "I figured it might be a good way to say thank you for letting me stay here."
He raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking to the food. His usual intensity was there, but it softened slightly when he saw the small spread you had made. "Didn't think you had it in you to cook," he remarked, his tone dry but not unkind.
“I don’t usually," you replied, "but you’ve been going nonstop lately. Thought it might be a small way to repay you for letting me crash here.”
Bucky didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he walked over to the small table, his eyes scanning the food. His hair was tousled from sleep, and he still wore the same clothes from yesterday. He didn’t seem rushed to get dressed, and for a moment, you could see a more human side of him—the side that wasn’t the boss, the one who had been working endlessly at the office.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he said, his voice quieter now, a little more serious.
“I know,” you said, feeling a bit awkward. "But I wanted to. It’s just eggs and toast, but I thought you might appreciate a change of pace."
Bucky gave you a brief nod, then sat down at the table, pulling his chair out with a slight scrape against the floor. "Yeah, I’ll admit, I haven’t had something like this in a while." He picked up a fork, cutting into the eggs with deliberate motions.
You watched him, wondering if you had overstepped. It was hard to tell with Bucky—he didn’t give much away, especially not with his hard exterior. He was always so intense, so focused. His expression remained neutral as he ate, but you could tell he was appreciating the meal.
“I’m not used to people doing things like this for me,” Bucky said after a few moments, his eyes meeting yours. There was a slight vulnerability in his voice that you hadn’t expected, and it made you pause. “Most people either expect something in return, or just... don’t bother.”
You tried to mask your surprise, but his words felt heavier than you anticipated. "Well," you said, a bit hesitantly, "I wasn’t expecting anything. Just... thought I’d show some gratitude. You’ve been more than kind to me since I got here."
Bucky took another bite of eggs, chewing thoughtfully. “Kindness isn’t really something I’ve been good at,” he muttered under his breath, though you caught it.
You could tell he was keeping himself distant, still the Bucky Barnes you knew from the office—strong, stoic, closed off. But there was a flicker of something softer, more uncertain beneath that surface.
"You’ve got a strange way of showing it," you said, trying to lighten the mood, "but I think you're more kind than you realize."
Bucky gave a short chuckle, not quite a laugh but close enough. "Maybe." He took a sip of coffee and set the mug down with a soft clink. "But don’t get too used to me opening up."
You didn’t take offense. It was Bucky’s way of pushing people back. It was clear he wasn’t one to show much emotion, and probably never had. His whole life, based on what you knew, had been a series of intense moments that pushed him into a role he couldn’t escape. You knew better than to try to force anything.
“Well, I’m not going to pressure you,” you said, focusing on your own meal. “I just wanted to do something nice, that’s all.”
Bucky nodded, finishing off the last of the eggs. “Well, I appreciate it. Really,” he added, quieter this time.
For a moment, neither of you spoke, the only sound in the room the faint clink of your silverware. There was a shift in the air, one that wasn’t heavy with awkwardness, but instead filled with a subtle understanding that had started to form between the two of you. It wasn’t much, but the space between you had changed since last night—there was a familiarity now, a small thread of connection.
Bucky stood up, his usual intensity returning as he grabbed his plate and made his way to the sink. “I’ll take care of the dishes. I’m not letting you do all the work.”
You nodded, grateful but not surprised by his offer. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” he said firmly, giving you a glance over his shoulder. “And it’s the least I can do after you put the effort into this.”
You watched as he moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, his movements almost mechanical but still somehow graceful. There was an air of someone who was always in control, but you wondered if, just maybe, he was starting to feel a little less burdened, even if only for a moment.
"Thanks again," Bucky said as he finished up. "You didn’t need to do all this, but it was... good. Really good." There was a sincerity in his voice that made you smile.
“Anytime,” you said. “I mean it.”
As he dried his hands and turned back to you, there was something different in his eyes—a flicker of respect, maybe even something else. It was fleeting, but it was there. You weren’t sure where things would go from here, but for now, this small moment felt like the start of something more between you both.
-----------
You stretched as you pulled on a clean shirt, the soft fabric feeling cool against your skin after a warm shower. It had been a peaceful morning so far, the breakfast you had made for Bucky lingering in your thoughts. There was still something surreal about it—about being here in his suite, making him breakfast, and hearing him thank you like that. It wasn’t that you expected anything in return, but it felt like a small bridge had been crossed between you two.
You were just finishing getting dressed, running a brush through your hair, when the peaceful atmosphere of the suite shattered. You froze, the voice you heard coming from the living area unmistakable. It was Bucky’s deep, familiar voice, but it was sharp, full of tension.
You couldn’t make out the words at first, but the anger was palpable. You didn’t want to intrude, but you found yourself slowly inching closer to the door of the bedroom, your curiosity and concern getting the best of you.
Bucky’s deep, familiar voice was harder now, each word almost clipped with frustration. “I told you, Natalie, this isn’t a conversation we need to keep having. I made my decision. You made yours. Now stop calling me.”
You were suddenly very aware of the space between you and Bucky. He was in the living room, presumably pacing as he always did when he was upset. You had never seen him like this before—not in the office, not since you had arrived. It was a side of him that felt raw, almost vulnerable.
There was another muffled exchange from the phone, but Bucky’s voice grew more strained. “You can’t just keep dragging me back into your mess. I’ve already told you—it’s over.”
Your heart caught in your throat. You weren’t sure how much of the conversation you should be overhearing, but his words made it clear that this wasn’t a casual argument. It was something deep and unresolved. A painful break, a relationship that was difficult to move on from. And he had to be exhausted by it.
You stepped cautiously into the living room, unsure if you should intervene. You didn’t want to add to his frustration, but you couldn’t just ignore the situation. Bucky was pacing now, his hands gripping the phone, his shoulders tense.
“No, I’m not coming back to you, Natalie. We’ve been through this too many times. You can’t keep calling me every damn day. It’s not gonna change anything.” His words were biting, harsh in a way that sent a chill through the room.
A long pause followed, thick with emotion, before Bucky spoke again, this time with a rough edge in his voice. “I’m done. We’re done.” His voice cracked slightly at the end, and it was a subtle sound, but one that made you feel as though you were intruding on something far more intimate than you ever intended.
The phone call ended abruptly with a sharp click, followed by a silence that felt deafening. You stayed still, unsure of what to do or how to react. Bucky stood there, staring at the phone in his hand, his jaw clenched tight as though he were trying to keep his emotions in check.
He didn’t turn around when he spoke, but you could hear the weight in his voice as he muttered, “I’m sorry you had to hear that.”
Your breath caught in your throat as you slowly walked toward him, not wanting to appear like you were prying, but knowing that this moment felt too heavy to just ignore. “Bucky, I... I didn’t mean to overhear. I just—" You paused, choosing your words carefully. "Is everything okay?”
He finally turned to face you, the coldness in his eyes softening just slightly as he exhaled deeply. There was a weariness there, a fatigue you hadn’t noticed before. The hard lines of his face softened for a moment, as if he were processing everything that had just happened.
“No," Bucky replied with a sigh, the bitterness still lingering in his voice. "It’s not okay.” He ran a hand through his hair, visibly frustrated. "I thought I had moved on, but she keeps calling. Keeps trying to pull me back in. I can’t keep doing this.”
You watched him, feeling the gravity of the moment. This was not the Bucky you’d seen at the office—the confident, guarded man who never let anyone see his vulnerabilities. This was something deeper, something painful. You had no idea what had happened between Bucky and Natalie, but it was clear that the wound was still fresh.
“I didn’t expect her to keep doing this,” Bucky muttered under his breath. “I told her it was over, that I couldn’t keep going back and forth. But she doesn’t get it. She doesn’t want to accept that I’m done.”
You felt a deep sympathy for him. It was clear that this breakup had hurt him in a way that was more than just a passing argument—it had been a battle of emotions, of promises broken. And now, he was trying to pick up the pieces, trying to move on from something that clearly wasn’t so easy to let go of.
“I’m really sorry, Bucky,” you said quietly, taking a step toward him. “That sounds... really hard.”
He shook his head, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. “Hard doesn’t even begin to cover it. She doesn’t get it. She just keeps coming back, and I’m trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do with it.” His eyes met yours, and you could see the exhaustion written in every line of his face. “I don’t want to keep fighting this, but I don’t know how to make it stop.”
You wanted to say something comforting, but the words didn’t come easily. You weren’t sure what to say to ease his pain, but you could see how much this was weighing on him.
“You don’t have to do it alone, Bucky,” you said softly, even though you weren’t sure if that was the right thing to say. “I don’t know what’s been going on between you and Natalie, but I’m here for you. If you ever want to talk or just... have someone to listen.”
For a long moment, Bucky didn’t speak. He simply looked at you, the weight of his emotions in his eyes. Finally, he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
“Thanks,” he said quietly, his voice raw. “But I think I need a little time to figure this out.”
You nodded, understanding that he wasn’t ready to open up completely. “Of course,” you said gently. “Take all the time you need.”
For a moment, the room was silent, both of you standing there in the stillness. You could feel the tension between you, a slight shift in the air that made things feel more intimate, more complicated.
Bucky broke the silence with a sigh, turning toward the window. "I’m sorry you had to see that side of me."
“You don’t have to apologize,” you replied quietly. “It’s just... life, right? Complicated.”
He nodded again, his gaze lingering on the city skyline for a few moments before he turned back to you. “Yeah. Life’s never simple, is it?”
“Nope,” you said with a small, understanding smile. “But maybe that’s what makes it interesting.”
----------
The hum of your computer was the only sound in the small corner of the office as you sifted through the data on your screen. The numbers and figures blurred together after hours of staring at them, but you were determined to finish the report for Bucky by the end of the day. The project was moving forward at a pace that made your head spin, but you enjoyed the challenge. Still, there were moments when you could feel the pressure mounting, especially with Bucky constantly pushing for perfection.
You leaned back in your chair for a moment, stretching your arms above your head to relieve the tension in your shoulders. The office was buzzing with activity, and the energy in the air made the space feel almost electric. It wasn’t unusual for everyone to be so absorbed in their work, but the competitive drive was palpable in every corner of the room.
Just as you were about to get back to work, you heard footsteps approach from behind. You turned to find Steve Rogers standing beside your desk, a file of papers in his hand. His presence was always reassuring, the steady calmness of the Captain carrying with him a sense of reliability. He flashed you a quick smile as he placed the folder down in front of you.
“I’ve got the updated data for the project,” Steve said, leaning slightly over the desk to show you the contents. “Thought you’d want to take a look before the meeting later.”
“Thanks, Steve,” you said, nodding as you began flipping through the pages. The data was well-organized, making it easier for you to see what had changed and what still needed adjustments. “I’ll go over this and make sure everything is in order.”
As you skimmed through the new figures, Steve glanced over at your computer screen. “How are you doing with your side of things? I know Bucky’s been expecting a lot, but it seems like you’re handling it well.”
You looked up at him with a faint smile, grateful for his support. “I’m getting there. It’s a bit of a juggling act, but it’s been manageable so far. I’ve just been focusing on keeping everything organized.”
Steve chuckled softly, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “You’re too humble. You’ve been doing a great job. I think Bucky’s impressed—he’s been raving about your work.”
The mention of Bucky’s praise made your stomach flutter slightly. You tried to brush off the reaction, focusing instead on the task at hand. You didn’t want to get caught up in the details, especially not with how the morning had unfolded. But there was something comforting about knowing that Bucky was impressed with your progress.
Before you could respond, a voice interrupted the conversation from behind. “Rogers, we need to talk.”
You turned, your heart rate picking up at the sound of Bucky’s voice. He was standing just a few feet away, his presence commanding the room. His usual calm exterior was replaced with something more focused, more urgent, as his eyes locked on Steve.
Steve gave a nod, the easy confidence of his Captain persona shining through. “Of course. What’s up?”
“We’ve got a meeting over at the town office for the project. We need to go over the last details before we finalize everything for the presentation,” Bucky said, his tone businesslike and direct. “I’ll need you there to go over the final drafts, and you, too,” he added, his gaze turning toward you.
Your brows furrowed in surprise. You hadn’t expected to be involved in this part of the process, especially since the meeting was clearly for higher-level decisions. “Wait, me?” You glanced at Steve for confirmation, who gave you a reassuring nod.
Bucky’s expression softened slightly as he explained. “You’ve been handling the project’s details on the ground, so it only makes sense that you be there when we go over everything. I’ll need you to give your input, too.”
You didn’t know if you should be flattered or overwhelmed. The fact that Bucky trusted you enough to include you in the final meeting felt like a compliment, but the pressure of being involved in something this important immediately had your nerves kicking in.
“I’ll grab my things,” you said, standing up and grabbing your notepad. “But I wasn’t expecting this today.”
Bucky gave a small, knowing smile, the edge of his seriousness softening slightly. “I get that. But the meeting’s important, and you’re already ahead of where we need to be. Don’t overthink it.”
You nodded, grateful for his reassurance, but still feeling the weight of the situation. You hadn’t anticipated being thrust into the next phase of the project so suddenly, but the fact that Bucky trusted you enough to involve you in such a critical meeting gave you the boost of confidence you needed.
“I’ll meet you at the car,” Bucky said, turning on his heel before looking back briefly. “Just don’t take too long. We don’t want to be late.”
With that, Bucky strode out of the office, leaving you and Steve to gather your things. You exchanged a quick look with Steve, his usual calm demeanor comforting.
“Don’t worry,” Steve said with a grin. “You’re going to do great. Bucky’s got high standards, but you’ve already shown him that you’re more than capable. Just stay calm, and you’ll be fine.”
You took a deep breath, trying to calm the fluttering in your stomach. “Thanks, Steve. I’m a little nervous, but I’ll do my best.”
Steve gave you an encouraging smile. “That’s all anyone can ask for.” He clapped you gently on the shoulder before walking toward the door. “Let’s get this done, huh?”
You quickly grabbed your things, taking one last glance at your desk before following Steve out of the office. The elevator ride down was a quiet one, and by the time you stepped into the parking garage, Bucky’s black SUV was already waiting.
He was leaning against the side of the car, arms crossed, clearly waiting for you both to arrive. As you walked over, he straightened up and unlocked the doors.
“Ready?” he asked, his voice quieter than before, though there was still an undercurrent of authority.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” you replied, trying to steady your nerves. You were doing this. You had no other choice but to rise to the occasion.
Bucky nodded, a small, approving smile curling on his lips. “Good. Let’s go.”
As you all piled into the SUV, you couldn’t help but wonder what would unfold in this meeting. Would it be a breakthrough for the project? Or would it only heighten the already palpable tension between you and Bucky? Only time would tell.
--------
The drive to the town office was relatively quiet, the only sounds coming from the soft hum of the engine and the occasional conversation between you, Steve, and Bucky. Despite the calm outside, your mind was buzzing with thoughts of the upcoming meeting. It was a big step in the project, and you had no idea what to expect. The uncertainty made your stomach twist in knots, but you did your best to keep your focus.
When the SUV finally pulled up outside the sleek, modern building, you took a deep breath, ready to face whatever came next. Bucky, Steve, and you got out of the car and made your way into the building, where the atmosphere felt a little more formal than the office. The hustle and bustle of the town office was in stark contrast to the more relaxed vibe of the Stark Industries headquarters.
Inside, the large conference room was filled with a few people already gathered around the long table, reviewing papers and discussing last-minute details. It looked like a typical corporate meeting—until one of the people at the table stood up as soon as you walked in.
The man was tall, with a confident stride and a dazzling smile. His hair was tousled in a way that looked both deliberate and effortless, and his eyes locked onto you the moment you entered. You couldn’t help but notice the way his gaze lingered a little too long, as if sizing you up.
“Well, well, well,” the man said smoothly, his voice low and charming. “Looks like we’ve got a new face at the table. I’m Theo Smith,” he introduced himself with a grin, extending his hand toward you. “And I must say, I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone quite as stunning as you walking into a meeting before.”
You took his hand, politely shaking it but feeling the hairs on the back of your neck stand up as his grip lingered just a little longer than necessary. You forced a small smile. “Nice to meet you, Theo. I’m [Your Name]. I’m here to help with the project details.”
His grin widened, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’m sure you’ll do more than just help, gorgeous. You’ve got that...spark, you know?” He gave you a slow once-over that made you feel uneasy, even though his words were coated in charm.
Before you could respond, Bucky moved in, his presence like a sudden shift in the air. His eyes narrowed as he took in the interaction between you and Theo.
“Alright, enough with the pleasantries,” Bucky said, his tone flat but authoritative. “Let’s get this meeting started. [Your Name], Steve, follow me.”
You could feel the tension rising as Bucky led the way to the conference table. Theo, however, didn’t seem to take the hint. He sauntered over, a mischievous smile still on his face as he leaned toward you.
“You know, if you’re not too busy later, maybe we could grab a drink?” Theo said, his voice full of intent. “I’d love to show you around. I’m sure we’d have a good time.”
You took a step back, uncomfortable with how forward he was being, but before you could respond, Bucky turned sharply, his jaw clenched and his eyes blazing with barely contained irritation.
“That’s enough, Theo,” Bucky said, his voice low but firm, laced with an undeniable edge. “She’s off-limits. And I mean that. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
Theo raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, but there was a hint of surprise in his eyes at Bucky’s sudden aggression. “Relax, Barnes. I’m just being friendly,” he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender.
But Bucky didn’t back down. His expression remained unyielding, and his posture was tense, as though daring Theo to push him any further. “I’m serious. Keep your distance. This isn’t the time or place for your games.”
Theo’s smirk faded slightly as he took in Bucky’s cold stare. For a moment, the tension between them was palpable. Theo’s gaze flickered between you and Bucky before he let out a short, almost inaudible sigh.
“Fine, fine,” Theo muttered, clearly not pleased with the turn of events, but he turned and walked away without another word.
You stood there, taken aback by how quickly the dynamic had shifted. Bucky was still staring after Theo, his face tight, as if he were holding back more than just words. He then turned to you, his expression softening ever so slightly, though the edge in his voice remained.
“I don’t appreciate people crossing boundaries. I trust you can handle yourself, but some people don’t seem to know where to draw the line,” Bucky said, his tone low and serious.
You nodded, still a little rattled from the exchange. You weren’t used to such a direct confrontation, especially when it came to someone who was being so overtly flirtatious with you. But Bucky had made his point clear. You could feel the protective undertone in his words, and something about that left you with a strange mix of emotions—relief that he had stood up for you, but also a sense of curiosity. Why had he felt so strongly about stopping Theo’s advances?
“Thank you,” you said, trying to make light of the situation. “But I think I could’ve handled it.”
Bucky’s lips twitched, but the coldness hadn’t completely left his eyes. “I’m not worried about you handling it. I’m worried about people forgetting their place.”
Before you could respond, Steve, who had been standing off to the side, cleared his throat and gestured toward the meeting table. “I think we should get started before we waste any more time,” Steve said, his voice steady and neutral. “We’ve got a lot to cover.”
You nodded and walked toward the table, still feeling the weight of the tension in the air. As you settled into your seat, you couldn’t help but notice how Bucky’s eyes lingered on you for a brief moment before he took his own seat across from you.
The rest of the meeting went on without incident, but the dynamic between you and Bucky seemed to have shifted. You could feel his protective energy still radiating, even as the conversation turned back to the project. He was still as professional as ever, but there was an unspoken tension between you both, one that you couldn’t quite decipher.
You tried to shake it off, focusing on the details of the meeting, but you couldn’t ignore the uneasy feeling that lingered in the back of your mind. Theo’s flirtation had been uncomfortable, but Bucky’s sudden intensity had left you questioning the boundaries of your relationship with him. Why had he been so protective, and why did it matter so much to him?
As the meeting drew to a close, you found yourself glancing over at Bucky once more, wondering just how deep the unspoken connections between you two really went.
---------
The meeting had come to a close, but the tension in the room lingered, almost palpable. You had done your best to stay focused, pushing through the discussions and making sure you were keeping up. But the strange undercurrent of conflict between Bucky and Theo—and the tension between Bucky and his ex, Natalie—left you feeling unsettled.
As you packed up your notes and prepared to leave, Bucky’s phone buzzed on the table in front of him. The sound was insistent, one notification after another, as if the world outside was demanding his attention. He glanced down at the screen, his jaw tightening, and you could see the muscles in his neck strain as he checked the caller ID. He didn’t pick up. Instead, he turned the phone face down on the table.
“Sorry about that,” Bucky muttered, his voice terse. He seemed distracted, almost angry, but he didn’t explain himself further.
Theo, who had been leaning casually against the wall, raised an eyebrow at the sound of Bucky’s phone ringing. A grin spread across his face as he glanced between Bucky and his phone. “That your ex again?” he asked, his voice dripping with mockery. “Or are you still playing the 'we’re not together' game, Barnes?”
Bucky’s face immediately darkened at Theo’s comment, his entire posture shifting from relaxed to tense in an instant. The room seemed to tighten, the air becoming thick with unspoken words. His jaw clenched as he stood, his body language telling you everything you needed to know: he was done with this.
Without another word, Bucky turned to Steve. “We’re done here. Let’s go,” he said, his tone flat and final.
Steve gave you a quick look, then followed Bucky out of the room without hesitation, as if they’d been through this countless times before. Theo, on the other hand, lingered in the doorway, his gaze flicking to you with a mix of amusement and curiosity.
“You know,” Theo began, a slow smile spreading across his face, “I don’t think I’ve seen Bucky so riled up in a while. He’s really not a fan of being asked about Natalie, huh?”
You shrugged, uncomfortable under his gaze. “I wouldn’t know,” you replied, trying to keep the conversation neutral. "I’m just here for the meeting."
Theo seemed undeterred by your response. He took a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “Well, I think we both know how that went,” he said, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Bucky’s definitely not happy. But maybe I can make you happier.”
Before you could react, he was already leaning against the table, his posture casual, but there was an edge to his voice that made you uneasy. “So, what do you say? How about we grab a drink sometime? You seem like you could use a break from all the drama.”
You felt a knot twist in your stomach. It was the last thing you had expected from Theo, and his persistent charm was making you feel increasingly uncomfortable.
“I—uh,” you stammered, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. “I’m not sure… I mean, I don’t really do that sort of thing. I’m kind of… awkward.”
Theo let out a soft laugh, clearly not deterred by your awkwardness. “Awkward, huh? I think that makes you even more interesting,” he said, his eyes glinting with mischief. “But hey, I get it. No pressure. You just let me know when you’re ready for that drink.”
His eyes lingered on you for a moment, a flicker of something unreadable passing between you before he finally stood up straight and gave you a teasing smile. “Maybe next time, then. But just so you know, I’m not one to take no for an answer for long,” he said, with a wink before walking out of the room.
You stood there for a moment, your heart racing as you tried to process the situation. Theo’s words echoed in your mind, and you couldn't quite shake the feeling of being caught between two conflicting forces: Bucky, whose protective behavior had set off a series of questions in your mind, and Theo, whose flirtation was both charming and unsettling in its persistence.
You exhaled slowly, trying to push the emotions and confusion aside. You had a lot to think about, but for now, all you could focus on was the project and the rest of the day ahead. Whatever happened with Bucky and Theo was something you didn’t know how to navigate yet, but one thing was clear: things weren’t going to be simple. And with the way things were going, you had a feeling the drama was only just beginning.
As you gathered your things and headed toward the door, you found yourself glancing over your shoulder. The hallway was quiet now, and there was no sign of Theo or anyone else. It was just you and the weight of the unanswered questions lingering in the air.
With one last deep breath, you stepped out of the conference room, determined to focus on your work and put the moment behind you for now. But you couldn’t ignore the uneasy feeling gnawing at you. And you definitely couldn’t ignore the lingering thought that maybe, just maybe, there was more to Bucky Barnes—and the complicated dynamics around him—than you had ever imagined.
“Santa Claus is coming to town,” you sing along to the song blaring from your phone. You’re, as so often, the last one at the office.
Before the holidays, most of your colleagues try to get out of the office as early as possible. They have better plans than to work like busy ants two days before Christmas.
Sadly, you didn’t get to leave on the clock. Your boss demanded your attention. You couldn’t join your colleagues at the little Christmas party you organized for weeks.
Now they will all exchange the Secret Santa gifts you got for most of them, drink eggnog, and sing awful Christmas songs while you are stuck here with your grumpy boss.
“Miss Y/L/N, I need the numbers now." Mr. Barnes doesn’t even walk toward your desk. He simply barks orders your way.
You heave out a sigh and glance at the stack of papers on your desk. Before you get up to hand Mr. Barnes the numbers he wanted you to finish before the holidays, you save your work.
Grabbing the papers, you silently pray that Mr. Barnes won’t come up with more tasks. It’s long past your work time, and you’re tired and cranky. You’ll need a good night’s sleep and at least a day off before driving home for Christmas.
“Miss Y/L/N,” he barks as you are already halfway toward his office. Mr. Barnes huffs as you stumble over your own feet. “You know, I had better things to do than wait for the numbers. I have been waiting for hours. I think you’re the worst person working here.”
For a second, you’re stunned. You feel like Mr. Barnes slapped you across your face.
“Maybe if you asked the person who’s responsible for the mistake to help you with the numbers. I worked overtime only to get yelled at!” You gasp. The words just flew out of your mouth, unfiltered and raw with emotions.
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t work here any more then!” He bites back. It wasn’t a surprise to you that Mr. Barnes lost his temper. He’s always been a little hot-headed and grumpy. Mr. Barnes fired people here and there over the years. You just didn’t think you’d be one of them one day.
“You’re firing me after I fixed a mistake someone else made?” You huff and cross your arms over your chest. “I don’t see anyone else standing in line to work through the numbers. I worked overtime before the holidays to do you a favor.”
“That’s your job,” he growls and points at the door. “Or was. I want you to pack your things and don’t come back.”
“Fine,” you huff and turn on your heels, regretting your mishap instantly. You’d apologize and even fall to your knees to get your job back. Sadly, Mr. Barnes is a strict man. He doesn’t accept mistakes or insubordination. Whatever you’d do or say, there was no way he’d give you your job back.
So, you got a box from the storage room, emptied your desk, grabbed your belongings, and left the building for the last time in your life. To hell with this job and your boss.
“Mom, stop asking questions,” you plead as your mother wouldn’t stop asking questions about your job.
“It’s all so exciting. Living in the big city, having friends you meet up at bars like Carrie in Sex and the City, and your job. It sounds wonderful!”
“Mom, I barely made any friends,” you sigh, and try to rub the embarrassment off your face. “I’d call them work friends or acquaintances.”
“I bet they are all too happy to have you around,” she coos and cups your face. “I know my Munchkin conquered the big city in no time.”
“Mom, I—” you sniffle and look away, ashamed. It never gets easy to lie to your mother. “I have to tell you something about the job.”
“What is it, Munchkin?” she asks, looking at you, worry in her eyes. She coos to you as you begin to cry. Starting anew after your long-term boyfriend and fiancé broke things up was the dream you wanted to fulfill. Now, you failed again.
“I got fired yesterday,” you sniff. “I worked overtime, and my boss yelled at me. I fixed someone else’s mistake, and he still yelled at me. I lost it and…” You shake your head and refuse to look at your mother.
“Y/N, that’s not the end of the world.” She wraps you in a warm embrace. The kind of embrace only a mother can give you. You feel warm and safe, remembering all the times she calmed you in times of need. “You’ll find a new job, a better one. If he fired you, that man doesn’t know how to value you.”
“The fuck no!” Bucky flings a stack of papers across the room. He tried to access your account, only to realize he never asked you to reset your password. Now he’s seething because most of your work, except the files you shared with colleagues and him, is password protected. “She forgot to reset the fucking password!”
“Well, you told her to pack her things and leave, Buck. What did you expect to happen?” Steve huffs. He had to leave his cozy home and wife to help Bucky with some unimportant paperwork. “We've got time to fix this until after the holidays.”
“Unimportant to you,” Bucky bites back. “I want to have this finished before the year ends.”
“Buck,” Steve snorts. “If you need her password, call her.” The blonde shrugs before turning to leave. “I know you are not the best at communicating, but I believe in you. You can handle a phone call with a woman you just fired.”
“I tried more than once,” Bucky snaps at his best friend and business partner. “She won’t answer. The last time I called, she blocked my number.”
“Yeah, because you fired her!” Steve replies, laughing. “I wouldn’t answer any call from an asshole firing me two days before Christmas either.”
Bucky opens his mouth to reply. He huffs as his friend already walks toward the door.
“What shall I do now? I need the password!”
“If you cannot reach her, go to her home and ask for the password. I will go home now. Please don’t call me during Christmas. Natasha will rip me a new one if I miss Christmas.”
“She’s not home. I was there. Her neighbors told me that Y/N will spend Christmas at her parents’ house. There’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Buck,” Steve laughs. “You can fly to her hometown and ask her for the password. While on your way back, you can celebrate with a pretty stewardess in first class as every Christmas…”
Summary: "No strings attached" was always a trap, you should have known your situation wouldn't be any different. Falling totally in love with Bucky would only end one way: tragically. So you handle it the only way your self destructive tendencies will allow.
Warning(s): adult themes 18+, reader makes dumb decisions - it's for the plot just go with it, it's going to be a bumpy ride but happy endings like always I promise
