bucky's gotten good at keeping his distance from his harmless, sunshine-y neighbor. but when you get taken because of him—because someone figured out you're his weak spot—he realizes how spectacularly that plan backfired. turns out the winter soldier's soft spot is a lot more dangerous than he thought.
jackass — @aquaticmercy
everyone is horrified that bucky is flirting with a married woman, but then they realise there's a reason why.
you make loving fun — @buckytakethewheel
18+ you and bucky have been dating for six weeks, and sex is still a little clumsy and awkward. until it isn't.
meet me halfway — @aquaticmercy
bucky has to recruit the love of his life to save new york from the void. he doesn't know if she wants to ever see him again, though.
ruin the friendship — @mcrdvcks
the only thing bucky can think about while captured in azzano is that he should've kissed you before being shipped off.
hair — @magicaloneandmystery
bucky doesn't let anyone touch his hair. well... anyone except you.
his girls — @artficlly
alpine barely tolerates anyone but bucky, so when she curls up in your lap without a second thought, the team is left reeling—especially when it leads to the not-so-subtle revelation that you and bucky have been sneaking around for months.
incoming pt.2 pt.3 — @54nboo
bucky meets the face behind the voice on the comms after a tricky mission.
promise without ceremony — @cheekybarnes
bucky barnes gave up on marriage a long time ago. but then, in a storm-soaked safe house, he pulls a bullet from your leg and accidentally proposes in the process.
operation: get barnes laid — @w1nter-fairy
bucky barnes is one mission away from strangling his team, so naturally they do the reasonable thing: spend $800 on a matchmaking service as a prank. the plan? humiliate him. the outcome? not what they expected.
first good thing — @buckytakethewheel
after decades of being deprived of human touch, bucky barnes just doesn't know what to do with a good kiss.
cat’s out of the bag pt.2 pt.3 — @magicaloneandmystery
how bucky's top secret was revealed to the thunderbolts. ft. a secret wife and alpine.
domestic warfare — @fawniswriting
after a mission filled with close calls and bad decisions, the team comes home to find an even bigger threat waiting at the door—your wrath.
broken arm, broken man — @ellebarnesx
when bucky's arm breaks down, his walls go up.
slow burn — @myladybelle
bucky’s still finding his footing in the new avengers—getting into a relationship is the last thing he has time for. it’s a good thing that you’re alright with a slow burn.
the ring stays on — @imtaashu
bucky barnes has one rule: the ring never comes off. except… one day it does. chaos, panic, and way too many witnesses follow.
with all my heart — @street-smarts00
you never thought bucky was the sentimental type, until you found something hidden under his bed.
beware… the south brooklyn lover boy — @goldiwrites
james buchanan barnes has been a thorn in your side ever since you moved to brooklyn. you refuse to let your guard down, no matter how much his stupid good looks & incessant flirting tear at your defences.
face value — @biglychee
you were convinced bucky barnes was a cold, arrogant agent who despised you, so you made it your personal mission to hate him right back.
the strawberries — @godmadeaterribleerror
bucky keeps you secret from his team, but your effect on his life might not be something he can hide.
the waitress — @moonstoneandmoonlight
bucky barnes was falling in love with the pretty waitress at the diner.
who cat is it anyways? — @saltyjoy
for the longest time, you thought the cat roaming the tower wasn’t owned by anybody. then you eventually realize that the “tower cat” does, in fact, have a name, and is owned by none other than bucky barnes himself,
bergamot — @mcrdvcks
you haven’t seen bucky in almost two months because you’ve been away on a mission for the un. the team has only known him for two weeks but they can already tell that something on his phone is making him smile.
two sugars — @mcrdvcks
as the avengers team medic it's your job to take care of everyone. so why does bucky feel like he gets special treatment? surely a medic wouldn't know the exact way he likes his tea.
preciously mine — @firingstars
18+ you've started to work for the avengers as their one and only medic to keep them functioning and working after each and every mission. after a mission gone wrong, bucky barnes is forced to acknowledge your presence and finally seek out your assistance. after that? it's like the man can't leave you alone.
interrupted — @lovebugism
18+ you and bucky try to have some alone time after a mission gone wrong but it doesn't go as planned.
yearning — @barnesonly
18+ you and bucky have been together for a while now, but haven’t had sex yet—he’s insecure, afraid he forgot how. but one night, things finally happen…
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › somewhere between golden-hour train rides, sleepy kitchen conversations, and waking up tangled together in soft sheets with Alpine purring between you, the lines between friends and flyers blur. and suddenly, the almosts start feeling a lot like forever.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › bucky x female reader
ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › 18+ MDNI friends to lovers, fluff, domestic bucky, yearning, mutual pining, crushing hard, lowk idiots in love, feelings confession, alpine! implied stalking/being followed by strangers, brief anxiety/fear, buckys hyper vigilance comes out, protective & possessive bucky, kissing, smut, p in v, missionary & cowgirl, soft dom bucky, dirty talking bucky barnes, oral f receiving, fingering, back to back rounds (👅), sleepy aftercare, bucky nd reader are in lurve, not beta read we die like men. (also halfassed proofread so...)
ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › 8.5k
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › your honor i love them, i love domestic bucky and i want him forever and forever and forever also yeah i barely proofread this i was doing a million things at once and decided to just say fuck it so my fault if its wack
It happens on a Tuesday.
You know it’s a Tuesday because Tuesdays are your longest editing days, and you’re halfway through correcting exposure on a series of portraits when your phone buzzes against your desk. You don’t even look at the name before you smile, you’ve learned the rhythm of him now. He doesn’t text much but when he does, it’s direct.
You home.
No question mark, it makes you smile softly as you type back:
Eventually. Why?
There’s a longer pause this time, then,
Found something.
You grin at your screen.
If this is another broken appliance you’re adopting, we need to talk.
Three dots disappear, then reappear.
Not an appliance.
You snort quietly to yourself, you don’t ask for clarification because you already know he’ll show up whether you do or not.
By the time you make it back to your building, dusk has softened the edges of Brooklyn into gold and shadow. You take the stairs two at a time, not because you’re in a rush, but because you’ve started to associate the top landing with something waiting.
You don’t check the subway map anymore, you don’t hesitate at the corner bodega. You don’t feel like a visitor in your own life. When you unlock your apartment door and push it open you immediately stop. Bucky is standing in the middle of your living room, very still, like he’s holding a live grenade. Except the grenade is small.
White.
And glaring at you.
You blink.
“…Is that… a cat?”
The cat blinks back. She’s tiny. All narrow limbs and oversized ears, fur stark white against the dark Henley stretched across Bucky’s chest. One of her paws is hooked firmly into the fabric like she’s anchoring herself there on purpose.
“She followed me,” he says flatly. As if this is a perfectly reasonable explanation. You close the door slowly behind you.
“She followed you?”
“Yeah.”
“Home?”
He nods once.
“She looks like she weighs three pounds.”
“I tried to tell her not to. She’s got opinions.”
On cue, the cat makes a small, indignant sound. Not quite a meow. More like a complaint, you step closer carefully, hands out like you’re approaching something sacred.
“Oh my god,” you whisper with a growing smile.
Her eyes track you instantly, blue, sharp and wholly unimpressed.
“She’s so small.”
He scoffs. “She’s probably feral.”
“She’s so baby.” You cooed with a waggle of your fingers.
“She’s not—”
“She is,” you insist softly, reaching up to brush one careful finger along the edge of her back. Her fur is softer than you expected. She stiffens at first, eye narrowing just a fraction then leans in, just slightly.
Bucky’s brows draw together. “She scratched a guy.”
“He probably deserved it.”
“You don’t even know what he did.” He huffs as he genlty shifts her in his hold.
“He existed near her.”
“That’s not a crime.”
You look up at him through your lashes. “It is if you’re three pounds and fierce.”
He exhales through his nose, but there’s no bite to it. You lean back to fully look at him now, eyes wide with something that feels suspiciously like wonder.
“You brought her here.”
“She wouldn’t leave.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
You don’t say it out loud, but you both feel it. He could have taken her anywhere. A shelter, a vet, anywhere but here. Instead, he brought her to you. You reach out fully now, cupping your hands under her tiny body. “Can I?”
He hesitates for half a second then nods and transfers her carefully into your arms. She’s lighter than she looks, all bone and stubbornness. Her paws immediately knead into your shirt, claws catching slightly as she readjusts.
“Aw,” you breathe, heart cracking open without your permission. “Hi.”
She stares up at you like she’s evaluating your worth, you smile at her like you’ve already decided she’s yours.
“What’s up with you, girl?” you ask softly.
He shifts his weight. “Alpine.”
You look up at him, startled. “You named her.”
“She needed one.”
You look back down at the tiny creature in your arms. “Hi, Alpine,” you murmur.
She blinks once, then, slowly, she begins to purr. It’s faint at first. Barely there, then it gets stronger like a tiny engine vibrating against your chest.
Bucky goes very still at the sound.
“She didn’t do that before,” he says quietly. You grin up at him like you’ve just accomplished something monumental.
“She likes me.”
“She tolerates you.”
“She loves me.”
“She met you ten seconds ago.”
“And yet.” You carry Alpine to the couch carefully, lowering yourself into the cushions you once assembled under his supervision. She curls into your lap like she’s been rehearsing it.
Bucky stands there, watching the two of you.
You glance up. “You know she’s our baby now, right?”
His eyes widen slightly. “She is not—”
“She absolutely is.”
He opens his mouth to argue but closes it. Looks at Alpine, then at you.
“You know… we’re not—”
“I know,” you interrupt gently, softer now. “I’m just kidding.”
But the word ours lingers in the air, and neither of you correct it again.
Adjusting to Alpine afterwards is surprisingly easy, adjusting to each other has been… gradual, natural almost.
Like you’ve both been circling the same warmth and finally allowed yourselves to step fully into it. He comes over without being asked now. Sometimes you’ll hear the lock turn and his boots cross your floor before you even realize you were waiting for him. He leaves things behind, a spare toothbrush, a flannel slung over the back of your couch. Tools tucked under your sink “just in case.”
You make space for them without comment. Alpine claims him in her own way, she sits on his chest when he lies back on the couch, she bats at his metal fingers like they’re an interactive toy, she once knocked over his glass of water and then stared at him like it was a moral lesson.
“You spoil her,” he says one evening as you crouch in front of a pet store aisle, comparing two different brands of kitten food like you’re reviewing fine wine.
“She deserves it.”
He cocks a brow. “She tried to fight a pigeon on the fire escape.”
“She was defending her territory.”
“She weighs less than the pigeon.”
“She has spirit.”
He shakes his head, but he carries the heavier bag without being asked, and back at home, he assembles a cat tree without looking at the instructions. You sit cross-legged on the floor narrating Alpine’s inner thoughts in a dramatic voice.
“‘Yes, father, construct my tower. Higher. Higher.’”
“She doesn’t talk like that.” He murumurs from under a fuzzy hammock.
“How do you know?”
“Because she’s judging you right now.”
You glance at the cat. Alpine blinks slowly before turning her head back to seemingly watch Bucky.
“She agrees with me.” You state with a firm nod of your head.
He almost smiles, you see it, you always see it. Something in your chest heats up at seeing it and you reach for your camera without thinking, lifting the lens to watch him through it.
Click. He looks up at the sound.
“You take too many pictures.”
You hum behind the camera. “I’m documenting history.”
“I’m building a cat tree.”
“Exactly.”
He rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t tell you to stop.
Later, when Alpine finally climbs to the top perch and perches there like she owns the skyline, you end up sitting on the couch shoulder to shoulder. Your thigh pressed lightly against his, his arm stretched along the back of the couch. Fingers just barely brushing your shoulder, close enough that you feel the heat of him.
“She’s so tiny,” you murmur.
He huffs something close to a laugh. "She’s vicious.”
“She’s fragile.”
“She scratched a grown man.”
“Both can be true at once.” You tease through a smile.
You glance at him sideways, expecting an eye roll but when you look he’s not looking at the cat. He’s looking at you. You don’t talk about what you are, you don’t need to. Everything important has gone unspoken, he kisses you gently when he arrives. Soft and brief, like checking in. You kiss him back when he leaves, lingering just a second longer each time. It was a silent adjustment to each other’s rhythms. He knows your coffee order without asking, you know when he’s had a bad day by the way he sets his boots down. He reaches for your hand in crowded subway cars now without hesitation, you lean into him when the train lurches.
You’ve started claiming things as yours together without meaning to. Your park bench, your bodega, your stupid inside jokes about screaming radiators.
And now, your cat.
One night, you wake to find Alpine curled between you in bed. Bucky’s arm is draped over your waist, his metal fingers resting warm and steady against your hip and you lie there for a moment, watching the soft rise and fall of his chest.
The way Alpine’s tiny body vibrates faintly with sleep. You realize something quietly, you don’t feel like you’re building alone anymore, you feel… accompanied.
Chosen.
Alpine stretches, paws kneading into your collarbone before she headbutts your chin lightly and you laugh softly.
Bucky stirs.
“What’s she doing,” he mutters sleep-rough.
“Claiming me.”
He settles back into the bed. “Hm. She’s territorial.”
“She gets it from you.”
He cracks one eye open to look at you.
“I’m not territorial.”
“You absolutely are.”
He studies you for a second, then leans forward just enough to press a soft kiss to your temple. “I just know what’s mine,” he says quietly.
Your breath catches for half a second and he closes his eyes again like he didn’t just say something that makes your chest feel too small. Alpine purrs louder between you, small and fierce. And somehow, without either of you planning it—the three of you fit.
Photography has always been your passion in life. Capturing the essence of moments in stilled frames. It started small. Borrowed cameras and phone pictures, sunlight through your bedroom window catching dust in the air like suspended stars. You liked that a photo could hold something still, proof that a moment existed exactly the way you felt it.
When life felt loud or overwhelming, framing the world through a lens made it manageable. Cropped. Intentional. Yours.
New York amplified your love for photography because it gave you an endless supply of almost-moments. A man laughing too hard on a street corner. A woman adjusting her heels before stepping into a cab. Sunlight ricocheting off glass buildings and landing like a spotlight on someone who doesn’t know they’re glowing.
You don’t mean to start photographing him like this.
At first it’s practical. Professional, detached even is what you tell yourself.
The lighting in your apartment is good in the afternoons—warm and honeyed, slanting through the tall Brooklyn windows and catching on dust motes and soft edges. You tell yourself you’re just practicing. Documenting domesticity. Capturing the way ordinary life looks when it’s honest.
It just so happens that Bucky is in the frame more often than not.
He doesn’t notice at first. He’s kneeling in front of your kitchen cabinet, sleeves shoved up, hair falling into his eyes while he tightens the hinge that’s been sagging for weeks. You’re perched at the table with your camera resting against your palm, chin tucked into your shoulder as you watch him through the lens.
Click.
He doesn’t look up.
The metal of his left hand gleams faintly where the sunlight touches it, silver softened into something almost warm. His right hand steadies the cabinet door, careful and patient like he’s working with something delicate.
Like he always does here.
You lower the camera just long enough to watch him without the barrier.
There’s something about him in your space—large and solid and quiet—that doesn’t feel invasive anymore. It feels like furniture. Like foundation. Like he’s always supposed to have been kneeling on your kitchen tile, muttering under his breath about cheap screws.
“Stop glaring at it,” you tease. “It can sense fear.”
He snorts softly. “I’m not glaring.”
“You absolutely are.”
Click.
He glances up this time, catching you mid-shot. His eyes narrow a fraction. “You takin’ pictures of me again?”
“Maybe.”
“Why.”
You shrug like it’s obvious. “I'm documenting history.”
“I’m fixin’ a cabinet.”
“Exactly.”
He shakes his head, but there’s no real protest in it. Just that quiet tolerance he reserves for you — like you’re allowed to get away with things no one else is. You don’t tell him that you like the way his brow furrows when he concentrates. Or the way his mouth presses into a thoughtful line. Or the way he looks softer in your apartment than he does anywhere else.
You photograph him crouched beside Alpine’s food bowl next.
She’s watching him like he’s personally offended her by refreshing her water five minutes too late. Her tail flicks with dramatic irritation while he adjusts the dish on the mat you bought with tiny embroidered fish.
“She’s judging you,” you narrate from behind the camera.
“She always judges me.”
“She knows you’re weak.” You taunt after a shutter adjustment.
“I am not weak.”
“You gave her salmon last night because she blinked at you.”
He doesn’t answer that.
Click.
The photo captures something you didn’t expect, the curve of his metal fingers hovering carefully near her small body. Not touching, just close, being protective without claiming control. Alpine is still small. Still a little too thin around the ribs. You both pretend you don’t remember how she looked the day he showed up with her tucked against his chest, fur clumped and eyes wary.
Now she sits like a queen surveying her kingdom—your apartment, his boots by the door, the couch that used to be yours and now belongs equally to both of them. She swats at his hand when he finally scratches under her chin.
He grins, small and fleeting, you miss it because you’re adjusting the focus.
The subway platform becomes another favorite location.
You catch him staring down the tunnel, coat collar turned up against the wind, hair tugged back by the rush of oncoming trains. The fluorescent lights overhead are harsh, but something about the movement, the waiting, feels cinematic.
He stands slightly in front of you when the platform gets crowded, not enough to make a statement, just enough that his shoulder brushes yours.
You lift the camera.
Click.
He looks over. “Gonna charge me royalties at some point?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. When the train roars in he places his hand at your lower back as you step inside, it’s a small thing, it always is with him. Small touches. Gentle brushes. The kind that don’t demand attention but linger anyway and you start to recognize the way your body anticipates them, the way your breath steadies when he’s close.
The park bench photo is the one that changes everything.
You’re sitting beside him, knees almost touching, Alpine safe at home because she’s not allowed outside no matter how loudly she protests. It’s early evening, the golden hour slipping toward dusk, the air smells like leaves and city exhaust and distant food carts.
He’s not paying attention to you, he’s watching a kid across the path attempt to throw a tennis ball for a dog that refuses to cooperate and his expression softens without him realizing it.
The sunlight catches in his lashes. You lift the camera instinctively.
Click.
He turns toward you at the sound and for half a second—he almost smiles. Not brazen or wide, not open-mouthed with teethflashing. But something real, something gentle and unguarded. You freeze and lower the camera slowly.
“I didn’t know you could do that,” you murmur.
“Do what.”
“That.”
He frowns faintly.
Your eyes find his, wide and soft all at once. “Look like that.”
“Like what?”
You hesitate. Safe, you think, but you don’t say it. He rolls his eyes like you’re being dramatic, you play it off with a small breath but when you check the photo your chest tightens. It’s there. The almost-smile. The warmth in his eyes. The absence of the weight he usually carries like armor. You save it immediately.
It becomes your favorite.
Your boss calls you into her office the next day as she flips through the prints slowly, brows lifting higher with each image. There's no denying the growing intimacy of the photos, not in the vuglar or exposing sense, but in the way of his heart began to glow in the lens.
“Who is he to you?”
You swallow, pulse thrumming at your wrists and below your ear, flushing like she had asked if you two were to be wed. “I answered his flyer.”
The words feel bigger now than they did months ago. That stupid piece of paper taped crookedly to a lampost with a scribbled NEED HELP? in bleeding ink. To think you almost walked past it, you almost didn’t take a paper.
Your boss smiles faintly.
“You’re lucky,” she says and you feel it reside itself deep inside you and you think about that all the way home.
Lucky.
You think about that word the whole way home.
You let yourself into the apartment quietly. He’s on the floor with Alpine sprawled on her back, paws in the air while he rubs her stomach in slow, careful circles.
You lean against the doorway. “Hey.”
He looks up immediately. His face shifts when he sees you, subtle but unmistakable. Shoulders easing back, the corners of his mouth softening upwards.
“Hey.”
You don’t move for a second, just stand there and watch him, watch the man you almost didn’t meet.
“I was thinking about something,” you say softly.
“Yeah?”
“I’m really glad I saw your flyer.”
The words hang there between you two, simple and honest, yet carrying a weight you hadn't expected to hit so hard.
He stills and Alpine chirps in protest at the loss of movement. He clears his throat.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You step closer. “I almost didn’t call. Put it in my purse and left it there.”
His jaw tightens faintly. “I almost didn’t put it up.”
“What?” You blink.
He shrugs, looking back down at Alpine like she’s suddenly fascinating. “Figured nobody’d answer.”
“Why?”
He doesn’t respond right away. You kneel across from him, mirroring his position and Alpine rolls toward you greedily, like the traitor that she is.
“Buck.”
He exhales slowly.
“Didn’t think anyone would want to take a chance.” On me, he doesn’t say but you hear it anyway.
Your chest aches.
“I’m glad I did,” you whisper.
His eyes lift to yours and something raw flickers there, quick and then it's gone.
“Me too,” he says quietly.
The room feels smaller suddenly, closer, the air heavier. Alpine headbutts your hand impatiently, demanding attention. You both laugh at the same time and the tension dissolves into something softer. But it doesn’t disappear entirely, it settles between you like something warm and real.
You keep photographing him, but now it feels different, it's not just observation anymore, not just study. sdwfeIt feels like preservation, like proof. Of the way he leaves his boots neatly by the door because you once mentioned tripping over them.
Of the way he started buying your favorite cereal without asking, of the way he checks the locks twice before bed, of the way he presses a gentle kiss to your temple when he passes behind you in the kitchen.
Nothing intense, nothing overwhelming. Just soft and intentional. You catch your reflection in one of the subway windows one evening with your shoulder tucked under his arm while the train sways. You look… settled. Happy. It makes you think about the flyer again. The crooked tape, the quiet hope behind it. You think about the man kneeling on your kitchen floor. On your living room rug. On a park bench in golden light.
You think about the almost-smile, and you realize something slow and steady has taken root inside you.
It isn’t just attraction anymore. It isn’t just comfort. It’s the knowledge that if you hadn’t looked up that day, if you hadn’t paused on your stoop and seen that lampost, your life would be missing something fundamental.
You press your face briefly into his shoulder on the train, it makes him tilts his head toward you instinctively.
“What's wrong,” he murmurs.
“Nothing.”
You don’t tell him you feel something more than lucky, you don’t tell him that sometimes you look at him and think: I chose right, you don’t tell him that your favorite photo isn’t the almost-smile. It’s the one where he’s not looking at the camera at all, he’s looking at you. Like he’s quietly grateful you took a chance on him, and maybe, just maybe he’s a little lucky too.
It slips into something quieter one night.
You’re at the counter again, but this time there’s flour everywhere—your hands, the surface, a faint dusting across your shirt where you tried (and failed) to brush it off.
“I said I could just go buy something,” he mutters, watching you wrestle with dough like it personally offended you.
“And I said no,” you shoot back, not looking up. “People make this all the time.”
“Yeah. People who know how.”
You narrow your eyes at the dough. “It’s about the principle.”
“It’s about you losing a fight to bread.”
“I’m not losing—”
You look up just as he steps closer. His hand lifts, slow and deliberate, and for a second you think he’s going to reach for the bowl, or the counter, or anything but you.
Instead, his thumb brushes across your cheek, light and careful as he wipes away a streak of flour you didn’t know was there.
Everything in you stills and warmth prickles all across your skin. The room doesn’t go quiet, you can still hear the faint hum of the fridge, the city outside your window, Alpine batting something off a shelf in the other room but it feels like it does.
You don’t move and neither does he. His hand lingers for half a second too long, thumb hovering like he forgot what he was doing midway through it. Your breath catches, shallow and uneven in a way that feels louder than it should be as your heartbeat does strange, unfamiliar things.
“You had—” he starts, voice lower now, rougher. “Flour.”
“Yeah,” you barely manage, your mind floating somewhere far from here.
His hand drops eventually, but the space between you doesn’t widen again.
He starts staying over more after that. Not "officially". Not in a way either of you acknowledge out lou, it just happens. At first, it’s practical.
It’s late, the trains are slow and Alpine is already asleep curled into his side like she made the decision for him.
So he stays. He takes the couch the first few times, or at least, that’s what he tells you. You believe him until one night you wake up thirsty, the apartment dim and quiet, the soft blue wash of streetlight bleeding in through the windows.
You shuffle toward the kitchen, half-asleep, rubbing at your eyes and then you stop.
He’s not on the couch. For a second, your stomach dips, sharp and immediate but then you see him. On the floor. Blanket barely tucked under him, one arm thrown over his eyes like he fell asleep mid-thought. Alpine is curled against his side, a small, white comma against the dark of his shirt.
Your chest tightens.
“Buck,” you murmur softly.
He doesn’t stir and you hesitate.
You could wake him and tell him to take the bed, tell him the couch is fine, that the floor is ridiculous, that he doesn’t have to—but you don’t. Instead, you step closer, then closer. And before you can overthink it, before you can stop yourself you lower down beside him.
The floor is cool beneath you, grounding in a way that makes your breath even out. You don’t touch him at first, you just lie there close enough to feel the heat of him. Close enough that Alpine shifts slightly, resettling between you like she approves of the arrangement.
It feels strangely natural, like you’ve done this before, like you were always going to. He stirs after a minute, brow furrowing slightly before his arm drops from his eyes. His gaze finds you in the low light, still hazy with sleep.
“…You okay?” he asks, voice rough.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Couldn’t sleep.”
A pause.
Then, softer—“Floor’s more comfortable than it looks.”
You huff quietly. “I can tell.”
Somewhere between one breath and the next, the distance between you disappears. It’s not intentional, not really. You just shift slightly, then he does too. And then his arm is around you, your head is tucked against his shoulder. Alpine is wedged between your ribs like a tiny, purring anchor. You fit together so easily it almost startles you, but neither of you pulls away.
By morning, you’re tangled.
Not in a way that feels messy or complicated. In a way that feels right. Your leg hooked over his, his hand resting warm and steady at your waist, Alpine sprawled across both of you like she owns the entire situation.
You wake up first and for a second, you just lie there taking in the quiet and the warmth. The way his grip tightens slightly, even in sleep, like something in him registers your presence and refuses to let go.
He stirs a few minutes later, breath shifting, eyes blinking open slowly and for a second, he looks disoriented. Then he looks at you and something in his expression softens immediately.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
“Hey.”
Neither of you moves, neither of you rushes to untangle the way you probably should. His thumb traces a small, absentminded line against your side, like he’s checking that you’re still there.
You are.
You both are.
And neither of you calls it anything, but neither of you pretends it’s nothing, either.
You don’t notice it at first.
That’s the part that sticks with you later throughtout the whole day—the way it happens without announcement, without anything sharp enough to pull you out of your own head.
You’re tired.
Not just end-of-the-day tired, but the kind that settles behind your eyes and stays there, heavy and burning. You’ve been staring at a screen for hours, adjusting exposure, chasing light that already happened, trying to make moments feel the way they did when you first captured them.
It blurs after a while. Faces. Colors. Time. The subway hums beneath you, a low, steady rhythm that you usually find comforting.
You’re thinking about a photo when it happens. Not even a good one—just a small detail you want to fix tomorrow, the way the light caught on the edge of a frame, how you might crop it tighter when the train slows, stops and the doors open.
You don’t move.
And then they close again.
It’s only when the station sign slips past the window, unfamiliar, wrong, that something in your chest stutters and your stomach drops as you realized you missed your stop .
“…Great,” you mutter under your breath.
Too late.
The train lurches forward again.
The next stop feels longer than it should, everything does when you’re suddenly aware of it. The way your foot taps against the floor. The flicker of the overhead lights. The low murmur of strangers who don’t know you just made a mistake.
You step off quickly when the doors open again, pulse just a little too fast. The platform is quieter here, too different. You don’t like it.
The announcement crackles overhead, distorted and distant.
“—maintenance delays—next train—extended—”
You close your eyes briefly because, of course. It's late when you check the time, later than you meant to stay out. Later than you usually feel comfortable being anywhere unfamiliar. You could wait for the next train to turn around. You should wait. But the platform feels wrong in a way you can’t quite explain, too open, too empty, like something that’s supposed to be full of noise has been hollowed out.
So you decide to walk to the next station, it’s not far, you tell yourself that like it makes the decision better.
You know the moment it shifts when you step out into the might air. It’s not something you see but something you feel. The street is quieter than Brooklyn. The buildings taller, the gaps between people wider. The kind of quiet that doesn’t feel peaceful but absent. Streetlights flicker overhead, one buzzing faintly before stabilizing and your footsteps sound louder than they should. You tuck your hands into your jacket pockets, shoulders drawing in slightly without meaning to.
And then there's that feeling again. The one that crawls up the back of your neck before your brain catches up.
You glance up and see there’s a group of men down the block. They notice you immediately. You see it happen in an instant the shift in posture, the subtle way their attention locks in. Alone and disoriented.
Your chest tightens as you look away quickly, adjusting your path just enough to seem casual.
Keep walking.
Don’t react. Don't—
They start moving, not obviously, just enough to match your pace. The air feels colder suddenly, like something’s been pulled out of it. Your breathing changes before you can stop it, shorter, sharper. You turn a corner and try to stay calm. You don’t look back right away because you don’t want to confirm it, but you know. You hear it, the sootsteps are still there, still echoing behind you. Your fingers shake as you pull your phone out of your pocket.
There’s no debate, no hesitation as you hit his name.
He answers on the first ring.
“What broke?”
Any other time it would make you laugh.
Your throat tightens and you barely get the word out. “Buck.”
It comes out thinner than you want it to, and there’s a brief pause. But everything about him changes on the other end of the line—you can hear it, feel it, the way his breathing shifts, the way his voice drops into something sharper. Focused.
“Where are you.”
You try to explain. Street names you barely registered, landmarks you didn’t think to remember. It comes out in fragments, rushed and uneven, your words tripping over each other.
“I—I missed my stop and I got off and I’m walking and there’s—”
“I got you,” he cuts in, calm and steady.
“Stay on the phone.”
Your grip tightens around it. “Okay.”
“Keep walking. Don’t stop.”
Your heart is pounding too loud now, drowning out everything else. Behind you, one of them calls out something. You don’t process the words, you don’t respond you just keep walking.
Your breathing stutters.
“Buck—”
“I’m here,” he says immediately. “You’re good. Just keep going.”
Your vision feels too narrow, like everything outside of the path in front of you has been blurred out. You turn another corner and they follow, closer now. Your chest feels tight, like you can’t pull in a full breath. And then headlights, bright and fast flash in front of you as a truck pulls up hard along the curb beside you, tires crunching against the edge of the street.
You flinch at the sound as the driver’s door opens. And he’s there. Bucky steps out like he’s stepping into something controlled and not the eratic chaos you feel in your ribcage. He's calm and measued, something almost cold in his eyes.
The shift is immediate. He doesn’t yell at the group of men, doesn’t posture, he doesn’t say a word. He just moves, placing himself between you and them like it’s instinct, like it’s the only position that makes sense. The streetlight catches on his left arm, metal glinting sharp and unmistakable and the men stop. There’s a beat of calculation, and then they back off. Muttering something under their breath, turning away like the decision was easy, like you weren’t worth it.
You don’t process it, not yet, all you know is that he’s here. You move before you think, closing the distance, your hands grabbing onto him like you need proof he’s solid and real, not something your brain made up out of fear.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice lower now, closer to the one you know. “I got you.”
You nod against him, even though he can’t see it properly, your grip tightening for half a second longer than necessary. He doesn't miss a beat, he just guides you toward the truck, one hand steady at your back.
The drive is quiet.
You sit in the passenger seat, hands still curled slightly like they forgot how to relax. Your heart hasn’t fully slowed down yet and you’re aware of everything. The hum of the engine, the rhythm of the tires against the road, the way his hands grip the wheel.
Too tight, the knuckles of his right hand pale under the dim lighting. He doesn’t look at you at first, his focus is locked forward, expression carved into something hard and controlled.
You’ve seen that look before.
Just not like this, not because of you, not because of something that almost happened. Your throat feels tight again, but for a different reason now.
“I’m okay,” you say quietly.
He doesn’t respond right away as the truck turns down your street.
Finally, his grip shifts slightly on the wheel, like he’s forcing it to loosen.
“I know,” he says.
But his voice is still tight, still holding something back. You glance at him, really look this time. And you realize he’s not just angry, he’s shaken. Not with fear in the way you are, but something sharper, something that looks a lot like the realization that he almost wasn’t there in time.
He doesn’t say anything else when he parks, he just kills the engine and gets out, rounding the front of the truck before you’ve fully gathered yourself. He walks beside you to the door, close enough that your shoulders almost brush.
He unlocks it before you can reach for your keys, like it’s instinct now, like it’s always been his job.
Inside, the apartment wraps around you both with familiar walls, soft lamplight, and the faint sound of Alpine shifting somewhere deeper in the space.
For a second, neither of you moves.
The door clicks shut behind you, and the quiet that follows is heavier than anything outside. You turn toward him and he’s already looking at you. There’s something in his expression you don’t see often, something unguarded, pulled tight with restraint.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, voice tight and focused.
You shake your head. “No, I—”
His hands are already there, gentle but firm, checking your arms, your shoulders, your face like he needs proof. Like he won’t believe it until he confirms it himself.
“Anywhere?” he presses, quieter now.
“No,” you say softly. “I’m okay.”
He stills just for a second as your words take a moment to settle somewhere deeper than they should have to. And then something in him gives. His hands slide up, framing your face, and before you can process the shift he pulls you into him.
The kiss isn’t careful.
It isn’t the soft, checking-in kind he’s given you before. It isn’t brief or hesitant or something that leaves room for doubt.
It’s desperate.
Like something almost slipped through his fingers, like he’s grounding himself in the fact that you’re here. That you’re real, that you’re okay. Your fingers clutch at his shirt without thinking, holding on just as tightly, just as instinctively as you melt into the kiss.
“You scared me,” he breathes against your mouth.
The words are rough, honest in a way that cracks something open in your chest.
“I know,” you whisper back.
“I can’t—” He stops, swallowing hard, his forehead pressing briefly to yours before he finds your eyes again. “I can’t lose you.”
Your breath stutters.
There’s no distance left between you now. No space to pretend this is anything less than what it is.
His voice drops, quieter but steadier.
“Be mine.”
The words land heavier than anything else tonight.
“For real,” he adds, like he needs you to understand. “No unspokeness. No almost.”
You blink, heart racing for an entirely different reason now, something softer threading through the remnants of fear.
“I am,” you say.
There’s no hesitation in it.
“I've always been yours, Buck.”
His grip tightens slightly, like he needs to hold onto that.
“Forever,” he insists, softer now but no less certain. “Let me take you home. Every time. Let me hold you on every train. Let me put up every shelf. Let me—”
He doesn’t finish, you kiss him again. This time slower, still deep and certain, but steadier, like something inside you both is finally settling into place.
“I’ll keep you safe,” he murmurs against your lips. “I’ll choose you. Every day.”
Your answer comes easily.
“Yes.”
He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for longer than just tonight.
His hands shift, gentler now at your waist, but no less sure of where they belong. You tug him closer without thinking, closing whatever space might still exist between you and something shifts. The heat from your bodies no longer stays under the skin, it moves and blooms into a fiery heat somewhere deep inside you. Inside you both.
The mismatching calloused and metal pads of his fingers trace down to the dip of your waist and the swell of your hips, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He kisses you again but this time his lips follow his downward trajectory, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down the column of your throat. Each one lingers, deliberate, until your skin blooms pink beneath his mouth.
"You're so beautiful," he breathes, the words warm against your collarbone. His teeth graze the spot just above your pulse, gentle and testing before he sucks softly, drawing a quiet gasp from you.
You arch into him, fingers threading through his hair, holding him close. "Bucky—"
"Tell me," he murmurs, lifting his head just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. "Tell me you're mine."
The words tumble out without hesitation. "Yours. Always yours."
A low sound rumbles in his chest, pleased and possessive. He kisses you again, deep and unhurried, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, claiming rhythm. His hands roam your body, worshiping every inch of the softness of your thighs, the flutter of your ribs beneath his palm, the way your breath hitches when his thumb brushes over your nipple.
You tug at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours. He helps you pull it off, then guides your hands to his chest, letting you explore the hard planes of muscle, the scars, the warmth of him. His breath catches when your fingers skim over a sensitive spot just above his hip.
"Sweetheart," he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. "You're gonna be the death me."
"Not yet." You hum as you kiss him again, pouring everything into it, trust, want, love.
His hands slide down your back, gripping your ass as he lifts you effortlessly, carrying you through the apartment and to the bed. He lays you down like something precious, following you with his body, covering you without crushing you.
His lips find yours once more, soft and insistent as you both shed every last layer between you, before trailing lower—over your breasts, your stomach, lower still. Every touch is deliberate, every kiss a promise.
"Let me take care of you," he whispers against your inner thigh as you nod shakily.
His fingers tremble slightly as they skim your bare skin—so close to where you ache for him, yet hesitating. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the way his breath comes uneven against your skin.
"Buck," you whisper, stroking his hair. "It's okay."
He exhales shakily, pressing his forehead to your hip. "Been a long time," he admits, voice rough. "Don't wanna mess this up."
"You won't." You tilt his chin up, meeting his eyes. "We'll go slow. Together."
A ragged breath escapes him as he nods, lips brushing the sensitive skin of your thigh. His hands grip your hips, steadying himself, before he lowers his mouth to you, tentative at first, then bolder as your soft gasps guide him.
"Christ, baby," he groans against you, fingers digging into your flesh. "So sweet like this."
You arch beneath him, pleasure curling tight in your belly. "Bucky, please—"
His tongue is slow at first, experimental, and almost shy as if he’s relearning the shape of you like this. But the second your hips jerk under his mouth, he groans against you and his confidence soars, gripping your thighs to keep you still. "Easy, princess," he murmurs, lips brushing your clit. "Let me take my time with you."
And god, does he take his time.
His tongue traces slow circles around you, teasing but never giving you exactly what you need until you’re writhing beneath him. "Bucky—" you gasp, fingers knotting in his hair.
"Patience," he rumbles before finally closing his lips over your clit and sucking gently. You cry out, back arching off the bed as pleasure arcs through you like lightning. His fingers join then, one sliding into you with ease, curling just right, the dual sensation has your thighs shaking around his head.
"That’s it," he murmurs against you, adding a second finger as his tongue flicks faster over your clit. "Let me feel it, let me hear you."
You don’t stand a chance. The orgasm crashes over you so hard your vision whites out for a second, his name spilling from your lips in a breathless chant as you grind against his mouth. He doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering from oversensitivity, dragging his tongue through your folds one last time before pressing a kiss to your inner thigh.
When he finally lifts his head, his lips are slick and his eyes are black with hunger. "Fuckin' perfect," he rasps, licking his lips like he can’t get enough of the taste of you.
You tug him into a kiss by the hair, crashing your mouth against his so you can taste yourself on his tongue. He groans into the kiss, hips grinding down against yours where he’s achingly hard.
"Need you inside me," you pant between kisses, rocking against him insistently. "Now."
His breath hitches as he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. "Yeah?" His fingers flex possessively on your hip. "Gonna beg for it?"
"Please," you whimper, dragging his hand between your legs again, showing him exactly how ready you still are for him.
His throat works as he nods, reaching for the condom on the nightstand with unsteady hands. You help him roll it on, stroking his wrist when he fumbles.
"Easy, soldier," you murmur, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.
He chokes out a laugh of half nerves, half affection before settling between your thighs. His cock brushes against you, hot and thick, and he stills, forehead pressed to yours. "God, sweetheart—you—"
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Move with me," you breathe.
He does, slow at first, sinking into you inch by inch as his muscles tremble with restraint. His breath comes in ragged bursts against your neck, lips finding your pulse point again, sucking gently.
"Good?" he rasps.
"So good," you sigh, fingers clutching his back. "More."
He moans, hips rocking against yours in a deep, unhurried rhythm. Every thrust is deliberate, every groan muffled against your skin as he murmurs praises or "perfect," "mine," "angel" between kisses. His hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he loses himself in you, the hesitation melting away with every shared breath.
"Close," he grits out, sweat beading on his brow.
You nod, urging him deeper, nails scraping lightly down his spine. His rhythm stutters, his body tensing as he spills over the edge with a broken moan of your name.
He collapses against you, breath hot on your neck, arms tightening possessively around you as he murmurs something low and soft against your skin.
His cock twitches inside you, still thick and hard despite his release. You shift your hips experimentally, drawing a sharp gasp from him as his fingers dig into your waist. "Still?" you tease, rolling your hips again just to feel him shudder beneath you.
Bucky's metal hand slides up your back, pressing you closer as his hips shift, grinding deeper. "Always for you," he growls, voice rough with need.
You push him by the shoulders until he rolls onto his back as you rise up on your knees, guiding him back inside with a slow, deliberate roll of your hips. His groan is ragged, hands gripping your thighs as you take control, riding him with slow, deep strokes that make his breath hitch. His flesh hand tangles in your hair, pulling you down for a searing kiss as his hips meet yours in perfect rhythm.
Your body trembles as Bucky’s thrusts grow rougher, his cock hitting that deep, perfect spot again and again until your vision blurs. A breathy whimper escapes your lips as your head drops against his shoulder, nails biting into his sweat-slicked skin. His arms lock around you, keeping you pinned against him while his hips snap upward, each movement sending sparks of pleasure racing through you.
"That’s it, sweetheart," he growls, voice rough with need, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Take it—take everything I give you." His fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your face toward his for a sloppy, desperate kiss. "You feel so damn good, like you were made for me."
A moan shudders out of you as he shifts slightly, the new angle rubbing his cock against your walls in a way that makes your thighs shake. You whimper his name, hips grinding down in needy little circles just to feel him twitch inside you. Bucky groans, his metal hand sliding down to grip your ass, forcing you down onto him harder.
"Fuck—you’re gonna ruin me," he snarls, teeth grazing your collarbone as his thrusts turn punishing. His breath is ragged against your skin, his voice dropping into something dark and possessive. "Mine. All fucking mine."
You arch against him, pleasure cresting so sharply it steals your breath. Bucky’s grip on you tightens, his rhythm faltering as his cock pulses deep inside you, filling you with another wave of heat and pleasure as you tremble around him.
He exhales sharply against your neck, his hips still rocking into you in slow, possessive rolls even as his breathing slows. His hands stroke over your skin, gentle but his grip stays firm, like he can't quite bring himself to let go.
The apartment settles around you slowly afterward.
Not silent as it's never truly silent in New York, but softened.
The radiator clicks faintly in the corner. A car horn sounds somewhere far below the window. Alpine hops onto the bed at some point, circles twice near your feet, then decides against staying when Bucky shifts beside you with a sleepy murmur.
Everything feels warm.
Warm in the way your skin still hums from being held so closely, from his hands lingering at your waist like he still can’t quite believe you’re here. The sheets are tangled low around your legs, the air heavy with the lingering heat of summer and each other.
You’re tucked against his chest, cheek resting over the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, his arm is around you. Like even asleep he can’t stop reaching for you.
You think you should feel shy about it all afterward. Different somehow. Instead, you just feel calm, like something that’s been leaning precariously finally settled into place.
Bucky presses a sleepy kiss into your hairline, half-conscious and entirely automatic, and your chest tightens at the tenderness of it.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
You smile against his skin. “Yeah.”
His fingers drag lazily along your spine once before stilling again.
“C’mere,” he mutters, even though you’re already impossibly close. You go anyway.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, you wake slowly, not completely but just enough to feel it first. The absence, his warmth gone from beside you. Your eyes blink open into darkness, disoriented for half a second as your hand drifts across the sheets to feel it empty.
Your stomach tightens immediately.
“Buck?” you mumble, voice rough with sleep.
No answer.
You push yourself upright too quickly, pulse already starting to climb. The apartment is dim, silver-blue moonlight stretching across the floorboards. For one irrational second, panic flashes through you sharp and immediate.
Then, the bathroom door opens. Warm light spills briefly into the room before he steps out, shutting it quietly behind him.
“There you are,” you breathe.
His expression changes the second he sees you sitting up, concern softens immediately into apology.
“Hey,” he says quietly, crossing the room. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
Your shoulders loosen all at once. “I thought—”
You stop yourself.
Thought what?
That he left?
That this disappeared overnight somehow?
The feeling must still show on your face because his own softens further.
“Just cleaned up,” he murmurs.
There’s a washcloth in his hand, steam still faintly curling from it. He sits carefully at the edge of the bed, reaching toward you with a gentleness that makes your throat ache.
“C’mere.”
You let him.
He brushes the warm cloth carefully along your shoulder, your neck, your arms and between your thighs. His hands are soft against your skin, like he’s caring for something precious. You watch him through sleepy eyes, the furrow in his brow, the quiet concentration in the way he holds your wrist gently while cleaning flour-soft traces of the evening from your skin.
“You’re staring again,” he murmurs.
Your lips twitch. “Documenting history.”
A sleepy huff of laughter escapes him.
“There she is.”
The washcloth gets abandoned somewhere on the nightstand eventually because he leans down to kiss you before finishing, slow and lingering and warm enough to make your eyes flutter closed again. When he pulls back he doesn’t go far, his forehead against yours, breath mingling softly in the dark.
“You scared me tonight,” he admits quietly.
The vulnerability in it hurts worse now somehow than it did earlier.
You reach up, fingers brushing along the edge of his jaw. “I’m here.”
“Yeah,” he whispers.
Like he’s still convincing himself.
He climbs back into bed beside you a second later, pulling you into him immediately, no hesitation left in the movement now. Your leg slides between his, his arm wrapping firmly around your waist until you’re tucked against him again exactly where he wants you.
Where you want to be.
You press a kiss beneath his jaw and his hold tightens slightly.
“All mine,” he murmurs sleepily into your hair.
Your heart turns over softly in your chest. You tilt your head up just enough to kiss him once more, slow and fond and certain.
“Yours,” you whisper back.
And this time when sleep finds you again, it finds both of you together.
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you've got a no good boyfreind. lucky bucky's here, to show you what you deserve✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, enemies to lovers, emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, cheating (not by bucky, it's deserved) fluff, big porn level smut (stripping, finger sucking, dirty talk, possessive sex, praise kink, teasing, fingering, light brat taming, softdom!bucky, pussy spanking, dumbification, making out, sensitive reader, manhandling, bucky gets nasty, blowjobs, body worship, oral f!reciving overstimulation, mean!bucky, degradation kink, big dick bucky, creampie, he fucks like a machine), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 8.6k✦
✦Author's Note: request! oh to be yearned after by bucky barnes in a kinda toxic but really hot way✦
“What the fuck is his problem?”
You don’t have to look, to figure out who your boyfriend is talking about. You can feel his glare from across the room, burning over your skin like a brand, making your leg bounce and your fingers pick restlessly at the label on your drink.
Bucky Barnes.
He always stares at you. It doesn’t matter if you’re hanging out at Steve’s place—technically Bucky’s place as well, but you refuse to give him any sort of credit about that—or getting coffee, or at the movies, or here, in another bar on a Friday night, trying to wash the week down with a drink, Bucky stares at you like he’s trying to kill you. It’s the kind of stare you’d find creepy from anyone else. A knit brow and heavy breathing, like just the sight of you makes him want to rip his head off. You glare back when you can, but tonight, you’re determined to ignore it. Ignore him.
Bucky can be as pretty and charming as he wants, he’s not getting a rise out of you. Not one that he can see, at least. When you got to the bar, he drawled your name and teased you about your drink, but you just grabbed your boyfriend’s hand and dragged him across the room without a look over your shoulder.
Maybe one look.
One look that Brock didn’t have to see, because he’s always accusing you and Bucky of having something. You’ve tried to explain to him that whatever something he thinks exists between you and Barnes is just the negative space of pure fucking loathing, but he doesn’t listen. He never listens.
“Barnes wants to fuck you,” he’d muttered last week, after you got home, and you’d rolled your eyes.
“Bucky does not want to fuck me, he can barely stand to be in the same room as me-“
“Because he wants to fuck you,” Brock has snapped. “I don’t want you hanging around him alone.”
You’d scoffed. “That’s- We’re friends-“
“Thought he hated you-“
“He does. But- It’s complicated.”
And it was. Bucky was Steve’s best friend, and Steve was your work husband, and Natasha was your best friend, and Steve’s actual girlfriend, and Bucky’s work wife, and Sam was Bucky’s other best friend and work husband, and your best friend—you’d even lived together, in college, which Brock never seemed to understand the concept of—and Steve’s business partner, which made him your boss, but you Nat’s and Bucky’s boss, and it was a tangled mess of relationships and years of history that became impossible to unweave. You and Bucky were friends because if you weren’t, you were enemies, and that always hurt right under your ribs in a way you never wanted to acknowledge.
Bucky wasn’t a bad guy. He was a stubborn ass sometimes, and he stared a lot, and got kind of judgey about stupid things, but so did you. The first time you met, you’d just stared at each other for—according to Natasha—five straight minutes. Once you’d been at some stupid charity gala, and you’d spent the whole time gossiping in the corner about the old, rich assholes who needed a party to give their endless money to a good cause. You’d thought that you were friends. Really friends. Friends that could’ve been something more, if he’d asked you to be.
But he hadn’t. He never had. And you’d started to butt heads more, and he didn’t ask if you were good like he used to. He avoided you at the stupid parties and didn’t ask your opinion about small things. He didn’t wait for you to go to lunch, or sit with you when you had to stay late, and suddenly the friendship had slipped through your fingers, because it had been so fast you hadn’t been given time to realize you were supposed to hold on.
Some days you wonder what you did, and you want to strangle the answer out of his pretty, thick head. You thought you’d been good. You’d really thought you’d been good, and then he’d just gone and decided that you weren’t. That there was something about you he just couldn’t stand, and you never get to know what it was.
So if he wanted to play the hating game, you’d play it, and you’d win. You ignored him almost every day, only sneering back when you had a comment that you knew would land like a headshot.
“You look comfortable,” he’d muttered last week at Nat’s, and you’d shot him a glare.
Bucky’s mouth had twitched, as you’d just stared at him. He always seemed to enjoy making you want to kill him. You hope he also enjoyed it, when you actually killed him.
“No boyfriend tonight, huh?” He’d smirked, and you swallowed on your venom. “What, he off fucking strippers again?”
Your lip had curled. You’d just kept glaring, and Bucky had laughed.
“Don’t give me that look, doll. It’s not your fault you can’t keep him satisfied-“
“I keep him satisfied,” you’d snapped, your patience finally fraying.
And Bucky had given you a strange, tired look. It was sharp around the edges, but dull everywhere else. Almost cold. Almost exhausted.
“I bet you do,” he’d muttered, and you’d snapped.
“At least I have someone to satisfy, Barnes,” you’d hissed. “No one can even put up with you for a one night stand.”
Bucky had flinched, and the knot in your gut had been immediate. You told yourself you liked the second his armor shattered slightly. You liked the win. You told yourself over and over, that it was fine, because he struck first.
But your body hadn’t learned the lesson. And it felt wrong to be in your skin, whenever Bucky made that broken, vulnerable face. Like he’d almost forgotten how cruel you could be. Like he’d cared at all, that you’d struck back.
He didn’t. You reminded yourself that he didn’t. It was complicated, because it needed to be, for the sake of explaining to Brock. But to you, it was really, painfully simple.
You’d been in a small, blooming love with Bucky. He’d recoiled and poured hatred on you like pesticide, and your loved had curled and shriveled, but never fully died. You think there might be something wrong with you, that you can harbor feelings for a man who brings you nothing but storms. You gave up on trying to understand it a long time ago. Maybe, one day, you’ll tell your therapist. You’re really hoping the love just dies first. It’s humiliating enough to feel it, let alone say it aloud.
Brock demanded he come with you tonight. To keep an eye on Barnes. You didn’t fight him, because fights with Brock aren’t something you win. He was a relationship you started before Bucky, that had been on and off and on and off for years. In the sacred months where Bucky had liked you, Brock had been off on some work trip in Germany. He’d gotten back right when Bucky had decided to hate you, and you’d been a raw, vulnerable creature, just crawling on the beach for a new shell to call home. Brock had been there. He’d been a tight fight, and the love you’d felt for him had soured from the joy of Bucky, but you’d just needed something. And Brock had been asking you to be exclusive for years. So you’d finally just… given in.
It’s not a dream relationship. Sometimes you worry you’re going to marry him and have his babies, and he’d make such ugly babies. You don’t want them. You don’t really see another way.
You wouldn’t mind having Bucky’s babies. That’s not a very productive thought to have.
“He always stare this much?” Brock asks, and you shrug.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“Yeah?” Brock snaps. “Or maybe. Can’t be both, sweetheart.”
“Yeah and maybe,” you mutter. “I don’t know.”
“Either he stares or he doesn’t-“
“He stares, I just don’t know what’s this much-“
“Then you should start paying fucking attention.”
You sigh, and give Brock a tight smile. His lip curls, and his eyes narrow, and you fight the urge to flinch away.
Bucky hates you. Your boyfriend doesn’t seem to like you all that much either. He won’t let Nat sit with you, and he certainly won’t let Sam sit with you, so now you’re just fucking here. At the crowded bar, all but alone, even with half a dozen worried or hateful eyes on you. You only give yourself eyes for your drink.
At least you have your drink.
You’re smiling. Laughing. Lighting up the whole bar from your little corner, and Bucky’s stuck over here in the dark.
He wants to drink until he can’t anything but your face and a whole blur of colors, but he got stuck being one of the drivers. He wants to go over and sock your stupid boyfriend in the face, but that would lead to a bigger conversation he knows you don’t want to have. This is a grave he dug for himself, but it didn’t even work right. He was supposed to bury himself alive and forget about you, high above him, brighter than the sun and prettier than the sky.
Instead he’s just lying in the dirt, six feet down, only able to watch you orbit around him like an angel. It’s hell. It’s torture. It’s exactly what he fucking deserves.
“You’re sulking again,” Steve says casually, and Bucky grunts.
“So?”
“It’s bringing everyone down, Buck-“
“They’re fine.”
Steve sighs. He does that a lot, when it comes to you and Bucky. He sighed when Bucky told him that he’d fallen in love with you. He sighed when Bucky decided you deserved better and started to push you away. He sighed when Bucky would lock himself on the fire escape for hours after parties, smoking and staring out at the city skyline until the wind was threatening to bite his skin off, and he had to be dragged inside.
Bucky knows Steve thinks he’s an idiot. Hell, most days Bucky thinks he’s an idiot. There isn’t a moment that passes where he doesn’t want to go back and suck up the fear, take the gamble, and just tell you he’d fallen for you. Hard enough to break the sound barrier, hard enough to snap him in half before he even hit the bottom, hard enough that he was never going to be able to climb his way back up. But he’s a veteran with a missing arm and a pile of baggage he can’t even shoulder some days. You’d looked at him like he was something good. You’d looked at him like you thought it could’ve been easy, to fall right back.
And Bucky couldn’t have that.
The only thing worse than never having you would’ve been having you, and breaking you. Letting you down. Letting you love him, then letting you realize how wrong you were, to bother to try. So he’d pushed you away.
Steve said that didn’t give him the right to sulk about it all the time. Steve was probably right, but Bucky sulked anyway. It was all he had, now.
That, and hating your stupid fucking boyfriend.
Brock. Dumb name. Sounded like rock. Bucky had a better name. He’d even let you call him James, like you used to. You’re the only person that ever made Bucky sound like an insult instead of a marker of affection. He wants to go back to being James, just for you. But he can’t. Because of Brock.
“What does she even see in him,” he mutters, and Steve sighs. Again.
“I don’t know, but-“
“He’s not that good looking,” Bucky narrows his eyes at Brock. Leaning over the table. Grabbing your arm. Bucky should be the one touching you. “His dick is probably small.”
“I- Uh- Yeah, sure-“
“She deserves better-“
“Better like you?”
That makes Bucky’s head snap to the side. Steve doesn’t even blink, his brows raised in almost mocking gentleness. It pisses Bucky off sometimes, how he’s not allowed to be pissed at Steve.
“You know she’s with him because he asked her, right?” Steve says, and Bucky scowls.
“That’s not- I- He doesn’t treat her right-“
“And you do?”
Bucky tastes bile. Steve still doesn’t back down, just giving Bucky that sympathetic puppy look, and Bucky wonders if he digs himself another foot down, Steve will do him a favor and bury him alive.
“You could just- Talk to her,” Steve murmurs, and Bucky snorts.
“She doesn’t care what I gotta say, Stevie-“
“Because you made her think you don’t care at all.”
“I don’t care,” Bucky snaps, louder than he means to, and Steve gives him an unimpressed look. Bucky scowls and turns back to his drink. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t say a thing-“
“You’re thinkin’. I can hear it.”
Steve sighs. Bucky’s going to shove a fist into his mouth, to get him to stop. “I’m just saying, Buck,” Steve murmurs. “Nat thought she was finally going to get over Brock. Before you decided to be an ass to her all the time.”
Bucky scoffs, then pauses. He didn’t actually understand what that meant. It sounded like it meant something important, something he was really supposed to understand, but for the life of him, he can’t work out why. He turns back to Steve with a frown, ready to ask what the hell that meant, but the words are drowned in aloud smash from across the bar.
Bucky’s attention snaps to the side in a second, his body realizing what’s happening before his brain. He’s on his feet when Brock shouts at you, and walking when you shove Brock. He almost breaks into a sprint, when he sees Brock’s hand curl into a fist. It only gets slammed on the table, but Bucky’s heart still threatens to burst through his throat. The bar is crowded. Too crowded. It’s taking him too long to get to you, and Brock shouts something, and you scream something back, and some lady tries to grab Bucky to flirt, but he shoulders her off.
He almost loses you in the chaos. A door slams, and he’s not sure if it’s you or Brock. He looks around for Nat—wherever you went, she’ll be there too—but can’t find her. He stumbles to the table, and his mouth goes dry.
You’re not hurt, but you’re crying. You’re crouching against the wall, Nat petting your head and trying to calm you down. Brock is nowhere to be found. Smart move, Bucky thinks. He was seconds from getting his face knocked in.
“What the hell happened?” He grunts to Nat, kneeling in front of you.
She shakes her head, lips in a thin line. “I’m not sure. They started fighting, Brock smashed a glass, then just- Fucked off, I guess.”
“What’d they fight about-“
“She won’t tell me,” Nat sighs, and you glare at her under gorgeous, wet lashes.
“I’m right here,” you snap, and Nat gives you an apologetic smile.
“I know, but- You won’t tell me.”
You sniff, glancing over to Bucky, then down to the floor. “I don’t want to talk about it,” you mutter, and Nat murmurs your name.
“Was it-“
“Yeah.”
Nat scowls, and Bucky feels like he’s being left out of something.
“Nat, I-“ You grab her wrist, voice small and pleading. “I just want to go home.”
Natasha’s throat bobs, but she nods. Bucky frowns. Nat’s been drinking. Everyone’s been drinking except you and him, and he doesn’t think you should be driving when you can’t even get off the floor.
“I’ll take her,” he mutters, and you shoot him a poisoned glare.
“No.”
“Listen, kid, I’m offering to help-“
“I don’t want your help,” you sneer, and Bucky sighs. He deserves that. He knows he does. Doesn’t make it any easier or sweeter to swallow.
Natasha mutters your name, watching Bucky from the corner of her eye. “It’s either him, or an uber-“
“Uber,” you say immediately, and Nat gives you a flat look.
“That wasn’t a real option. You’re going with Bucky.”
You pout, inching away from him, and Bucky’s face burns. He stares at his hands, trying to pretend he can’t hear your whispers. Trying to pretend they don’t cut into a sensitive, raw, needy part of his heart that no amount of self-inflicted burns has ever been able to steel.
“I don’t want to go with Bucky,” you hiss at Nat, and Nat just shrugs.
“I don’t want you to be alone right now-“
“Then you get in the Uber with me.” Your voice is small. Almost pleading. It breaks Bucky’s heart.
Nat shakes her head, voice gentle, as if you’re a wounded animal. “Bucky will drop you at my place, alright? I just have to take care of something first.”
Your nose wrinkles, but you agree. Bucky doesn’t think you’re happy about it. He can almost feel the disdain emitting from your body like radiation, as Nat helps you to Bucky’s car. He decides not to tell you that Nat’s thing is probably hunting down Brock and killing him. Bucky would join her, if he didn’t have to deal with you. He doesn’t think there’s anything more noble. His worry is devotion. It’s a shame you’re blinder than a real god, to see it.
The drive is dead quiet. Bucky glances at the radio every few minutes, but loses the debate with him over and over to turn it on. He doesn’t want you to hate his taste in music.
You curl up against the window, as far away from him as you can get without jumping onto the freeway. Bucky drums his fingers on the wheel to fill the silence. Your breathing has steadied from short, shallow gasps, but he can still hear you sniffle every few seconds. It makes his vision line with red, and he knows he’s the worst kind of hypocrite, but knowing never helped anyone. He doesn’t understand, how Brock could treat you so horribly. He doesn’t understand how you—beautiful, smart, sweet but unwavering and sharp—could tolerate it.
Bucky parks the car outside of Nat’s. You don’t move, and he wishes he could build the anger to make you. But you smell like vanilla and something summery, and you look like an angel in the streetlights, and all he can feel is bubbling red and green. It spills out of his mouth like vomit, before he can garner the will and kindness to shove it down.
“What do you see in him,” Bucky mutters, and you look over with a frown.
You stare at him. Bucky stares back. He loves it when you do that. It’s a little off-putting, but he thinks he can tell you the truth with his eyes. He’s not sure, though, if you ever see it.
“He’s good to me,” you mutter finally, and Bucky snorts. “He is, don’t- Don’t fucking make that face-“
“I’m not makin’ a face-“
“You are,” you point at him, eyes narrowed, voice cold. “He is good to me, Bucky.”
Bucky raises his brows. It only seems to work you up more.
“Fuck you,” you spit. “Brock loves me, he- He’s- You just don’t see the side of him that I do-“
“I don’t think he’s got enough sides to hide anything, doll,” Bucky drawls, and you scowl.
“You’re just jealous.”
Bucky recoils, fingers tightening on the wheel. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he grunts, and you roll your eyes.
“Fuck off, it’s so obvious-“
Bucky mutters your name in warning, but you just keep going.
“You’re jealous that someone like me could have a partner that loves them, when you’re alone. But guess what, Bucky,” you lean forward, words spitting over Bucky’s slack face. “You’re going to die alone, and I’m not, so fuck you.”
You push the door open, and storm out onto the street. Bucky’s frozen in the drivers seat for a second, a faint ringing in his ears. You’re right. You’re right, and it’s his fault. Not about Brock—that piece of shit isn’t capable of love, even for someone as perfect as you—but- But-
He’s moving before he can think about why. Shoving his way out of the car and shouting your name, chasing you up the sidewalk like a madman. You ignore him. Of course you do. It’s what he’s fucking earned.
“Just- Wait-“ He catches your wrist. You yank it away.
“Leave me alone, Bucky-“
“No, I got somethin’ I wanna say-“
“Well I don’t want to hear it-“
“I know, I know, just-“
“No!” You scream, round on him with a pointed finger, and Bucky feels something split right down his chest at the tears in your eyes. “No, I don’t want to fucking- I- You don’t get to tell me anything about- About anything. This is your fault, your-“
You cut yourself off, and Bucky blinks, leaning back. “My fault?” He laughs in disbelief, when you nod, not meeting his eyes. “How the hell is it my fault?”
You wrap your arms over your stomach, gaze fixed firmly on your shoes. “Brock thinks you want to fuck me,” you mumble, and Bucky’s heart falters in his chest. “That’s what the- The stupid fight way about, alright? And he thinks I shouldn’t be around you anymore, because of it.”
Bucky gapes at you. He’s trying to think of a way to ask that isn’t selfish. He can’t come up with it. “But you’re not going to listen to him, right?”
You shrug. “It’s not like you like being around me,” you mumble, and Bucky’s hands fists.
“That’s not the fuckin’ point, doll-“
“Isn’t it?” You give him a tired look. “Don’t you want me to just- Just go away? Aren’t you fucking happy, that you’re never going to have to deal with me again?”
Bucky’s throat his too tight to speak. This is a walking nightmare, but he can’t seem to wake up. You’re right. This is the part he’s supposed to want, where you bury him and he never has to see you’re beauty and wonder what if. But he’s selfish. He’s too fucking selfish, and he doesn’t want the sun to go away. He can’t lose you. Not like this, not when you seem to have halfway lost yourself.
You give him a prompting glare, tipping up your chin when he’s been silent too long. He swallows. His fingers flex, and he works his jaw until he can speak.
“Don’t,” he rasps, watching you under hooded eyes. “Don’t go away.”
You laugh, but it doesn’t sound read. “Don’t do that, Bucky, don’t act like you care-“
“I do care-“
“No.” You point at him, face tight. “No, you don’t- You don’t-“
Bucky catches your hand, and you immediately go quiet. He takes a small step forward. You don’t take a step back.
“I care,” he croaks, squeezing your hand once. “I care, doll. I- I’ve always cared, I-“
He moves to his knees. You stare down at him, like you’re not sure what you’re supposed to do. Bucky doesn’t need you to do anything. He only prays at the only alter he knows—your feet—that you’ll listen.
“I love you,” he whispers, and your mouth falls open.
“Bucky…”
“I know I’ve been a dick,” he rasps. “I know, and I- I don’t expect you to forgive me, or say anything back. If you wanna slap me, I’ll let you. I’ll let you do anything, doll, just- Please don’t listen to him.” Bucky swallows, daring to wrap a hand around the back of your thighs, silently begging you to stay. “If he’s told you no one else is gonna love you, he’s dead wrong. If you’re letting him tell you what to do ‘cause you think it’s the only way to make him stay, let him fucking leave. You deserve better. You’ve always deserved better. Than-“ His words catch, painful in his throat. “Than me. But also than him. You deserve better.”
He digs his fingers into your soft skin, and you swallow, blinking down at him with soft, glossy eyes.
“I love you,” Bucky echoes like a prayer. “I swear I love you, doll. And I really don’t expect nothing, but- Please.”
You straighten up, and Bucky tries not to flinch when you cup his cheek. Your hand is so warm, so soft. He doesn’t deserve the touch.
“Bucky,” you murmur. “Stand up.”
He blinks at you, then scrambles to his feet. Your mouth twitches. He thinks that’s a good sign.
You stand barely an inch apart, staring into each others eyes. Bucky lets every bit of himself crumble away, until the only thing left for you to see is his love. You let out a sharp breath, and glance to his parted lips.
“You mean it?” You whisper, and he nods in a heartbeat.
“With everything I got.”
You laugh, soft and nervous, and meet his gaze again. “But- You were such an asshole- I thought you hated me.”
“Never,” he whispers. “I- I mean- I was an asshole, but I never hated you doll, ever. I just- I kinda loved you too much, and I’m an idiot-“
Bucky’s voice dies easily, when you push up and press a small kiss to his lips. His hands twitch to catch you, but he holds them back. Not daring to move. Not daring to let this fall apart. Your lips are so soft, and you taste like that sugary drink you’d been nursing, and he thinks he might have just taken a hit of a drug he’s never going to kick.
He’s panting, when you pull away. You smile at him, shy and gorgeous, brows raised in challenge, and he laughs like a ruined man. He dives back down, grabbing your face between his hands and kissing you hard. Kissing you the way he dreamed, your lips molding together and body arching up to his touch, your tongue darting over his lip before he squeezes your jaw, and you open for him with a moan. He chuckles and spits into your mouth, wrapping an arm around your waist. You scratch his neck and press back with twice the force, dragging a low groan from his chest.
Bucky yanks himself back, and you stare at each other, flushed and panting. You find it in you to speak first. Bucky’s not surprised.
“You love me?” You demand, and he nods.
“All the time.”
You nod, and he thinks he’s got the kind of luck they talk about in kings.
“Good,” you mutter, straightening the collar of his shirt before fixing him with that enchanting, dangerous stare. “Prove it.”
Bucky smiles, and presses a harsh but loving kiss to your lips. You really have no fucking idea.
Proving it is going to be the easy part.
You’ve had dreams about this. So many dreams that living through it takes a lot of convincing, for you to believe it’s reality. You think, through the power of Bucky’s hands and lips, you’re going to get there.
You kissed and stumbled into Nat’s house with your hands roaming and feet tripping over everything but each other. Bucky had ripped your shirt over your head and kicked the door behind him, letting his searing mouth wander over your jaw, your cheeks, your nose and back to your lips. You’d pulled the buckle of his jeans while he made quick work of your bra, using the straps to pull you right back against his chest before tossing it the same way as your shirt.
“Look at you,” he’d muttered, palming your breast with an air of awe to his every word. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen.”
You’d flushed and kissed him before he could say any more nice things. They were already making your heart soft and prone to forgiveness. The kind you were trying to make him earn, even if he was probably about to get it for free.
Bucky slid his hand around the back of your neck and kissed you like it was a movie. You’d melted into him, clinging to the hooks of his jeans and letting him angle your face further back. You’d tugged him closer and he’d grunted, wrapping his full bicep around your neck and sliding his hand on your breast down your side. He’d cupped your ass and squeezed it before dipping his fingers under your waistband, pulling it back and forth as he dragged his tongue over your lower lip.
“Wanna take care of you,” he’d muttered, like he was speaking to himself. “You gonna let me take care of you?
“Ye- Yeah,” you breathe, nails digging into his wrist. You’re trying to stay steady. You’re not sure it’s working, with how the room is spinning and your skin is getting heated. “Yes, please.”
Bucky chuckles, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. Your mouth falls open with a tiny gasp, and his brows furrow tight. He slides the pad of his finger between your lips, and you flick your tongue against it. Your eyes droop, and your head tips back as you start to suck on him. Bucky groans, his fingers digging into your hips.
“Jesus,” he rasps. “Always knew you’d be the death of me, doll.”
You coo, and Bucky’s nostrils flare. His hand drifts further down your back, hooking on your bottoms and pulling them with him. You make another soft, humming sound, smiling at him around his thumb, and his throat bobs.
“That’s it,” he rasps. “Just like that, nice and easy.”
Your bottoms fall to the floor, leaving you in only your panties. Bucky glances down, his tongue darting over his lips, and then looks right back to you. He pulls his thumb away, cups the back of your head, and pulls your face back for him to kiss. You moan against his mouth and he groans, pressing over you until there’s no space for anything else left. It’s all just Bucky, everywhere around you and so warm you start to get dizzy. You almost don’t know what to do with yourself, yanking at his shirt and trying to meet every kiss, but it’s hard. Bucky’s demanding, and you’ve wanted this for too long. Just his hands on your bare skin are better than anyone else being inside of you. It’s really unfair.
Bucky cups your pussy when your back hits the wall, and you mewl. He leans back to watch your hips roll against his hand, his eyes going fully dark and a low, rumbling grunt falling from his lips.
“Fuck, baby,” he rubs his hand back and forth, a sweet, lewd sound filling the room. “This wet, just for me?”
You nod a little shamefully, watching him under fluttering lashes. He pulls on the fabric of your panties and snaps it against your cunt, making you buck up with a squeak. Bucky chuckles and rubs over the hurt, leaning down until your lips are brushing together.
“You want me to play nice?” He whispers. “Or fuck you like I’ve been dreamin’ about.”
You blink at him, mouth hanging open and face burning. It’s hard to think, with the drag of his rough, gentle hand against your cunt. For a little while you just stare at him helplessly, and Bucky takes a small mercy, snapping your panties back against your pussy, shocking your heartbeat enough to make you think.
Like he’s been dreaming. You’ve been dreaming too. Holding fantasies about Bucky giving it to you just how you want, walking that thin line you never trusted Brock to balance on. But you trust Bucky. Your Bucky, before the whole mess. The Bucky you can see so clearly now, features shining with affection as he watches you already start to come apart.
“That,” you say, small but certain. “Do- Do it like that.”
Bucky pauses. “Like-“
“How you want,” you whisper, and he goes still.
Bucky scans over your face for an ounce of hesitation. You don’t have any, so you hold his gaze.
He lets out a rough, broken breath. “You sure-“
You press up and kiss him hard. He gets the idea.
Bucky rips your panties off like they’re made of paper, drops one arm under your thighs, and picks you up with barely a grunt. You squeal and try to push away on instinct, but he’s strong. Stronger than you thought, and you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time ogling his muscles. He slams his mouth over yours for a brief, hungry kiss, spits down your throat, and tosses you right over his shoulder.
“Bucky-“
“Shh,” he slaps your ass and you squeak again, dropping your face right into his shoulder. He squeezes over the pleasurable sting then starts to walk, keeping you steady over him.
“Where- Where are we going?” You try to push up to see over his shoulder. Bucky lands another spank on your ass, and you fall right back down with a whine. “James- Shit-“
He’s dragging his fingers over your sopping wet cunt, smearing the mess everywhere he can, humming while he walks. Your thighs clench, but that only seems to give him easier access, and you whine.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“Ah,” Bucky slaps your pussy, and you muffle your moan against his body. “That’s not what I want to hear, doll.”
You swallow and shake your head, bunching his shirt between your trembling fingers. Bucky spanks your pussy again and it clenches around nothing. His thumb drifts, teasing over your clit in tiny brushes, back and forth and back and forth. You whimper, but he just hums, dragging two fingers through the mess between your thighs, before returning to your swollen little button.
“Come on,” he coos, encouraging and mocking all at once. “Use your words for me.”
You can’t. You muffle another moan in Bucky’s shoulder, writhing best you can in his iron grip. Bucky hums like this is casual, like he’s not already taking you apart with the lightest of touches. A door creaks open, and you barely have time to recognize the carpet of Nat’s guest room before you’re being tossed down onto the bed.
You bounce slightly, and Bucky catches your ankles, dragging you right to the edge of the mattress. You stare at him, mouth hanging open, completely unsure what to do with yourself. His lips twitch and he lowers down, pressing a gently, loving kiss to your lips. You arch up and he rubs your thighs, easing you down into his touch. You slump forward, running your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low, satisfied sound from the back of his throat.
Bucky traces his hand a little higher up your thigh, and you try not to buck into his touch. It’s not very successful, and he smiles against your lips, pinching your upper thigh. You whimper and turn your head, trying to save useless face. Bucky chuckles, sucking a small mark under your throat, then flicking his tongue against the sensitive skin.
“James…” You moan, and he goes still. You turn nervously, worried you somehow, already, ruined it. “Bucky?”
His throat bobs. He grabs your chins between two fingers, eyes boring through you, like he can see all your hazy, love-colored thoughts.
“Buck-“
“James,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lip. “Keep callin’ me James, doll.”
You nod, a faint flush burning your cheeks. It’s not even from the way he’s touching you. Not right now. James isn’t a name Bucky lets anyone use. You used to, but then he started pushing you, and you didn’t want to lose that last sacred closeness, of being allowed to use his nickname. But if James is what he wants. He’ll get it. You’ll give him almost anything, right now.
“James,” you breathe, and Bucky’s throat bobs. He leans down for another, slower kiss. You close your eyes and let him control the depth, the unmeasured but drizzle passion like honey. When he pulls away you’re breathless, and he’s on his knees.
Naked and on his knees.
You make a tiny sound, gaping shamelessly at his cock. It’s thick and heavy looking, leaking with pre-cum and probably more than you can take. But you want to try. You want to drool around it in every possible way, looking up and Bucky and getting that faint, affectionate smile.
“You seein’ something you like?” Bucky teases, and you give him a hopeless, embarrassed look. He chuckles and grabs himself, stroking slowly and holding your gaze. “You want it bad, huh,” he mutters, smearing some drool over your cheek. “He ain’t been fuckin’ your right, either. Left you so needy for so long, you get all quiet just seeing a real cock?”
Your face is on fire, but your core is throbbing and aching. You drop your brow against Bucky’s, fixated on his fist, pumping that massive dick.
“Spit on it,” Bucky grunts, and you obey thoughtless, letting some of your need fall from your lips to Bucky’s shining cock. He groans and smashes his lips over yours, his hand pumping faster until he’s groaning your name against your lips.
Then he pulls back, lets go of himself, and just stares at your slack, desperate expression. You swallow, and his lips curve into a faint, starved smile.
“You need to be treated like a whore, huh,” he mutters. “Fucked like a toy ‘till you remember how nice it is, to have my attention.”
Oh, God. Your thighs try to press together. Bucky shoves them apart, using his thumb to part your puffy, swollen pussy lips.
“Pretty little thing,” he mutters, pressing over your clit before dragging his thumb back down. “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll fuck you right. Gonna open you up,” he presses his thumb hard against your entrance, smirking at your tiny sound. “Then give you exactly what you need. That sound good?”
“Ye- Yeah,” you manage to babble, remembering his thing about words. “Yes, please.”
Bucky smiles, and presses a quick kiss to your lips. “Good girl.”
You whine, and Bucky doesn’t waste time. He sinks fully down, kissing over your tummy as he shoves your legs fully apart. You watch him, breathing ragged, and weave your fingers through his hair for balance. He kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other. Nips at the sensitive skin, then flicks his tongue over the hurt before kissing it again. He takes his time, kissing all around your cunt, but never letting his mouth go where you really fucking need.
“James,” you whine, tugging on his hair. “Don’t- Don’t tease.”
He chuckles, his lips brushing right against your clit. You squirm, but he holds your thighs down and gives you a stern look.
“I’ll tease you all I fuckin’ want, babydoll,” he mutters, giving the quickest, lightest kiss to your clit. “You’re too pretty and reactive not to play with.”
You whimper, unable to come up with a response that isn’t a fuck you. As fun as it would be to push his buttons and find out just what punishment under Bucky’s attention is—being dragged over his lap, forced to sit on his cock until you’re drooling, brought right up to the edge over and over but never being allowed to fall—you’re too desperate right now. You might cum just from looking at him, it’s been so long, and he seems to know it.
“Needy pussy,” he mutters, tracing his thumb in circles around your clit. “Gonna take real good care of you, pretty girl.”
You mewl because god help you, you really believe him. Bucky pulls back the hood of your clit, blows on it in a way that makes your whole body seize up, then presses a long, slow kiss to the bundle of nerves.
“Fuck- James- James-“
“I know,” he coos, tongue flicking against your pulsing cunt. “Such a greedy fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for me.” He kisses your clit again, making out with it until you’re panting and struggling to sit up. “Lucky I’m feelin’ generous,” he mutters, and whatever restraint he’d been pretending to have was gone.
Bucky shoves his face into your pussy, his beard scraping your thighs and his tongue licking a long, rough stripe up your core until it hits your clit, swirls, and dives back down. Plunging in and out of your dripping hole before repeating the lick, playing with your clit more and more every time. Thick hands keep your legs spread when you start to get restless, but he lets you buck freely up into his mouth. He seems to enjoy it, how you pull on his hair and cry his name. If anything, his mouth just works harder against you, tongue flicking against your clit in rapid, tiny strokes that send you into a frenzy.
You fall back with a sob, grinding up and craning your neck to try and keep watching him. It’s a beautiful sight, Bucky drowning himself between your thighs. He winks at you, pressing his tongue flat over your entrance, and you fall back with a moan. You’re getting there fast. It would be embarrassing, with anyone but Bucky. He just kisses your thigh and bumps his nose against your clit, muttering you’re close against your skin before diving right back in.
“Bu- Bucky-“ You grab at the sheets, your pussy throbbing like a ticking bomb before an explosion. “Bucky- I- I’m gonna-“
His teeth graze your clit, and he wraps his lips tight around the nub, sucking on it hard. You scream as your vision goes white, your hips flying off the bed, but Bucky doesn’t stop. He lets wraps his arms around each thigh, shoves your legs close around his head, and keeps sucking on your clit, it starts to get all tingly and numb in the best way. It’s almost like he’s tickling it with his tongue, the pressure of his mouth perfect and unbearable, your eyes rolling back in your head as you writhe.
“Oh- Oh my god-“ You sob, pushing at his head. “Bucky- I- I can’t, please-“
He kisses your clit a little more gently, spanks your pussy, and gives you a stern look. “Yes, you can.”
It doesn’t seem to be something that’s up for argument.
Bucky keeps you pinned to his face, sucking and sucking and sucking, no real care for what else you do. You cry and pull at the sheets, trying and climb away with no avail, and end up rolling onto your stomach, your face pressed into the sheets. Bucky still stays locked against your pussy, the feeling only intensifying when he’s beneath you. You’re all but sitting on his face, grinding you cunt down onto his jaw, sobbing into the sheets as your body becomes taut and wired and ready to snap.
A second orgasm rolls over you like a thunderstorm. Wet and loud and hot. You gush against Bucky’s face, tears starting to stream down your face from the overstimulation. You haven’t even had one proper orgasm in… longer than you want to admit. Brock never really gave you anything more than a shiver, and your patience in your own body was limited to a vibrator and ten minutes before a dull, anti-climatic orgasm that didn’t feel like much, but still made you too sensitive to keep going. Bucky just pulled two out of you, with his mouth alone.
He pulls back when you’re trembling, leaving a last, gentle kiss over your clit.
“Best fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever tasted,” he mutters, giving it one more spank before he starts to crawl over your body. “Coulda died there, doll, I swear.”
He laughs to himself, and you whimper against the sheets. Bucky pauses, caging you against the mattress with massive arms, and slowly rolls you over onto your back. You stare up at him, starry-eyed and spent, and his mouth twitches down.
“You alright?” He murmurs, brushing the hair from your face. You nod, and he doesn’t look convinced. “Are you-“
“Bucky,” you whisper, and his throat bobs. “If you don’t fuck me, I’m leaving.”
He laughs, throaty and dry, and ducks back down to give you another, slower kiss. One hand slides down your body, palming at your breast, rolling a nipple between his fingers between pinching gently. Bucky smiles, at the tiny whine it pulls out of you.
“Could spend forever here,” he mutters. “Givin’ every single part of you the attention it deserves. Sucking on these tits while you ride my thigh. Bending you over and opening up that cunt with just my hands, just playing with your ass until you’re drippin’ on my lap.” He groans, his cock twitching against your thigh. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, babydoll. You got no idea.”
You hum, the tears on your cheeks shiner than before. He means it. Whatever doubts you’d had before fade, because you’re sure. Bucky means it.
He settles himself fully between your legs, the more aggressive, dominant mask seeming to fracture, like light splitting through the clouds. Always there, even when he pretends. Coming out when you most need to see it.
“Gonna go right in,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Opened you up real good. Shouldn’t even hurt.”
You hum, pressing your face against his neck. Bucky rubs his cock against your cunt slowly, covering himself in your arousal before tapping his head against your clit—almost ceremoniously, like paying homage—and notching himself against your entrance.
The stretch isn’t as bad as you thought it would be. Bucky’s still big, so big you can feel it in your throat, so big you don’t think you’ve ever been this full, but he’d prepped you so well, it’s just a faint burn before it molds into pleasure. Bucky’s warm breath fans over the top of your neck as he watches your pussy mold around his cock. He moans something like your name against your skin, and you wrap your arms tight around his head.
“Feels so good,” you moan as he pushes further in. “So- So good.”
Bucky grunts, and you whimper as he bottoms out, balls pressed tight to your ass.
For a few moments, neither of you move. Bucky looks up at you with a wrecked expression you can feel in your chest, and you give him a faint, nervous smile.
“You know I love you too, right?” You say, because it’s the only thing you can think.
Bucky’s throat bobs. He doesn’t seem to have any words, and gives you a slow, romantic kiss. He rolls his hips experimentally, and you gasp against his lips. He’s curved in a way that presses right up against your g-spot, and it’s almost like a massage. You clench down, and Bucky grunts, but he repeats the motion anyway.
“James- Ooooh-“ Your eyes roll back, and Bucky sucks and kisses over your jaw, grinding his cock right against that soft, gooey spot. “Fuck- James-“
Bucky makes a deep, almost feral sound, and starts to move faster. Shallow, brutal thrusts that split you right open. You grab his bicep for dear life, and he watchers your every reaction with a sharp attention. You mewl when he does a swivel move, almost flying off the bed, and he pins you down with a hand splayed over your stomach.
“Feel that?” He grunts, pulling all the way out before slamming back in. “You fuckin’ feel that, babydoll? How good we feel together? Greedy little pussy, swallowin’ my cock up like the whore you are- Fuck-“
Bucky falls back over you, kissing you with spit and teeth and brutal force. You wrap your arms around your neck, moaning loud and shameless as he picks up his pace. Small, measured thrusts turn into the bed creaking, Bucky’s cock drilling into your pussy like he’s trying to knock every thought from your head. It’s working. You’re a drooling, wound up mess below him, and he grins against your lips.
“That’s my girl,” he mocks. “Smart head so fuckin’ empty, when I got you on my cock. No one else makes you feel like this, do they?”
You don’t answer—you can’t—and Bucky smacks your clit.
“Do they?”
You shake your head, babbling out a pathetic half-answer. “N- No-“
“Who fucks you right?” Bucky demands, words harsh but touch gentle when he grabs your jaw.
“You.” Tears start to fall down your cheeks again. “You, Bucky- Please-“
You moan as he hits that spot again, and Bucky groans, dropping down to kiss the tears away, then mold his lips back over yours.
“Damn right, me,” he grunts, skin slapping against skin, the wet, sinful sound of him bullying into your cunt almost drowning out the words. “My fuckin’ girl.”
Bucky leans up, and you almost cry for him before you realize what he’s doing. Bucky grabs your knees with one arm and presses them up to your chest, leaning down to kiss you as he fucks you deeper into the mattress. The angle is deeper like this. You can feel it everywhere, from your toes to your lips. You make a strangled, undignified sound when Bucky’s thumb returns to your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles.
“Cum with me, babydoll,” he grunts, kissing your calf and rutting into your drooling, pulsing cunt. “Come one, wanna fill you up, pump this pussy up ‘till everyone knows, just-“ He groans. “Gimme just one more.”
You don’t know where it comes from. You didn’t think you had it in you, but Bucky manages to pull it out. A third orgasm, slower and longer than the last too. Hotter, as well. Pooling in your gut before flooding out of your cunt. Down your thighs and over Bucky’s cock as you flutter and he doubles over with a roar.
You’re not sure what’s Bucky’s cum and what’s yours. There’s just wet stickiness, filling you up everywhere until your eyes are unfocused and your body is twitching. Bucky kisses you through the orgasms, fucking shallowly into your pussy like he can’t help himself. When you both ease down, you’re blinking at the ceiling with heavy eyes and a warm feeling blooming back into your chest. Free and light and easy, in a way you never expected yourself to have.
This is going to be a mess in the morning. Right now, you don’t really care.
“I guess Brock was right,” you muse. “You did want to sleep with me.”
Bucky sits up with a glare. “Don’t say that when I’m still inside of you.”
You giggle, reaching up to brush some hair from his brow. His gaze softens and he catches your hand, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.
“Do you believe me?” He mutters, and it’s small and worried. As if, after that, you’d somehow ever let him get away again.
“Yeah,” you smile, and his shoulders slump in relief.
“Thank god-“
“But,” you squeeze his hand. “I think you should keep proving it.”
Bucky chuckles, giving you an amused look before dropping his face right back into your boobs. You beam at the ceiling and pet the top of his head, neither of you in a rush to clean up. You probably should. You really should. Bucky seems to realize why at the same moment you do.
“Nat’s gonna kill us,” he groans, and you snort.
“Yeah. You.”
Bucky props his chin on your chest. “You too-“
“No,” you shake your head. “I’m her favorite.”
“That’s-“ Bucky sighs, and drops his face back down. “Yeah.”
You laugh, and he grins against your boob.
“Worth it,” he mutters, and you smile like a fool.
Because yeah. It was.
✦End note: sometimes... cheating is okay!✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Summary: You never thought Bucky was the sentimental type, until you found something hidden under his bed.
WC: 3.3k
Tags/Warnings: super fluffy, established relationship, Post Thunderbolts*,Not Beta Read
A/N: I’ve had this idea for weeks and finally did it. Fun fact, the Polaroids may or may not be inspired by real pictures I took of my best friend and her boyf. Also, yes I have been to the rest stop I mentioned. Sadly I live far away from them and I NEED to go back!
You felt like an idiot looking at your wrist and realizing your watch wasn’t there.
“Shit,” you mumbled.
“What’s wrong?” Bucky asked you with concern.
You shook your head, “It’s nothing, I forgot my watch.”
He paused, pondering while he put on his leather jacket. “I think you left it on my nightstand when you took it off last night,” he answered, pointing down the hall. “Do you want to go get it before we leave?”
You hesitated, “You sure you don’t mind waiting?”
Bucky shook his head and held out his hand to hold your jacket and purse for you. “Not at all.”
You smiled, handed him your things, and left a kiss on his cheek. “Thanks, be right back.”
As you walked away the corners of his lips turned up into a soft smile.
You hurried to Bucky’s room and upon entering a frustrated groan left you. There the nightstand was, with no watch. You searched the drawers in the nightstand and the top of his dresser, still no luck.
After staring at the nightstand, you wondered if you really did leave it there but maybe it fell. You kneeled down next to the bed and turned on your phone flashlight. A quick scan finally revealed the missing watch. With a relieved sigh you reached for it, when something caught your eye.
A box.
A box with your name written on the side of it.
Your own name was staring back at you as you grabbed the watch. With a careful hand you reached for the box and dragged it out from the bed.
The box sat in your lap, unopened, unbothered. It was a dark brown cardboard shoe box from one of his pairs of boots. Your name was written in black marker on the side and next to it a tiny messy heart.
Your gut is telling you not to open it. It might have been hidden for a reason. You have no right to be digging and snooping around Bucky’s things. Finding something he didn’t want found.
But another part of you was desperate to know what was inside. That small but loud part of your brain that was screaming at you to open it. The voice kept echoing in your ears. Reminding you that your name was on it.
Why did he have a box with your name on it?
Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be hidden. You kept things under your bed not because you wanted to hide them, but because of storage and safekeeping. Maybe this was like that.
Maybe.
God the anticipation was going to kill you.
Maybe it was a present he put in there for your next anniversary, birthday, or some other reason.
Well then you should really not open it. Don’t want to ruin any possible surprise he has for you.
You really shouldn’t open it. You shouldn’t open it. Don’t open it. Don’t open it. Don’t open it. Don’t open it. Open it. Open it. Open it…
Your hands moved on their own. Your fingers peeled back the lid of the box and set it down on the floor next to you.
You peered inside at the contents of the box with confused curiosity. At first glance it didn’t look like much. It definitely wasn’t a present. There were a bunch of random items, mostly paper ones.
The first thing that caught your attention was the small plastic wristband. It was at the top of the pile. You picked it up and read the words on the side “Luna Park: Coney Island.” Realization dawned on you that it was Bucky’s wristband from your first date. When he asked you out, there was no specific place in mind yet. But when he told you an old story about him and Steve at Coney Island and you said you had never been there before, he knew where he wanted to take you.
It was a perfect first date. The weather was clear and warm but not too hot to be uncomfortable, no doubt because of the cool ocean breeze. You went on rides, you played games. And of course Bucky spent 40 bucks to win you a blue stuffed penguin you fawned over and called cute. He was a man on a mission. And now that penguin sat on a chair in your bedroom.
With a smile you placed the wristband back in the box and picked at the other things inside.
Your heart swelled at the realization that most of the items were from your old dates with Bucky. There were tickets from your trips to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Museum of Natural History and one from The New York Aquarium. There had to be at least 5 movie stubs and 3 dinner receipts from dates you went on with him. There was the playbill from the broadway show he took you to for your birthday a few months ago. He surprised you with orchestra seats.
You dug around more and found a strip of photos from a photo booth you took with Bucky. His eyes shined as he told you about how common they were back in the 30s and how he used to always stop at them with his friends. When you both sat down he stared with wide eyes at the inflated price.
“Ten dollars? This used to cost a quarter!”
You giggled at his complaint, “You sound so old when you say stuff like that.” You reached for your purse to grab a ten when he stopped you with a hand on your arm and pulled out his wallet from his pocket.
“I’m still not going to let you pay for it,” he returned with a sly grin.
You smiled looking down at the strip of pictures in your hand. The top photo was simple, both you and Bucky smiling at the camera with his arm around you. It was sweet, peaceful. In the second photo you placed a hand under his chin and kissed his cheek. His eyes were closed with wrinkles around them from his smile. His cheeks were more rosy than in the last photo. In the third photo Bucky now had his hand on your neck as he kissed you. The fourth and final photo was of you looking at the camera, mid laugh, while Bucky had a hand on your face and pressed a kiss to your cheek.
The machine gave you two copies of the pictures. Yours was pinned to a cork board in your room next to other photos.
You moved on from the photo strip and continued digging through the memory box, throwing caution to the wind.
As you flipped through the other items a shell fell from behind something, landing in the corner of the box. It was the seashell from when you walked and talked on the beach for what felt like hours because you were so engrossed in conversation with him. The water carried a small shell onto the shore. You picked it out from the water and stared at it in awe. You had asked Bucky to hold onto it because your clutch was full and your outfit didn’t have any pockets. Later that night you forgot about it.
In fact, you forgot about it until now, weeks later. Your jaw dropped as you ran your fingertips over the ridges of the shell's surface, reminiscing your walk on the beach. His hand in yours and the
The next thing you found were the birthday cards you gave Bucky from his last two birthdays. One card was from a birthday before you started dating, and the other one was after.
The two year old card was more basic, like you got it from the generic section of the birthday card aisle (because you did). You opened up the old card and read your own handwriting.
Happy Birthday Bucky
I know you don’t like making a big deal out of your birthday but you still deserve a card :)
You’re so important to this team and your effort doesn’t go unnoticed. We’re lucky to have you around. I hope you have a great day and that 109 treats you well. (Even though you’re technically not 109 haha)
You closed it and set it back down in the box before grabbing the one you gave him on his most recent birthday. This one was less generic. You picked out one that had more design and personality.
Happy Birthday my Love
I am so grateful to have you by my side. You’re one of the best things to have ever happened to me. I hope you know you are so important and appreciated. I can’t imagine my life or this team without you.
Happy 110th you old man ;)
I love you with all my heart
Hidden behind the birthday cards was a stack of post-it notes all stuck together. Some of them were old with barely any stickiness left and crinkled edges. Some were new and almost in pristine condition. But all of them were notes from you. You flipped through the stack of sticky notes and saw more of your own handwriting.
Good morning <3
You make me smile :)
Meet me in the lounge later I have a surprise!
I know you stole my last Pepsi >:( prepare for war
I’m so proud of you
Have a great day!
And at least 7 more that just say I love you
Bucky must have saved every single note you left for him.
Your heart almost gave out but thankfully it lasted to see the last few items in the box.
There were more photos. Two to be exact. Two Polaroids taken from Yelena's camera.
One of the Polaroids was taken a few months ago. You knew it was taken because you posed for it. It was on your birthday. The team celebrated at the tower with you after the show Bucky surprised you with. You wanted to keep out of the public eye for the rest of your birthday. Spend the night with just friends. And your boyfriend of course.
Yelena was a few drinks in, wasting her camera film throughout the night. She had a pile of photos on the coffee table that was getting thicker as time went on. Most of them included you.
This one was of you and Bucky. Everyone was sitting on the couches playing a drinking game. You and Bob returned from the bar with new drinks. A Long Island iced tea for you and a regular iced tea for him. You plopped back down on the couch next to your boyfriend, giggling at whatever outlandish thing Alexei said. After you placed your drink down Bucky wrapped an arm around you and placed a gentle kiss to your cheek.
“Awe! Wait, that was adorable, do that again!” Yelena exclaimed as she grabbed her camera.
You rolled your eyes, with no real malice of course. “Yelena,” you laughed.
“Come on, it’s sweet!” She turned the camera on and looked through the viewfinder.
“Kiss!” Alexei shouted.
“Pucker up Barnes!” Ava yelled from the other couch.
The corners of Bucky’s lips turned up into a grin as he shook his head. A gasp left you as Bucky grabbed your hips and pulled you into his lap. He tightened his arm around you and placed a kiss on your cheek. Your face turned bright red as an airy giggle left your lungs.
Yelena snapped the image in front of her. Forever frozen in time.
The memory of that night now sat in your hands as you stared down at it. There was a phantom feeling of his lips on your skin as you set the Polaroid back down in the box.
You picked the other photo up, immediately recognizing when it was taken. Except, you don’t remember it being taken.
This picture was taken a few short weeks before Bucky asked you out. You knew that because your hair was slightly shorter. It was more grown out now.
The photo was of you and Bucky on the couch, taken from behind. Your back was to the camera, resting against the couch. Bucky was sitting next to you. Your attention was pulled away somewhere off camera. But Bucky, he looked right at you.
The thing that really stuck with you was his eyes. His eyes were soft. The kind of soft that people didn't see often from him. His eyes are normally like stone. His stare, usually hard, like rock. It pierces into you. But this look on him was different. He looked at you like you were a work of art. Like he was trying to take in all of you with just his eyes.
You've seen that look before many times. But didn’t notice it before you started dating. You didn’t realize just how head over heels he was in the weeks leading up to your first date.
You cautiously placed the pictures back in the box, like they were delicate and fragile.
Something else you didn’t remember was a napkin with little doodles on it. You recognized it as a napkin from a bar the team occasionally visited. But you can’t remember when you drew flowers and vines on this napkin.
Bucky seemed to remember it. He kept it and cherished it in his memory box like it was a masterpiece you created and not some drunk sketch.
Your heart rate slowly grew in speed as your eyes moved to a keychain at the bottom of the box. It was a small, yellow, metal keychain in the shape of Texas with a cartoon beaver on it.
It was in the middle of the night after a short mission in Texas. You and Ava stopped at the largest rest stop you’d ever seen in your life. The rest stop had a beaver for its mascot and aisles of merch. But what made you buy the keychain for him was the name of the rest stop. Buc-ee’s.
You almost didn’t buy it for him. This was long before you started dating and you weren’t sure how he would appreciate a random gag gift.
“I found something for you in Texas.”
He turned to you and hummed with curiosity. You dug the keychain from your jeans pocket and handed it to him.
“We found this rest stop called Buc-ee’s and they have this little beaver as their mascot,” you explained, fidgeting with the loops in your jeans. “He’s literally your twin, you're both named Bucky,” you ended with a chuckle, trying to make this one sided conversation any less awkward.
He continued to silently examine it, his right, flesh hand running over the painted metal.
“I know it’s stupid, you don’t have to keep it,” you nervously mumbled. You reached forward to grab it back from him,
He pulled his hand back, not willing to give up the present. “No, it’s not stupid. It’s cute,” he reassured.
Your cheeks heated up in real time just like they did when he said that.
He kept it.
He kept the gag gift you got him. This silly little keychain was so important he kept it in a special keepsake box.
You almost couldn’t believe what you found. All the memories, all the stuff you gave him, all the things he cherished because they reminded him of you. It seemed like this box that sat in your lap held his very own heart and all his love for you.
You shuffled the items back to how they were in the box when you found it. You assumed that was all there was to find in there. Until three candy wrappers fell out from between the various papers.
Jolly Ranchers. Your favorite candy.
You always had them on you. Kinda like an old lady that carries around hard candy. John always jokes that you’re an old woman when you grab a jolly rancher from your pocket or purse. He says you and Bucky are perfect for each other because you both have old person tendencies.
Speaking of Bucky, because you often had candy on you, you always offered some to him. He always said yes. Here in his shoe box you saw one cherry and two green apple wrappers.
You froze, staring at the candy wrappers. Even in the silence of his room you couldn’t hear the footsteps approaching. For a moment all you heard was your own heart pounding in your ears.
The door creaked open. “Hey, you’ve been gone for a while. Did you find your watch?” Bucky asked, walking in the room.
He stopped a few feet away from you. Your back was to him, the box hidden in your lap. But he knew you had it because he saw the lid on the floor next to you.
You raised your hand and shook your wrist to show him the watch. “Yeah, I found it,” your voice sounded more hoarse than you expected. You quickly blinked away the tears that collected at your waterline right before he waked in.
Bucky took a few steps closer, and crouched down next to you. He brushed a piece of hair behind your ear. Now that he was close to you, he noticed how glassy your eyes were.
He held your face in his hand, his thumb stroking your cheek. Your eyes fluttered close.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. My watch was under the bed and I found this,” you started rambling. “I saw my name. I know I shouldn’t have opened it-“
“Hey, hey it’s okay,” he soothed in a quiet voice. He turned your face towards his. “I’m not mad.”
You nodded to confirm you understood. You sniffled and glanced between him and the box.
“You kept all this.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
It was a dumb question and you knew it. Yet the word still flew out of your mouth.
He took a pause, breathing in.
“This stuff means a lot to me. You mean a lot to me,” he answered like it was the easiest thing to say in the world.
“After HYDRA, after all the-” he hesitated- “issues with my memory I started keeping stuff like this. To remember.”
With his free hand he grabbed the other side of your face. Bucky leaned closer, his bright blue eyes stared into yours and bore into your soul. You could’ve sworn they looked a little glassy.
“I want to make sure I remember you.”
You lip quivered. Bucky leaned forward and captured your lips in a brief, gentle kiss. He rested his forehead against yours.
“Can I ask about something in the box?”
“Anything.”
“The napkin. I don’t remember it,” you confessed, voice quiet and curious. “Why did you save it?”
“It was the team's first time at that bar. You were drunk and bored because they weren’t playing songs you liked. Someone left a pen on the bar and you sat there drawing on a napkin for twenty minutes.” Bucky paused as his lips curled into a smile. “You were so concentrated. The bar, the team, they were all so loud and distracting. But all your attention was on these little drawings. Like you were painting the Mona Lisa.”
He licked his lips, “that night I realized I have feelings for you.”
A giddy smile snuck its way on your face before you kissed him. Slow and passionate. You poured all your love into that kiss to try and match the amount of devotion and love he had on display for you.
You pulled away, but not too far away. Your lips hovered over his. “I love you with all my heart. You know that right?”
He lightly chuckled, “I know.”
Bucky wiped away a stray tear that you didn’t know escaped and ran down your cheek.
“I love you with all of mine,” he whispered, his voice soft with adoration.
When I was training to be a battered women’s advocate, my supervisor said something that really blew my mind:
“You can always assume one thing about your clients; and that is that they are doing their best. Always assume everyone is doing their best. And if they’re having a day where their best just isn’t that great, or their best doesn’t look like your best, you have to be okay with that.”
Any now whenever anyone in my life, either a friend or a client, frustrates me, disappoints me, or pisses me off, I just tell myself They are doing their best. Their best isn’t that great today, but I have days where my best isn’t that great either.
Op I’d like to thank you for sharing this. Ever since the first time I’ve read it I’ve held it in my mind and it really has helped me to be kinder to others and to myself.
As today is the 50th anniversary of the moon landing, it’s a great time to revisit Dinah from Devon’s memory of this historic event. And yes, still makes me laugh.
summary: after picking you up from your failed date, seeing your eyes red rimmed and cheeks tear stained, Bucky can’t help but let everything he’s been holding back from you go.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut & fluff, crying, being stood up, dating apps, self-deprecation, texting & phone calls, reader uses sarcasm to deflect, sexual jokes, petnames (sweetheart, sweet girl, baby…), whipped!bucky, making out, kitchen to the bed, dirty talk, oral (f!rec), fingering, unprotected pinv, creampie, missionary, seb’s tongue thing (and his face scrunch), (failed) riding, subspace, cocky!bucky, (soft)dom!bucky, multiple orgasms (like three), multiple positions (like two), slight cockwarming, MAAAD BDB (bucky's got a big dick and he knows it) . . . - (wc: 7.7k)
a/n: THANK YOU TO THIS ANON ASK !!!! in my brain, 'bestfriend' automatically turns into 'college!bucky' but really, you can imagine however you like lol <3 (he is broke tho so.) im so sorry this is late, fhsdufghfsf i didnt think this would turn into a 7k word porno lmfao
masterlist || navigation
✴︎ reader is mentioned to have hair, and wears a dress, heels and make-up at the beginning. bucky also carries reader from kitchen to bed. (readers favourite movie is also Almost Famous here, why? because im self indulgent and it's a good movie.)
✴︎ it's mentioned that bucky lives in an apartment with steve, unrelated to the plot, just mentioned (as well as a couple mentions of steve/nat. also alpine is mentioned once !!)
✴︎ if i'm missing any tags please kindly let me know !!
The restaraunt still hums behind you, bustling with couples and soft, orange lighting, perfect for the night's celebrations, all the while you stand under the tiny awning trying to keep dry, arms clinging around your chest in an attempt to retain as much heat in as possible. Your hands balled into fists, one clutched your purse beneath your bicep, and the other holds your heels, feet soaked and numb, two-stepping with desperation.
You whine softly under your breath as the rain keeps pouring, sputtering against the covering and pavement, teeth chattering, chest heaving with a mix of anger and distress.
He didn't show.
After months of talking, of smiley faces and hearts sent at ungodly hours of the night, praise exclaimed with a smile on your face to friends, and a reservation you had made a week in advance, waiting for any sign to come through after an hour of waiting with a bouncy knee and chewed up lip, your chest caved inwards as a new story was posted on his account fifteen minutes ago, and your messages were simply left on read.
Calling him, demanding an explination, was pointless. It's too late to care, even as the rage boils up, heating up your stomach and shoulders, it all fizzles as exhaustion wipes over your body.
Useless. All of your attempts, the kind words that slipped from your lips about him, the reservation, the dress you kept stashed in the back of your closet, the heels you wore for special occasions, the make-up and hair you spent hours on; it was all for nothing. And now, standing pathetically outside the building, curled into yourself, you felt utterly useless.
Sniffling, you unlock your phone and, like muscle memory, find the familiar contact. Bucky. Humour is all you could ever conjure up when times felt difficult for you, even if he, your best friend, would tilt his head and eye you disapprovingly. Never malicious, his smirk would ghost his lips ever so slightly, nudging at your elbow with his own, but it's enough to get you to stop being so hard on yourself.
But tonight. You cant help but believe you deserve it.
you: the spinster life is really calling for me
bucky: you okay??
you: tbh not really lol
is it okay if you could possibly pick me up?
sorry if ur busy i can call an uber
Just as you clicked the little blue arrow to send the last message, Bucky's picture flooded the screen like a lifeline, and by the first buzz you were picking up.
"Hey—"
"What happened?" His voice, though crackly and muffled, eased your chest. Tone firm, curious, you can almost hear the crease between his brow.
"Hello to you too," you attempt to deflect with sarcasm, huffing a shitty attempt of a laugh and scratching your nose after a couple seconds of gruelling silence, you sighed. "I got stood up."
"Shit, i'm sorry, sweetheart."
"Not even the worst part," this time you laugh for real, "sent him some messages, turns out he's out at some party tonight, and this fucker had the nerve to leave me on read. And I stayed in the restaurant for an hour, Bucky! An hour!"
"You still at the restaurant?"
"Outside, yeah. They gave me that pitiful look, but they gave me some free bread." You hear him suck in a heavy breath, sucking his teeth like a wince, through the phone. You know the bread is already free, but its the thought that counts, right?
"You under a cover? Or at least have some kinda shelter?" You listen as he tugs on his sneakers with a huff.
"I'm under the awning but im absolutely soaked and not in the way I hoped, so," you snort weakly, "we're both pretty useless tonight."
Hesitating his movements, he tuts, brow furrowing into a scowl. "Don't say that."
"The wet part or the useless part?"
"The useless part," dragging a hand down his face, Bucky winces. "Look, i'll be there in ten, try not to freeze for me, 'kay?"
"Thank you, Bucky, seriously."
"Don't even, i'd do anything for you."
"Shut up."
He hums over the phone, "it's true."
"Sap."
"i can take the long way and make you wait another twenty—"
“You wouldn’t dare, James,” you’re sure he can hear your smile through the receiver. With a sigh you flex your fingers in and out, trying to relieve them of the cold numbness. “Plus my hands are going numb, and I kinda desperately need them.” you joke, sniffling. “You on your way?”
A car door slams, “Just got in,” his seatbelt clicks and engine revs, “you wanna stay on call or should i leave you to your thoughts.”
Tipping your head back against the brick wall, you let out a heavy sigh.“I’ll be fine with my thoughts. Gotta make sure the whole story’s straight before I give you a migraine.”
You both snicker on each end, a rustle coming through his own as he wipes his hand over his cheek and through his hair. You both stay in a few seconds of relaxed silence, warmth already seeping through your joints as you clear your throat, toeing at a pebble. "Thanks, Buck."
"I'll see you in a bit, sweetheart."
It takes six minutes before you see headlights pool against the asphalt. Tyers squeak as he haults to a stop and Bucky hops out, tugging off his jacket and sliding it over your shoulders despite your protests, making sure to flip the hood up over your head and zip it up. He guides you towards the passenger side with a palm against your lower back without a second thought. He opens the door for you, giving you a clumsy smile as you squint playfully his way.
The instant heat from the A/C hits your cheeks immediately. You groan, clicking your seatbelt in place, before holding your hands out to the heat, using the sleeves of Bucky's hoodie like kindling. It feels like you can finally breathe again.
“Yours or mine?” He asks, shuffling into the drivers seat, shaking his wet hair like a shaggy dog, and tugging his seatbelt on.
“Yours,” You reply, unsteady and croaky. “I don’t really wanna be alone tonight.”
Bucky nods as he drives off, “Well, lucky for you, Steve is out with Nat, and I was gonna order some takeout and watch a movie,” he adds softly, “also, you didn’t actually have a choice, you were coming to my place either way.”
Letting out a laugh, your body shifts in his presence. "Better than some pity bread and 27 Dresses."
Years of friendship, odd talks and questions while walking around town at ungodly hours of the night, tipsy confessions at parties in the host's bathtub, and the closeness the two of you built, it all eases the pain and misery like balm on a wound.
"So. Talk to me." His gaze flickers over to your slumped figure. Tired eyes, damp dress, hands held outwards while you pulse your fingers to get the blood bumping.
A tired noise escapes your mouth, what was supposed to be a simple sigh, now opened the dam to the waterworks, as hard as you tried to supress the tears. You breathed in and out, counted, and Bucky kept driving, his jaw locked and tense, eyes flickering between you and the road as you as your lip trembled and eyes glossed over with unshed tears. It isn't until his hand rests on your thigh, just above your knee, giving it an assuring squeeze, does your mouth finally run. Stomach twisting with a warmth you didn't want to acknowledge.
"I don't even know why I try," you whisper, voice wavering, swallowing thickly. "I mean, the reservation was for seven, I got there at six-fifty," sinking backwards into the seat, you cross your arms, fiddling at the drawstrings. You laugh humourlessly, "I checked my phone like a dumbass every five minutes."
Bucky's hand presses your knee again, thumb caressing your skin in reassurance, humming and nodding you on.
"I waited for so long, waiters would come by asking when he would show, but I saw the looks on their faces when they turned around. After like an hour, I saw that fucking story and I…" Sighing and shrugging, you barely notice the warm tears streaking down your cheeks. "I don't know why I keep finding guys like that… I feel so stupid."
"You're not stupid."
"I sat there and waited for an hour." You replied monotonously.
His chest puffs, a laugh spilling from his lungs, incredulously. Lips parting, the hand that sat snug against your thigh now wiping over his face in disbelief, and you shiver at the loss. "Why?"
"I thought, cus' it was raining a-and it's valentines, it was busy, there was no parking or something," you gulp thickly, "or…he couldn't find the place — thought if I left, he'd turn up and think I bailed," hiding your face in your hands, you inhale shakily, letting the scent of Bucky invade your senses, "It was our first date, I didn't want to just give up so fast."
The car rolls to a stop, yet Bucky doesn't cut the engine, letting the heaters run just a little longer. He rubs his hands down the thighs of his jeans, exhaling a sharp breathe before turning to you. "The right guy wouldn't just leave you sitting there wondering or waiting for a whole hour. He'd make sure you never had to second guess yourself. He'd show up,"
You stare blankly at your hands in your lap, picking at your cuticles while you listen to him.
Bucky's hand grips your shoulder, "You're too sweet for your own good, y'know that?"
A small simper eases on your face, chuckling under your breath. "So i've been told." You catch his eyes, staring at you with the kind of intensity that makes your stomach flip, reciprocating the smile. The action hits your chest, a full bullseye straight into the heart that makes your ribs shiver and lip wobble.
"I just don't understand," you whisper. "Why do that? Why just waste my time?"
"Because he's a coward," he remarks immediately, catching you off guard. Whipping your head back to look at him, his eyes still latch onto your face, and his fingers tease the soft hairs at the nape of your neck. Chills errupt down your back. "C'mon, lets get you dried up. I'll order pizza."
"Bucky—"
Before you could protest, he's already retrieving his keys and shuffling out. "Nope, don't even. It's valentines and you deserve to be treated right," he adds in a murmur, "even if it's by a broke guy with takeout and a DVD."
The apartment isn't messy, but it's never exactly clean. The right amount of chaos that borders on homely, yet very obviously owned by two guys who don't really care enough.
An old leather couch sits against the wall, the couch you helped pick out with Bucky, Steve and Nat at the thrift store, strewn atop were layers of blankets; some woven, some crocheted, all piled like someone had laid among them beforehand, as well as a peaceful ball of white fluff that made herself a cave underneath the ruckus. Posters stuck neatly on the wall where the sofa rest, framed to make the place look decent, and not like the bachelor pad it absolutely is. A coffee table adorned with years of cup stains laid crooked, Steve's abandoned laptop sat shut, along with a candle you bought as a sarcastic house-warming gift, remotes and controllers.
Physical media stayed stored meticulously. DVDs and games stayed hidden beneath the TV cabinet, and CDs the roomie's shared were lined up on shelves.
It's your second home. You love it.
You jump a little as Bucky rubs your biceps, easing heat into your skin with his hoodie. "Let's go to my room, i'll get you some new clothes." he mumbles, using his hold to stir you down the hall.
His room captured his essance and charm. Nerdy, boyish, you often teased him for the 'indie sleaze' vibe that exudes from the place, but he never denied.
The little things had their order; books and CDs alphabetised were always alphabetised, though band and movie posters stuck against all four walls in no particular order, or care, but it fit too well. His bed was made, yellow and green tartan, and a messily made blanket you'd crochet after 'buying too much yarn' and 'needing a new project'. Bucky had staked claim over it at your place, always wrapping it up and over his head or using it for naps, so ultimately, you decided to bring it over one night.
You can't help the smile that seeps into your features. A little bit of you in Bucky's room.
As you stare like you haven't been in this exact spot since the moment he had moved in, he rummages through his closet, humming to himself. Gentle tunes and clicks of his tongue.
"This shirt and," he drawls, hand stretched out to pass the item — a stretched out henley he only wears on laundry days or as a sleep shirt — while he sticks his other hand in his drawer, tongue out and eyes squinted before pulling out some sweatpants and socks.
"These," he grunts as he stands, extending the clothes out.
"You can get changed in here, just put your laundry in the basket, I can do it later," he inhales sharply. You nod, whispering a soft thanks as he ducks his head down, hands stuffed into his pockets as he makes his way to the door. "I'll make some tea. That sound okay?"
You smile, "perfect," the word catches in your throat, "thanks again, Buck, really—"
He cuts you off with a straightened palm and a toothy smile, "It's nothing. You know i'd do this for you in a heartbeat," he scratches his neck while silence envelops you. Warm, syrupy, like a heavy blanket wrapped around the two of you in the dead of winter. "I'll be in the kitchen."
As the door clicks shut, your lungs deflate, only to fill with the pure scent of Bucky like your body runs on him.
Heart thumping against your chest, one thought plagues in your brain as you rid yourself of your clothes.
You need your best friend, and not in the way you'd assumed in the past.
And tonight, you can't help but believe he needs you as well.
His sweatpants droop around your hips a little and his henley sags slightly off one shoulder, baring your collarbone as you shuffle into the kitchen.
Cozy and small, fairy lights strung under the cabinets, washing the room in a soft yellow glow. Dishes stack on the drying rack; plants sit against the windowsill, half dying, yet still holding on; The fridge, covered in reciepts, reminders, stickers and magnets — a small whiteboard reads 'need more groceries.' Followed by, 'get some then??'; Fridge-poetry stuck haphazardly in sentences created during early mornings and toothpaste stained shirts for a half second exhale through the nose; '[women] [make] [awesomest] [world]', '[drunk] [cigarettes] [do] [not] [count]', '[your] [mom]'. It's soft hum plays beneath the tension.
The floor creaks as you make your way, signaling your entry. Buck's eyes flitter up for an instant, only to look up again as you lean against the counter, despite the discomfort as it digs into your waist. He exhales at your presence, bare-faced, having wiped off your make-up in the bathroom, with a shy smile tugging your cheeks.
He's hunched over the worksurface, stirring the bags of chamomile into each respective mug, mismatched. Holding out a cup out to you with a tight lipped smile, your fingers graze as you take the drink, the soft ember that sat in the pit of your stomach since the phone call lit up once again, hitching your breath. Bucky clears his throat, ducking his head to hide the faint blush on his cheeks and the tips of his ears.
"I got your favourite movie paused in the other room," you hum inquisitively as you press the mug to your lips, sipping softly, letting the warmth seep onto your tastebuds. "Almost Famous."
He keeps stirring the teabag around his cup, evading eye contact. You beam softly at his remembrance. "That's on streaming now?"
Shaking his head, he taps the spoon against the rim and lays it on the surface, facing you fully. "No, I-uh, I got the DVD."
“Really?" He nods, "For me?”
“For you,” he replies immediately. Then, quieter, “So you’d have it here.”
Your throat tightens. Holding the ceramic against your mouth, your arm comes up to cross over your chest.
He lifts the tea to his lips but doesn’t drink, letting the scent ease his mind. He sighs, approaching warily before he asks, “… Can I ask?”
You nod once and his cup clicks against the countertop, "why do you keep choosing the most emotionally unavailable guys?"
You snort, "straight to the point."
"I'm serious."
Leaning against the edge of the counter, inhaling deeply. The scent of the tea and Bucky lingers in the air. His cologne, the one you helped him pick out last spring; bergamot, with a hint of spice.
You huff as it hits your nose and pools in your stomach, "You're gonna laugh."
"I wont." he replies plainly, arms crossed, lips tight.
You can barely look at him in the eye, voice low and anxious, as if you've never told him your deepest secrets in the dead of night. You set your mug down beside his.
"I think… I believe I can fix them," shrugging stiffly, you proceed feebly. "Don't know why. Something dumb inside me thinks I have this power to change them, prove people wrong when they tell me i'm just gonna get my heart broken."
Before you could register, Bucky stood upright. "Sweetheart," his hands hold your shoulders, facing him fully. His thumbs drag softly against your collarbones, barely there touches that tingle too hard and make your heartbeat shudder.
He has this smile on his face, lazy and sweet, the kind he gets after a movie marathon that ends with your head on his shoulder, trying to fight off sleep. A gentle tilt of his lips, and you cant help but stare at how pink they look.
"You dont need to prove people wrong, or fix anyone. At all. Nobody does," his thumbs don't stop their movements, but his hands — his big, warm hands — slowly move upwards. "You, of all people, don't deserve to put all your time and energy on some asshole who won't even think twice about you. 'Fixing' someone isn't your problem, it's not your responsibility, it's theirs."
You gulp, his hands rest against the nape of your neck like they're meant to be there, thumbs against your throat, right where your pulse thumps under his pads. It's his turn to pause, to swallow.
Silence rings thickly through the kitchen.
"Is this okay?"
Without a thought, your own hands slip around his wrists, keeping him in place. "Yeah— yes."
He nods, looking down at the floor like it had answers. Breathing in deep, expeling with puffed cheeks, he faces you again, whispering, "can I tell you something?"
"Anything." You reply. Your own thumbs graze the silky skin of his inner wrists, a move unconsious, instinctive.
"I—I, You—" shaking his head, you smile softly at his flustered expression. He inhales again.
"I've been right here," he confesses, "watching them constantly disappoint you, use you. It makes me want to say, do, something so selfish."
Your breath hitches, hands tighten around his arms. You're so sure he can feel how hard your heart is beating through your neck, how it bumps against the henley against your chest.
"Selfish?" You ask, "how?"
He trails up your neck, tighter than before, a hold that showed protection. Fingers tangling within your locks, unlocking another hitch from your lungs without permission. You only just notice how close you two stand, chests grazing, breath against breath. And his eyes, those gorgeous blues that now sit a deep navy, darker than the deepest waters ready to swallow you up, flitter between your own and your lips.
"By making sure you never second guess yourself," he inches closer, "by giving you what you deserve," dipping down closer, his breath mingles against your slack lips, touching with barely there grazes that make your knees weak. "By letting myself want you out loud."
Neither of you move, letting the air shift heavier than before. The closeness, the contact of your hands on each others skin, the breath skimming lips, it all jumbles into one another, mixing with years of inside jokes, shared playlists and sleepovers, all suddenly rearrange themselves to reveal something hiding beneath a love once disguised as 'friendship'.
His name escapes without permission, your mouth desperate to feel the shape of his name. It tugs at his skin, "I have to show you how much you mean to me, sweetheart."
Your hands find his shirt so naturally. Bucky inhales sharply, like he’s been waiting, like all the restraint he's been holding, keeping in check, can finally overflow.
The kiss is breathless. Deep, certain, clumsy with desperation and unspoken words, your tummy knots with just how sweet it feels to be needed like air.
His hands that tangled into your hair now drag down your torso, steady on your hips, anchoring you as everything from hours before collapses. Mugs sit forgotten as his touch grazes lower and his body turns to pin your back against the counter. The world narrows to heat and breath, the way you hum into his mouth, and the way he murmurs your name like it’s something sacred.
Your body moves on it's own. Legs parting, hands clutching his waist as his tongue swipes your bottom lip, and you accept him like you always have. Bucky slots himself between your thighs, pushing you both closer and closer, and you feel the unmistakable shape of his erection pressing into your hip. You whine in surprise as it drags against you, grabbing his waist, pressing yourself into him. He smirks into the kiss, pulling back an inch, letting the cold tip of his nose skim your cheek.
"I know," he soothes, palming down to your thighs, pressing a soft kiss against your lips, "I know, baby. C'mon, up for me." He lifts you, now sitting atop the surface and he closes the distance like no time passed.
As your hands find refuge in his hair, Bucky fingers the waistband of your sweats, tucking them into the elastic at your lower back, grabbing fistfuls of your flesh, moving your hips into his own until the two of you meet in between with a corse gasp.
"Can I take these off?" He rasps against your cheek, trailing lower with each second, and each ragged exhale that sticks to your sensitive skin. "Talk to me, baby."
"Yes, yes please."
Buck's smile melts into your skin. Pressing open mouthed kisses from your jaw down to your neck, all the while his hands keep tugging the flesh of your ass, each grab becoming needier and harder as he wanders his lips down, licking and sucking. You gasp with each peck, head tipping back in ecstasy, allowing him more freedom against your tendons, grazing his teeth, nipping at your collar, only to sooth with his wet tongue.
The feeling was immeasurable, fingers curling against his soft tufts, tugging him back with a dissipated pop, spit stringing from your neck against his plump lips.
Squeezing, he nuzzles back into your clavicle, "Hips up, there we go."
Hooking your ankles behind his back and hoisting yourself up with your hands pressed against the worktop, he frees your bottom-half, tugging the sweatpants down your legs.
Unlocking your legs from behind, Bucky begins his descent. Lower, shearing over his own shirt, humming into the fabric, pinching with his lips and teeth against the curve of your breasts in worshipful reverence, before following his hands, pushing the pants off your socked feet.
Dabbing chaste kisses to your knees as he presents himself between them, he sits obediently. Palms warm atop your knees, keeping them spread wide, lips and jaw open in soft pants that tickle your inner thighs, and his eyes lock in to the sight of your panty clad core. Black lace. A matching set you kept 'just in case'. You watch him stare from above, hands slightly slipping from sweat, watching him lean in closer to where you ache for him, clutching you wide by the soft skin of your thighs.
Opening you up, he huffs a harsh breath, hot on the dampening cloth.
"Wow," he drags out, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. His thumbs pull you open, tugging each side of your lips against the lace, trapping your clit, stroking your velvety skin up and down. The shock twitches your hips, bucking your knees up, placing one foot on his shoulder, letting the other open wider. "Wore these for, what… that guy?"
Warmth blossoms from top to bottom. A new etch of redness soaks your face, as a new wave of arousal paints the lace. The scent of it hits him and his heart rate picks up, cock stiffening against his boxers, sore and craving. You begin to protest, just it's quickly silenced.
"Could've been so lucky," he sucks his teeth, "oh well." Tugging your panties off ardently, he shoves them in his pack pocket. You laugh airily, but it's quickly overthrown by a shocked gasp as his mouth finally dives between your thighs.
One long broad swipe of his tongue, flat against your cunt, collecting your arousal against his taste buds. You call out his name, one hand rakes through the back his head, grounding you, while the other steadies against the counter. Groaning, his lips purse around your clit, suckling the nerve before placing a debauched kiss atop. He pushes spit out his mouth, drooling over your lips and pulling back with a grin.
"Taste better than I imagined," he grunts. Suddenly his thumb swipes over your folds, collecting the dribble falling down, smearing it up, before pressing the pad on your clit. Soft, eager, circles that make your abs clench and jaw drop. Breathy moans and whines fill the quiet of his apartment.
He looks up at you with adoration, "sound better too." He purrs, diving straight back home, nuzzling into your cunt, moving his thumb out of the way to tease your entrance with a finger. His tongue slides through your lips, locking through your arousal, wiping broad licks over your clit. You tip your head back, eyelids fluttering as he spreads you apart.
Heaving, your legs already shake, thighs trembling, pussy pulsing in his hold, while each and every inch of your body erupts with tingles of bliss. His words don't register, can't. Not while your mind and body are too occupied with his dual attack. Tongue swiping over your clit; sucking, spitting, all while he eases his middle finger inside.
"Oh-Oh… Fuck!" Your grip tightens on his scalp, eliciting a sudden moan, vibrating right against you and up your spine. Pleasure ruptures inside of you, a bittersweet ache settling in your thighs and lower back, chest heaving as your nipples peak beneath your bra.
"So fuckin' tight, Jesus, sweetheart," he says, lips pressed onto you like he didn't want to leave. A soft laugh eases, puffing air and soft reverberation, your walls cinch around his digit. His free hand pinches at your thigh, dipping into the flesh, holding you wide open for him to explore.
"Gotta to open you up real good…" He contemplates, finger curling slowly inside of you, instantly grazing your soft spot, making you gasp and hips stutter. "There she is… Right there, huh?"
Your hips move on their own vocation as he speeds up his pace, kissing your clit again and again, suctioning onto your bud and laving up your flavour, slurping up your slick straight from the source.
You're too focused on his mouth — the lewd slurps he drags out, collecting your taste like nectar, you're sure the mix of his saliva and your cum now sits in a puddle below you — to notice the second finger easing beside his middle. Only when it eases, when the two start moving in tandem, do you register the fullness. He scissors them, urging you open, curling them as they settle in deep, before retreating back. Bucky keeps up a routine, speeding up as your walls contract and pulse.
"Gonna cum, baby?" He traces, words mumbled on your slick skin. You can barely talk, not with how messy he eats, how he talks with his mouth full, feasting like a starved man, rendering a service only for your pleasure — so you nod fervently, humming out as you do, bottom lip caught between your teeth.
He moves his free hand up, grabbing your ass to pull you closer towards the edge, kneading and rubbing, while his fingers keep petting and stroking your spongy spot. Whines and moans stay locked and murmured behind your clenched teeth as he works you open and towards release.
"Mouth open, wanna hear you cum, wanna know what you sound like," Bucky slurs. Your brain, now turned into mush, complies without protest. Your jaw slacks and lips part in harsh breaths and whines, chest heaving with each sound, giggling at yourself and how good this feels, how good he is.
Your ankles lock up against his back, keeping him trapped between your thighs, and he moans. Pulsing, the sounds you coaxed from him hit you like a train. Muscles tense, walls constrict. You lock up in a silent cry, hips twitching with your throbbing cunt as you release over his fingers. Working you through it, he eases them in time with your ebbing finish. Soft strokes of his fingers, slowly moving out, and leaving your clit with the softest kiss, making you flinch from overstimulation.
Your eyes ease shut for a moment, harsh pants weakening, and one second he's on the floor, the next, your mouth fills with an unfamiliar taste. Salty and sweet, a musk that brings a brand new ache to your still pulsing need between your thighs.
Bucky crosses your legs behind him again, and find themselves on your ass, hoisting you up around him, hard on pressed against your roused pussy, soaking his crotch in your mixed stickiness, making a rumble roll from his chest. His pants are too fucking tight.
"Bed," he breathes on your lips, already down the hall, pushing his door open with his back and kicking it shut. "Wanna do this properly."
He kisses you with severity, a heightened furiosity looms inside his gut. Now he's got a taste of you, now that you marked his mouth and fingers, he can't let go.
Laying you against the sheets of his bed, his lips rest their relentless attack, pulling back to throw his shirt to the floor, revealing his toned midsection. Your eyes follow the trail of hair down from below his navel, and into his waistband. His lips skirt across yours, licking the swell. "Tell me you want this," he whispers, "tell me you want me."
You suck in a breath, "I want you, Bucky," wiggling your hips enough to graze your bare heat against the fabric against his stiff cock. Jaw tight as you buck your hips, hissing through grated teeth, "fuck, I need you."
He stills you, hands wrapped around your pelvis, pushing you into the mattress. "You have all of me, sweetheart," Knees parting your own, widening for him.
His graze moved to your wrists, "need these, baby, desperately need 'em," God, if you knew his dirty talk was this hot, you would've grinded on his lap twelve study sessions ago. Placing your hands to his crotch, you cupped the stiffness, holding him fully within your palm. Heavy was all your brain could conjure while your fingers tentatively and curiously squeezed.
"Take 'em off for me, sweetheart— that's it, good girl."
Sure, you've been friends for a long while, seeing him in baggy sweats on lazy days, sometimes even noticing the lack of underwear when he does — consequently noticing him pressing against his thigh, or poking out while he walks — but nothing, not even what your imagination would conjure up late at night or while shamefully sneaking glances, would you ever believe what he was carrying around.
"You're staring, sweet girl," his palms tap your cheek gently, just enough to throw you out of your daze, "whats on your mind?"
You swallow, trying to coax any wetness to your drying mouth while your eyes flicker between his soft gaze and dripping cock. Your friend's cock that now sits heavy against his right thigh, bobbing, twitching, drooling, while you watch with parted lips.
"… You've been carrying around that thing this entire time?"
"You surprised?"
Your eyes widen a fraction, "I-I mean, Jesus, Bucky."
He hums, smoothing over your cheek, "you can take it, princess, I know you can," he taps again, "on your back, sweetheart, c'mon."
You do as you're told, lying back against his pillows, knees parted and open as he followed suit. Crawling over you, positioning himself on his haunches, and you could feel his bare cock press against your wet heat as he pushes your shirt up your tummy and over the mounds of your breasts, leaving the fabric bunched around your collar.
Bucky stares down in awe, hands dragging up and down your sides, fingertips graze the scratchy cloth where it dips into your flesh. Bottom lip blanching between his teeth, fixed at each bump with blown, dark eyes, unable to comprehend the sight in front of him. He shakes his head, a dumbfounded sound puffs from his nose.
"A matching set," he hums, "God, you sure know how to make a guy happy, huh sweetheart?"
Blushing, you turn away from his sight. Hands rendered useless by your shoulders, and grumble into the sheets below. "Shut up, Buck."
"Something about you in my clothes… Under me with my shirt on," he ponders, hands pinching and grabbing at your tits, "you look so fucking beautiful, sweetheart, makes me wanna tear you apart."
A soft plea falls from your lips, a mewl hidden under your breath as he dips his hands beneath the lace and tweaks your nipples that were hidden under your flimsy bra. Your breath comes ragged and uneven, chest caving under his touch while his crotch slots against your own like a puzzle piece. Cock resting over your slick, pushing forward in tiny, subtle ruts forward, his tip laid over your tummy while you coat his shaft and heavy balls with your sticky mess.
"You like that? Want me to split you open? Make you forget everything except my name and how full you feel?" Leaning forward, he rests a hand beside your head, his other stays on your chest, pinching your tit. "Talk to me, baby, tell me what you need."
You whine out, arms slinging over your eyes in a mix of defeat and embarrassment. "I want all of it! I want you, so bad… Fuck, Bucky, it hurts," you laugh under your breath, tipping your hips up to try and drag his head into you somehow. You groan at the wet sounds you create, whispers spilling from the loose faucet your mouth turned into, "please, please, please—"
"Needy thing just begging so good for me," he lifts himself up again, wicked smirk plastered on his face, moving your arms away from your eyes to get a good full look at you. "Don't worry, pretty girl, just let me do all the work. Let me make you feel so good."
His head falls back in a light groan as he reaches between you, holding his cock by the base, swiping up and down your lips to coat himself. Provoking you onward as he slaps his tip on your clit, quick taps quick to sting, making you gasp and twitch, legs falling open wider.
A deep moan resonates through his chest, easing the crown of his cock forward and inside you, watching how your hole swallows him. You choke on a gasp, mouth open as he softly eases his girth with easy jerks until you sheathe him fully.
"Oh fuck." Bucky leans forward, chest to chest, and your hands scramble to touch anything of him, clutching around his back, soothing upwards, until one holds onto his shoulder, and the other claims his hair again. Your lungs stutter with whines, caving in against his weight only to pull him into you tighter, trembling from the big stretch.
Heaven feels like a lost cause now that he finally knows what you feel, taste and sound like. Your walls clench and throb around him, so soft and warm, sliding right in, resistance be damned, the strain soothed with how turned on and ready he got you. He groans a sound deep from his chest, forearms rest beside your head. He tries so hard to keep it together.
Your lips graze his jaw, crawling down his neck with soft nips and kitten licks, washing off his sweat with your tongue. He moans fortuitously, and his hips start to shift. Soft grinds in and out, his sounds stick to your shoulder, ragged breaths and whispered praises into your bones, making you strangle his shaft as he works, pace quickening, wet slaps sound around the room. Pumping into you, he just can't hold it any longer, you make him so greedy and selfish
"Bucky." You sigh, grinding your hips back and forth, matching his pace. Each buck has his tip sliding through your wet inside, so tight, he keens as you throb.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Sitting upright, back on his heels, Bucky pulls you towards his thrusts by your hips, using the momentum to push inside. Pounding into you frenziedly, corse fuzz tickling your clit with each jolt, soft tongue dipping out of his parted lips as he pants from the exertion. "God, you feel amazing."
He smooths a palm on your skin until his thumb skims across your clit again. The overload of pleasure stimulated to your already abused and puffy nerves drives a cry from your throat. Your nails dig into his shoulders, deep crescents marking his flesh for days to come, mouth open, unable to silence the onslaught of wanton moans and sighs that escape as he pierces your cunt over and over, and over again. You both look down your body, watching how he disappears inside, how you grip around his girth, how absolutely soaked his cock is — you both moan at the sight, and Bucky rolls his hips, faster, fucking into you, breath trembling with each thrust.
Throwing your head back and plunges it into the pillow, you moan, and that's when he knows he's found the right spot. He pushes his dick against it, over and over as you tighten furiously, pulsing in time with your rapid heartbeat. Your jaw clenches, unable to voice or warn him of your rapture. Squeezing his cock in a tight, sopping embrace as your eyes shut tight, hands ball into fists beside your head and back arches. Bucky doesn't slow, he doesn't relent, only drags out your orgasm with harder jabs, plunging roughly with a smirk on his face.
The tightness spreads across his pelvis like a wildfire, aching his chest. He curses under his breath while his hips stutter, shaking his head, spraying tiny droplets of sweat across your skin. Involuntarily, you clench again at the stains on your skin.
"Coming on my cock that quick, huh?" He pries breathlessly. Sweat trickles down his temples, dripping onto your belly and chest. Your head wracks with words, only for your mouth to fail you, slurring each sentence into whispers.
Pausing for a split second, he flips you both over, lying on his back and cradling you in his arms, keeping you slumped against his chest with his cock sitting snug and stiff inside.
"One more, sweet girl. I know you can do it." His hands reposition you, folding your knees to bracket his waist, making sure your face rests contented against his collarbone, before smoothing up your back, pacifying you, until a tired confirmation hums out.
"Please," you're liquid in his arms, limbs rendered useless, you sluggishly attempt to wrap your hands around his neck and arch a rhythm back into your aching folds. "Yes, please."
Leaning down, Bucky presses a kiss to your forehead, earning a high pitched hum. His knees prop up, feet plastered onto the sheets below. Big, warm palms now clutch the flesh of your ass as he strains, "Atta girl."
Brutal, swift, splitting. Skin slapping on skin, your wetness spits with each slap given with Buck's hips thrusting up and into you at a tranquillizing pace, frantically boring into you.
You cry out a moan, "Wanna be good for you." The pain of overstimulation mixing with the skin on skin contact and just how perfect he's hitting your spots.
"So fucking good," he replies in a growl, fingers obsessive against your cheeks, holding so tight, squeezing, you're sure to have bruises adorning the flesh by the morning. Head swinging back into the pillow with a snarl, jaw clenching, his hips don't wander off rhythm, holding this searing pleasure as he fucks into your used cunt like a fleshlight. "God, you're so fucking good."
The praise tugs everywhere in your body, pleasure unable to hold back when his encouragements exhales so smoothly from his lips. Your pussy flutters erratically, a fluctuating pattern that spasms harshly with bliss, humming into his neck with each pump his hips drive up into you — orgasm pulling from your depths, washing over you with a shiver, shaking in his hold as he digs inside, dragging it out again, begging you to feel how amazing he makes you feel. Bucky can't care how hard he's thrusting, especially now, as you choke his cock and his balls tighten.
A whine leaves his mouth as he whispers pleas, his thrusts starting to stutter. Red lips, wet with saliva and plump from kisses, part with heaving breaths —his brow furrows, nose crinkling like an angry kitten.
"Where… where—"
"Inside…" you beg, nosing into his neck, painting his collar with soft 'please, please, please's, drooling on him slightly.
His movements become frantic, body convulsing as he lunges upwards, pulling your hips down into his once, then twice, before he buries himself inside of you. Release and solace glaze his body as he fills you with his cum — palms clenching your skin as he humps up in tiny ruts with each rope, fucking it deep inside of you.
He pulls back after a couple of seconds, fingers easing, hips lowering softly, as he manoeuvres the both of you to the side, making sure his softening cock stays sheathed inside of your still pulsing warmth, until he's left on top of you. He lets the two of you catch your breaths, still and close in an embrace.
One arm props himself up beside your head, his free hand holds your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, making sure you're facing him. He smiles at your features, eyes lazily shut, dribble drying at the edge of your lips, your head a dead-weight in his palm.
"You feelin' okay?" He murmurs, squishing your cheeks a little to get your attention.
You manage to coax out a hum, sleepy and satisfied.
"You did so good for me, princess."
You hum again, softer this time, a small acknowledgement.
Bucky stills himself, pausing his soft caresses against your skin. You feel a huff of warm air expel against your face, a gentle rumble of his body over yours.
"I fucked you good, didn't I." He asks, so sure of himself. And even in your daze, you can't even lie.
"… mhm." You moan softly, eyebrows bowing, cunt squeezing around him. He chuckles softly, warm breath sticking to your cheek and neck as he leans forward to lay soft kisses against your skin.
"Oh, baby," he coos, voice a mumbled vibration of amusement, nuzzling closer to your face, trailing his smile wherever he could, "got my sweet girl all dumb just from my cock. Fuck, you're so pretty like this. Should keep you here forever."
With just enough energy, you nod. The hand that held your cheek moved up to your hair, smoothing his thumb over your hairline in soft strokes.
"Yeah? Wanna stay in my bed all full and cock drunk for me?" He asks, voice pitching higher. He kisses your lips, clumsy while your mind hovers ten steps behind, and he adds in a breath. "Want you to be mine. Don't gotta worry about valentines day anymore, sweetheart, not when I'm here. Not when I got you all plugged up with my cum."
He shifts his hips, bucking with emphasis, watching how you gasp. Sore and full, exhausted and his.
Another chuckle rumbles up his chest, exhaling through his nose. He nuzzles into you again, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I'll wake you in an hour, make you sip some water and eat."
Biting your lip to hide a smile, you turn away, failing with a tiny snort that burns inside of him.
"There she is," he whispers, "there's my girl." Nuzzling into your hair, unbothered and relaxed, breathing in the scent of sex that's glued to your skin.
"Go on, baby, get some rest," his thumb caresses your forehead, the repeated coax, the tenderness — his whispers, his stretch, his warmth — it all seeps deep into your skin and eases into the nighttime. "I'll take you on a real date tomorrow, hm? No cowards this time, just you and me."
Your heart aches against your ribs as you fall deeper and deeper into sleep. His soft pillows against your head, while his naked chest blankets your own — a dual warmth created by the both of you.
Tomorrow can't come soon enough. Even with memories of the morning after sleepovers as teens and study dates in college that ended in all-nighters fuelled by redbull and pure perseverance. You can't wait to see his sleepy figure against the morning light. Brown hair haloed by the sun, palms pressed against newly discovered skin, clammy from how long he's kept them there in his subconscious. Mumbling 'good morning's, stretching into groans, tired kisses with morning breath neither of you care about.
It's all brand new, and you don't have any reason to be scared. Not with your best friend holding your hand the whole way through.
a/n 2: no pizza and 'almost famous' 4 u lolol maybe next time babies :P
[id. A twitter post by @/Bennieeexyz
Jury duty letter came addressed to my cat.
Not a mistake. "Felix Martinez" - that's his full name according to his vet records.
My last name. His first name. Somehow he's a registered voter now.
Called the county clerk.
Me: My cat got summoned for jury duty.
Clerk: Is the name correct on the summons?
Me: Yes, but he's a cat.
Clerk: Is Felix Martinez a legal resident of this county?
Me: He's a legal cat.
Clerk: Sir, if the name matches our records, he needs to appear or file an exemption.
Me: He can't file anything. He has paws.
Clerk: You can file on his behalf.
Me: Under what exemption? There's no box for "is a cat."
Clerk: (pause) Check "unable to serve due to medical reasons."
Me: What's the medical reason?
Clerk: He's a cat.
Me: That's not a medical condition.
Clerk: It is if it prevents him from serving.
Sent in the form. Got rejected two weeks later.
"Insufficient documentation. Please provide medical professional's statement."
Took the letter to my vet.
Me: I need you to write that my cat can't do jury duty.
Vet: Why is your cat summoned for jury duty?
Me: Excellent question. No good answer.
Vet: This is the weirdest request I've gotten.
Me: Can you just write that he's medically unfit to serve?
Vet: On what grounds?
Me: He's a cat.
Vet: (started typing) "Patient is unable to serve due to species-related limitations including inability to speak, read, or comprehend legal proceedings."
Me: Perfect.
Sent it in. Got another rejection.
"Summons is mandatory. Failure to appear will result in contempt of court."
My roommate thought this was hilarious.
Roommate: Felix is going to jail.
Me: This is serious.
Roommate: Bring him to court. See what happens.
Decided that was actually the only option left.
Day of jury duty, put Felix in his carrier. Brought the entire paper trail of rejection letters.
Checked in at the courthouse.
Clerk: Name?
Me: Felix Martinez.
Clerk: (looked at the cat carrier) Is that Felix?
Me: Yes.
Clerk: (long stare) He's a cat.
Me: I've been saying that for six weeks.
Clerk: Why didn't you file an exemption?
Me: I filed three. All rejected.
Showed her the letters. She read through them, expression shifting from confusion to disbelief.
Clerk: Someone rejected the veterinary documentation?
Me: Twice.
Clerk: (called her supervisor over) You need to see this.
Supervisor read everything. Looked at Felix. Looked at me.
Supervisor: How did a cat get registered to vote?
Me: You tell me.
Supervisor: This is a data error.
Me: Took you six weeks to figure that out.
They dismissed Felix immediately. Apologized for the inconvenience.
Supervisor: We'll remove him from the voter registry.
Me: Appreciate it.
Supervisor: (pause) Out of curiosity, how would he have voted?
Me: Probably whatever party supports universal treats.
Got a formal apology letter a week later and a voter registration card.
For me this time. Apparently I wasn't registered, but my cat was.
Roommate: Felix committed voter fraud.
Me: Felix committed nothing. He's innocent.
Roommate: That's what they all say.
Felix is sleeping on the jury summons now.
Fitting end to his legal career.
end id]
bucky x personal assistant!reader
personal assistant rules: don’t crush on bucky barnes. definitely don’t misinterpret a flower purchase and spiral into silent heartbreak, and absolutely never ever get stuck alone with him in an elevator.
── tags ✿
18+ content minors dni, smut, oral (f receiving), public (ish) sex?, wall sex (?), okay they fuck in an elevator guys, kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, insecure/self-conscious reader undertones, reader is an overthinker, reader is horny lol, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything
word count: 9.1k
── authors note ✿
hi, hopefully this will keep you all fed while i work on part five to lessons in lovemaking. finally getting around to some of these requests in my inbox. this one is based off this request, but i changed it up so the reader is a PA instead of an avenger. lmk your thoughts thanx for reading <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.
── main masterlist ⋆˚✿˖°
You’d never pegged Natasha as the type who enjoyed flowers.
No, she struck you more as the encrypted-flash-drive-on-a-park-bench type, the kind of woman who appreciated mysteries with teeth. A custom leather jacket, stitched with the same precision she used to dismantle a glock. One of those sleek, low motorcycles. Not daisies. Not peonies. And definitely not whatever soft, pastel nonsense Bucky was currently handing over cash for.
You stood a few feet away, halfway hidden behind a sidewalk sign advertising oat milk lattes and gluten-free muffins, clutching a cardboard drink tray and a bag full of vegan pastries in a death grip. The barista had spelt ‘Bruce’ as ‘Broose’ again, and under any other circumstance, that would've made you laugh, but now it felt like the most irrelevant thing in the world.
You liked Natasha. You respected her. You just didn’t think she had it in her to giggle over roses like the girls in those sappy rom-coms Clint insisted he hated (right before he would watch three in a row, a beer in each hand). But there Bucky was, brushing pollen off a bouquet of pale pink ranunculus, face soft in a way you’d never seen during mission briefings or sparring sessions.
And suddenly, you were building a list in your head of all the things you were sure Natasha Romanoff would rather receive as a romantic gesture: a knife, balanced perfectly for throwing, an expensive bottle of vodka, a vintage chess set with hand-carved pieces, a bottle of expensive ink and a fountain pen with a sharp nib, cookies—messy ones—overloaded with chocolate chips, or simply just black coffee, straight from the pot, no sugar, no cream. Yet, as Bucky handed it over to the redhead, she smiled. Smiled. And suddenly you felt like you were witnessing a scene you were not welcome to.
Truthfully, it stung. Maybe it stung a little more than what was appropriate. You’d been harbouring a quiet crush on the dark-haired, sullen supersoldier from the moment he joined the team. Fresh out of Wakanda, new vibranium arm in tow, and god, he was handsome. Not in the polished, television commercial way Steve was, but in a way that made your pulse skip and your thoughts stall mid-sentence. He had the kind of face you didn’t know how to look at for too long, sharpened jaw, stormy-blue eyes, and a mouth that always looked on the verge of saying something he’d regret.
There was something electric about his stillness. Like if you leaned in close enough, you’d hear the hum of danger beneath his skin. He walked like a man who never quite trusted, drifting through the tower like he expected a fight around every corner. He barely spoke, but when he did, his voice was low and gravel-worn, something that settled right in your gut and made its home there.
He never smiled. Not really. But sometimes—sometimes—you’d catch a flicker of it when Sam teased him, or when Steve nudged him just right, and it was devastating.
And yeah, maybe you had a soft spot for broken things trying to heal.
As the Avengers’ personal assistant, it was your job to keep everyone comfortable, informed, and running like clockwork. You were a one-person organisational machine, constantly juggling the chaos that came with managing a tower full of enhanced individuals with the emotional range of a brick wall to a nuclear reactor. Your days were a blur of colour-coded schedules, back-to-back briefings, and the never-ending group chats.
You coordinated mission debriefs, booked international flights with military clearance, and handled press requests that would make most people cry. You endured complaints when Thor overloaded the power grid again, trying to make toast, and even replaced the mugs he shattered before anyone noticed. You wrangled Clint’s kids when they came to visit, sourced obscure snacks from remote parts of the world because Sam liked those protein bars, not the other ones, and Steve wouldn’t touch anything processed. You replaced a record number of coffee machines, hunted down whatever special detergent could get oil out of Tony’s designer shirts. You knew which brand of muscle balm Banner preferred and how to order it without triggering a random Homeland Security check.
And then there was Bucky.
With him, it was always a little extra, whether he noticed or not. His schedule came first in your Monday morning rounds. You made sure the pantry was stocked with the Eastern European tea he liked but never asked for, and remembered the exact setting he preferred on the tower’s training room temperature controls. You adjusted group plans so he’d be paired with Steve or Sam, just in case the crowds and questions became overwhelming. When he disappeared for a few hours, you didn’t ask questions, but you made sure no one came looking. You even swapped out the scratchy tags in his mission gear with soft ones, because he never complained, but you noticed the way he fidgeted with them.
Every day, you’d beam at him like some hopelessly love-struck idiot when you handed over his usual coffee—black, two brown sugars, just the way he liked it—and in return, he’d offer little more than a grunt. A low, barely-there sound that most people wouldn’t even register as a greeting. But you did. Somehow, that grunt became the highlight of your day.
So yeah, maybe seeing him hand over flowers to Natasha broke something in you. Not just a hairline fracture, but a quiet, splintering break that left your chest aching in places you didn’t know could hurt. Still, you understood. Natasha belonged to his world, effortlessly cool, all smoke, shadows and secrets. Yet she was kind. Not cold or unapproachable, just… carved from something rarer than you. The kind of woman who didn’t need to try to be extraordinary, she just was.
And you? You were the sweet, well-meaning assistant who made people laugh in the kitchen, who fetched dry cleaning and remembered everyone’s birthdays. You were the one who labelled tupperware and chased down Clint’s kids with bandaids. You were an afterthought, the background noise in the buzzing hive which was the Avengers Tower.
So maybe you could justify feeling jealous, but angry? No. Not really. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. And it wasn’t their fault that you’d let yourself hope.
Two weeks later, and you timed it perfectly, like you always did.
Just as the door to Bucky’s apartment clicked open, you rounded the corner—folder in hand, clipboard tucked tight to your side. The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of ventilation and the soft thud of your heels against the carpet. Bucky stepped out, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair tied back, and his hoodie sleeves shoved up just enough to show the gleam of vibranium. Predictable. It was routine, every morning just before six he would meet with Steve in the gym. On Mondays, you’d catch him just as he exited his apartment, unload the details for the week, a freshly printed schedule and all.
“Morning,” you said lightly, handing him the week’s itinerary. His reply was his usual, a grunt. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just Bucky. That gruff, barely-there sound that once felt like a small victory. The kind of grunt that used to warm your chest when he followed it with a question, even if you knew the answer was printed in the folder you’d triple-checked. You always answered anyway. You liked having his attention, even just for a few seconds.
You used to dress the folders up with care, multicoloured sticky notes marking key tasks (blue for meetings, yellow for reminders, red for anything urgent and green for personal events). You’d highlight sections like traffic lights, add stickers you thought might make him smile, sometimes even scribble little crooked cartoons in the margins with cheesy encouragements—seize the day!
The folder looked rather sad today, just a plain manila folder packed with stapled papers. No colours. No stickers. No effort. Just the essentials. You didn’t let your fingers dawdle when he took it. Didn’t smile like you used to. Just handed it over and kept your gaze somewhere past his shoulder.
Bucky took it slowly, eyes flicking down at the cover like he was trying to spot something that wasn’t there. His brow pinched, barely, but enough for you to notice. His fingers lingered on the edge of the folder, like he thought maybe he’d missed a note tucked inside.
You nodded and turned to leave, forcing yourself to shift your mind to your next chore mentally, restocking med supplies in the Quinjet, cross-checking Clint’s revised travel forms, hunting down the coffee machine Tony had threatened to ‘repurpose as target practice’. You’d have to order a replacement before the morning debrief. Double-check everyone’s dietary preferences. Update Steve on the tech room schedule. Get maintenance to repaint the lines in the training room because someone (probably Thor) had scuffed them again.
You stayed busy. It helped. Kind of.
But the guilt still trailed you like a shadow.
It was probably obvious how abruptly you changed. The way your voice had lost its warmth. The way your gaze dodged his like it might burn you. You wondered if he noticed, if he thought you'd simply grown tired of him. Maybe he had. That was better than the truth that you couldn’t stand to be near him, not when every glance felt like pressing fingers to a bruise you’d caused yourself.
You had made your choice, professionalism. The kind of cool, curated detachment you admired in Natasha, only it felt all wrong on you, like an ill-fitting coat. You knew it was for the better, not mixing up work and matters of the heart. You’d already let your little crush spiral too far, thinking maybe—just maybe—if you tried hard enough, you’d earn more than a grunt. That he might see you as something more than the charming assistant with her clipboard and her stupid stickers. But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t. And that was fine. It had to be.
You couldn’t afford to fall apart over a man who had no idea he’d broken your heart.
But it was Bucky’s voice, soft and unsure, that startled you from your thoughts. “Hey.”
You paused mid-step and turned, forcing a tight smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes as your fingers curled against the clipboard. “What’s up?”
He shifted his weight, clearly caught off guard by the fact that you stopped walking at all. He was rather devastating to look at when he grew all shy and unsure, fingers fidgeting against the edge of the folder like he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t quite meet your eye as his weight shifted nervously, like he hadn’t thought before he called out.
“Uh. Nothin’. Just—” He raised the folder slightly, an awkward gesture. “You usually give me the rundown. Y’know… what everyone’s doing. Who’s where. Who I’m stuck with.”
You swallowed. Of course, he’d noticed. Of course, he’d grown used to your chatter about meetings and mission rosters, about who was off-world and who was due back, like it was the weather. The casual, effortless way you used to tell him what movie was playing, who cheated at Monopoly the night before, or which team member had stolen the last protein bar. You’d always done it to help, keep him grounded, and make him feel like part of the team, like he belonged.
But after what you’d seen two weeks ago, you were sure he didn’t need that from you anymore. Natasha would look out for him now. She’d keep him balanced, keep him fed, keep him from slipping through the cracks.
“Nothing interesting’s happening,” you shrugged. “Just the usual.”
He didn’t move. “Well… there’s that dinner. On Friday.”
You gave a curt nod, tone clipped. “Yes.”
“Wanda’s dinner,” he added, as if you hadn’t already acknowledged it.
“Correct.”
He hesitated again, brows drawing together in a faint crease of worry. You could see him floundering, stuck in some internal scramble. It made your chest ache because you knew that look. You’d helped talk him down from that look more times than anyone else in the tower probably realised.
You sighed quietly through your nose, against your better judgment, against every wall you’d tried to build in the past week, you caved. He looked five seconds away from spiralling.
“It’s in there,” you offered gently, nodding toward the folder. “On your schedule.”
“Right. It’s just… for me, you usually…” His voice trailed off, frustration and uncertainty knotting in his brow. “Sorry. You’re probably busy—”
That felt like a punch to the gut.
You shook your head and, before your pride could stop you, your feet were already moving back toward him. His eyes dropped as you reached into your pocket for a pen, scribbling ‘Wanda’s Dinner – Friday’ on a green sticky note. Green for personal events, always. You hesitated, then added a smiley face underneath. You peeled it off and stuck it neatly onto the folder in Bucky’s hands.
His eyes dropped to it, finger brushing over the paper like he didn’t quite understand why it mattered so much. “Thanks.”
You just nodded, already stepping back, spine straight, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your throat.
“She said…” Bucky cleared his throat, clearly not done with the conversation. “Wanda said she’s going to do curry.”
You paused, unsure what to do with the information. Why was he telling you that? Why was he still talking?
“That’s nice,” you said carefully, not sure what to do with this strange, lingering version of him.
“Are you going?” he asked suddenly, and you frowned.
“I wasn’t invited—” You began, already covering from the invasive thoughts, already working to mask the sting. You didn’t want to imagine them next to each other over curry, leaning close, whispering in the way people did when they thought no one else was watching. It would only make the crack in your chest worse.
“You should go,” Bucky said quickly, cutting across your thoughts. “I’ll tell Wanda you’re coming.”
“That’s not necessary. I’ll be busy that night anyway…” You lied through your teeth, heart thumping hard against your breastbone as Bucky’s face crumpled a bit. You cut in before he could argue any further. “You’re going to be late. For the gym. It’s nearly six.”
“Right, shit, yeah. Sorry, I just…” He trailed off again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. I’ll… I’ll see you around.”
You raised an eyebrow at him, unsure if you were more confused or stunned by his sudden jitters.
Before the whole flowers incident, you made it your unofficial mission to ‘accidentally’ bump into Bucky as many times as humanly possible in a day. Now? It was the opposite. Every hallway was a trap to avoid, every room a potential ambush. Navigating the Tower had turned into something between a tactical stealth op and a personal game of hide-and-seek.
Unfortunately, your strategy for quiet withdrawal hadn’t gone unnoticed.
In fact, Bucky had picked up on your sudden cold shoulder almost immediately. The folder debacle had only been the first of many increasingly awkward run-ins.
There was the time you’d practically sprinted away from the elevator when the doors slid open to reveal him standing inside, a brow raised and coffee in hand. Or when you turned a corner too fast and walked straight into him, muttering a rushed apology before disappearing again like you were being hunted. Then there was the silent, painful breakfast you’d shared at the communal kitchen counter, where you busied yourself with peeling an orange for ten minutes straight while he sat beside you, occasionally glancing over like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to begin.
You’d even pretended to be asleep on the common room couch when he walked in one evening, piles of paperwork scattered, laptop still open, only for him to drape a throw blanket over you before quietly leaving again.
And yet, instead of giving you space like you’d expected and hoped for, he seemed to find any excuse to be around you. He trailed after you like some misplaced puppy whenever he wasn’t buried in a mission or holed up in a meeting.
You’d assumed that the moment you stepped back, he’d naturally gravitate toward spending more time with Natasha. It made sense. Why wouldn’t he want to be around her? They were obviously dating, even if they hadn’t made it official yet. Maybe it was one of those quiet, close things kept just between friends, like Steve and Sam. Who were you to come barreling in and expose their secret entanglement? You expected Bucky to be relieved to no longer be on the receiving end of your babbling, your perfectly-timed coffee deliveries, or the not-so-subtle gifts you littered around.
But if anything, Bucky seemed determined to figure you out. Like your sudden shift had become his new pet project, and he was personally committed to cracking the case.
You’d taken the back hallway, the long, winding route that steered well clear of the gym on your way to the shared office. High-traffic areas were too risky now—too many chances to run into him. But clearly, Bucky had caught onto your little detours, because as you turned the corner, there he was, headed straight toward you.
You froze for half a second, pulse quickening. Turning around would be too obvious. Suspicious. He’d know exactly what you were doing, and then your carefully-constructed avoidance strategy would unravel entirely. If he suspected anything now, you were one panicked backpedal away from confirming it.
It was a nightmare. And a daydream.
A part of you, some soft, hopelessly romantic piece, ached at the sight of him, at the quiet way he seemed to look for you, worry always etched into his brow like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. But the rational part of your mind, the part that had dragged you into this self-imposed emotional lockdown, screamed that letting him get closer again would only undo all the fragile healing you’d managed to piece together.
So you steeled yourself.
Shoulders squared. Laptop and paperwork clutched like a lifeline. Eyes locked on an imaginary point just past his shoulder. If you kept walking and moved quickly, calmly, maybe he’d let you go. Perhaps he’d pretend not to notice how your pace picked up and your gaze carefully avoided his.
You nearly made it.
But of course, he noticed.
“Hey, wait—”
His voice was hesitant, just enough pressure to pull you to a stop. Your footsteps faded into the hush of the corridor, your spine straightening instinctively as you turned. Bucky stood a few paces behind, one hand lifted halfway between reaching and retreating, like he’d almost grabbed your arm but lost the nerve.
He looked sheepish. Timid, even. It killed you.
You swallowed. “Yeah?”
He scratched the back of his neck, boots scuffing lightly against the floor. “Did I… forget to grab my coffee this morning? Or… did you not bring it?”
A pause. Too long. You could feel the beat of your pulse behind your sternum as you forced a casual shake of your head.
“No, sorry. That’s on me. Slipped my mind.”
The lie didn’t sit well in your mouth.
It hadn’t slipped your mind, in fact, it was still sitting on the corner of your desk, cooling beside a stack of unfinished paperwork. You’d brewed it, as always. Even used the brown sugar he liked. But then you’d walked away from it, deliberately, like some idiotic breadcrumb trail you hoped he might follow.
God, you were pathetic.
Your stupid fucking brain couldn’t even decide what it wanted anymore. One half of you was charting escape routes through the tower to avoid him, the other was fantasising about him pinning you to the nearest wall. From the way your thighs pressed together now, breath catching as his voice brushed over you, maybe the answer wasn’t distance at all. Perhaps you just wanted to taste him—
He didn’t move. Just stood there, one brow lifted, faint worry creasing the edge of his expression.
“You’re usually down by the gym by nine,” he said, his voice low. “It’s eleven.”
“I’m running a bit behind today.”
“You usually text me if you’re running behind.”
“Well,” you said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, “I didn’t this time.”
He paused, the silence between you laced with something dangerously close to concern. “Is everything alright?”
You forced a small laugh, trying to shake off how his low, worried voice made heat pool in your gut. “Yeah. Why?”
“You seem off.”
There it was. Soft, plain and far too knowing. He said it in that maddeningly sincere way that only he could manage. Like he actually gave a damn. Like this wasn’t unravelling you by the day.
Your shoulders tensed. “Off?”
“Yeah,” he said gently. “Just… I dunno. You’ve been quiet lately.”
He didn’t know. He couldn’t know about the hours you spent spinning in your head like a lunatic, trying to compartmentalise this crush until it shrank into something survivable. About the way you’d stared blankly at Tinder profiles, your phone clutched in your hand, wondering why no one else ever came close, why none of them were him.
Why you couldn’t stop thinking that if you’d just told him—confessed that stupid crush before Natasha did—maybe you wouldn’t be standing here now like some stray mutt, sniffing around for scraps of attention.
Maybe then he’d be yours.
Maybe then you wouldn’t be fantasising about quitting just to put yourself out of your own misery like some lame racehorse.
“I’ve just got a lot on my plate,” you finally mustered, tone strained. “Tony’s soirée. The fittings. Admin crap. Didn’t even have breakfast today.”
His brows furrowed further. “That’s not good.”
“I’ll survive.”
Would you, though?
Would you survive the heat that flared low in your stomach every time he got too close? Would you survive the ache that gnawed behind your ribs every time he glanced over at Natasha like you didn’t exist? Would you survive the constant, desperate craving to be touched by him? To be looked at like she was looked at?
He didn’t speak for a second, and for a moment, you were sure he could smell the reek of desperation on you.
“The oranges in the fridge are gone.”
You blinked. “What?”
“And the tea. The fancy one,” he added. “The one with the dried raspberries in it. You’re the one who always restocks them, aren’t you?”
You looked down, fingers clenching around your folder. “I’ll add it to the list.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, stepping forward a half-inch, enough to make your breath hitch. “I just… I didn’t realise it was you. Doing all of that.”
Of course, he hadn’t because you’d made it invisible. Seamless. That was the kind of care you practised—silent, anticipatory, never asked for, never returned. You had cared for him with a thousand tiny efforts, but he never noticed until you stopped.
You looked up, and the hallway felt suddenly too narrow. His face was open in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. Gentle, confused, like he was trying to work you out and couldn’t quite bear not knowing.
You dropped your gaze. “I said I’ll do it.”
He paused. You could feel him thinking again.
Then, to your disappointment, he slowly nodded. “Okay.”
But he didn’t move. Not right away. He lingered like someone who hadn’t yet decided if leaving was the right call, like he was caught between concern and curiosity.
“I’ll leave you to it, I guess.”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just nodded and turned, walking away quickly before he could see your face fall, before he could catch the naked want in your expression, the way your heart was clawing against your ribs, screaming for you to turn around and ruin everything.
If time travel were an option, you'd gladly launch yourself into a wormhole and strangle your past self for being stupid—no, lovesick—enough to organise this little errand. You deserve it, really. A swift kick to the gut from future-you for being this hopeless.
It had all started a month ago, when you, like a fool, volunteered to collect the tailored suits and dresses for some little soirée Tony Stark had decided to throw. Of course, in true Tony fashion, what was pitched as a ‘casual get-together’ had evolved into a full-blown, black-tie spectacle. The first warning sign? Tony footing the bill for everyone to have custom outfits made to their specifications. Translation…this was going to be a thing.
You’d spent weeks wrangling Avengers into fitting appointments, helping them choose fabrics and cuts, managing last-minute alterations and tracking shipments. It was exhausting but under control…until the catch. The aggravating, absurdly attractive, brooding catch currently sitting across from you in the tailor’s waiting room, his knee bounced like it was transmitting a detailed morse code manifesto on every possible way he planned to ruin your day.
The plan had been simple: grab an Uber, pick up the garments, pressed, stitched, and boxed to perfection and head back to the tower. But then you got the call. The one that told you Bucky Barnes had missed his final fitting, and that his suit needed some last-minute adjustments...
Of course he did.
Of all your perfectly laid plans, it only took one missed appointment to bring it all crashing down. Now here you were, stuck waiting beside the man who occupied far too much of your brain lately, silently praying the tailor would finish quickly so you could escape before your sanity, or your dignity, completely unravelled.
“I really am sorry,” Bucky said for what felt like the fiftieth time.
Between the brooding and the nervous leg tapping, he’d spent the last five minutes watching the side of your face with an expression so guilty it was practically carved into him.
“Like I said, it’s fine.” You replied, though it came out a little too tight, a little too forced, like you were speaking through clenched teeth. Which, maybe you were. Not that it mattered. Not when you could smell his cologne from how damn close he was sitting. God, you wanted to lean over and bury your face in his chest and just inhale—
You straightened abruptly, shoulders stiffening as the tailor entered the room, and mentally reacquainted yourself with the concept of boundaries.
It had been an hour—sixty minutes of waiting while Bucky’s suit got its final adjustments. An hour of you trying to distract yourself with work emails and unanswered texts, pretending the man beside you wasn’t single-handedly causing your emotional stability to nosedive. At least when he’d stepped away to get re-measured, you could breathe without risking spontaneous emotional combustion.
This wasn’t like you. You weren’t usually this wound up. Maybe it was the exhaustion, days of juggling your regular duties with Tony’s ever-growing list of soirée demands. Perhaps it was the heartbreak. Or the missed meals. Or the fact that you genuinely had no idea what day it was anymore.
“Would you like to try it on before we package it up for travel?” the tailor asked, her voice gentle. A measuring tape hung loosely around her neck, her pinned bun fraying slightly at the edges.
Bucky looked at you again, eyes flicking toward yours like he needed permission. You swallowed what was left of your pride and gave him a slight, strained nod.
“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Go on.”
“I’m sorry—again—this is probably eating into your whole afternoon, I know how busy you are—”
“It’s fine. Really. Just go.”
He offered a sheepish smile before disappearing behind the velvet curtain, tugging it closed with a rustle. You pressed your fingers to your temples, let your head drop into your hands, and exhaled through your nose like it might stop your heart from trying to break out of your chest.
Across the counter, the tailor glanced up at you with a sympathetic look as she readied the boxes for the other garments. “Long day?” she asked gently.
You lifted your head, managing a tight smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
“Only going to get longer.”
You were still nursing the tail end of your sigh when the velvet curtain swished open again.
And then your brain stopped working.
Bucky stepped out in full formal attire, sharp navy suit, tailored within an inch of its life. The cut of it hugged his frame perfectly. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, long legs. A deep navy waistcoat peeked out beneath the jacket, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching the light just enough to look expensive without being flashy. His tie was already perfectly knotted, like he’d done this a hundred times, and the sleeves of his shirt revealed just enough of the polished metal edge of his vibranium arm to make your mouth dry.
He cleared his throat softly, tugging at one cuff. “How’s it look?”
You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it again.
Words? No. Words were gone. Your vocabulary had packed up and left the building.
Bucky shifted his weight, clearly mistaking your slack-jawed silence for disapproval. “It’s weird, right? The waistcoat maybe doesn’t work, I told her I wasn’t sure about it—”
“No,” you said quickly—too quickly. “No, it’s… It’s perfect. You look… great. Seriously.”
His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his face. Relief, maybe?
“Yeah?” he said, glancing down at himself, tugging slightly at the jacket hem. “I feel better about it now. The sleeves fit properly this time. Thanks for waiting.”
The tailor beamed from behind the counter, clearly proud of her work. “Wonderful. I’ll box it up immediately once you’re out of it.”
Bucky nodded, but the tailor turned to you with a friendly smile before he could disappear again.
“And for you, would you like to try your gown on as well before I pack it away?”
You blinked, suddenly snapped out of your holy-shit-Bucky-hot-hot-hot haze. “My what?”
She gestured toward the row of garment bags. “Mr. Stark sent over your measurements earlier this month. There’s a gown here for you.”
You frowned. “That must be a mistake. I’m just the assistant. None of those are for me.”
The tailor hesitated. “I don’t think so… He was very clear. Your name was attached to the order.”
Before you could argue, Bucky cut in smoothly, like he’d seen this train coming and stepped in to redirect it.
“Tony probably just wanted you to look the part, too,” he said, voice low and casual. “You’ve done all the work, he probably figured you deserved to enjoy the night a little. Might as well try it on, just in case.”
You glanced at him, but he didn’t look smug or teasing. Just… earnest. Calm. Like he meant it. Which made it all the harder to protest.
“Fine.” You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face. “Just to check it fits.”
The tailor clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. It’s a beautiful gown, I promise.”
You gave Bucky one last side-eye before following her toward the changing rooms, the fabric bag already in her hands.
From behind, you could hear him chuckle under his breath.
“Just wait 'til you see her,” the tailor murmured to herself, and you weren’t sure whether to be flattered or deeply, deeply nervous.
The gown was heavier than you expected. Luxurious fabric slipped off the hanger like water, pooling in your arms as she handed it over with the kind of reverence usually reserved for wedding dresses.
“I’ll give you a minute,” she smiled, disappearing to finish boxing up the suits.
Left alone in the changing room, you peeled out of your clothes, letting the gown slide on over your hips, your waist, up past your ribs. It clung like it had been sewn directly onto your body, the bodice snug, the neckline just daring enough to make you blush.
You twisted to try to reach the zipper at the back, fingers fumbling and straining, but the angle was impossible. You spent the better part of five minutes twisting in the mirror like a lunatic, trying to reach the zipper that refused to budge. Your arms ached. The corset bodice was half-fastened. You were flushed, annoyed, and far too aware of the sliver of bare spine still exposed.
You were about to peek your head out and ask the tailor for help when a low voice cut in behind the curtain.
“Need a hand?”
You flinched, fabric clutched to your chest. “Jesus, Bucky! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”
“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was rougher than usual, like he’d just cleared his throat. “Heard you cursing. Tailor said she’d be a minute out back.”
You hesitated, and your voice came out thin. “Yeah. I—I can’t get it up.”
“Okay,” he replied, oddly determined. “Turn around.”
You cracked the curtain open a pinch. He ducked inside, too broad for the narrow space, his frame practically filling it. He was careful not to look at you directly, at least at first.
You turned slowly, presenting your back. “Just the zipper,” you murmured, barely trusting your own voice.
“Sure,”
A single fingertip, cold metal, dragged up from the base of your spine to the dip between your shoulder blades. It barely touched the skin, but you shuddered from the sensation. Bucky wasn’t even fastening yet, just tracing the line the zipper would follow. The sound you made was too soft to catch.
The zipper came up slowly. Agonisingly. His knuckles brushed your skin every inch of the way, not by accident. No, this was too slow, too precise, to be innocent.
He was savouring it.
His other hand steadied you, palm ghosting just over your hip. His breath fanned warm against your shoulder.
“You’re trembling,” he commented.
You swallowed hard, unable to muster a response.
When he reached the top, his hand didn’t fall away. Instead, he swept your hair off your shoulder completely, fingertips grazing the line of your throat as he let it fall over one side.
He leaned in. Not touching, but close. Mouth just behind your ear. The heat of his breath against your neck.
“Should’ve let me help sooner,” he whispered, voice like a purr. “Would’ve had you dressed in seconds.”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your lips parted slightly, breath caught somewhere halfway as your lungs deflated in shock. And maybe it was the gown. Or the silence. Or the way your thighs pressed together of their own accord, but you didn’t move. You didn’t step away.
You leaned in.
Only a fraction. Just enough.
He noticed.
You could feel it in the slight shift of his stance. The faint sound of him exhaling a chuckle through his nose. The way his hand brushed ever-so-slightly along the small of your back before falling away.
And then he was gone.
He stepped back like nothing had happened. Like the tension wasn’t choking the air between you. You turned toward the mirror in a daze.
The dress shimmered in the soft light. Deep, elegant, form-fitting. The neckline exposed the curve of your breasts, the slit at your thigh scandalous enough to make you self-conscious.
You caught his reflection in the mirror. He was watching you, but not with the restrained professionalism you were used to. It was only the sudden reentrance of the tailor that made him hesitate in whatever words were forming on his tongue. He stepped aside, finally giving you space to exit. And you did—legs shaky, palms sweating—like a deer walking straight back into the forest fire, pretending it wasn’t about to burn.
Your plan to avoid Bucky after the tailor incident had gone off without a hitch, maybe a little too well. You'd buried yourself in helping Tony pull together the final touches for his ‘soirée’ (which, if you were honest, was less soirée and more ‘black tie circus in a penthouse’).
You'd been so laser-focused on your tasks that you'd almost managed not to think about Bucky in that goddamn changing room. His fingers ghosting up your bare spine like a spark setting fire to dry kindling. You’d folded instantly. Your body betrayed you instantly while your brain screamed to keep it together. Pathetic.
The moral implications of whatever that moment had been were filed away for another day. Were you the other woman? Was Natasha going to slit your throat in your sleep? What was Bucky doing, touching you like that—in a public changing room, no less—when he had a bombshell redhead waiting for him back at the Tower?
No time for that now. Not when Tony’s precious ‘soirée’ was already in full swing upstairs and the caterers had somehow forgotten an entire section of the food. You’d scrambled together an emergency order from some overpriced restaurant Tony swore he was ‘basically family’ with, and by some miracle, they came through in the nick of time.
Now you were in damage control mode, hauling three boxes of overpriced canapés up to the penthouse. Your heels bit into your feet with every step, your dress clung too tightly to bend properly without your tits spilling out, and your patience was hanging on by a single goddamn thread.
You pressed the elevator button with your elbow and exhaled as the doors slid open.
Drop off the food. Grab a free drink. Drown your Bucky-related sorrows. Maybe, just maybe, keep the beast between your legs from waking at the mere sight of him.
The doors began to close. You shifted your weight, careful with the boxes balanced in your arms—
Then someone slipped through at the last second.
Him.
Bucky fucking Barnes.
Tall and devastating as usual in his dark navy suit, his tie loosened just enough to suggest mischief, or maybe carelessness. You weren’t sure which one made you feel worse.
Your breath hitched. Instinctively, your gaze dropped to the floor, feigning sudden, all-consuming interest in the stability of your precarious tower of hors d'oeuvres. But teetering stacks of overpriced finger food or not, Bucky didn’t seem inclined to play along with your avoidance act. Not now. Not when the elevator doors had sealed you in together, finally, and you were without escape.
You winced at the sound of his sharp inhale, the question already pressing past his lips before the elevator even jolted into motion.
“Did I do something to piss you off?”
You didn’t look up. Eyes fixed firmly on the floor, you muttered, “What?”
“I just…” His voice was rough. Tired. “It feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”
Shit.
He stepped forward slightly. Not enough to be invasive. Just enough to make your stomach flip.
“You hardly talk to me anymore,” he continued. “Won’t even look at me unless it’s about work. And even then, it’s like you’re somewhere else. Did I do something to offend you? Hurt you? Just tell me what I did so I can fix it.”
The elevator hummed to life beneath your feet, gliding upward smoothly. You shifted your weight, bracing against the cool metal rail, eyes stubbornly fixed on the buttons, anywhere but his maddeningly perfect face.
“You haven’t done anything,” you said quietly, the words tasting sour the second they left your mouth.
“Then why are you doing it now?” he asked, eyes searching yours. “Why won’t you even look at me?”
“Bucky…”
“Please. Just tell me.”
You hesitated. His hand twitched like he meant to reach for your arm, then faltered, falling back to his side. Your grip tightened on the containers, your fingers slick with sweat. “It’s not you,” you murmured. “It’s me… I just…”
He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me the truth.”
And that was what did it. The tremor in his voice. The way his brow creased like he couldn’t stand not knowing. Something broke open inside your chest, raw and unhealed. The dam cracked, split, then gave way completely, and the truth came spilling out before you had the chance to swallow it back down. You were exhausted. Wound tight. Running on fumes and nerves and far too many feelings. You’d tell him, you decided. Then drop off the canapés, quit on the spot, and flee the country if necessary. Stark would write you a killer reference. You’d survive.
“Okay,” you said, breath hitching as a nervous laugh bubbled out, half-bitter, half-resigned. “You want the truth? Fine. You’re going to think I’ve completely lost it.”
He stayed quiet, letting you spiral.
“This is so stupid,” you muttered. “I like you, Bucky. There. I said it. I like you. And it was fine—manageable—until it wasn’t. Until I started imagining things. Thinking maybe… maybe you liked me too.”
His eyebrows lifted, surprised but unreadable.
“I’ve had this massive, embarrassing crush on you since the moment I met you. And I know it’s weird, and probably unprofessional because you’re kinda my boss, but not. Technically, Tony’s my boss, but I basically manage everything around here, and—ugh, I’m rambling.” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I like you. And I’ve been avoiding you because it was getting out of hand. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And it felt wrong. Especially since you’re dating Natasha, which just made everything worse—”
“What?” he interrupted, voice sharp. “I’m not dating Natasha.”
Your eyes snapped open. “That’s what you took from all of that?”
“No, I—wait. You think I’m dating Natasha?”
“Yes!” you burst out, cheeks flaming. “I saw you! At the Sunday market about a month ago with the flowers—”
His brow furrowed. “What flowers?”
“The bouquet you gave her.”
“I didn’t give Natasha flowers.”
You let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “I saw you. It was that dumb little market Tony makes me go to for those overpriced vegan pastries Pepper loves—”
Bucky stared at you, confused. And then, slowly, understanding clicked into place. His face contorted like he’d just remembered he’d left his stove on.
“Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “The flowers. Those weren’t for Natasha. They were for Wanda.”
Your heart stuttered. “What?”
“Vision,” Bucky groaned. “It was their anniversary. He was stuck on the phone trying to get a fancy reservation and begged me to pick them up. Natasha tagged along because she was hunting for jewellery for Maria’s birthday. That’s all it was.”
You blinked at him. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not,” Bucky replied earnestly. “I didn’t know you thought that. I swear, I’m not with Natasha. I never was.”
Your stomach dropped. “Oh god.”
“Hey—”
“No. No-no-no.” You squeezed your eyes shut, wanting to sink straight through the floor. “This is mortifying. I literally thought you were in a secret relationship. I’ve been avoiding you like the plague. I’ve been thinking about moving cities. I googled how hard it is to change your name legally.”
He snorted. “You’re not serious.”
You opened your eyes, and the horror must have been plain on your face because Bucky’s expression melted into something far too amused. “Oh, you are.”
“I might never recover from this,” you mumbled.
“Hey, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”
“I confessed my undying crush and accused you of being in love with someone else in the span of like, sixty seconds.”
His mouth twitched, lips threatening a smile. “You’re kind of adorable when you’re spiralling.”
“I’m going to chuck these hors d'oeuvres at your head.”
As if mocking your attempt at dignity, the elevator gave a slight mechanical whirr, nearly at the top floor. The distant hum of the party pulsed just beyond those sleek doors.
You straightened suddenly, panic creeping into your chest. “Okay, I’m going to deliver these and then I’m leaving. Possibly forever. Please never speak to me again.”
But Bucky, ever faster than you, stepped in.
And before you could react, he pressed the emergency stop button.
The elevator jolted to a halt. The tower of overpriced hors d'oeuvres wobbled dangerously in your arms. “Oh my god,” you gasped, teetering.
Bucky was already moving, steady hands catching the top box before it could topple, plucking the rest from your shaking grasp. He crouched to stack them on the floor carefully, then rose slowly, smirking as you stood frozen, mouth agape in pure horrified disbelief.
“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”
“No more running,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.
You could barely breathe. “You stopped the elevator?”
“Didn’t want to risk the doors opening and you disappearing into the night,” he said, a little too pleased with himself.
“I hate you,” you whispered, eyes wide.
He leaned in, just close enough for you to feel his breath. “No, you don’t.”
You were going to die right here in a metal box. With your dignity in ruins and the man of your dumb, desperate daydreams giving you that look.
And somehow, somehow, you didn’t even want to stop him.
“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t shut down. Please.”
You glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes and immediately wished you hadn’t. They were dark. Hungry. That gaze alone could melt you to the floor.
He stepped closer again. And again. Until his frame caged in you, his arms braced on either side of your head, the heat of his body swallowing you whole.
“I like you too,” he said, low, rough, like it was pulled from deep inside. “Christ, I was so blind. I didn’t see it. It didn’t click until that day at the tailor, until I saw you in this damn dress.”
Your breath hitched.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured. “I’ve been looking for excuses just to be near you. I keep the notes you leave me with the stupid little drawings. I like looking at them. Thinking about you.”
Your heart felt like it might crack your ribs.
“I smelled every shampoo at the store one day,” he confessed, almost sheepish, almost proud. “Hoped I’d find the one you use. Because you smell so fucking good. It’s been driving me crazy.”
“Bucky…”
“I don’t know. You make me feel special. Seen. Like I’m not some monster, like I’m normal. And then one day you were just… gone. I didn’t realise all the little things you did for me that I never noticed.” He groaned, somehow pressing closer. “I missed the sound of your voice… and it made it hurt even more… I lie awake at night, every night, thinking about you and how much I want to kiss you—”
“Bucky.” You interrupted, and he looked back at you with a barely contained hunger. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”
And then his mouth was on yours.
Hot. Messy. Desperate.
You gasped into it, and he swallowed it whole, groaning as he pressed harder, deeper, hands sliding down to your thighs as he grabbed one and hitched it up around his waist. You clung to his shoulders, lips parted as he slotted himself between your legs, guiding you up until your ass was perched on the elevator’s handrail bar.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “Tell me that you want this, tell me that you want me.”
Your head fell back against the wall, lips swollen, breath shaking. His mouth travelled to your jaw, your throat, hands digging into your hips.
It was dizzying. Chaotic. Perfect.
“I want you, Bucky.” You panted.
“Fuck,” Bucky muttered again, but this time it was different, lower. Hungrier.
His hand slid along your thigh, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your dress. You panted as he kissed across your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. His hands settled on your knees, then slowly, deliberately, he spread them apart.
“Bucky—” your voice was barely more than a whisper, a tremble of anticipation and disbelief.
But he didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees.
Right there. In the goddamn elevator.
You almost came on the spot at the sight, lips swollen and slick with saliva, pupils blown, the slight smudge of your lipstick on his chin. His hands slid up the back of your calves, kneading into the flesh like he was savouring the shape of you. Your dress inched upwards, his mouth suddenly pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.
Your breath hitched. Your hands shot to the railing behind you, clutching tight.
“You have no idea,” he said, voice wrecked with want, “how long I’ve thought about this.”
His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with something dangerous. Devotion, desire, something molten and drowning. Then his mouth moved higher.
Another kiss. Inner thigh this time. Then another, and another, slow, lingering, like he was memorising you. He disappeared until the fabric of your skirt, only the back of his head, dark locks messy peaking out from between the slit.
You moaned, soft and involuntary, your hips twitching at the heat of his breath through the thin fabric of your panties. He nuzzled in close, his nose brushing against you, and his hands pressed firmly to your thighs to keep you spread.
“I’ve thought about how you’d taste,” he muttered, lips grazing the soaked lace. “How you’d sound.”
You whimpered.
And then, he peeled your panties to the side.
The groan that tore from him was obscene.
“Jesus,” he hissed, voice muffled. “You’re fucking perfect.”
And then, his mouth was on you.
Hot. Wet. Relentless. You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in it as his tongue licked into you with precision, with hunger, with something close to worship. He devoured you like he was starving. Slow circles, then quick flicks, his mouth dragging across your clit with maddening rhythm. You writhed against the rail, your leg still wrapped around his shoulder, the other trembling against the elevator wall.
“Oh my god—Bucky—fuck—”
Your words slurred together, breath coming in ragged gasps as he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. One of his arms snaked around your thigh, pinning you in place, as if he thought you might try to escape. As if he’d let you.
His tongue slid down, dipping into you, then back up, his mouth latching onto your clit with a filthy, wet sound that made your spine arch. You were unravelling, fast, dizzy, overwhelmed.
He pulled back just enough to pant. “I could stay here all night.”
His mouth was merciless. His grip was unrelenting on your thighs, mouth working you over like a man possessed—
Bzzzzt.
A shrill, sudden buzz sounded from the elevator’s emergency panel, followed by a crackling voice.
“Hello? This is Tower Maintenance. We’re registering an emergency stop on lift three. Is there an issue?”
You froze. Every muscle in your body went rigid, as if someone had cracked open your spine and poured ice water down it. Dread spread like frost through your veins. Your heart thudded painfully in your throat, threatening to climb up and out entirely.
You could barely breathe. Could barely think.
This was it. This was how you died—legs spread, Bucky between them, and Tower Maintenance on the fucking line.
Bucky, in sharp contrast, did not freeze.
He groaned softly with wicked glee, his mouth still very much between your legs. The sound vibrated against the most sinful part of you, and then he doubled down. Mouth and hands working with infuriating, diabolical precision, like he’d just taken the intercom as a challenge.
You clamped a hand over your mouth, the other shaking as you reached blindly for the emergency call button, trying not to sound like you were seconds away from being ruined.
Your voice came out like a panicked squeak. “Hi! Uh—h-hi, yes, sorry! Must’ve been a—a small electrical fault. I’m fine! Everything’s… fine!”
Bucky nipped at your thigh in response.
There was a pause. You could feel the suspicion through the line.
“Ma’am, we’re not showing any electrical inconsistencies in that shaft. Did you press the stop button?”
You shot a wide-eyed glare down at the man currently devouring you.
Another wave of pleasure threatened to knock the air from your lungs. You were barely holding it together, every nerve ending aflame, skin flushed, thighs shaking. The cool metal of the elevator wall against your spine did little to ground you.
You cleared your throat, struggling to piece together something—anything—resembling human speech. “Oh. Oh, that—um, I must’ve bumped it. With my elbow. While holding a tray. It’s, uh—crowded. In here.”
Bucky chose that exact moment to suck hard, and you slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the helpless sound that nearly escaped.
A longer pause. You could practically hear them frowning.
“…Right. Well, we’re releasing the stop now. Please remain calm.”
The line disconnected.
The elevator jolted slightly as it roared back to life.
Bucky gave a dark chuckle. “Crowded, huh?” Then—with zero mercy—he sped up.
“Bucky,” you gasped, head falling back against the wall, “I’m—I’m gonna—”
You shattered.
It hit hard, hot and blinding. You cried out, thighs clamping tight around his head as he groaned against you, mouth not stopping for a second, drawing it out, milking every twitch, every whimper. You barely had time to breathe, let alone moan, your hands flying to steady yourself just as the elevator dinged cheerily and the doors slid open.
Right into the penthouse. Packed full of people, who by some miracle, were utterly oblivious to your predicament.
You staggered slightly as Bucky stood smoothly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, one arm slipping around your waist to steady you while the other casually reached down and grabbed the stack of forgotten canapés off the floor like he hadn’t just—
“Evening,” he greeted a passing staff member, utterly unbothered.
You were glowing crimson, pupils blown, lips parted, trying hard to fix your face. Bucky guided you forward, his hand warm on your back, keeping you between him and the crowd as your legs trembled. You barely managed to set the tray on the nearest table before someone whistled.
“Well, damn,” came Sam’s voice from the drinks bar. He gave you both a once-over, a wicked grin spreading. “Buck, next time you’re gonna eat face in the elevator, maybe wipe the lipstick off your chin first.”
Bucky only smirked and licked his bottom lip slow, on purpose, you were sure of it.
You nearly combusted on the spot.
“Bathroom?” he murmured into your ear, low and gravelly.
You nodded quickly and wordlessly.
He guided you with all the smugness of a man who had no regrets, his hand just a little too low on your back to be innocent.
hi, if you enjoyed please let me know! drop a comment below, reblog or send me something through my inbox! thank you for reading my work :) if you want to stay up to date with any series updates or new one-shots being posted, follow my sideblog @artficlly-archive and turn on notifications.
I wanted to be vivacious. Instead I'm voracious. @spinsteringintoamillionpieces - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
