Summary: When a few rogue members of the Jersey syndicate snatch you from outside a nightclub, Bucky races against time to find you and bring you home.
Word Count: 4k
Content: angst, depictions of violence and death, eventual fluff, protective bucky
A/N: You know I can’t stay away from these two… there’s gonna be a fourth part eventually, I just need to put pen to paper. Eat up, my pretties <3
A call from the boss at four a.m. couldn’t be about anything good.
Bucky is already driving home from a late night of cleaning up messes, already tired down to his bones. Already thinking of his bed, warm and with you waiting for him in it.
But the phone rings, and he can somehow sense the urgency before he even picks up.
“What's up, boss?”
“Hey, Buck.” Steve's familiar voice, low and concerned, plays out of his speaker phone, surprising him. “You gotta get your ass down to central, pronto. We have an urgent situation.”
Bucky furrows his brows in confusion. “What's goin’ on? Why are you callin’ on—“
“The boss is indisposed.” There’s a rustling on the end of the line, and then Steve's voice lowers to nearly a whisper. “He’s inconsolable, Buck. Jersey’s screwin’ up. Some of Paulie's boys went rogue, somethin’ about old vendettas. They…”
A dangerous pause. Bucky waits, already feeling a dread that he doesn’t have a name for yet.
Steve sighs and comes out with it, knowing what’s going to happen once it’s spoken aloud. “Your girl’s missing.”
For five seconds, Bucky doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe. There's disbelief, there’s righteous anger, and underneath everything else, a pervasive fear that settles around his heart like ice.
Steve speaks again, a note of nerves in his voice. “Buck?”
Bucky's hands tighten on the steering wheel, his foot sinking the pedal towards the floor.
His voice is tight and clipped as he replies. “Be there in five.”
You had just wanted to go out dancing, to kill time while Bucky worked a late shift.
You went with friends. You didn’t have more than two drinks. You even picked a club that was on family turf, one of Bucky's haunts. It should have been safe.
But when you stepped outside to wait for your Uber home, there were shapes in the dark waiting for you. Looming, menacing, broad-shouldered shapes.
You knew something was wrong before they even moved towards you.
A large hand closed over your mouth to cut off your screams, an arm wrapped around your waist like a band of iron. Another man went for your legs, lifting you off the ground completely. You used every weapon you had at your disposal to fight, jabbing your heel into one man’s thigh so hard he yelled in pain, biting the other man’s hand as hard as you could and screaming bloody murder when he yanked it away.
In the end, it took four fully grown men to bind your hands, gag you, and wrestle you into the trunk of the unmarked car. You might have been proud of that if you weren’t so terrified. The black bag over your head confirmed your suspicions.
This wasn’t a run-of-the-mill attack on the street, a group of guys looking for a thrill. This was family stuff.
It didn’t make any sense. Your father promised that no one would ever even try to touch you. There was a code among made men. Daughters were sacred. Which meant these guys were stupid, crazy, or had a death wish. Maybe all three.
By the time the car arrives at whatever anonymous hideout these clowns have selected for their purposes, you’ve spat out your gag, nearly dislocated your elbow trying to wriggle out of your restraints, and gotten royally fucking pissed off.
The trunk opens again, and you’re screaming like a hellcat.
Even bound and blind, the men struggle to keep hold of you. You feel the environment change from outside to indoors, and then your ass is roughly planted in a chair.
Hands try to keep you still as your restraints are adjusted, and you keep on screaming.
“You are dead! You are so fuckin’ dead! When my father hears about this — when my man hears about this, he’s gonna make you eat your fuckin’ cazzi!”
The black bag is yanked off your head, and you squint at the sudden light change.You appear to be in some ramshackle cabin – or perhaps shack is a better descriptor, considering the condition of the room.
“Can someone please shut her up?”
As your eyes adjust, you see one of your captors leaning by the door, wincing at a line of scratches your manicure left on his forearm. Another stands directly over you, balling up the black bag in his hand and grasping your jaw roughly.
You try to wrench your face out of his grip. “You’re a fuckin’ dead man walkin’, you—“
But he forces the gag between your lips anyway, so deep into your mouth that you cough weakly around it.
“She's a real piece of work,” says the man standing over you. “You sure this is a good idea?”
The man by the door snarls, “Phil was floatin’ in the jersey river for three days because of her father. Eye for an eye.”
The man standing over you moves, approaching a rickety card table in the corner. He's rifling through something, and for a terrifying moment you wonder if he’s going for some kind of weapon. But then the angle of his body shifts, and you realize he’s going through your purse. Your indignant protests are muffled by the gag, turning whiny and pathetic.
“Mothers and daughters are off limits,” he says warily. “Everybody knows that. If Paulie finds out—“
“He’s not gonna find out,” the man by the door spits. He seems to be the brains behind the operation — ‘brains’ being a strong word, of course.
Swaggering with the unbridled confidence that only an idiot can muster, he walks towards you. “I wanna get that Brooklyn rat where it hurts.”
He stretches out a hand and takes a lock of your hair between his fingers, sneering. You jerk your head away, straining against your restraints. If looks could kill, you’d have him on the floor.
“So why not just kill her and leave her outside the club?” the other one asks, your phone and its glittering case in his hand. “What are we doin’ here? What’s the plan?”
“I’m fuckin’ improvising, okay?” Brains snaps, then pinches the bridge of his nose. “Enough with the questions. We got work to do.” Leering down at you, he purrs, “You sit tight, sweetheart.”
Then he stalks out of the room, his partner following in his wake.
For a moment there, your blood had chilled when they mentioned killing you. They could be just stupid enough to try something like that, oblivious to the kind of war that would start. Now, your pulse settles into a deadly, eerie calm, because you know something that they don’t.
Bucky is coming for you.
Bucky watches the security cam footage with his fists clenched tight. They’d pulled it from the club’s cloud an hour ago, and now it played on a loop like a nightmare. Grainy footage of you, outside the club, fighting like a wild thing as a group of men stuffed you in a trunk like so much luggage.
“She really gave ‘em hell, huh?” Steve mutters, impressed.
“‘Course she did,” Bucky replies, turning from the laptop screen. He's done watching. It's time for action.
“What do we know?” he asks.
Steve crosses his arms and begins to rattle off information. “We have positive IDs on three of them, and apparently Paulie’s been trying to talk them down for weeks. Talking big about taking a swing at the boss.”
Your father, who has been sitting silently in an office chair, tense as a coiled spring, speaks for the first time since Bucky walked into the room. “Mothers and daughters are off limits. They should fuckin’ know that.”
Suddenly, he moves, his hand swiping across the desk into a ceramic mug that goes careening to the floor and shatters.
Bucky stands stock still, wishing he had something to break.
Steve takes a beat, waiting for more, but nothing comes. So he continues, “No location. They must have shut off the tracking on her phone. But there have been… texts. It's not proof of life, but it’s somethin’.”
Bucky holds out his hand for the phone silently. Steve passes it off, and Bucky paces while he scrolls. Texts from your phone to your father’s, ominous threats and taunts. Pictures, too, blurry and tilted at odd angles. Bound hands, knees bruised and scraped to hell, the back of a head where shiny hair has tangled into knots from struggle. Undeniably you, to anyone who knows you, but Steve's right. No proof of life.
He takes a deep breath so that he doesn’t throw the phone across the room.
“I gotta think for a second,” he rasps, finding a chair and scrubbing a hand across his face.
“The longer we sit here, the more ground we lose,” your father growls, getting to his feet.
“Just gimme a second!” Bucky nearly shouts back, his heart racing even as he sits still.
Steve steps in, the voice of reason. “Easy. I know we’re all feelin’ tense, but we’re not gonna solve anything screamin’ at each other.”
While Steve continues to talk down your father, something tugs at the back of Bucky's mind. He thinks of those pictures. At some point, that phone was in the room with you, in the hands of someone who did that to you. Someone who knows where you are now. If only he could just track that phone—
But he doesn’t need to track the phone.
He remembers the saga four months ago, where you’d let your phone die out at a bar, lost it, and had to buy a new one. How Bucky had bought you that tracking card, slipping it into the glittery case behind your phone, ‘just in case.’ How it had come in handy when you did the same exact thing not a month later.
He hurriedly pulls out his phone, booting up FindMy, tapping the device labeled Princess.
The location pings out in the Pine Barrens. His focus sharpens to a dagger’s edge.
Bucky springs up out of his seat and towards the door, already reaching for his keys. “I got it. I got a location, a lead,” he barks.
Steve jobs after him, grabbing his elbow and pulling him to a stop. “Buck, just wait three seconds and talk to us before you go chargin’ into the fray.”
“We just said—“
Your father approaches, his expression terrified but, for the first time since he got the call, hopeful. “Text me the location. I'm sending a detail with you.”
He claps a hand on Bucky's shoulder, eyes growing dark. “You have my permission to clean house if you have to, understand? Just bring her home in one piece.”
Bucky nods. “Yes, sir.”
“Go.”
He’s out the door in the very next breath.
Exhaustion doesn’t begin to cover how you feel. These idiots have no idea what they’re doing. Working themselves into a panic over news they don’t elect to share with you, they haul you out of your chair at dusk, talking about safehouses and low-traffic hideouts. You still fight, refusing to make this process easy for them, but your energy wanes each time they wrestle you into the trunk of that car.
Thirty-six hours since you were taken. You’ve barely eaten, slept even less. You're so tired that you fade in and out of consciousness in your chair, never feeling fully rested every time you jolt awake.
The brainless pair of men pace the floor of the new safehouse, the third location you’ve encountered in twenty four hours. They're clearly flailing without the support of their network, and without a full-functioning plan. You strain to overhear their whispers, and that’s when you realize they’re starting to become truly afraid.
Bucky’s got them running scared. Good. They should be scared.
“They got Bobby, they got Vince," the taller man hisses. Frank, you remember. In the two days you’ve had the pleasure of his company, you’ve learned so many helpful names. “They’re comin’ for us, you know that right?”
The brains of the operation, Chris, barks angrily, “Shut up.” He takes a deep breath to calm himself. “I have a plan. Nothin’s been done that can’t be undone. All we gotta do is use the resources we have.”
Two pairs of eyes slide to you, and you shift uncomfortably in your chair.
“Her?” Frank asks, evidently not following Chris's line of thinking.
Chris slinks to your chair and reaches behind him, to the handgun you’ve glimpsed a few times in passing that he keeps tucked into his waistband. He doesn’t point it directly at you. Instead, he crouches down to eye level with you, letting the weapon rest on his thigh. Even so, the threat is implicit.
You’re pretty sure he won’t shoot you. Pretty sure. If he really wanted you dead, he would have done it already, instead of dragging you through this drawn-out charade. And you know that he knows the outcome would be disastrous if he did.
Still, your heartbeat picks up at the sight of it, an instinct that no amount of logic can scrub out.
“Here’s the deal, sweetheart. We’ve had our fun, now I need you to do us a favor.” His other hand reaches into his pocket, pulling out your phone, the case sparkling in the dim light of the room.
“You’re gonna call off your daddy, call off your little boyfriend, tell ‘em you’re safe and that we’ve been treating you real good. And you’re gonna ask for some money. Enough to get us outta town. I'm thinking we start with 50k. Leaves us room to negotiate up the next time we ask.”
He tilts his head like he’s the mastermind villain of a crime novel, looking very pleased with himself for coming up with this plot. The barrel of the gun taps your knee gently, and you flinch just a little.
He grins. “Think you can do that for me?”
You know that the only reason they’re asking you this is that they’re running out of options. That the wolves are closing in. Which means rescue could be coming any time now. But you aren’t sure what happens if you refuse.
So you nod compliantly.
Chris pulls the gag from your mouth, making you cough again, and holds the phone up to your face to unlock it. A few taps later, he presses call on Bucky’s contact, little hearts surrounding the text reading My Man. He puts it on speakerphone. You listen, trembling as it rings once, twice. and then he picks up.
“Hello?” his voice is guarded, unsure of who he’s talking to, whose voice he’s about to hear.
You let out a broken sob of relief at the sound of his voice, the first familiar and comforting thing you’ve encountered since you left that nightclub. “Bucky.”
“Oh, thank god.” his words come out in a rush. “Baby, please tell me you’re okay.”
Your lower lip wobbles, a tear streaks down your face. Chris nudges the barrel of his gun against your knee again, and you stammer, “I–I’m okay.”
“I’m comin’ for you, princess,” Bucky vows with quiet certainty, like a storm about to break. “I’ll be there real soon.”
Chris looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to begin your scripted dialogue. Resentment boils under your skin as you look down at the bruises decorating your legs, as you think of the hell he’s put your family through with this idiotic, ill-conceived scheme.
You raise your chin, finding a steadiness you haven’t felt in two days. “Good. Make ‘em pay, baby.”
Chris's snide expression drops, and he hangs up before tossing the phone across the room, enraged. The back of a hand cracks against your face, and you taste blood at the corner of your mouth.
“Stupid bitch,” he spits.
You compose yourself, toss your hair out of your eyes haughtily and reply, “Hope you didn’t plan on keeping that hand.”
Cold steel presses to your cheek. Chris digs the barrel of the gun into your skin, his face twisted in anger. He's so close you can smell his fetid breath.
“Easy, Chris," Frank says placatingly. “Let's not do anything we can’t take back.”
Pulling from a hidden well of bravery within you, you hiss, “Yeah, Chris. Take it easy.”
Chris jerks away from you, white knuckles wrapped around the handle of the gun as he gestures between you and Frank with it. “Shut her up, for the love of god.”
Frank moves unsteadily towards you and picks the gag up off the floor.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, Chris speaks like he’s trying to convince himself more than Frank. “He won’t find us out here. No one knows where we are.”
“Then why do you look so scared?” you ask, your lips curling into a sneer.
“I told you to shut that bitch up!” he shouts to Frank, hurling open the door and stalking outside to get some air.
It doesn't matter that Bucky hasn’t slept in almost two days. It doesn't matter that he’s running on gas station energy drinks and protein bars he didn’t bother to taste as he choked them down. It doesn't matter, because he’s the best weapon this syndicate has. And the men that chose to stand between you and him are about to find out just how good he is.
Three guys abandoned ship on this kidnapping scheme over the course of those thirty-six hours, staying behind to clear up loose ends at abandoned safehouses or trying to make contact with their people in an effort to save their own hides. Useless. He'd gotten the information he needed from them and then disposed of them like the garbage they were. He had been given permission to clean house, and he intends to use it.
He closes in on the latest safehouse less than a half hour after your call disconnects. The detail sent by your father is about five minutes behind, left in the dust when Bucky broke about five different traffic laws once the line went dead.
He sees the first one outside, panicking and scrambling for his piece as Bucky throws the car into park. A crack rings out, and a bullet pings off his passenger side mirror as he jumps out of the car. He ducks quickly behind his car door and lets five more bullets thud into it. The moment that pathetic little revolver clicks empty, Bucky straightens up and takes his aim.
The man crumples to the ground like a cheap shirt.
Bucky quickly cases the front entrance and stalks to the door. If you're not on the other side of it, whoever is will have hell to pay.
He kicks the door open and readies his weapon.
Another crack, then a burn at his right bicep. In an instant, his eyes snap to the source of the shot, and Bucky drops him before he can pull the trigger a second time. A quick glance down reveals that the bullet only grazed, leaving a red dripping stripe across his arm that he barely even feels. His entire focus is funneled to finding you.
He moves through the space with his gun ready in his grip, looking for any other human obstacles that need to be cleared. He turns down a short hallway, checks a few empty rooms, until he finds one that isn’t empty.
You’re sitting tied to a chair in the middle of the room, mouth stuffed with a cloth, your eyes wide and disbelieving. Shaking, pale, and bruised – but alive and in one piece.
Bucky nearly collapses with relief, but by some miracle his legs keep him upright, moving him towards you. His hands didn’t shake once when he cut down the men in his path, but it trembles when he cups your jaw and gently removes the gag.
“Hey. Hey, princess. I got you.”
“Bucky,” you whimper, your voice hoarse and breaking.
The ropes binding you are the last thing preventing him from taking you into his arms, so he takes his knife out of his sock and gets to work as quickly as he can.
“You’re bleeding,” you mumble, brows furrowed in concern.
“Just a scratch,” he assures you, the restraints at your ankles falling away. “Anybody else here?”
You shake your head. “No. Just them.”
When he manages to free your hands, you launch yourself into his arms, clearly weak but holding onto him with a desperate grip. “You’re really here,” you whisper.
Bucky wraps his arms around you, cradles your head, and it’s like the world rights itself. “I told you I was comin’ for you.”
You sniffle, burying your face in his neck. “I knew you would.”
“You did good. You were so brave, baby, I'm so proud of you.” He pulls you back a little to look you over, frowning at a bruise that is just starting to darken by your mouth. The moment his eyes land on it, he’s glad he decided not to show any mercy.
“They hurt you?” he asks, muscles in his jaw ticking.
“Not bad.” You sniffle again, wiping your eyes. “But they tossed my Birkin off the GWB.”
Bucky laughs in surprise, pressing his lips to your forehead. You must be all right if you’re thinking about your purse at a time like this.
“I’ll buy you a new one,” he promises, slipping an arm around your waist. “C’mon, let’s get you outta here.”
—————————
Your father’s detail handles cleanup, and you’re grateful for that. All you have to worry about is washing your face, brushing the tangles out of your hair, and settling into the passenger seat for a couple of hours on the car ride home.
Now that the worst of it is behind you, and you’re safe in the familiar comfort of Bucky's car, you start to lose the fight against exhaustion. Your hand stays wrapped up in his while he drives, but your eyes droop, your head lolling against the headrest.
“I saw the footage from outside the club.” He squeezes your hand. “You put up a good fight.”
In spite of your fatigue, you smirk. “‘Course I did.“
“That’s my girl.” His eyes stay firmly on the road, focus sharp even as his voice softens. “But you’ll never have to do that again. They know better now than to mess with the girl I love.”
You turn your head in surprise.
Bucky is a man of actions, of deeds, not words. You've never once doubted his devotion to you, but this is the first time he’s ever spoken it aloud. Warmth blooms through your chest, slow and unstoppable.
“You love me?” you ask quietly, unable to help the smile that infects your face, temporarily banishing your fatigue.
He glances towards you, brows knitted together. “What are you talkin’ about? ‘Course I do.”
Immensely pleased, you turn your attention out the window, because looking at him right now makes your heart do ridiculous things. “I knew it,” you reply teasingly. “You’re goin’ soft.”
You can practically sense the rolling of his eyes as he lets go of your hand to squeeze your thigh. He huffs a quiet laugh, muttering, “You are such a fuckin’ brat.”
Unable to resist, you look back at him, surrendering to the warmth. “I love you.”
Bucky glances back at you again, something vulnerable and grateful in his expression.
“Thank you for the rescue,” you add, letting your eyes flutter closed.
“I’ll always keep you safe, princess.”
As the car rumbles along the highway, you feel the truth of his promise down to your marrow. Your knight in shining leather armor.
For a moment, your mind drifts to what happens next. The first point of order will be debriefing your father, followed by a hot meal and a long, hotter shower — ideally enjoyed alongside your man. And then blissful, uninterrupted sleep, wrapped up in his arms. You can think of nothing you’d like more at the moment.
Without opening your eyes, you wonder aloud, “Think my dad will promote you now?”
“He better,” Bucky scoffs. “And you are never going to the club without a security detail again.”
“You’re my security detail,” you mumble sleepily, smiling at the way his hand tightens protectively against your thigh.
and he's always affectionate even in front of others
and he would do ANYTHING for her, literally anything and maybe they're talking abt it and then he proves it in different occasions
Bucky’s always been intense—it’s just that now all of it is aimed at you.
It’s obvious to everyone but him.
The first time Sam notices, it’s something small. You’re sitting at the kitchen island in the Tower, scrolling on your phone, legs swinging absentmindedly off the stool. Bucky’s standing behind you, mid-conversation with Steve, but his hand never leaves you—broad palm spread over your thigh, thumb dragging slow, distracted strokes like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Every few seconds, he squeezes, grounding himself in you.
“Buck,” Sam says, eyebrow raised. “You know she’s not gonna disappear if you let go for five minutes, right?”
Bucky frowns like that’s the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. “Why would I let go?”
You snort softly, not even looking up. You’re used to it—used to him always touching you, always orbiting you like you’re the center of his gravity. His hand slides higher, fingertips pressing just beneath the hem of your shorts, and he leans down, brushing his mouth against your temple without breaking eye contact with Sam.
“See?” Sam mutters to Steve. “Sickening.”
Steve just shrugs, smiling into his coffee. “Let him be. He’s happy.”
Happy doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Bucky is gone for you.
It shows up in little things first—like the way he automatically reaches for your hand when you walk anywhere together, fingers lacing tight, like he needs the contact. The way he always sits you on his lap instead of beside him, no matter who’s around. The way he kisses you hello like he hasn’t seen you in weeks, even if you were in the next room five minutes ago.
But it’s more than that.
It’s the way he watches you.
Like you hung the damn moon.
“You’re staring again,” you murmur one night, curled up on the couch with him, your legs draped across his lap.
Bucky hums, unashamed, eyes tracing your face like he’s committing every inch to memory. “Yeah.”
“Why?” you tease, tilting your head.
He shrugs, but his hand slides up your calf, slow and deliberate, fingers squeezing gently. “’Cause I like looking at you.”
Your cheeks warm, but you don’t look away. “You always like looking at me.”
“Yeah,” he repeats, softer this time, like it means something deeper. “Always.”
And he does.
God, he does.
So when the conversation happens, it’s not exactly surprising—but it still hits you right in the chest.
You’re lying in bed, half asleep, tracing lazy patterns over the skin of his chest while he plays with your hair, gently untangling strands between his fingers.
“You know,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep, “you’re kind of ridiculous.”
Bucky huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah? How’s that?”
“You’d do anything for me,” you say, like it’s a fact. “It’s… a lot.”
There’s no judgment in your tone, just soft wonder. But Bucky still goes still beneath you.
“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “I would.”
You prop your chin on his chest, peering up at him. “Anything?”
His gaze drops to you instantly, intense and steady, like the answer is carved into him.
“Anything,” he repeats.
You study him for a second, searching for hesitation, for doubt—there isn’t any. Just that unwavering certainty that’s so uniquely him it makes your chest ache.
“You’re serious,” you whisper.
Bucky’s thumb brushes over your cheek, slow and reverent. “You ask me for something, I’m giving it to you. No questions.”
You smile a little, teasing again to lighten the weight of it. “That’s dangerous, Barnes.”
“Not for you,” he murmurs.
You don’t realize how literal he is until later.
---
The first time he proves it, it’s stupid.
You mention, offhandedly, that you’ve been craving this specific dessert from a bakery across the city—something you haven’t had in years. It’s late, past midnight, and you’re already half asleep when you say it, voice drowsy and unfocused.
“Miss those little chocolate things,” you mumble into his shoulder. “With the caramel… remember?”
Bucky hums, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Yeah, I remember.”
You forget about it.
Of course you do.
Until you wake up a couple hours later, cold and alone in bed.
Panic flares for half a second—until you hear the front door click open.
You sit up, blinking in the dim light, just as Bucky walks in, hair tousled, jacket thrown over a t-shirt, a small paper box in his hand.
“Hey,” he says softly, like this is normal.
You stare at him. “Where did you go?”
He sets the box on the nightstand, opening it carefully. Inside are the exact pastries you mentioned—perfect, untouched, like he hand-delivered a memory.
“You said you wanted these,” he shrugs.
“Bucky,” you breathe, stunned. “It’s two in the morning.”
“Yeah.”
“You drove across the city—for dessert?”
His brow furrows, confused by your tone, like he doesn’t understand why this is surprising. “You wanted it.”
Something in your chest twists, tight and overwhelming.
“That’s not the point,” you whisper.
He pauses, studying your face, and then his expression softens when he sees it—how much it means to you.
“Oh,” he murmurs.
Your eyes sting a little as you reach for him, pulling him down into the bed, your hands cupping his face. “You’re insane.”
“Yeah,” he breathes against your lips, smiling faintly. “But you got your pastries.”
You kiss him, slow and deep, tasting the night air on his mouth.
---
The second time isn’t small.
It’s a mission gone sideways, a situation that escalates too fast, too dangerously. You’re pinned down, separated from the team, comm crackling with static.
“Bucky, don’t—” you start, trying to warn him, trying to keep him back.
But he’s already moving.
“Hold on,” he growls into the comm, voice sharp and unyielding. “I’m coming.”
“Bucky, it’s not safe—”
“Don’t care,” he snaps.
And he doesn’t.
Not when it comes to you.
He cuts through everything in his path—soldiers, debris, chaos—like it’s nothing, like the only thing that exists is getting to you. When he finally reaches you, dropping to his knees in front of you, hands immediately on your face, your shoulders, checking for injuries—
“Are you okay?” he demands, voice rough.
You nod, breath shaky. “I’m fine.”
He exhales like he’s been holding it the entire time, pressing his forehead to yours for a split second before pulling back, eyes blazing.
“Don’t ever tell me not to come for you,” he says, low and fierce. “You hear me?”
Your heart stutters. “Bucky—”
“I meant it,” he cuts in, softer now, but no less intense. “Anything. That includes this.”
You swallow, your hands finding his, squeezing tight.
“Okay,” you whisper.
---
The third time, it’s quiet.
You’re back home, safe, curled into his side while a movie plays in the background. His fingers trace lazy circles on your arm, grounding, steady.
“You really mean it, don’t you?” you murmur.
Bucky glances down at you. “Mean what?”
“Anything,” you say softly.
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Yeah,” he replies.
Your chest aches in that same overwhelming way, but this time it’s warm, steady, certain.
You shift closer, pressing your face into his neck, breathing him in. “Good.”
His arm tightens around you instantly, pulling you flush against him like it’s instinct.
“Why’s that?” he asks.
You tilt your head up, meeting his eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips.
“Because I’d do anything for you too.”
For once, Bucky’s the one who looks a little stunned.
And then he kisses you like he’s never going to stop.
You’re standing at the kitchen island in the compound, wearing one of Bucky’s old Henleys that falls almost to your mid-thigh, hair still sleep-mussed, humming under your breath while you try to reach the top shelf for the cinnamon. You’re on your tiptoes, tongue poking out the corner of your mouth in concentration, completely unaware of the six-foot-something, broad-shouldered super soldier watching you like you’ve just committed a personal crime against his composure.
Bucky freezes mid-step.
His jaw tightens.
His metal fingers flex.
“Don’t,” Sam warns, because he knows that look. “Barnes. Don’t do whatever you’re about to do.”
But Bucky’s already moving.
He stalks up behind you, massive hands landing on your waist. You squeak when he suddenly lifts you clean off the floor, cinnamon and all, and buries his face into your neck.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters against your skin, voice rough. “You’re killin’ me.”
You giggle, kicking your feet. “I was just getting cinnamon!”
“You were standin’ there all tiny and determined,” he growls, squeezing you tighter. “You don’t get to do that.”
Sam groans. “You look like a grizzly bear mauling a Care Bear.”
Bucky doesn’t even look at him. “She’s my Care Bear.”
You twist in his hold, cupping his face. He looks terrifying—scruffy jaw, stormy eyes, muscle straining against the black t-shirt he threw on five minutes ago. And yet he’s staring at you like you’re the softest thing he’s ever seen.
“You’re ridiculous,” you whisper.
His expression turns almost pained.
“I know.”
---
It gets worse at home.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the couch one evening, trying to untangle a necklace. You’re frowning at it like it personally offended you, bottom lip caught between your teeth.
Bucky walks in from the bedroom.
Stops dead.
His entire posture shifts—shoulders squaring, eyes narrowing, breath going slow and deliberate.
You don’t notice.
You just sigh dramatically and mutter, “Why do I even own jewelry.”
That’s it.
That’s the breaking point.
He crosses the room in three long strides, drops to his knees in front of you, and grabs your face in both hands.
You blink. “Bucky—”
“I need you to stop being this cute,” he says seriously, like it’s a tactical briefing. “Immediately.”
You laugh. “What did I do?”
“You exist.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“You’re sittin’ there all frustrated and pouty.” His thumbs press into your cheeks gently, squishing them together. “You don’t get to do that. You understand me?”
Your voice comes out muffled. “I’m literally just untangling a necklace.”
He leans forward and kisses you. Once. Twice. Then again, deeper this time, until you’re breathless and smiling against his mouth.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmurs.
“You say that every day.”
“And every day it’s true.”
---
The worst offender, though, is when you laugh.
It’s unfair. Completely unfair.
You’re out on a date night—nothing fancy, just a quiet little Italian place tucked away from the city noise. You’re telling him a story, animated hands, eyes bright. And then you laugh. Head tipped back, nose scrunched, that unguarded, wholehearted sound that makes something in his chest physically ache.
Bucky goes still.
Utterly still.
Your laugh tapers off when you notice.
“…Why are you staring at me like that?”
His jaw clenches. His fingers curl around his water glass hard enough that the ice cracks.
“I can’t,” he mutters.
“Can’t what?”
He leans across the table suddenly, grabbing your hand and dragging your knuckles to his mouth.
“You laugh like that in public on purpose?” he demands quietly.
You blink. “It was a joke?”
“You’re tryin’ to kill me.”
“Bucky.”
He exhales sharply through his nose, pressing his forehead to your hand.
“I love you so much it makes me violent.”
You stare at him for a second.
Then you burst into laughter again.
He groans like he’s in pain.
“See? There it is. That sound. I wanna put you in my pocket so nobody else gets to hear it.”
“You can’t just pocket your wife.”
“Watch me.”
---
At night, it’s softer. Quieter. More dangerous.
You fall asleep fast—always have. Curled on your side, hands tucked under your cheek, hair spilled across his pillow. Sometimes you murmur little nonsense words before your breathing evens out.
Bucky never falls asleep right away.
He lies there on his back, staring at the ceiling, heart too full for his ribs.
Then he turns his head.
And there you are.
Warm. Safe. His.
He rolls toward you slowly, careful not to wake you, and gathers you into his arms. You instinctively scoot closer, face pressing into his chest, little sigh leaving your lips.
That’s when it hits him the hardest.
That overwhelming surge in his chest—this tight, buzzing, almost frantic affection that makes his hands tremble. You look so soft. So trusting.
So his.
He buries his face in your hair and squeezes you tighter.
“You’re too cute,” he whispers into the dark. “You gotta knock it off.”
You mumble something incoherent and hook your leg over his hip.
He lets out a broken little huff of a laugh.
“Unbelievable.”
He presses kiss after kiss to your temple, your cheek, your shoulder. Not gentle pecks either—firm, determined, like he’s trying to stamp the love somewhere permanent.
You stir, blinking sleepily.
“…Buck?”
“Yeah, doll.”
“You okay?”
He pulls back just enough to look at you.
God.
Sleepy eyes. Flushed cheeks. That soft, confused little frown.
He actually growls.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like that,” he repeats helplessly.
You smile, unaware of the damage you cause.
He groans and flips you onto your back in one smooth motion, caging you in with his arms.
You squeal, fully awake now.
“James Buchanan Barnes!”
“I warned you,” he mutters, kissing you all over your face. “I warned you about being this cute.”
“I was sleeping!”
“Exactly.”
You’re laughing again, squirming under him, and he has to physically restrain himself from squeezing you so tight you disappear.
He ends up burying his face in your neck instead, breathing you in like you’re oxygen.
And then, because you reach up and boop his nose—because you giggle when he scowls dramatically—because you exist in that small, soft way that makes his massive hands feel clumsy and reverent all at once—
He groans.
“C’mere,” he mutters and pulls you impossibly closer, loving you so hard it almost feels like a fight he’s destined to lose.
summary: After the mission of returning the infinity stones goes wrong, the power stone leaves you with something you can’t get rid of. You survive the exposure, but now Bucky can only survive you in small doses.
word count: 5.2 k
warnings: angst, hurt/no comfort, implied smut, no happy ending (kind of open), graphic depictions of physical stress, mentions of blood and medical trauma, separation/implied breakup, self-destructive behavior. | english is not my first language so I'm sorry in advance for any mistypo/grammar mistake.
a/n: may I say thank you to the lovely anon who made this request based on Smallville Lara and Clark’s last kiss? Honestly I cried a lot while writing this 🥀 I hope you guys enjoy it and I’m sorry in advance for what you’re about to read.
read in AO3
The quantum tunnel spits you out on Morag in 2014, and the first thing you notice is how quiet it is. Dead quiet. Just wind and ruins and the distant sound of waves.
"We've got forty-five minutes before the window closes," you say, checking th GPS device on your wrist. "The temple's half a klick north."
Steve adjusts his shield. "Stay sharp, we don't know what we're walking into."
Bucky's already scanning the perimeter, rifle raised. "Looks abandoned."
"It is," you confirm. "Quill still unconscious down there. We're early."
The temple is exactly where it should be—a massive structure carved into the cliff face, a fascinating alien architecture. The power stone it's placed in its pedestal, sealed in the orb, pulsing with barely contained energy.
"Okay," Steve says. "Nice and easy. We secure the stone, get back to the platform and—"
The explosion cuts him off.
You're thrown sideways, slamming into one of the temple pillars. Your ears are ringing. Through the smoke, you see them: Sakaraans, maybe a dozen of them, firing indiscriminately. They must have followed you when they saw the quantum tunnel.
"Get the stone!" Steve shouts, shield already deflecting blaster fire.
Bucky's at your side, hauling you up. "You good?"
"Yeah, go—"
Another explosion, closer this time. The temple shudders and you watch in horror as the pedestal cracks, the orb rolls free splitting open on the ston floor.
The power stone tumbles out, raw, uncontained, pulsing with enough enrgy to level a planet.
Everything slows down.
Bucky's moving toward it—he's a super soldier, he might survive the exposure—but you're closer. You're already running. You can hear him screaming your name, but you're faster. Your hands close around the stone, and the universe explodes… at least for you.
Purple lightning crawls up your arms, through your veins, behind your eyes. It's not pain, it's way too big to be pain. It's everything, all at once. Every star being born and dying, every moment that ever was or ever will be, all of it flooding through you at once.
You can hear Bucky screaming but you can't let go. If you let go, the energy discharge will kill everyone. Will crack the planet open.
So you hold on.
Four seconds. Five. Six.
You slam the stone back into what's left of the pedestal and the world snaps back into focus. You're on your knees, your hands are still glowing, purple veins crawling under your skin like lightning scars. Bucky's hands are on your face, he's saying your name over and over, frantic.
"I'm okay," you manage. Your voice sounds wrong, distant. "I'm okay, I'm—"
You pass out in his arms.
You wake up three days later in the med bay. Bruce is there immediately, shining a light in your eyes, checking your vitals. "Welcome back, how do you feel?"
"Like I touched an infinity stone."
"Well, you're not dead, so, that's a good start." He's trying for levity, but you can see the concern in his eyes. "The glowing has mostly faded, you've still got some residual marks, but they should disappear completely in another few days."
You look down at your hands. The purple veins are still there, faint now, like a spiderweb under your skin.
"Where's Bucky?"
"He's been here the whole time, I finally convinced him to go shower about an hour ago." Bruce hesitates. "He was… he didn't handle seeing you like that very well."
You're about to respond, when the door crashes open and Bucky's thre, hair still wet, looking like he's been through hell.
"You're awake." He's across the room in three strides, hands hovering over you like he's afraid to touch. "You're okay, you're—"
"I'm okay," you assure him. "Buck, I'm fine."
He sits on the edge of the bed, and you can see his hands shaking. "You stopped breathing twice. Did Bruce tell you that? Your heart stopped once, I had to watch them—"
"But I'm here now." You catch his hand, lacing your fingers through his. "I'm right here."
He lifts your joined hands to his mouth, kissing your knuckles. "Don't ever do that again."
"No more infinity stones, I promise."
He manages a weak smile before leaning down to kiss you properly. You don't notice the way his hand tightens on yours or the way his breathing picks up.
Twenty minutes later, he's vomiting in the bathroom.
Bruce runs every test he can think of. Bucky insists it's just stress, just the comedown from the mission, but you all know better.
It happens again the next day. You're sitting together in the common room, your head on his shoulder, and after thirty minutes he has to excuse himself. You find him in the hallway, pale and shaking, leaning against the wall.
"This is connected to the stone," you say.
"We don't know that."
"Bucky—"
"We don't know that," he repeats, more firmly. "Could be a hundred things, could be—"
He doesn't get to finish. His knees buckle and you barely catch him.
Bruce's diagnosis is clinical and devastating: you're still emitting radiation from the power stone. Not enough to hurt a normal person, but enough that Bucky's enhanced metabolism reads it as a threat. The serum is trying to fight it, which is tearing him apart from the inside.
"It should fade," Bruce says, but he won't meet your eyes. "In theory."
"How long?" Bucky demands.
"I don't know. The levels are decreasing, but slowly. It could take weeks, maybe months." He pauses. "Maybe longer."
"So what do we do?"
Bruce looks between you both. "You stay apart, minimize exposure until radiation dissipates to safe levels."
The silence is deafining.
"How much exposure is safe?" You ask quietly.
"Based on today's readings?" Bruce checks his tablet. "Five minutes. Maybe ten if he's had time to recover."
Five minutes. You only get five minutes.
After a few weeks, the lab tests proof that you're safe for fifteen minutes.
You measure everything now.
Bucky sets a timer on his phone every time he enters your room. When it goes off, he leaves without arguments or exceptions.
Fifteen minutes isn't enough time for anything meaningful. It's enough for "how was your day" and "I miss you" and one kiss before the alarm sounds and he has to go.
You start writing things down. All the things you want to tell him, but don't have time for. You leave notes in his room, he leaves notes in yours.
Thought about you today when I saw a cat stuck in a tree. It reminded me of that mission in Prague. -B
Sam made a joke about your hair, I defended your honor. You're welcome. -You
I'm counting down the minutes until tomorrow, always counting. -B
By week four, your time increases to forty five minutes, and it fels like a miracle.
You can have a meal together now… well, most of one. You learn to eat fast, to tlk while chewing, to fit entire conversations into the space between bites.
"Bruce says the decline is steady," Bucky tells you over breakfast. "If it keeps dropping at this rate, we might have a few hours in another month."
"That's good," you say, but you're both thinking the same thing: What if it stops? What if this is as good as it gets?
The timer goes off and Bucky's only eaten half his food.
"I'll finish it tomorrow," he says, kissing your forehead on his way out.
His plate sits on your table for the rest of the day. You can't bring yourself to throw it away.
By the sixth week, you got two hours, and it feels like the cruelest gift.
It's enough time to watch a movie—if you start it the second he walks in and he leaves before the credits roll.
It's enough time to have sex—once, and only if you're efficient about it, and only if you're both okay with him leaving immediately after. You try it once, the alarm goes off while you're still catching your breath. He kisses you and walks out, and you lie there alone in the tangled sheets and cry.
When the eighth week comes, you notice the increase is slowing down. Bruce shows you the charts, the curve is flattening. The rate of decrease is dropping.
"What does that mean?" Bucky asks.
"It means we might be approaching a plateau," Bruce says carefully. "A baseline level that won't decrease further."
"But it's still going down," you argue. "It went up forty seven minutes this week."
"Forty-seven minutes in seven days. Last week it was an hour and twelve minutes. The week before that, ninety minutes." Bruce looks tired. "I'm not saying it's definitely plateaued, but we need to prepare for the possibility."
That night, Bucky comes to your room. You lie together in your narrow bed, fully clothed, his flesh arm wrapped around you.
"We have thirty more minutes," you whisper. "We should talk about something."
"I don't want to talk."
"Then what do you want?"
"This." His voice is rough. "Just this, just you."
You fall asleep like that. Wake up four hours later to Bucky convulsing beside you, blood streaming from his nose and ears.
"You could've died!" You're shouting, pacing, because if you stop moving you'll fall apart. "You could've— do you have any idea what it was like, waking up and seeing you like that?"
Bucky's sitting on the edge of the med bay bed, still pale but recovering. "I fell asleep, it was an accident."
"An accident? You stayed for four hours, Bucky! Four freaking hours! Your timer went off and you turned it off instead of leaving—"
"I didn't—"
"FRIDAY showed me the logs!" Your voice cracks. "You dismissed the alarm six times, six."
The silence stretches between you.
"I wanted more time," he says finly.
"You could've died."
"I wanted more time with you." He looks up, and his eyes are red. "Is that so fucking terrible? That I wanted to fall asleep next to you? That I wanted one night where I didn't have to watch the clock?"
"Yes!" The word tears out of you. "Yes, it's terrible, because you're killing yourself for a few extra hours—"
"Don't you get it? It's not about hours!" He's on his feet now. "It's about us. Us being together… that's the only thing keeping me—"
The nose bleed starts.
You've been here too long. Twenty minutes arguing, and he's already over the limit.
"I'm leaving," you whisper.
"We're not done—"
"I said I'm leaving!" You're crying now, shoving at his chest before walking out.
You sink to the floor of the next room and finish the fight alone, screaming at an empty room.
Bruce calls you both into the lab. You know it before he speaks, he has a terrible poker face.
"The levels have been stbale for two weeks," he says. "No decrease, no increase. I think… I think this is it."
"It could still drop," Bucky argues. "Could just be longer plateau before—"
"It could." Bruce agrees. "But it's been twelve weeks. The radiation signature should've decreased more by now if it was going to." He pulls up a graph. "I think we're looking at a permanent baseline, aproximately three hours of safe exposure per day."
Three hours for the rest of your life. Three fucking hours.
"There has to be something else," you say, but your voice sounds distant. "Another treatment, a way to extract it, something—"
"I've consulted with everyone I can think of. Shuri, Helen Cho, Strange… There's no precedent for this. Infinity stone exposure on this scale…." Bruce shakes his head. "I'm really sorry."
You're aware of Bucky's hand finding yours, holding it tight.
"Three hours," he says. "We can work with three hours."
You don't answer.
That night, you sit in your room and do the math.
Three hours a day is 1,095 hours a year. Divided by 24, that's 45.625 days. You get 45 days a year with him… the rest, you spend alone.
If you live by 80—optimistic, given your line of work— and Bucky lives to be 150 because of the serum, you'll get 58 years together: 2,668 days total out of 21,170.
12.6% of your life together. The other 87.4% alone.
You're still staring at the numbers when Bucky walks in.
"Three hours a day is 1,095 hours a year," he says, and his voice is so carefully controlled it hurts to hear. "That's 45 days, we get 45 days a year together. Some couples do long distance and see each other less than that. We could— we could make this work, right?"
He's standing in the doorway, hasn't crossed the threshold yet. Even now, he's trying to preserve your time.
"Buck—"
"I wake up at 5, come here until 8. Then lunch, 12 to 1. Dinner, 6 to 8. That's three hours, we just split it up throughout theday. It's structured but it's— it's something." He's talking faster now, desperate. "We could meal prep on Sundays so we don't waste time cooking. We could— I don't know, we could read books at the same time so we have something to talk about during—"
"Bucky, stop."
"No." He takes one step into the room, just one. "No, I won't stop. I've done the math every possible way and this— this is what we have, so we make it enough, we make it—"
"It's not a life."
The words land like a physical blow. You watch him flinch.
"It's our life." His voice cracks. "It is what he have, and people leave with worse. People— people do long distance, people have—"
"People don't get poisoned by the person they love."
"Don't—" The word comes out sharp, ragged. "Don't make this about—"
"What if it gets worse?" You're on your feet now, and you can see the exact moment the timer his head starts counting. He's been here for two minutes. You have 178 minutes left today. "What if the plateau is temporary? What if three hours become two, and then one—"
"Then we'll deal with it."
"What if it kills you?"
"Then it kills me!"
The shout echoes in the small room. Bucky's chest is heaving, his flesh hand clenched into a fist, and you can already see it— the slight tremor starting in his fingers, the way his pupils are dilating wrong.
Five minutes. He's been here for five minutes.
"Get out," you whisper.
"No."
"Bucky, please—"
"No." He crosses the room in three strides, and you can see what it costs him. There's already a slight drag to his left leg—the serum's propioception breaking down. "You don't get to decide this alone… you grabbed that stone to save the mission, to save Steve, to save the entire goddamn universe. You think I'm gonna let that sacrifice be for nothing? You think I'm gonna just walk away after—"
He stops and sways.
Seven minutes.
"Sit down." You grab his arm— his flesh arm, careful now— and try to guide him to the bed. His skin is already too warm. "Damn it, James, sit down before you—"
"No," he's shaking his head and the movement seems to cost him. "Not yet. I can't—I'm not ready yet."
"You're already past your limit—"
"I know." His voice drops. "God, I know. I can feel it. It's like fire in my blood, did you know that? It burns. Everything burns when I'm near you."
Your breath hitches. "You never told me—"
"Because I don't care." He cups your face with both hands, and the metal one is whirring wrong, plates shifting and clicking out of sync. "I don't care if it hurts. I don't care if it burns— the only thing I need is you."
His knees buckle. You catch him, barely, and you're both sinking to the floor. His back hits the edge of the bed and you're kneeling between his legs, holding him up.
"I need one more time," he breathes out. "I need to kiss you one more time without the fucking timer, without counting the seconds in my head, without wondering if this is the one that finally—"
He doesn't finish. Can't finish.
"This is cruel," you whisper as your hands frame his face, and you can feel the fever radiating off his skin. "This is so cruel, letting you stay when you—"
"Then be cruel." His eyes lock on yours, and even unfocused with pain, they're still looking at you with so much love it hurts. "Be cruel, let me have this, let me—"
"It's killing you—"
"You think leaving me won't?" His metal had comes up—jerky and malfunctioning— and catches your wrist. The grip is weak. How could it be? His metal arm is never weak. "You think walking away and leaving without you won't kill me just as dead? At least this way I got to…"
His nose starts bleeding.
It's been ten fucking minutes.
"Please, stop." You sob, reaching for something to stop the blood, but he catches your hand.
"No, please, just—" He's pulling you closer, even though every instinct you have is screaming to push him away, to save him. "Just stay, please. I know we're out of time, I know this is it, I know tomorrow you're gonna leave and never come back, so just— god, please just let me have this."
"How did you—"
"I know you." His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "I know that stubborn look in your face… you've already decided. You're planning on disappear and going somewhere I can't find you, because you think that way you'd be saving me. But baby, I'm not gonna survive without you, you understand that?"
He's crying now, and the tears are pink-tinged. There's blood on his tears. That's new.
"I can't lose you again," he chokes out. "I can't be the one left behind again. I can't wake up and find out the person I love the most is gone."
"Then you have to let me go." You're crying too, your forehead pressed against his. "You have to let me be the one that walks away, because I can live knowing you're out there, somewhere, safe and whole and alive. But I can't live watching this kill you. I can't, Bucky, I simply can't."
"One more time," he whispers against your mouth. "Let me have one more time where I'm not counting… where I can just pretend we have forever."
"We don't have forever…"
"I know. And I know I'm past it, I know I'm gonna pay for this, I don't care."
And he kisses you.
It's not gentle nor careful. It's desperate and drowning. His mouth is relentless against yours, like he's trying to memorize the taste, the feeling, the way you feel together. Your hands are on his hair, on his face, feeling the fever burning through him.
The kiss tastes like copper and salt. And somehow you feel it like the one last thing you'll ever have in your life.
His body is shaking violently now. You can feel every tremor, every muscle spasm. His metal arm is now hanging useless at his side, but his flesh hand is still cupped around the back of your neck, still holding you close as his strength fails.
You break the kiss against to breathe and he makes this desperate, broken sound that breaks your heart and chases your mouth. "Not yet, not yet, please—"
"Bucky, you're—"
"I know." He kisses you again, softer this time, gentler. "Just one more time."
Another kiss, this one starts to taste like blood. His hands are sliding down from your neck, he's losing motor control and his eyes are rolling back. You catch him as he slumps forward, his full weight collapsing into you.
"No, no, no…" You're holding him, lowering him down to the floor, cradling his head. "FRIDAY! Get Steve here! Get Bruce! Please someone—"
Bucky slurs something low, barely conscious. You look down at him with tears in your eyes. "Please, please, stay with me—"
But he's out.
You lay down, screaming until your throat hurts for what it feels like forever, even though it only has been two minutes.
You're still holding him when Steve and Sam crash through the door. Bruce arrives a bit later to the med bay. They try to pull him from your arms and you won't let go.
"How long?" Bruce asks quietly, already prepping an IV.
Your voice barely comes out and sounds distant. "Fifteen minutes, maybe more…"
Steve's face go white. "Jesus Christ."
"Get her out of here," Bruce orders and Sam pulls you away gently.
You watch from the doorway as they work in him. Watch as they load him onto a gurney and wheel him past you to medical.
His metal arm is hanging off the side of the gurney, completely loose. Blood is still trickling from his nose. But on his face, even unconscious, there's this ghost of a smile.
Like it was worth it.
You slide down the wall in the empty hallway and sob, praying in silence for him to be okay.
When Steve finds you an hour later, you're still there. Still staring at the same spot where they took him away.
"He's stable," Steve says quietly, sitting down beside you. "He's gonna be okay…"
You don't answer, looking down at your hands.
"Bruce says the exposure set him back weeks, maybe months. He will need time to recover before…" He trails off but you already know what he means.
Before you can see each other again.
"I'm leaving," you say. Your voice is flat, empty. "Tomorrow, somewhere he won't find me…"
"He'll look."
"I know." You finally look at Steve. "That is why I need you to stop him. You need to make him understand that this is— this is the only way I know how to save him."
Steve remains in silence for a long moment. Then: "He's not gonna forgive you for this."
You close your eyes, leaning your head on the wall. "…But at least he'll be alive."
The next morning, you're gone.
You leave a note on his bedside table in medical, anchored down by a small locket with your initials and a picture of you both inside. You took his dog tags in exchange. The paper is covered in your handwriting, and in some places the ink is smudged.
Bucky,
I'm writing this while you're still unconscious, and I'm trying not to look at you, because if I do, I won't be able to leave. So I'm staring at this paper instead, forcing my hand to move and trying to get all of it out before I lose my nerve.
By the time you read this, I'll be gone. And I need you to understand that this isn't me running away from you. This is me running forward the only future where you survive.
I love you. I love you so much it feels like it's burning me from the inside out. I love the way you still sleep on the left side of the bed just because I asked you once to do so because I felt more comfortable sleeping on the right. I love how you pretend you don't like when Sam calls you "Buckaroo" but I can see you trying not to smile. I love that you learned how to braid hair just so you could braid mine on the nights we actually had time together.
I love you for fighting so hard, for pushing your limits for wanting me badly enough to hurt yourself. But that's exactly why I can't stay.
Last night I watched you almost die in my arms just for some extra time with me. I felt your heartbeat falter under my hands, I saw the blood and I saw you smiling unconscious when they were taking you to the medbay. And that's how I know you're never going to stop. You'll never choose yourself over me. You'll push and push until there's nothing left, and I will have to watch you fade.
I can't do that, Buck. I can't let the person I love most in this world destroy himself for stolen moments and rationed hours. I can't live knowing that every kiss might be the one that finally kills you.
So I'm choosing for the both of us. I'm doing the thing you can't do.
I'm leaving. And I need you to let me go.
I know you're probably already planning how to find me. I know Steve is probably going to help you, and if they ever find me Sam is going to yell at me for breaking your heart, and you're going to pull every favor and every resource until you track me down.
Please don't. I'm begging you baby, please don't look for me.
I know it's not fair to ask, I know I don't have the right, but I'm asking anyway because I need you to live. I need you to have a full life without timers and blood and goodbye kisses that might be the last one.
You've spent so much time being a weapon, being used, being told you don't get to choose. So I'm giving you a choice now: you can spend the rest of your life chasing a ghost or you can let me be the one that got away. You can hold on the hurt or you can let it make you strong enough to move forward.
You probably already know which one I'm hoping you'll choose.
Be happy, James Buchanan Barnes. Be reckless and stupid and alive. Get a cat. Let Sam teach you how to use social media, let Steve drag you to those museums you always pretend to hate. Flirt with someone at a coffee shop, have a one night stand, fall in love again.
Live the life I can't give you.
I'm sorry I couldn't be strong enough to stay. I'm sorry for choosing this way. I'm sorry for every fight we won't have and every meal we don't share and every tomorrow we won't get.
But most of all I'm sorry that loving me turned into something that could kill you.
I'm serious, James, don't look for me. This is the only way I know how to save you.
Always yours, even from far away.
When Bucky wakes up, the first thing he see is the letter. The second thing he sees is that his dog tags are gone. The third thing he realizes is that you are gone too.
He reads the letter and the machine monitoring his heart rate starts screaming.
"No." He's already ripping off the IV from his arm, swaying his legs over the side of the bed. "No, no, no—"
Steve's hands land on his shoulders. "Buck, you need to calm down."
"Where is she?!"
The scream echoes through the medbay. Bucky shoves Steve back hard enough that he hits the wall.
"You need to lie back down," Bruce says, trying to use his calm voice. "Your system is still recovering, you can't—"
Bucky's on his feet now. The room spins but he doesn't care. He's moving toward the door and Steve's blocking it and Bucky can feel it rising in his chest—that cold, dark thing he's spent burying.
"Move."
"You're in no condition—"
"I said move!"
His metal fist goes through the wall next to Steve's head. Sam is there too now, both of them trying to corral him back towards the bed, but Bucky's fighting them… really fighting them. There's blood running down his arm from where he tore the IV out and he can feel his body failing, feel the weakness on his legs, but he doesn't care.
"She's gone!" He's shouting, or maybe sobbing, he can't tell anymore at this point. "She's gone, I have to find her, I have to—"
"Bucky, listen to me—" Steve tries.
"No!" Bucky slams his metal arm into a medical cart and sends it crashing across the room. "You don't understand, she thinks—the letter says—"
He can't get the words out, can't even breathe properly. His chest is too tight and the room is spinning. You're gone.
"We need to sedate him," Bruce intervenes.
"Don't you fucking dare!" Bucky spins toward him and Steve has to physically tackle him. They go down hard, Steve pinning him to the floor and Bucky's still fighting, thrashing, his metal arm whirring as he tries to throw Steve down.
"I'm sorry," Steve is saying and he means it, Bucky hears it in his voice. "I'm sorry, Bucky but you're gonna hurt yourself if we don't stop you."
"I don't care!" Bucky's voice cracks. "I don't care, let me go, let me find her—"
He feels the needle slide into his arm.
"No, please, I have to— she doesn't understand—I need to tell her." His vision is blurring, Steve's face above him, both of them looking wrecked. "Find her, please find her…"
The darkness takes him back.
When he wakes again, it's dark outside.
He's restrained now. Steve's asleep in the chair beside the bed, Sam is gone.
Bucky lies there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, his body aches and his head pounds. Underneath it all, there's this hollow space where you used to be.
The letter is folded on the bedside table. They must've picked it up after… after whatever happened. He doesn't remember all of it, just the rage and the panic, the desperate need to move, to chase you and fix everything.
But he's not panicking now, he's thinking.
What if all of it wasn't permanent? What if there was a cure? Bruce said there was no precedent for infinity stone exposure like this. No treatment, no solution. But Bruce doesn't know everything. Bruce couldn't save Tony.
Bucky's mind was starting to work, clicking through possibilities: Carol Danvers got her powers when she was exposed to the space stone. Wanda's powers were the result of an experiment trial with the mind stone. Peter Quill was exposed to the power stone, along with his team, according to what Steve told him.
There were options. Leads. Possibilities.
And if none of them worked, he would find new ones. He'll search every corner of the universe if he has to. He'll make deals with gods and monsters and anyone else who might have answers.
The restraints are loose enough that he could break them. They're meant to slow him down, not stop him. But he doesn't move. He just lies there, breathing steadily, his mind cataloguing resources and contacts and next steps.
He reaches back for the letter and reads it one more time.
I'm serious, James, don't look for me. This is the only way I know how to save you.
He folds it carefully and picks up the locket you left there, a picture of the both of you staring back at him. He closes his hand around it and presses it against his chest.
"I'm going to solve this out," he murmurs quietly, low enough to prevent Steve from waking up. "And then I'm going to find you, and we're going to have forever. I promise."
Prompt: Candlelight AND “I’ll make you mine forever”
Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader
Galentine's Party Masterlist
Money, clothes, jewelry, flowers; you ask for it and you get it.
Growing up in a family where your father has rose in ranks as part of the mob, what you wanted is what you got. He spared no expenses for you and your mother but that didn't let you grow up in the same likeness of other girls your age who belonged in other mob families and believed they are above others.
You rarely asked for anything, no matter what gold platter your father tried to serve. Your father never asked for anything in return. Only wished to give his family the life he dreamt of, all while shielding you both from the horrors of his job.
To your surprise, you were able to grow up normally. Had a 9-5 job, a degree, an apartment, and a safety net care of your father. You thought you could leave untouched by his work.
Until he knocked on your door with a devastated look, and you knew everything would change.
"The boss said we need you." He tells you shakenly, "I'm sorry honey. We have no choice, he needs this deal and the other side wants your hand in marriage."
And just like that, it was a done deal.
Now you follow his men as he requested your presence.
Bucky Barnes was not a terrible husband by all means. He was a cold man at first, didn’t pay attention to you, didn’t care, just gave your rough grunts whenever you tried to make small talks. It would almost seem like he's been avoiding you despite having specifically asked for your hand in marriage.
It went on for months. He was always out, doing business he never shares. He let you have your own peace as you moved into the same manor as him.
Soon, your fear of the man melted. He left you alone, never once touched you or took advantage of you.
But it was lonely. Day after day in his manor, surrounded only by your husband's employees doing their duties, you were so lonely that you tried to befriend the staff. Tried to even help them but they were quick to stop you, saying that Mr. Barnes would not be happy if you lift a single finger. Leaving you with nothing to do.
That evening as you made your way down the stairs for your usual dinner alone, his men stopped you and simply told you to follow them to a car as he requested your presence.
It has now been two months since you tied the knot and this was the first time that he was the first one to sought after you.
You followed the men, and they drove you out of the manor. Watching the road pass by from the window of your seat, you sighed nervously. Maybe he changed his mind about the marriage and wants to end it.
"You’re awfully quiet." Sam Wilson, his right hand man says breaking you out of your thoughts.
"Just nervous," you say with a forced lopsided smile at the man in front of you. "This is the first time he asked for me."
He chuckles as if he was in a joke you were not in on as the car stops right outside a restaurant, "trust me sweet girl, nothing to be nervous about." He says it so softly, so sure that it calms your nerves a little.
You watched as Sam opened the door and exited first before offering you a hand as you exited the vehicle. "Bucky's inside," he smiles.
Taking his hand, you nod before heading inside the almost empty restaurant.
Bucky sits alone at a corner booth, his back to the wall as always. He doesn't look up when you approach, just flicks two fingers toward the seat across from him in silent invitation. A half-finished whiskey sits in front of him and a candle next to a stem of rose.
"Didn’t think you’d actually come," he mutters finally without meeting your eyes before you could fully analyze the scene in front of you.
Sam leans against a nearby pillar with an amused smirk—clearly enjoying this more than he should be. Bucky finally looks up and shoots him a glare that could melt steel before sighing and dragging his gaze up to yours for once.
"…You hungry?"
"I feel underdressed," you say shyly as he holds a hand up dismissing Sam who cracks an even bigger smile as he left you two alone.
Bucky finally gives you a good look from head to toe, and you swear the corner of his lip upturns almost in amusement.
"You look fine." He says, finally taking a good swig of his drink before sitting back and observing you silently. "And anyone who says so to my wife answers to me."
"Come on. Sit down." He motions to the seat across from him, his gaze intense and heavy.
Hesitantly, you nod and sit opposite of him from the booth.
The way he casually called you his wife was not lost on you.
His gaze doesn't soften after you sit down, he just stares at you silently. It almost feels like he's studying you, like he's looking for something.
For a few seconds, the only sound is the restaurant's low-key music and background chatter filling the awkward air between you both.
Finally, he sets his glass down on the table and breaks the silence.
"So… How have you been?" He asks out of nowhere, his voice gruff and at the same time, strangely gentle. Almost as if he was trying.
"Okay, I suppose." You say carefully before your curiosity won over you, "Am I allowed to ask why you had me join you here?"
Bucky lets out a low hum, a sound that's somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle as he takes another casual drink before finally answering your question.
"Can't I just ask my wife out to dinner?"
The way he said those words. The way 'my wife' rolls off his tongue with ease and possessiveness, it makes your heart thump in your chest unexpectedly.
You bite your lower lip, almost as if you were trying to hold back the words you wanted to say.
"That would be ideal," you say carefully, choosing your words before you continue. "But you haven't exactly spoken to me since I moved in."
Bucky's fingers tighten around his glass for a second—just enough for you to notice as you watch him—before he forces them to relax. His jaw tenses slightly, and when he finally speaks again, his voice is rougher than before.
"Wasn't tryin' to be an asshole."
A pause. Then quieter:
"…Just didn’t know what the hell I was supposed to say."
He won't meet your eyes this time either, like admitting that much already cost him something.
"Sorry," you say quickly. "Didn't mean to sound like an asshole."
You catch the corner of his lip upturn slightly in amusement. "You don't have to apologize, sweet girl." He murmurs softly, finally lifting his gaze to yours again.
His eyes are still cold, but it's not as harsh as they were a few minutes ago. In fact, there's a hint of warmth in them now. At least you think there is.
"I'm pretty sure I've been the only asshole here." He mutters honestly before downing his drink empty.
"Still, that was pretty shitty of me to do." You say quietly as you look at the rose sitting in the middle of the candlelight between you both.
Bucky watches you as you look at the rose with a thoughtful look on your face. Then he flags down a server and orders another drink before leaning back in his seat again, his gaze on you the entire time.
He doesn't say anything for a while, just stares you down like a predator sizing up its prey. Then, finally: "I had a reason for asking you out, you know."
You look up now to meet his eyes, "why's that?"
Bucky's expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes shifts—something dangerous and calculating. He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table as he studies you.
"Because I'm tired of pretending I don’t have a beautiful wife back at home."
His voice is low, rough like gravel. Like this admission costs him more than he wants to let on.
"I want to get to know the woman I married. Selfishly, I want to make you fall for me." He says as the waiter comes out and serves a meal for you both.
Heat creeps up your face at his words, thankfully hidden by the restaurant's dim lights.
But Bucky sees it from the candlelight, as he continued after the waiter left the two of you. "Maybe I haven't been clear but I asked for your hand because I knew at first sight that I wanted you."
You try to ignore the way your chest fluttered at his words, forcing yourself to focus on the food plate set in front of you. But it's hard when he's looking at you like that—intense and almost hungry.
"Oh?" You say softly, trying to keep your voice steady and unaffected. "Is that why you've been avoiding me since our wedding day then?"
He chuckles more freely now as he leaned in closer to watch you. "I wanted to give you space." He says, a ghost of a smile on his face. "Figured I already forced your hand in marriage, asking you to give me what I want would mean you'd hate me."
Your breath catches in your throat. It's not just what he's saying but the way he says it—so matter of factly, like he's so sure that you would hate him. It makes your heart clench for reasons you can't explain.
"You could have at least talked to me," you say finally, trying to keep your voice even. "I'm your wife, not your hostage."
"Maybe," he mutters as he tilts his head almost as if he was studying you before he spoke again.
"But I am just a man in front of a beautiful woman, sometimes the brain doesn't work the way it would when it comes to you."
The unexpected compliment hits your system hard. He says it so casually, almost off-handedly even, but there's a sincerity in his words that you can't deny.
It makes your heart skip a beat.
But before you could say anything, he suddenly reached across the table and picked up the stem of red rose, inspecting it thoughtfully between his fingers.
"So sweet girl, am I allowed to try and fight to win the affection of my beautiful wife?" He askes as he held it over to you, "Or have I fucked it up already because I can't say that I want to be the husband you deserve?"
You stare at the rose, then at Bucky, who's watching you with an intense gaze that makes your heart race faster than when you said 'I do' to him in front of strangers.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you reach for the rose. Your fingers brush against his, and you swear you could feel a spark—a jolt of something electric where your skins touched.
"Don't make me regret this," you warn softly, your voice low but firm. Your heart is pounding in your chest, but your eyes don't leave his.
A slow, yet relieved smile spreads across Bucky's face as you take the rose from him. His gaze never left yours, his eyes darkening further and his fingers twitch slightly from your touch.
He's holding back, you realize, but from what, you're not sure.
Before you could think further into it, he takes your hand where your ring sat and left a soft kiss against the finger. His voice is low and rough as he leans a little closer on the table, the candlelight accentuating the sharp lines of his face as he swore quietly between you. "Don't worry sweet girl, I intend to make you fall in love with me without force. In the same way I already feel for you. I’ll make you mine forever."
✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦
AN: Just want to say a quick thank you for reading. Whether this is your first read from me or you have been reading since the start of this event or even read a previous work of mine, thank you!
This is the first writing event i have participated in and im so surprised i was able to churn out this much despite the pressure i put myself in lmao im so proud of myself for finishing this and putting my work out there despite how unsure i often feel over what i write.
Thank you again for reading. Happy Valentine's Day and i hope every version of Bucky you encountered that i brought you has made you smile.
authors notes: can't believe this is day 21 of january jumble scribbles already! also user buckyscaptain writing more mob bucky?? shocking news, everyone is shocked.
word count: 335 (i didn't even try)
warnings: violence, gunshots, minor character death, mentions of blood and injuries, reader get tied up, mentions of interrogation.
prompt: "they just said get up there and make some trouble."
main masterlist! | scribbles masterlist!
“i told you—” you leaned over and spat out a mouthful of blood, wincing at the metallic taste it left behind. “they just said get up there and make some trouble, and i just did what i was told. i don’t know who they are, rule number one— never ask questions.” you’d had nicer friday nights that didn’t include being tied up and interrogated, but this was just a minor occupational hazard in this line of work.
“again.” the same gravelly voice echoed off the walls of the warehouse, and you braced for an impact that never came. instead, it was followed up by metal doors clattering off walls as they were bust open.
“oh, now you’re in trouble. i’d run if i was you, you know, if you actually wanna keep breathing.” you grinned, despite the fact it pulled on the cuts littered across your face. you knew that he’d come for you, it was never a matter of if, just when. in his defence, he at least tried.
he made it about two steps away before his brains were splattered across the floor and he crumpled into a heap. you winced again as the gunshot echoed, disorientating you for a minute. “jeez, at least give a girl a little warning.” you murmured as you felt rope fall from around your wrists. you rolled them slowly, ignoring the dull ache radiating from them.
“well i’m sorry, i was more interested in making sure you were in one piece.” bucky scoffed as he knelt down, a gloved hand tilting your chin as he assessed the damage. “i’ve seen men go down with less.” he murmured as he brushed a thumb over a particularly nasty bruise. “c’mon, let’s get you home.” he stood up, planting a kiss against your forehead before he scooped you up in his arms.
later on, when you were sorted, everyone else who’d contributed to your hurt tonight would fall— but for now?
Summary: "What does the capital of fucking Wyoming have to do with anything?" Or, Logan admits something to you on your birthday that puts pieces of you back together you didn't know were broken.
X-Men Timeline Placement: Can fit anywhere, but specifically imagining pre-2000, somewhere around Origins!Logan.
Disclaimers: flirting, some emotional constipation, jealousy troupe, language.
-> I'd die for this man, I think. thank you. the first of my birthday celebration fics and I'm already so dead, don't look at me. I'm taking requests until 12/12 so get yours in!
That flimsy, won't-stop-hell chain on the door sings when it slams back into place, hard.
The floor, likewise, rattles a little when heavy feet take it in three strides. Accepts the bag you drop on the floor at the kitchen table, the air far too still for a Saturday night as you practically wrangle out of your coat. Tossing it to the back of the chair beneath your hands, your knuckles white as your new manicure curls into the rough wood.
Your heart hammers a little too hard when Logan slips through the door, following you at a respected distance. Mouth drawn in a thin line that fights an amused quirk, he gently kicks the door back into place with a thick boot, bike exhaust clinging to him like a lover. Spins the key on a thick finger, before it vanishes into its usual spot — his jacket pocket.
Taking a beat, his gaze falls over you once. Twice. Before his brows lift, investigative.
"You done?"
You know exactly what it means.
But it alludes you all the same, watching him shrug out of his jacket. Skin burning with a flaming heat unable to be described even in ancient prose, you focus your hands on the back of the chair. Try working the anger into IKEA woodwork that would sooner snap beneath your hands than offer emotional support.
His boots scuff the floor as he begins rolling up the sleeves of his flannel, leather jacket draped over a thick arm. Arms that, an hour ago, held you against his chest when you swayed to Johnny Cash in the grimy bar on the corner, the one you loved, the one you knew he didn't, but he has allowed for the last year since you invaded his life.
The same one that damn strawberry blonde has been staking out for the past three weeks, eyeballing Logan as if he's the posterboy for Penthouse and a wet dream.
"I'm Cheyanne," she'd looked like something out of Vogue, perched on the barstool next to him as you'd come up beside him from checking your makeup in the bathroom. "I've seen you here before." Her eyes hadn't moved from him.
"Oh? Funny. I don't remember seeing you here. Ever."
She'd eyed you with the vehement surprise of a startled bull snake.
Logan hadn't even so much as attempted to make it known he wasn't available. Whether blissfully ignorant and stupid, you hadn't decided—just painfully vetoed.
Your chin lifts a little as you turn to face him, eyes catching at the thick of his arms so on display now that his sleeves are rolled. Feels like a deliberate counterstrike on your senses, how thin his smile is as he considers you. Standing there, in a thrift store dress and boots. Trying to look pretty without even trying at all.
Your jaw works, the breath in the back of your throat not as brave as you'd hoped as words rattle up from your chest. "Am I done what?"
Something—light, maybe a little wickedness—catches in the corner of his eye. Definitely amusement, but it's unclear if it's genuine or at your expense. As are most things with Logan—unclear, undefined, unresolved.
His MO. Put a name to it and it's real, ignore it and it goes away. Unless it's you, determined as all get out to be close as a heartbeat, to live in his ribs. You'd flown into his life like some Molotov cocktail, all on and fire and alive, but hardly destructive—rattled the cage that kept the Wolverine unlovable, unseen, wholly grave like.
He hadn't been able to push you away for a year, and that was on purpose.
He approaches the table. Drapes his coat over the chair next to yours. Rests a hand on the back of it, leaning his weight before a hand rests at his hip. Sharp eyes consider the floor, and the breath he takes is more of a long sigh than it is actual breathing. A beat flickers between the two of you, short and hot, before his eyes cast to you yours. Firmly, determinedly.
"You've been poutin' since appetizers," his brow shifts up, considering. "Too quiet. Somethin's got you in your head, just haven't figured what, yet." His foot taps the floor, pointedly. Once in that, you ready to fess up yet? way. "Spill, sweetheart. Don't wanna spoil your birthday by bein' pissy, do you?"
"I have not." Too sharp, too fast—someone with Logan's life experience will clock it as ingenuine. It is. While he likes to brag that communication isn't his thing, Logan is a keyed-up communicator. He reads things others don't.
"You absolutely have," it's short, a little jagged around the edges.
"I don't wanna talk about it, Logan." I don't want you to see this side of me, not today, not ever.
Stepping by him, you rush your fingers through your hair, pointed in the direction of the hallway—the safety of four walls, a closet of sweatsuits and comfort clothes, and a 4k television with Kate & Leopold that would never do so much as blink wrong in your direction.
You don't make it five steps before his arm hooks yours, pulling you back a step. With the graceful ease of a man who has been doing this for a century, he about-faces you so smoothly that you just naturally end up against his chest—like it is planned. Like being caged in his arms was the grand scheme of the entire night enduring burned appetizers, stale beer, and Johnny Cash reruns on a half-dead stereo.
"Not wantin' to talk about somethin' is the best time to talk about it, sweetheart," his hands gently hover at either side of your face, fingers graciously playing the hair away from your eyes, cheeks. Fierce eyes hold yours in place, and you can nearly feel him rooting around your soul—as if turning up stones, looking for histories you'll share with him. "'Sides. I think I already know what's buggin' you, but I want to hear it from you."
Well if that doesn't pop your brow. "What do you think is bothering me?"
"Asked first," he fails spectacularly at containing his smile, "You can tell me anythin', you know." His head dips forward a little, resting his forehead against yours, softly. Tenderly. Almost unlike anything you'd think him capable of, had you known better. "Wan' you to tell me anythin', sweetheart. Be honest with old Logan, yeah?"
That punches low in the cradle of you, a dirty shot that he knows will unravel you like a slow ribbon on the fast train to hell. Your stomach flares with a nervous sour that tastes more like steel than it does courage, spine tingling with a slow honey that seems to gnaw at at least three discs and every vertebra you have left.
Releasing a shaky breath, you let her name slip. Once.
"Cheyenne?" His face drops into a wrinkle that is so intense, you worry for the structural integrity of his collagen level. "As in the fucking capital of Wyoming, Cheyenne?" He looks stunned, "What does the fucking capital of Wyoming have to do with anything?"
There's such a boyishness to it that it makes you laugh a little brokenly, shoving at his shoulder, "No, you overgrown weasel, Cheyenne-Cheyenne. As in, pretty red hair, stepped-off-the-cover-of-Sports-Illustrated, I want to fuck you Cheyenne from the bar?" Breaking from his arms, you step back, in the direction of the master suite.
"Wait—what? Wait a fucking second," he steps after you, boots going silent as the floor shifts to carpet in the hallway, "You mean that chick from the bar? That girl who asked me about the bike?"
"She was about as interested in your bike as you are of the price of tea in China," it's a hiss as you slip into your room, slapping at the lights that flip on automatically. All the outfits you'd tried on for the night lay in a rumpled heap in the dead center of your mattress, and you kick off your boots a little aggressively, "She was flirting with you, Logan. The woman almost had a damn heart attack when I came back from the bathroom. I thought both of her braincells would short circuit when I kissed your cheek!"
He stops in the doorway, clocks you lifting the hem of your dress, and out of habit, turns to face the opposite direction. "That's what you're pissed about. A girl makin' eyes at me that I don't even notice."
As if he hasn't already mapped every inch of you, knows every scar, he doesn't turn around. His sigh is deep, even across the room, as you reach for your favorite sweatset and wrangle into it, a little harshly. Balling your dress in your hands, you lob it at him, and it lands against his shoulder, hitting the ground with a ruffled shift of fabric.
That turns him around.
"You didn't tell her we were together. Hell, you didn't even say anything! It took me kissing you to run her off," slipping to the edge of the bed, you run your fingers through your hair, "I swear to God, Logan, sometimes you don't even act like we're anything but two people who sometimes make out and sleep next to each other," you huff out an exaggerated, sharp laugh, "does this even mean anything to you? Because it does. It means something, and I fucking want you to act like it does."
It hangs there, arctic and hot all at the same damn time.
A heartbeat, maybe, and Logan bridges the air between the two of you like its mission operandi. Standing in front of you, he considers you looking up at him, all hard looks and deep breaths, before his hands plant low on his hips and the corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk.
"Jealous," he goads, nodding once. "You're jealous—of some damn strawberry blonde who I can't even remember. And you got no fuckin' reason to be." He leans in, hands planted on the mattress at either side of you, nearly eye-level now as his eyes skate the landscape of your face, memorizing the air between you that has thinned into a hot layer of something you can't name.
You swallow once, thickly. "Yes." Hesitating, your eyes drop to your lap, where your hands rest, nails fiddling with the hem of your sweatshirt that suddenly feels like the weight of the universe on your frame.
"She was beautiful," and it's small.
So, so small you hate that sounds so asystole and broken as if Logan hasn't worshipped for year, told you things a priest couldn't even forgive.
He groans, trying to laugh. "You're the prettiest g'damn thing I've ever seen, and your worried about a blonde tart in a bar who thinks I'm something I ain't," he shakes his head once, rests his forehead against yours with a gentility unheard of in men designed to bleed, "Stop worryin' so much, darlin'. You're my girl—I ain't lookin' to trade. Can't you see I'm so ass over teakettle for you sometimes I can't breathe?"
The squeak you release. Borderline condemnation. "Logan—"
He shushes you with a broken laugh, "Nah, don't," two fingers gently tip your gaze back to his, before gently guiding you back against the mattress, following to hover in your intimate space like the big, burly presence he's become in your everyday, "Don't pretend we ain't what we are, honey. Sick of bein' everyone else's whatever they want when I just wanna be what I am, with you."
It's so ridiculously delicious, how it lands in your chest. Against your heart. Stitches places together you didn't even know were apart but hemorrhaged all the same. Leave it to a man with Adamantium marrow and a three-digit age attached to his name to break open every little thing you've been trying to hold together for the entirety of your life.
Your finger gently traces the line of his jaw, fingers buzzing with the heat of him so close you can taste it in places only God could see, your voice suddenly small, but enchanted all the same.
"And what are you, Logan?"
He doesn't hesitate, not even a breath.
"Yours, pretty thing," he kisses you, slowly. Deeply, like the earth itself would break if he didn't.
so fairly recently on TikTok there has been the princess X Knight trend. https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTMKFdLG3/
What if we had something like that with mob Bucky but he is readers bestfriend/lover in secret. readers family needs her married to the other person for stability but it’s obviously not her first choice. possibly a running away together ending or maybe him rescuing her before something happens(or when it does(i need the angst)
i think seeing the happiness before the storm would be fun too. and pls take as much creative freedom that you want. i just wanted to throw this idea out there!! (pls pls do a happy ending, i want angst but not absolute heartbreak)
anyways let me hop back to stalking for more mob bucky fics
-🥀
You used to think the world outside your penthouse windows was made of glass—untouchable, breakable, beautiful only at a distance. But then your father introduced you to politics in the underground, and you learned real quick:
Glass doesn’t break on its own.
Men break it.
Usually over someone’s head.
And sometimes, if you were lucky, one of those men stayed by your side with a hand on the small of your back and a smile that belonged only to you.
That man was Bucky Barnes.
Your family’s enforcer. Their sharpest blade. Their favorite weapon.
And—secretly—yours.
You’d swear he had been designed to play the knight in those TikTok trends. The dark suit. The leather gloves. The way he’d step into any room and every threat in a five-mile radius would go still as prey.
To everyone else, he was a warning.
But to you?
He was the softest place you’d ever landed.
He slipped into your room the night before your engagement meeting. Not officially—nothing was official yet—but word was already spreading. Your father was aligning with the Petrov Syndicate, and you were the bargaining chip. A pretty ring on the son’s finger, and suddenly two empires would hold hands.
Bucky shut the balcony doors behind him, the cold night air following him inside. He always smelled like winter—crisp, dangerous, something you should run from and run toward at the same time.
“You’re late,” you whispered.
“You’re impatient,” he countered, stepping behind you and lowering his mouth to your neck. “Miss me that bad, princess?”
You shivered. “Always.”
His arms wrapped around you from behind, strong and grounding. He dropped his head into the crook of your shoulder like he was exhausted from holding the world up alone.
“Tell me you’re not going through with it,” he murmured.
“Bucky—”
“No.” His voice cracked. Just barely, but enough to shatter something in both of you. “Don’t tell me you’re about to marry a man who doesn’t love you. Who only wants you to keep his father happy.”
“Buck,” you whispered, turning in his hold. “I don’t want to. You know that. But my family—”
“Aren’t worth your damn heart.”
He cupped your jaw, thumb sweeping your cheekbone like he was memorizing it before it was gone.
“You’re mine,” he said quietly. “Even if no one else knows. Even if you walk down that aisle tomorrow and pretend you’re not looking for me in the crowd.”
Your eyes burned.
You pressed your forehead to his. “Say it again.”
“You’re mine.” His lips brushed yours. “And I’m yours. That’s the part you always forget.”
He kissed you like he was trying to fight fate itself—slow, reverent, a little desperate.
You let yourself pretend for one night.
One night where he carried you to the bed and undressed you like you were something precious. One night where he whispered promises into your skin like prayers.
One night of happiness before everything went to hell.
Two days later, you were in a white dress you didn’t choose, walking a path you didn’t want, toward a future you didn’t love.
Bucky wasn’t in the crowd.
Of course he wasn’t. Your father had assigned him to “external security,” which was a polite way of saying keep him far away from her.
Your soon-to-be husband, Mikhail Petrov, smiled at you with dead eyes. A politician’s smile. A snake’s smile.
Your stomach twisted.
Then the back doors exploded open.
Your father’s men reached for their guns—but froze when they recognized the man standing in the doorway.
Black suit. Blood spattered on the collar. Chest rising with sheer murderous intent.
Your knight.
Your downfall.
Your salvation.
James Buchanan Barnes.
His eyes found you instantly.
And everything inside you broke.
“Princess,” he growled, voice echoing through the hall, “get away from him.”
Gasps. Panic. Shouting.
Your fiancé reached for your wrist—wrong move.
Because Bucky crossed the entire aisle like it was nothing, grabbed the man by the throat, and slammed him into the marble.
“You touch her again,” Bucky snarled, “and I’ll decorate the walls with whatever’s left of your teeth.”
Your father bellowed your name. Your mother screamed security orders.
You didn’t hear any of them.
You only heard Bucky’s voice as he held out his hand to you.
“Come with me.”
You didn’t hesitate.
You ran with him. Down the hall. Through the gardens. Across the gravel where a getaway car waited.
But your father’s men were fast. And furious.
One grabbed you around the waist from behind, dragging you back with a snarl—
And Bucky didn’t think. He reacted.
Violence first. Mercy second. You always knew that about him.
You saw red on his fists. You heard bones crack. You felt his arm around you an instant later, pulling you tight to his chest like he’d almost lost the sun itself.
“You okay?” he rasped.
You nodded shakily. “Bucky—my family is going to hunt you.”
“They can try.”
He cupped your face, breathing hard, eyes wild and terrified.
“You still want this?” he asked. “Want me? Because once you get in this car, there’s no going back.”
You grabbed his lapels and yanked him down into a kiss so desperate he groaned against your mouth.
“Yes,” you breathed. “I choose you. I’ve always chosen you.”
His forehead fell against yours.
“Then that’s enough.”
Hours later, you were in a safehouse outside the city. Bucky’s men guarded every entrance. Your dress was torn. His knuckles were split.
You sat together on the edge of a stranger’s bed, both exhausted, both buzzing with adrenaline and relief.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
“For what?”
“For making you come for me.”
He huffed a broken laugh, brushing your hair behind your ear.
“Sweetheart… I was always going to come for you. Even if you didn’t ask.”
Your chest tightened.
“You scared me,” you admitted. “Bursting in like that.”
“You scared me first.” His voice dropped. “Walking down that damn aisle like you were going to marry some man who didn’t know a thing about loving you.”
You leaned into him, and he wrapped an arm around your shoulders.
“So what now?” you murmured.
“Now?” Bucky kissed your temple. “We disappear for a while. Lay low. Build something new. Together.”
You swallowed hard. “You really want that?”
“Princess,” he whispered, tilting your chin up, “I’d burn down every kingdom they try to hand you if it meant you’d stay in mine.”
Emotion clogged your throat.
You climbed into his lap and kissed him slow, soft, certain.
Your knight held you like you were the only thing he’d ever sworn loyalty to.
Hi, Ken!! I’m sorry your inbox is revolting against you! I think it might have eaten this request, so sending again!
What if reader gets sick (starts as a cold and turns into pneumonia or something) and tries to hide it from Bucky. She knows he’ll panic because he still has trauma from Steve being sick so much when they were kids. But the cough gets worse and worse, and then she starts feeling short of breath, and finally she can’t hide it from Bucky anymore (perhaps a dramatic faint?). Our poor Bucky!
this was so sad! poor guy really has to relive those feelings :(
----------
You tell yourself it’s fine.
It’s just a cold. Just a scratchy throat and a stuffy nose and a cough that isn’t even that bad. You can hide it—especially from the man who will tear apart the entire compound if he even suspects you’re unwell.
Because you know what happens the second Bucky thinks you’re sick. His entire nervous system rewires itself into one memory: Steve’s tiny, fever-burning body in a too-big bed, coughing until his knuckles went white, month after month after month. Bucky sitting beside him at ten years old, pretending not to panic. Pretending he could stop bad things from happening.
You love him too much to put him through that again.
So you hide it.
Or… you try.
The cough starts small. Morning tickle. Afternoon irritation. You drink tea. You take cough drops. You avoid Bucky’s eyes every time he tilts his head and asks, “You okay, doll?”
You say yes. Of course you say yes.
He believes you.
Until he doesn’t.
Three days in, your chest feels tighter than it should. Breathing takes effort—like someone’s pressing a hand there, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to make every inhale feel borrowed.
You tell yourself it’s fine.
Just tired. Just a cold. Just—
“Sweetheart?”
You jolt, hand missing the counter completely as you wobble forward. Bucky’s instantly there, metal hand at your lower back, guiding you upright.
“You alright?” His voice is careful—gentle in the way he gets when he’s already half-worried.
You force a smile. “Yeah. Dizzy for a second.”
His fingers curve slightly, anchoring you. “Dizzy?”
“Didn’t eat enough today.”
He frowns. “You ate breakfast with me.”
“Not enough,” you lie again.
Bucky studies your face, blue eyes narrowing just slightly, like he’s replaying your morning in his head—every cough you tried to hide, every breath you masked.
For one tense moment you think he knows.
But then he kisses your forehead and just says, “C’mon. Let’s sit for a bit.”
You do. But your lungs ache a little more.
Another two days pass.
Your cough worsens—wet, deep, the kind that threatens to rip out of your chest. You muffle it against pillows. Into towels. Into running water. Anything.
But your breathing keeps getting shorter. Shallow. Labored if you push yourself too far.
And you’re so, so stupidly tired.
Bucky notices something is wrong now—of course he does—but you dodge every question, redirect every suspicion, kiss him into silence when he tries to linger too long. He lets you, but his worry settles under his skin like static.
He watches you constantly. He listens too closely. And each cough you smother only makes him stand a little nearer.
Until the night you feel the edges of your vision blur.
It happens in the kitchen.
You’re grabbing a glass of water, hand shaking a little more than you mean it to. You hear him humming softly from the living room, folding laundry because he likes doing it for you. You inhale—
—and your chest locks. Not pain. Not exactly. Just a sudden inability to pull a full breath. Like your lungs have shrunk to half-size.
You try again. Shallow, fast, panicked.
The room tilts.
The faucet handle blurs.
Your vision goes watery and then—
“Doll?”
You don’t even get to answer.
The floor moves faster than it should.
Your knee buckles and the glass slips and then the world just…
drops.
You come to in a panic that isn’t yours.
Bucky’s hands—both of them—are on your face, your chest, your cheeks. His voice is a frantic rasp.
“Sweetheart—hey—hey, c’mon, c’mon, open your eyes, please—please—”
You blink. Or try to. Everything is fuzzy. Your throat burns with a cough you can’t quite hold back.
When it tears out of you, Bucky flinches. Not away—from helplessness. Horror. Recognition.
“Baby…” His voice breaks. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you—”
“I’m fine,” you croak, because you’re still lying, still stupid.
His jaw clenches. “You’re not.” He lifts you carefully, like your bones are made of glass, pulling you into his lap on the kitchen floor. “You fainted. You can barely breathe.”
“It’s… just a cold—”
“It’s not.” Fear sharpens his tone. Raw, exposed fear you’ve only heard a few times in your life. “I know the sound of a chest infection. You think I don’t? You think I didn’t sit through every cough Stevie ever had?”
Your breath stutters. “I didn’t… want you to worry.”
“Too late,” he whispers, forehead pressing to yours. His voice breaks again. “I’m always gonna worry about you.”
You’re not sure if it’s the fever or the shame or the simple truth of his words that makes your throat tighten—but you lean into him, weak, exhausted, lungs aching with each inhale.
He wraps his arms around you tighter.
Then he stands—stands with you in his arms—and you curl into him automatically.
“You’re going to medical,” he murmurs, voice trembling even as he tries to steady it. “Not tomorrow. Not later. Now.”
“Bucky—”
“No.” His grip flexes—not harsh, just absolute. “You hid this. You scared me. You don’t get to argue.”
Your chest gives another sharp, rattling cough against his collarbone, and his breath shudders.
“That’s pneumonia,” he says, like the diagnosis is a lightning strike. “I know that sound. God, sweetheart, I know it.”
His voice goes soft. Small.
“I can’t watch someone I love get that sick again. I can’t.”
Your heart twists painfully.
You lift a weak hand to his cheek, fingers barely brushing the stubble there. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He kisses your palm. His eyes shine. “Yeah, well. I’m terrified.”
Later—after medical confirms exactly what Bucky knew, after antibiotics and oxygen and a lecture from Bruce, after Bucky refuses to leave your hospital bed even for five minutes—you wake again to find him sitting beside you, head resting against your thigh.
He’s not asleep.
He’s watching your chest rise and fall like each breath is a miracle.
“Buck,” you murmur, voice scratchy but clearer.
His head snaps up instantly. “You need something? Water? Are you cold? Too warm? Does breathing hurt?”
“I need you to relax,” you whisper.
He gives you a look that is half-disbelief, half-heartache. “Not happening, doll.”
“You’re hovering.”
“Good. I’m gonna keep hovering until you’re back to normal.”
You smile weakly. “I really didn’t want you to panic.”
He exhales slowly, climbing into the narrow bed beside you with gentle, careful movements. “I’m always gonna panic when it comes to you. That’s not a flaw. That’s love.”
You lay your head on his chest, listening to the steady thump beneath your ear. His arm slides around you, drawing you closer without ever pressing too hard.
“And next time,” he adds quietly, “you tell me. Even if it’s nothing. Even if you think I’ll worry.”
“Okay,” you breathe.
He kisses your hair.
“Good. Because I almost lost ten years of my life tonight.”
You laugh—just a tiny one—but it sends another cough rattling through your chest. Bucky sits up instantly, rubbing your back, murmuring soft assurances until it passes.
Then he tucks you against him again, fierce and gentle all at once.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he whispers into your hair. “I’ve got you. Not going anywhere.”
And this time… you don’t hide. You don’t argue.
You just breathe—slow, easy, safe—while Bucky holds you like he’ll never let anything hurt you again.
hihi! I've been going through your entire page I'm having so much fun I lovee your writing!
if its ok, can you write one where reader runs through heavy gunfire recklessly to push Bucky away from something explosive. then on the flight back, he's overwhelmed at her recklessness so he sits away. she doesn't notice she's been shot until she sits down, so she slowly bleeds until she passes out. everyone else (whoever you want ) was too busy talking or thinking she fell asleep. Bucky feels like something's wrong, and finds out.
however you want to go from there! i'd love to see what you do with it <3 note: I am a big fan of a happy-ending even though I like the angst.
thanks!
this was all the feelings!
----------
You hear Bucky shout your name through the comms, but you’re already sprinting.
The air is a wall of gunfire—thick, deafening, the kind that vibrates through your ribs—but the moment you see the charge sparking behind him, everything in you shifts. There’s no thinking. Just instinct. Just him.
He’s crouched behind half-collapsed concrete, firing in tight controlled bursts, completely unaware of the flickering casing wedged in the rubble above his head, counting down toward catastrophic.
“BUCK—MOVE!”
You throw yourself forward, boots slipping on shattered tile, bullets ricocheting around you like angry bees. One skims your shoulder. Another sparks at your heel. You don’t stop.
You hit him with enough force to knock the breath out of both of you, shoving him sideways just as the explosive detonates. The world goes white, then orange, then a ringing blackout that spits you and Bucky across the ground.
Your back hits metal debris. His arm cages over you. Heat rolls past in a tidal wave.
And then—silence. Heavy. Wrong.
Bucky is already dragging you upright. His face is carved from horror.
“What the hell was that?” His voice cracks; he doesn’t even bother hiding it. “You don’t run into live fire like that. You don’t—you can’t—”
“I’m fine,” you rasp, swallowing dust. “You’re fine.”
“That’s not the same thing.” He grabs your jaw, checking your eyes, breath shaky. “You scared the hell out of me.”
He sounds wrecked. Ruined. Loving you in ways he refuses to admit yet.
But there’s no time to argue. Sam’s calling for evac. Natasha is clearing the last corridor. You force your legs steady, ignoring the strange pull in your abdomen, the faint bloom of something warm under your vest. Later. There’ll be time to check later.
You hope.
The Quinjet hums low and steady, the kind of steady that means everyone is exhausted and grateful to be alive.
Bucky isn’t sitting with you.
He planted himself in the far corner the second the hatch sealed, jaw clenched, hands fisted on his thighs. You tried to catch his eyes when you boarded, but he looked away, throat bobbing like the very thought of you was too much.
You don’t take it personally.
You did just sprint through live rounds and tackle him out of an explosion. He’s allowed to be mad.
You sink into a seat along the port side, letting your head tip back. The pull in your abdomen is sharper now. Hotter. There’s something wet under your rib plate. You shift, feeling the air thicken. There’s a metallic scent you can’t quite place.
“Damn, she’s out fast,” Sam says from across the aisle, amused. “Didn’t even wait to take her boots off.”
You want to tell him you’re not asleep.
You want to tell him something’s wrong.
But your tongue is heavy, cottony, like someone stuffed it full of static. Your vision fuzzes around the edges. You blink hard.
Natasha laughs softly. “She nearly got blown up. Let her rest.”
You try. God, you try.
But the warmth is spreading—down your hip, into the seat, slow but certain. You press your hand to your vest, fingers meeting a sticky dampness you don’t understand at first.
Then you lift your hand and see red.
Oh.
Oh, that’s—
You blink again, slower now. Sounds smear together. Sam’s voice, Natasha’s laugh, the roar of engines. They stretch into a tunnel.
Your head tips sideways.
Everything drifts.
Something snaps.
Bucky doesn’t know what wakes him—the hum of the engine shifting pitch, the prickle down his spine, or the cold heavy dread that’s been suffocating him since he watched you run through a spray of bullets like you didn’t care if you lived.
He lifts his head.
Everyone else is relaxed. Natasha polishing her knives. Sam scrolling on his tablet. Steve murmuring something to the pilot.
His gaze moves—searching, seeking—until he finds you slumped against the bulkhead.
Something’s wrong.
He stands. Too fast. The whole jet tilts a little.
“Hey,” he calls softly, trying not to spook you. “You awake?”
No answer.
He gets closer. Your chin is tucked toward your chest, hair hiding your face, breaths too shallow. His stomach drops.
“Y/N?”
Still nothing.
That’s when he sees the smear on your fingertips. Dark. Dried. Too much.
His blood goes ice cold.
“STEVE.”
Everyone snaps to attention at the sound of his voice.
He’s already lowering himself in front of you, trembling hands brushing your cheek. It’s cold. Too cold.
“Sweetheart, look at me,” he begs. “C’mon, open your eyes.”
Your lashes flutter, barely. Your breath hitches.
“Bucky?” you whisper, unfocused.
His heart breaks. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. What’s—Jesus—”
Sam curses behind him. Steve is barking orders to FRIDAY. Natasha is already cutting your vest open.
The second the armor peels back, blood pours out in a sluggish sheet. A deep entry wound. Lower ribs. A slow bleed—the slowest and deadliest kind.
Bucky’s face drains of color.
“No,” he chokes. “No, no, no—why didn’t you say anything?”
You blink again, eyes glassy. “Didn’t… didn’t feel it. Thought I was fine.”
“You’re not fine,” he says, voice cracking like glass. “You’re not—God, sweetheart—”
You sway. He catches your head with shaking hands.
“Stay with me,” he pleads, forehead pressing to yours. “You hear me? Stay with me.”
You try. You really do. But the world is dimming.
“’M sorry… didn’t mean to… scare you.”
He bites down on a sob. “You saved my life.”
Your lips twitch. “Worth it.”
“Not if I lose you,” he whispers fiercely.
Your breath stutters.
The monitors spike.
Then everything goes soundless.
You wake to warmth.
Soft beeping. Clean sheets. The faint sterile scent of medical-grade antiseptic. Your eyes crack open to dim lights and—
Bucky.
Asleep in the chair beside you, head resting on the mattress, his metal hand wrapped around yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His other hand is tucked under your palm, thumb resting over your pulse point.
You squeeze.
His eyes snap open instantly—blue and shattered and relieved all at once.
“Hey,” he breathes, voice raw. “Hi, sweetheart. You’re back.”
“How… long?” you whisper.
“Six hours.” His thumb strokes your knuckles like he can’t stop touching you. “You lost a lot of blood. Scared the hell out of all of us.”
“Scared me too,” you admit softly.
His jaw tightens. “Don’t do that again.”
You want to joke. Tease. Lighten the mood.
But there’s something in his eyes—something cracked open and honest—that makes you still.
“Bucky,” you say quietly. “I didn’t want you to die.”
He leans closer, forehead brushing yours, breath warm against your cheek.
“I can’t lose you,” he whispers. “Not ever. Not like that. If you’d died—if you’d—”
You lift a shaking hand and touch his cheek.
“I’m here.”
He closes his eyes like the words physically ease him.
“I kept sitting across the jet,” he murmurs. “Because I was so mad. Because I couldn’t stop replaying it. And the whole time you were bleeding out two feet away from me.”
“Not your fault,” you whisper.
He shakes his head. “Next time, sit with me. So I can keep you safe.”
You smile faintly. “You keep me safe by existing.”
He huffs a broken laugh, brushing his nose against yours.
“Baby?”
“Mm?”
“Don’t ever run through gunfire for me again.”
You grin weakly. “No promises.”
He kisses your forehead, lingering—soft, impossibly gentle.
“Then I guess I’ll just have to stay right beside you,” he whispers. “Every mission. Every minute. Because I’m not letting you out of my sight again.”
And from the way he holds your hand—like it’s his lifeline—you know he means it.
I'm not going into depth with the warnings. This is not canon Bucky so... enjoy the porn.
Word Count: ~500
Bucky teased you all day. He wasn’t even doing anything, just existing, breathing in your vicinity. But it was his fault, because you were horny and you were ovulating. It’s his fault for being that hot.
“Bucky.”
“Yes?” He asked, looking up from where he was fixing a patch in the wall. His henley clung to his frame, shoulders stiff as they held the hammer. Your cunt was already dripping, pulsating with need. What you needed was his attention and his cock. His fault.
Those bright blue eyes looked at you like you invented the ground he walks on. Your nipples peaked under your shirt, and you rubbed your thighs together for any amount of friction.
You couldn’t help it, but you whined, “I need you.” That was all he needed to hear, his shirt coming off in one pull, sweatpants already around his ankles when he grabs you, “yeah? You need me, baby?”
“I need you to fill me up,” You whimpered into his mouth as he kissed you. He groaned, cock already hard behind his boxers.
“I can do that, sweetheart. Have you dripping me for a week.”
You two didn’t make it to the bedroom; instead, he took you on the floor, already shoving in with ease. You clawed his back, his grunts filling your ear.
He slammed into the hilt. Your cunt fluttered around him, open and needy for him. Your back arched as he folded you in half, knees to your chest, ankles over his shoulders. The floor was hard, but the rug made you glide. His cock knocked at your cervix with every thrust, the bulge in your belly obscene where he bottomed out.
“Feel that?” he snarled, hand splaying over your lower belly, fingers pressing to feel him move inside you. “That’s my cock claiming your womb. Gonna flood this tight cunt till it overflows—gonna breed you so good, doll.”
You were pathetic—whining, clawing at his back, babbling nonsense. “Yes—yes—fill me, make me yours, breed me—”
He pounded harder, balls slapping your ass, dog tags swinging with every brutal snap. “Gonna pump you full of my cum—gonna watch it drip out and shove it back in. You’ll take every drop like a good little cumslut.”
Your orgasm hit like a freight train—pussy spasming around his shaft in messy pulses that shook your thighs. The clench dragged him over; he groaned, burying deep, cock pulsing as he unloaded: thick, hot ropes painting your insides, flooding you until cum leaked out around his base, dripping down your ass crack in filthy rivulets.
You looked like an overstuffed pastry, and he wanted a taste.
He didn’t pull out. Just collapsed over you, careful not to crush, lips brushing your ear. His cock moved, twitching. It was still hard despite his massive release inside you. He pumped once, twice, shoving his seed back inside.
He kissed your throat, behind your ear, and finally your lips. His hips kept moving, teasing and drawing out each stroke. “Needed my attention that bad, sweetheart? Needed my cock inside you?”
You whimpered with each long, deep stroke he did with his hips. “I always need you.”
He grinned against your skin, pounding into you again. The jolt sent your tits bouncing. He squeezed one with his hand, fucking you into round two, making sure his cum really takes.
summary: Forced into a political marriage, you lock eyes with your knight and secret lover, Bucky Barnes, during your wedding — tears slipping down his cheeks beneath his helmet. That night, he comes to you one last time. Between whispered confessions, stolen kisses, and a vow to rescue you, the two of you cling to the only thing left that’s yours: each other. By dawn, he’s gone… but you know he’s already coming back.
pairing: knight!bucky x princess!reader
themes: forbidden love, hurt (with comfort), gothic romance, set in 1800’s (but loosely), mature themes (18+ only, MDNI)
word count: ~3,200
authors note: sorry i saw that piece of art and had to write something
The cathedral is too bright.
Incense hangs in the air like a curtain you can’t push through. Candles throw clean gold across the marble floor, across your dress, across the man at your side who is a husband on paper and a stranger everywhere else.
The priest talks about union. Duty. Borders that will soften. Generations that will thank you. Words stack up like stones until you can’t breathe around them.
You hear it before you see him.
Clink.
A shift of weight. Armor settling. A sound your bones have known since you were twenty.
Your gaze keeps moving even though it shouldn’t. Past the nobles, past the ministers, to the line of ceremonial guards under the arch. Silver. Blue. Helms polished to a mirror.
Him.
His posture is regulation-perfect. Shoulders square, hands behind his back, sword straight. His helmet hides everything—except it doesn’t. Through the narrow slit of the visor, you catch a flash of skin. The glint of wet. A tear slips, slow and unashamed, cutting a clean path down his cheek.
Bucky doesn’t move. He is a statue that forgot how to be stone.
The priest pauses for the crowd to murmur amen. Somewhere, someone coughs. Your new husband squeezes your hand for the benefit of the witnesses. You keep your eyes where they’re not supposed to be.
You mouth a thought you shouldn’t give shape to. Not words—just the ache of them.
Across the hall, he tips his head a fraction. Another tear gathers and falls. His mouth moves behind steel. You can’t hear it, but you know it: first heartbreak, then oath.
The bells toll. Your ring slides onto your finger, a cold circle that doesn’t know your name. The crowd erupts. Banners ripple. Trumpets stab the air.
And over it all, the smallest answer: clink. A gauntlet flexes. A sword hilt creaks in his hand.
The moment shatters. You smile where you’re meant to. You say the right words. You walk back down the aisle feeling like glass that hasn’t decided where to break.
When you look for him again, he’s gone.
Later, the castle is a body swallowing noise. Laughter ricochets through stone and dies in drafts. Rose petals stick to your hem. The crown is a headache with jewels.
You stand at your window and let the night lean in. Beyond the balustrade, torches shiver in the wind. The moon drags light across the courtyards like a slow blade.
You listen.
At first, nothing. Then—quiet, exact, inevitable:
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
You don’t turn when the door opens. The air changes; the room recognizes him before you do.
“Your Highness,” he says, low. The title doesn’t fit his mouth.
“Don’t,” you whisper. “Not tonight.”
The door closes with a soft click. Boots slow on stone. Armor breathes—tiny expansions, metal answering the shape of his chest. You can feel him stop just behind you, close enough that the heat of him conquers the cold from the glass.
“How did you get past the posts?” you ask.
“I taught most of them to stand their posts,” he says, and the corner of your mouth threatens to lift. “They blinked. And I’m not above a balcony, if I have to.”
“You are not climbing my balcony in full armor.”
“Wasn’t my first choice either.”
You turn. He’s still armored, helmet tucked under his arm. His hair is damp at his temples. The strap line on his jaw is angry and red. His eyes are worse—tired and bright at the same time.
“You cried,” you say, because the lie would break you.
He locks onto your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “Seemed like the honest thing,” he says, quiet.
For a second, neither of you move. Then you put your palm flat on the curve of his chestplate. It’s cool, steady. The faintest vibration under your hand—his heart, reined in hard.
He looks down at your hand, then back up. “Does it hurt?” he asks.
“What?”
“The ring.”
You look at it. Gold, flawless, wrong. “Only when I think about it.”
“Then don’t,” he says.
“That’ll be easy.”
He exhales, shaky. “I stood there and counted how many steps it would take to get you out of there.”
“And?”
“Too many,” he admits. “Not if I wanted you alive at the end of it.”
“So you stayed.” You try not to make it sound like accusation.
“I stayed,” he says, and the words almost snap. “I stayed, and I watched them put their hands on you and tell the world it meant something.”
“Bucky.”
He flinches at his name like it’s been a knife and a bandage both.
“Say it again,” he says.
“Bucky.”
He sets the helmet on the table with a careful, final sound. His right hand—warm, scarred—rises to your cheek. His left—metal—hesitates, then joins it. Cold and warm bracket your jaw. You lean into both.
“You looked like a queen,” he says. “You looked like a star walking into a room that didn’t deserve you.”
“You looked like the only real thing in it,” you breathe.
His mouth moves. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything but alive.
“I told myself I’d keep it simple,” he says. “Come in. Make sure you’re breathing. Leave.”
“How’s that going?”
“Terribly.”
You watch his throat work. You see his eyes threaten and refuse. You rest your hand over the seam where metal joins skin. The plates shift under your fingertips, a whispering clock.
“How long do we have?” you ask.
“Not enough,” he answers. “But longer than nothing.”
“Good,” you say, and slide your fingers into the straps at his shoulders.
“Hey,” he murmurs, catching your wrists gently. “Talk to me first. Or I’ll forget how.”
“All right.” You don’t pull away. “Tell me what you would’ve said if the church was empty.”
He looks at you like that’s cruel. Then he nods, because he’s braver than anyone realizes.
“I would’ve said I love you,” he begins, voice steadying as he goes. “Not the pretty kind. The kind that learned the sound of your footsteps in the corridor and decided it was a prayer. The kind that made me memorize the guards’ rotations so I could put you on the safest horse when we traveled. The kind that made me fix your dagger grip because the thought of you cutting yourself hurt more than the thought of me getting stabbed.”
You swallow hard. “I would’ve said I love you, too,” you say. “Not the easy kind. The kind that kept me awake to watch you walk the perimeter in the rain. The kind that made me carry your dog tags in my pocket for luck when you were gone. The kind that made me turn my head in lessons so I could see you in the courtyard and breathe again.”
He blinks like that one knocks his balance. “You carry—?”
“Sometimes,” you say. “When you’re away too long.”
“You little thief,” he whispers, and his laugh breaks into something that’s not quite a sound.
“Arrest me,” you say.
“I would,” he says. “But I’m busy planning a rescue.”
“Tell me.” You step closer. “Tell me the plan.”
He leans his forehead to yours; the edge of the chestplate cools your collarbone. The metal hand settles at the nape of your neck, careful as a blessing.
“They’re sending you to his capital,” he says. “Two weeks from now. I rode escort there once—before you. There are tunnels in the cliff under the keep. Old smuggler routes. They brick them, the sea opens another. It always does.”
“Will you be there?” Your voice is a thread.
“Before you arrive,” he says. “I’ll meet you in the chapel at dusk the first night. If you can’t get there—” He kisses your temple. “—look for starlight in the western window. If I can’t reach you, I’ll leave signs. A coin under a candle. A flower with no scent on the altar.”
“You’ve thought about this.”
“Since the first time I saw you pushed into a parade,” he says. “Since the first time they called you Our Glory and didn’t see your hands shaking.”
You breathe like you haven’t all day. The room moves again. The world gets a contour.
“Now kiss me,” you say.
He doesn’t make you ask twice.
His mouth meets yours like a promise kept. It’s not soft—he’s past soft. It’s precise. Patient. Starved. You feel the control in it, the discipline, the way he holds back so you won’t have to. You rise to your toes. The kiss tilts, deepens, finds the shape of something you almost forgot: relief.
When you break, he chases you a fraction, forehead tipping to yours. Your hands are already at the buckles.
“Is this allowed?” he asks, wry, breathless, reverent.
“Nothing tonight is allowed,” you say, smiling wet. “Help me not care.”
He does.
He unclasps the plates at his shoulders, not looking away from you. The armor loosens with soft sounds, practical and intimate. When he slides off a gauntlet, your fingers catch his—skin to skin now—and he exhales like that details him more than prayer.
“You’re trembling,” he murmurs.
“So are you.”
“Not from fear,” he says.
“Me either.”
He raises your hand to his mouth and kisses the base of your thumb, then the ring that doesn’t belong, then the skin beneath it. He doesn’t rush the symbols; he rewrites them.
“Tell me something true,” you whisper.
He kisses your palm. “I count your steps when you’re nervous,” he says. “I listen for the change when you calm down.”
You close your fingers around his. “I braid my hair the way you taught me. So it won’t snag when I ride.”
He smiles, real and small. “You listen.”
“Always.”
His metal hand lifts the chain from his neck—the tags you’ve held in secret. He sets them in your palm. “Wear them tonight,” he says. “So I know you’re real.”
You slip the chain over your head. The cool weight settles against your sternum. “So you know I’m yours,” you correct softly.
He looks like a man getting sunlight after years underground.
You move together. No rush. He unlaces your sleeves like he’s practiced it a thousand times in his head and none in the world. You unbuckle the last of his armor and guide it to the floor, piece by careful piece, until he is just a man with a metal arm and eyes that look at you like home. When your mouth finds his again, it’s a decision, not an apology.
You pull him by his collar to the window seat where the moon paints the stone pale. His hands map the edges of you, respectful, grateful, memorizing. You kiss until your lungs protest and then some. You stop only to breathe and to laugh once—soft, surprised—when his stubble tickles your jaw.
“Do you remember the orchard?” you ask against his mouth.
“When you dared me to steal apples under the sentry lanterns,” he says. “You took the bite and handed me the rest like a coronation.”
“You laughed,” you say. “I’d never heard you laugh like that.”
“I hadn’t either,” he admits.
You kiss him again. He takes your wrist, turning it, and presses a kiss into your pulse like he’s syncing to it. His metal thumb strokes along the inside of your forearm, the plates articulating with delicate precision as if made to trace you.
“I’m not letting them turn you into a symbol,” he says. “I’ll break the statue before I let them. We’ll build something that breathes.”
Your answer is another kiss, longer. When you finally pull back, your foreheads rest together. “What if we fail?” you ask.
“Then we fail loud,” he says. “Together.”
“Together,” you repeat, and it tastes right.
The fire lowers itself, the room sinking into copper and shadow. You help him pull off the padded gambeson beneath the plates, fingers tangling, laugh getting stuck on a sob that doesn’t fully arrive. He kisses the sound away. You choose to forget the world.
The rest is touch and breath and the simple language of two people who have run out of brave faces. The night folds in close. The window fogs. The dog tags cool and warm against your skin with each inhale.
Dawn is thin and colorless when you wake. The fire is a bed of sullen coals. His cloak is around your shoulders, heavy enough to be a promise. The rest of him is gone.
You know better than to panic; he is a ghost when he needs to be.
You cross to the window and press your hands to the cold stone. In the courtyard below, the guard assembles like a chessboard coming alive. Helmets. Spears. Banners that mean treaties and borders and the reason you did what you did last night.
A rider peels away from the line and guides his horse to the gate. He wears his helmet again. The sun kisses the curve of his shoulder. The metal arm catches it and throws it back.
He doesn’t look up. But he tips his head, a fraction. You feel the response in your chest like a tug on a thread.
“Steel and starlight,” you breathe into the glass.
He pauses. You can’t see his mouth. You don’t need to. You recognize the shape of the vow even from here.
A second rider falls in beside him, then a third. The gate opens. Hooves bite the cobbles. He rides through without breaking formation. The world swallows him like it always does when it’s not ready for men like him.
You stand there until the courtyard empties. Until morning finds you steady.
You pull the cloak tighter. The dog tags are warm against your skin. The ring on your finger feels less like a sentence and more like a detail you cannot wait to ruin.
Behind you, the door knocks once, polite, the day arriving with attendants and obligations and a new, practiced smile. You wipe your cheeks with your thumbs, square your shoulders, and let the mask of your own making settle.
“Enter,” you say, voice even.
The door opens. Perfume and chatter and footsteps rush in. You turn—princess again, wife on parchment, threat with a pulse.
But inside, something else is awake. Not hope. Not yet. Something sharper. A plan with a heartbeat.
You look out at the gray edge of the sky one last time and picture a chapel in a cliffside city, western windows full of starlight. You picture a coin under a candle. A flower with no scent on the altar. A man who learned your footsteps and decided to live for the sound.
You don’t know when he’ll reach you. You just know the truth, heavy and quiet as a vow:
He’s already on his way.
And you’re already waiting—not like a storybook princess, but like a blade wrapped in silk, counting the hours until steel meets starlight.
How Bucky would handle you getting hurt on a mission - panicking and then back at hq tending to you and patching you up hurt comfort is definitely not one of my top three favourite tropes nuh uh
Hehehe. With pleasure, my dear. 😈 Hurt/comfort is definitely not one of my top favourite tropes either, nuh uh.
Fun fact! I almost wrote this as a drabble, but apparently my brain was feeling a bit too angsty to follow through on the “comfort” aspect there. (I blame the fact that I watched Romeo and Juliet last night, lol). But this one ends… I’m not gonna say happy, because it’s not exactly happy, but it’s not depressing at least. 🤣
Warnings: Descriptions of death & dead bodies (it’s a nightmare, but it’s vivid enough). Graphic depictions of blood. Serious injury. Angsty…very angsty. There’s comfort at the end if you REALLY squint. My apologies, @poodleofstardust. It’s probably not quite what you had in mind. 😬
________________________________________________
• It’s literally the stuff of Bucky’s nightmares.
• Hydra’s torture, the heinous acts he was forced to commit as The Winter Soldier… and losing you.
• The nightmares are frequent and vivid. You, bleeding out in the snow. You, captured by Hydra. You, screaming for him to help you, save you.
• The setting changes, but the ending never does.
• …You die.
• Glassy, unseeing eyes staring up at him. Pale, cold skin beneath his hands.
• When he wakes up in a cold sweat, the scream of your name dying on his lips, he can still feel it. As if it’s not an if…it’s a when.
• He doesn’t tell you.
• Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he believes, in some sick way, if he voices the nightmares out loud, they’ll come true.
• He’s never been superstitious, but that’s a risk he’s not willing to take.
• So, when he sees you go down in front of him, bullets ricocheting off heavy concrete walls, your hand moving to cup the blood leaking through your fingers, there’s a small part of him that doesn’t believe it. That hopes it’s just another dream he’ll wake up from.
• But it’s not.
• In his dreams, you’re always screaming for him. Begging him. Blaming him.
• In reality, you’re silent, lips pinched together, breathing heavily through your nose.
• His name doesn’t break the silence until he’s on his knees beside you.
• “Bucky.” It’s a whimpered reassurance, as if he’s the one in need of comfort.
• For a second, Bucky just stares at the blood dripping under your hand. Choked by it. It looks so much like his dreams.
• But even in his dreams, he’s trying to save you.
• A guttural groan leaves your throat when Bucky places his hand over yours, applying more pressure than you were capable of on your own.
• He winces and mutters an apology, but you only nod.
• “‘s fine,” you hiss through your teeth.
• The blood doesn’t slow.
• It oozes between his fingers, staining his hands red. Raw, unfiltered panic rips at Bucky’s throat. Like it does in the nightmares…
• But this isn’t one of his nightmares. This is real.
• Bile rises in his throat. Blood slips between his fingers, slippery and warm.
• “It’s okay.” He’s not sure if the words are yours or his. “It’s okay, you’re gonna be okay.”
• His. The words are his. Desperate, pleading, screams wailing in the back of his mind.
• “Sam! We need a med evac. STAT!” The comms crackled in reply, but he didn’t hear it. The light was leaving your eyes, slowly, steadily, skin pale, growing cold beneath his fingers.
• “Stay with me. Stay with me.” Tears slipped down his cheeks as he repeated the words like a prayer—like the repetition alone could save you.
• “Buck…” Your bloodstained fingers fell over his. Fragility. Weakness. He wanted to scream! “It’s okay.”
• But it wasn’t okay.
• The ghosts of his past haunted him even now, whispering in his ear, “She’s gone. She’s gone. She’ll be gone soon.”
• Gone. Like the way he lost everything. Like the way he ruined it. Gone.
• Bucky barely noticed the medical team barrelling down the halls, sliding to a stop beside you. He only noticed when Sam attempted to pry him away from you. Your eyes were closed now. Breathing. Were you still breathing??
• “Easy, Bucky. Easy. Let them do their work.”
• It took everything within him not to collapse as they loaded you onto a stretcher. Blood dripped on the concrete floor. You were so pale, so…lifeless.
• Bucky paced the hospital waiting room until he was admitted in. This wasn’t in his nightmares. This part was never in his nightmares. He never had a chance to get you to a hospital.
• …Yet, here he was.
• He hoped beyond hope that that meant this time was different. That this time, he would control the ending to his dreams.
• “You can see her now.” Bucky didn’t need to be told twice.
• When he walked into your room, you smiled. Groggy and high, but smiling. “Bucky.”
• Without even saying your name, he buried his face in the blankets of your bed, fell to his knees, and sobbed.
• And you let him.
• Because no matter what happened after this, he would forever be grateful this wasn’t a nightmare.
I don’t think people realize how much Bucky holds himself back in fights now? Like, actively trying not to be the Winter Soldier. But then someone takes his girl. His soft, civilian, never-thrown-a-punch-in-her-life girl. And he wades through men like wheat to get her back. And when he finds her and sees her bloodied and bruised? The men who did it die begging. And she isn’t scared of him for a heartbeat. Just relieved that he’s here, that he came for her.
i think about this every moment of every day
------------
He’s gentle now. That’s what people miss.
When they talk about James Buchanan Barnes—the ex–Winter Soldier—they say lethal, trained, dangerous. They talk about his arm, his past, his programming. But they never talk about how hard he works to stop.
How he counts his breaths when someone shoves him too hard at the market.
How he unclenches his fists when a man yells too close to your face.
How he reminds himself, You’re not him anymore.
He hasn’t thrown a punch in months. Not because he can’t. Because he chooses not to.
When the call comes—your name whispered through static, the broken sound of your phone being dropped—something inside him stops choosing.
“Buck,” Sam says carefully, watching him stand from the couch, voice tight. “Let’s take a second before—”
But Bucky’s already gone.
They take his girl. His soft, sunshine, laugh-like-bells girl.
The one who hums in the kitchen while she makes coffee, who writes reminders on his palm in ink, who’s never so much as raised her voice.
They take her.
And Bucky goes still in that terrifying, absolute way that only he can.
It’s not rage, not yet. Rage is human. This is the cold focus of a weapon remembering its purpose.
He tracks them easily. They’re amateurs.
The first man doesn’t even see him. One crack of bone, a hand over his mouth, and the body slumps silently.
Two more in the hallway. Bucky doesn’t bother with stealth now. He moves through them like a storm, metal and muscle and fury, the sound of breaking things echoing down concrete walls.
When one of them fires, Bucky doesn’t duck—just raises his arm, the bullet ricocheting uselessly. The man’s gun jams when he tries again. Bucky’s smile is thin and joyless as he crushes the barrel flat.
“You shouldn’t have touched her.”
The man doesn’t get a chance to answer.
By the time he finds the door, he’s breathing hard, his knuckles painted in other people’s blood. There’s a hum in his skull—mission parameters, eliminate threat—and he lets it hum.
He breaks the lock with a twist.
And there you are.
You’re on the floor. Wrists bound, lip split, one eye swelling shut. When you hear him enter, you flinch—not from fear, but from pain. Then your gaze finds him.
“Bucky.”
Your voice cracks on his name, and he thinks it might break him more than anything the Hydra chair ever did.
He’s on his knees before he even knows he’s moved. His metal hand hovers midair, shaking. He doesn’t want to touch you until he’s sure he won’t hurt.
“Hey, doll,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “You okay? Talk to me.”
You blink back tears. “You came.”
That’s when the last thread snaps. The part of him that still thinks he’s undeserving, unworthy, unwanted. Because of course he came. He’d tear down cities for you.
One of the men behind him groans. Bucky rises, slow and quiet, and for the first time in years, he doesn’t stop himself.
He’s not fast about it. The Winter Soldier never is. Efficiency would be mercy, and there’s no mercy left in him for these men.
He doesn’t use a gun. He doesn’t need to. The sound that fills the room isn’t just violence—it’s justice wrapped in grief.
They die begging, voices breaking on pleas that fall on deaf ears.
When it’s done, he wipes his metal hand on his thigh and turns back to you.
And for all the blood that paints the walls, for all the ruin he’s left behind, you aren’t scared. Not for a heartbeat.
You reach for him the second he crouches beside you again. He flinches when your fingers brush his jaw, not because of what you touch—but because he doesn’t think he deserves to be touched after what he’s done.
“Hey,” you breathe, gentle even now. “You’re shaking.”
“I—” His throat closes. “I didn’t mean for you to see that.”
You shake your head. “I wanted you to come for me.”
Something raw flashes in his eyes. “I always will.”
He cuts the zip ties from your wrists, wraps his jacket around your shoulders. You lean into him, trembling, but it’s not from fear. It’s the crash of adrenaline, the sudden safety.
Your cheek presses to the cool metal of his arm, and you whisper, “You didn’t have to hold back for them.”
Bucky swallows hard. “You saw me.”
“I saw you,” you correct softly. “Not him.”
That’s the part that undoes him—the way you say it like there’s a difference. Like you can tell. Like you’ve always known.
He buries his face in your hair, breathes you in, holds you tighter than he probably should. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“For what?”
“For what I did.”
“For saving me?”
He huffs something between a laugh and a sob. “For what I became to do it.”
You tilt his chin up so he has to look at you. There’s blood on your face and dirt in your hair and still—still—you look at him like he hung the stars.
“You became mine,” you say quietly. “And that’s enough for me.”
Later, when backup arrives, they find the place silent. Bodies cooling, air heavy with cordite and copper. You’re curled in Bucky’s lap on the steps outside, his metal arm around you, his human hand tracing lazy circles on your knee.
He’s watching the horizon like it might judge him.
Sam crouches beside him, eyes flicking between the massacre and the way you’re tucked against Bucky’s chest. “You good, man?”
Bucky’s jaw flexes. “She’s safe.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Bucky looks down at you—the way your fingers have wound tight in the fabric of his shirt, as if even asleep you can’t stand to let go. The tension in his shoulders eases just enough to breathe.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “I will be.”
Later, back home, you clean the dried blood from his knuckles. He watches your careful hands, the way you touch him without hesitation.
“You should be scared of me,” he murmurs.
You smile faintly. “Then you don’t know how safe I feel right now.”
He doesn’t have an answer for that. Just leans forward, forehead to yours, eyes closed.
“Next time,” you whisper, “just get there faster.”
He huffs a quiet laugh against your lips. “Next time, doll, they won’t even make it out the door.”
You believe him. And you don’t mind.
Because there’s a difference between the Winter Soldier and Bucky Barnes.
The world might never see it.
dreaming about how mob!bucky would do ANYTHING for you and he didn’t mean to fall at all but he fell so hard
literally willing to burn the world for her if anything goes wrong
-🦢
you get him so well
-----------
Bucky Barnes wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you.
That was the rule. The one he gave himself when he climbed his way to the top—when he traded the last of his softness for respect, power, and the weight of a name that made men tremble.
Love was a liability. A weakness.
And weakness gets you killed.
But then there was you.
It started simple. You worked late at the corner café across from one of his clubs. He’d stop in sometimes—always after closing hours, when the lights were dim and the city outside was quiet enough to make it feel like the world was holding its breath.
You never asked about his bruised knuckles or why the men with him always stood instead of sitting. You never asked what kind of business required that kind of vigilance. You just poured his coffee, smiled that soft little smile, and slid him a slice of whatever pie you’d baked that morning.
“On the house,” you’d say, tucking a napkin beneath the plate.
He’d murmur, “You shouldn’t give things away for free, doll,” but his mouth would curl when you rolled your eyes at him.
And that was how it started—him leaving bigger tips, lingering too long, learning the way you hummed under your breath when you thought no one was listening. He didn’t mean to stay. Didn’t mean to start protecting you from the shadows when men got too close, didn’t mean to have his driver drop a bouquet of lilies at your door after your mom’s funeral, didn’t mean to tell his men your name and make it known that you were off limits.
But the night someone followed you home, he stopped pretending.
You hadn’t seen him come around for a week—said something about business upstate. You didn’t notice the man tailing you until it was too late, until the streetlights blurred through your tears and the sound of footsteps echoed behind you.
Then there was a crash. Tires screeching. A door slamming.
And Bucky was there.
Not the calm man who liked your coffee. Not the one who smiled small and shy when you wiped foam from his upper lip. This one was carved out of fire and fury, his gun already drawn, his eyes black with something feral.
You still remember the sound.
The way he pulled you against his chest after.
The way he said, “Don’t look, baby. It’s over now.”
And it was.
For you, anyway. The man who followed you didn’t make it to morning.
He should’ve walked away that night. Should’ve left you with nothing but a half-remembered kindness. But instead, he kept showing up—at your door, at your side, in your bed.
He’d touch your cheek with the same hands that broke bones hours earlier. You never flinched. That was how he knew he was ruined.
Because you weren’t afraid of him.
You should’ve been.
“You’re dangerous, Barnes.”
You said it one night, soft against his throat, the city lights pouring through the window. His arm was around you, bare skin glowing gold from the lamplight, and he laughed low, almost disbelieving.
“I told you that when we met,” he murmured.
“I thought you were exaggerating.”
“I don’t exaggerate, sweetheart.”
You smiled against his skin. “I think you do. Especially when it comes to me.”
That made him still.
He looked down at you like you were the only real thing in his world. Maybe you were.
“I’d burn the world for you,” he said quietly. “If anyone ever laid a hand on you, I’d turn this whole fucking city to ash.”
You thought he was being dramatic.
He wasn’t.
The first time you saw proof, it was over something small. Some rival’s son mouthing off, calling you a pretty decoration on Barnes’ arm. Bucky didn’t yell. Didn’t even blink. Just smiled.
That night, the rival’s club burned to the ground.
You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t have to.
When you came home and saw him sitting in the dark, sleeves rolled to his forearms, smoke still clinging to his shirt, you only said, “You could’ve told me.”
“I didn’t want you to see that part of me.”
You stepped between his knees, cupped his jaw, and said, “Bucky, I see all of you.”
That was the night he told you he loved you.
Not with words, but with the kind of kiss that hurt to come back from.
Everyone knew better than to mention your name around him now.
His men called you “the missus,” even though you weren’t married—yet. You had your own guards, your own driver, your own security detail that shadowed you like ghosts. He’d given you keys to the penthouse, filled your closet with things you hadn’t asked for, and built you a life so untouchable it scared you sometimes.
But then he’d come home, shoulders heavy from another war he didn’t talk about, and you’d remember why you stayed.
Because when he laid his gun on the table and his head in your lap, he wasn’t the King of Brooklyn anymore. He was just your Bucky.
“Don’t go soft on me, Barnes,” you teased once, fingers tracing the line of his jaw.
“Too late for that, sweetheart.”
You asked him once if he ever regretted it—the life, the blood, the danger.
He looked out the window for a long time, cigarette glowing between his fingers, city lights reflecting in his eyes.
“Used to,” he said finally. “Used to think I’d crawl my way out someday. That maybe I’d find a way to be clean again.”
“And now?”
“Now?” He smiled, slow and sharp. “Now I just hope you never see me for what I really am.”
You turned his face back toward you, kissed him soft.
“I already do.”
Something broke in him then. Something small and final.
Because he realized there was no undoing this.
No coming back from you.
He was already gone—lost, devoted, burning alive and happy to do it.
When trouble comes, he doesn’t hesitate. Not anymore.
The call wakes him at 2 a.m.—a whisper of your name, a threat too close to home—and before his men even finish the report, he’s already moving.
It’s not rage. Not really. It’s something colder.
Efficient. Absolute.
The men who touched what’s his don’t see sunrise.
And when he comes home, covered in someone else’s blood, you’re waiting for him by the window.
He doesn’t speak. Just pulls you close, buries his face in your hair, breathes you in like absolution.
You whisper, “You didn’t have to.”
“Yeah, I did.” His voice is hoarse. “They looked at you, doll. That’s all it takes.”
You should stop him. You should tell him this isn’t love, it’s obsession. But when he kisses you—slow and aching and endless—you understand.
He didn’t mean to fall.
But he did.
And now the whole world could burn,
and he’d still hold you steady through the smoke.
݈݇— pairings: PosessiveBF!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader
݈݇— themes: SWOONworthy? Sexual Tension, possessive boyfriend ;) kinda domestic? based on the 'Tears by Sabrina Carpenter' Trend (male version) on TikTok.
݈݇— summary: Bucky catches you giggling at other guys' content on tiktok, so he arranged something to remind you that those guys? have nothing on him.
A/N: thanks to my TikTok algorhythm, a oneshot is born. I'm like HOLD UP, Bucky is a fucking Biker, i'm an idiot.
The front door clicks softly behind him.
The first thing Bucky notices isn’t the warm scent of dinner or the low hum of the heater. It’s you — sitting cross-legged on the couch in the middle of your open-concept living room, phone angled up, the glow painting your face in soft light. You’re giggling.
Not the polite, quiet kind either. No — this is the dangerous kind. The flirty, nail-biting, “I’m looking at something sinful” kind of giggle.
Bucky pauses in the entryway, tie loosened from a long day on the Hill, blazer half unbuttoned. His eyes narrow. He creeps closer, moving silently across the hardwood like a predator approaching prey.
You’re so immersed in whatever’s on your screen you don’t even notice him until a warm hand suddenly swoops in and steals your phone right out of your grasp.
“Bucky!” you yelp, scrambling up after him.
He’s already holding it above his head, smirking. “What are you giggling at, sweetheart?” His voice has that low, smug rasp — the one that means trouble.
You lunge. He sidesteps. Easily. “No, no, no,” he teases, scrolling with one thumb as you try to pry it back. “Let’s see what’s got you blushin’ like that—”
The audio hits first.
Then the catchy beat. Then: “Offering to do anything, I'm like, ‘Oh my God’—I get wet at the thought of you (Uh-huh).”
Bucky tilts his head, squinting. On the screen: a TikTok. Some guy, average looking at first, then a quick transition — snap — and he’s shirtless, wearing a helmet, looking like a thirst trap come to life.
“Oh,” Bucky says slowly, like he’s solving a puzzle. His thumb swipes again. Another one. Different guy, same beat drop, same smug shirtless mask reveal.
Your stomach drops. “Bucky, give it back—”
He turns to you. One brow raised. Tie hanging loose around his neck. “Really?”
You want the ground to swallow you whole.
“It’s just— It’s trending,” you stammer, face burning. “It’s not like I—”
“Oh, I see,” he interrupts, mock-serious now, pretending to study the screen like it’s national security intel. “So this is what you’ve been giggling at while I was out debating infrastructure reform.”
You bury your face in your hands. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” He lets out a deep laugh, presses play again, and watches another guy peel his shirt off like it’s choreography. He loosens his own tie a little more. Then looks at you over the top of the phone.
The look says everything. Really? You’re drooling over this?
And it’s unfair — because now he’s leaning against the counter like some kind of accidental thirst trap himself, sleeves rolled up, tie undone, hair mussed from the wind outside.
You’re the one who ends up flustered.
He tosses the phone onto the couch and stalks toward you slowly, voice dipping lower, teasing. “You like masked guys with their shirts off, huh?”
“Bucky—”
“I can arrange that.”
× × × ×
The rain had just started — the soft, steady kind that soaked everything in silver and made the pavement shine like glass. You stood under the awning in front of your building, bag slung over your shoulder, your phone clutched between your fingers as you checked the time.
He’d insisted on picking you up after work.
You’d assumed it meant the car. Warm. Dry. Logical.
What you didn’t expect was the collective chorus of giggles behind you.
“Omg Gurrrl…” one of your coworkers hissed under her breath, not even subtle.
You turned just in time to see them all pressed up near the glass doors like they were watching a live premiere of a romance movie, hands covering their lips, eyes wide.
And then you saw why.
A familiar black Harley Pan America 1250 sat in the middle of the parking lot, droplets of rain sliding off its sleek body like it was made to be worshiped.
And on it?
Bucky Barnes.
Helmet on. Black visor down. Legs casually spread as he leaned back against the seat, vibranium arm glinting even through the rain. His black shirt was absolutely soaked, plastered against his body like a second skin. The dark fabric clung to every line and ridge of his torso, outlining the dip of his abs, the sculpt of his chest, and that little V that had no business being visible in public.
He raised his left arm and waved at you.
The audacity.
You froze in the doorway, heart hammering against your ribs like it was trying to break out. And then you realized — every single person behind you was watching this.
And you? You started walking toward him like a shy toddler — small steps, too aware of the eyes on you, face burning hotter with every second.
Bucky tilted his helmet just slightly, the rain dripping off the smooth matte black surface, that damn smug energy radiating even without seeing his face.
When you reached him, he leaned forward a little, voice low through the modulator in the helmet.
“Hi, baby.”
You hated how good that sounded. Deep. Filtered. Filthy.
“Hi,” you muttered, cheeks on fire.
He tilted his helmet closer. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”
You glared weakly. “You’re so annoying.”
He tapped the extra helmet hanging from the handlebar and motioned for you to get on. “What? I’m just giving my woman a ride home. In the rain. Like a gentleman.”
“Gentlemen don’t show up looking like…” you gestured vaguely at his entire masked, soaking wet, Adonis self, “…that.”
That’s when Bucky lifted the visor with a slow click.
Rain trickled down the curve of the black helmet as his face came into view — or rather, just enough of it to make your knees wobble. His blue eyes looked even deeper, darker, almost electric against the black of the helmet, the contrast so sharp it was criminal. His mouth was hidden, but his gaze? That said everything.
“Like what, baby?” he asked, voice low and distorted just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “Like the guys in your TikTok page?”
Your stomach dropped.
“Bucky Barnes—”
He chuckled, pulling the visor down — the sound vibrating through the helmet, somehow worse because you couldn’t see his face.
He handed you the spare helmet. “Get on, baby.”
But instead of wrapping your arms around his waist like a normal person with a healthy sense of self-preservation, you planted both stubborn hands right on the tank of the bike.
Because no. He was not going to get the satisfaction of thinking you wanted to hold him.
You could feel him smirk even through the helmet.
The moment the bike roared to life beneath you, Bucky reached for your hands and tugged them firmly around his waist. “Hold on,” he said simply.
You huffed, peeling them off and putting both hands on the tank again.
Two blocks later, he grabbed your wrist again and dragged it right back where it belonged — around him.
You slipped it off again.
Another few seconds pass. Rain, wind, engine rumbling beneath you. Bucky didn’t say anything the third time. He just slid your hand around him one last time and firmly, with a little pat, fingers brushing over his soaked shirt. You could feel the tension building in the way his shoulders squared.
You smirked against the inside of your helmet and placed your hands on the tank again. Stubbornness: 3. Bucky: 0.
And then—
He revved the bike. Hard. The engine snarled, the back wheel biting against wet asphalt. The Harley gave a sudden jerk forward that made your heart drop into your stomach.
“BUCKY!” you squeaked, panic taking over before pride could. You practically launched yourself forward, arms snapping tight around his waist, chest pressed against his back, fingers digging into soaked fabric and muscle.
His laugh echoed back to you — deep, low, vibrating through his body straight into your hands.
“That’s better,” he drawled over the sound of the rain, smug as sin, revving the engine again.
“Asshole!” you hissed into the rain.
“Mmhm,” he hummed. “But at least you’re holdin’ onto me now.”
He leaned back just enough to murmur near your ear through the helmet, “Next time you wanna drool at a masked guy, at least make it me.”
× × × ×
The bike rumbled lowly as Bucky eased it into the garage, the rain still drumming against the roof like a steady heartbeat. He cut the engine, and the sudden silence left nothing but the sound of your pulse hammering in your ears.
You exhaled shakily, fingers still hooked around his waist like your life depended on it. He didn’t move right away—he just sat there, shoulders rising and falling, a solid wall of wet, smug satisfaction in front of you.
“Enjoy the ride?” His voice was smooth through the helmet modulator, a little too casual.
“Go to hell,” you muttered, but your voice came out softer than intended.
He chuckled under the helmet, low and slow.
You swung your leg over and climbed off the bike, fingers fumbling slightly as you pulled your helmet off. The air hit your face—cool, damp—and your hair was a mess, cheeks flushed from wind and adrenaline. You placed the helmet on the workbench, trying not to look at him.
Bad idea.
Because he stayed on the bike for a second longer, sitting there like a cinematic sin in matte black. Helmet still on. Rainwater glistened on the fabric of his shirt. And then, without a single word, he stood up.
Bucky reached for the hem of his soaked black shirt with one hand.
And ripped it straight down the middle.
The wet fabric tore with a loud, satisfying rrrrip, clinging for just a heartbeat before giving way completely. The shirt fell to the concrete like a defeated opponent, leaving nothing but damp skin and muscle under the garage lights—his chest and abs glistening, rain still rolling down his skin in lazy rivulets.
Helmet still on. Blue eyes still burning through the black visor.
A living, breathing thirst trap.
You froze.
Your lips twitched into a smile. You tried not to. You really did. But the corner of your mouth betrayed you before you could stop it.
Bucky cocked his head, all mock innocence in that black helmet.
“Oh, now that’s just overkill,” you said, trying to sound unimpressed, but your voice cracked right in the middle like a damn traitor.
He laughed—deep, from his chest, teeth probably flashing beneath the dark visor. He took a step toward you, boots echoing on the concrete floor.
“You sure?” he murmured, voice roughened through the helmet. “’Cause I seem to remember someone gigglin’ at less than this.”
You crossed your arms, trying to look unimpressed, but your gaze was very obviously not on his helmet anymore.
It was on him.
Dripping wet. Bare-chested. Masked. Moving toward you like trouble wrapped in temptation.
And Bucky knew. Oh, he knew.
You tried to look unimpressed, to keep your arms folded tight against your chest. But he was shirtless, dripping wet, broad shoulders flexing with every step, and that damn helmet just made it worse — somehow darker, filthier, hotter.
“Bucky…wait.” you warned softly, but your voice didn’t sound like a warning. It sounded breathless.
He tilted his head, slow and deliberate, like a wolf toying with its prey. “What?” he drawled, voice low through the helmet. “Can’t handle a little eye candy, sweetheart?”
You swallowed hard, trying to look anywhere but at his chest. That was your first mistake. Because the second you glanced away, he closed the distance.
One hand came up — the warm one — bracing against the wall right beside your head. The other — cool vibranium — settled at your hip, fingers curving against the damp fabric of your clothes. He leaned down, visor a breath away from your face, and the scent of rain and leather wrapped around you like a slow chokehold.
“You were real’ focused on those other masked guys last night,” he murmured, his voice a deep, sinful rumble that vibrated through the helmet. “Giggling. Biting your lip. Starin’ at your little screen like they were somethin’ special.”
“That’s not—WAIT!” you started, but it came out weak. Pathetic.
Bucky leaned in even closer, the edge of the visor just barely grazing your forehead. Your back hit the wall.
“Uh huh,” he rasped, his thumb dragging slow, lazy circles into your hip. “And now you’re actin’ all shy. What happened, baby? They don’t look so good when I’m right in front of you?”
Your breath stuttered. Your hands, traitorous things, went to his chest — maybe to push him away. Maybe not.
He felt solid. Warm. Wet. Your palms slid against his skin, and you felt his chest rise as he inhaled sharply.
He smirked — you couldn’t see it, but you felt it.
And then he dropped his voice, low and rough against your ear: “Look at me.”
You look up. His blue eyes burned through the helmet like fire behind glass.
“Yeah,” he rasped, pleased, his mouth ghosting over the shell of your ear through the modulator. “That’s better. Right where I want you.”
You tried to be smart. Tried to keep your chin up. “You’re being ridiculous,” you whispered, even though your heart was pounding so hard you thought he could feel it through his chest.
He chuckled darkly, letting his vibranium hand slide from your hip down to the back of your thigh, dragging up the wet fabric and forcing your breath to catch.
“No,” he murmured. “This is me reminding you who makes you melt. Who makes you fold.”
Your resolve snapped like a thin thread. A shaky breath left your lips.
“Who’s your boyfriend?”
And then—your hands, the ones that were pretending to push, curled against his chest instead. He tilted his helmet, angling down, closing that last sliver of space between you until the cold edge of the visor brushed your nose. You could feel the heat of him through it.
“Say it,” he murmured.
You exhaled, shaky and small. “…Bucky Barnes.”
He grinned against the helmet. “That’s right.”
A nervous, breathless giggle escaped you — the kind that bubbled up without permission, light and shaky.
And he loved it.
The next second, his hands gripped your thighs and lifted you effortlessly. Your startled laugh rang through the garage as he hoisted you onto the workbench, the cold surface meeting the back of your legs. His body slotted between yours like it belonged there.
Your fingers instinctively clutched at his shoulders — rain-slick, solid — and the helmet loomed close enough for your breath to fog the visor. His blue eyes glimmered through the half-lifted shield, sharp and molten at the same time.
Then, with a low click, Bucky reached up…
…and pulled the helmet off.
For a second, the world just—stopped.
His hair was damp and mussed from the rain, sticking to his forehead in dark strands. His jaw was sharp, his skin flushed from the heat under the helmet. And those blue eyes? They looked criminally good under the low garage light.
“Oh my god,” you breathed, hands flying up to cover your mouth as your face heated like a furnace. You weren’t even trying to hide it anymore — you were melting in real time, probably looking ridiculous.
Bucky tilted his head slightly, a slow grin curling at his lips.
“Yeah?” he teased softly, stepping closer, caging you in with his hands on either side of the bench. “What’s got you lookin’ at me like that, baby?”
You giggled again — helplessly, dizzy from how unfairly pretty he looked like this. Helmet hair. Sharp jaw. Bare chest. All menace.
“Oh my god—” You let out another breathy laugh, shaking your head, “—Stoooop!”
Bucky’s grin spread slow, predatory, like a lion watching something that’s already caught in its teeth. “Stop?” he murmured, voice dropping into that sinful low register that went straight through you. “Sweetheart, I haven’t even started.”
You bit your lip — a mistake, because his gaze immediately dropped to your mouth. A sound escaped him, rough and quiet, something between a laugh and a growl.
He leaned in closer, his hands braced on either side of your thighs on the workbench, caging you in without ever touching you where you needed it. His chest was warm against the damp fabric of your top, his breath brushing your skin, and the glint in his eyes made your stomach twist deliciously.
“Look at you,” he whispered, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth but not quite kissing. “Giggling like a little troublemaker.”
Another breathy laugh tumbled out of you before you could stop it, your shoulders bumping his chest.
“Yeah,” he rasped, “this mouth was real quick to laugh at other masked guys, huh? But now—” he tilted his head, nose brushing yours, “—now you’re giggling for me.”
Your hands fisted lightly against his chest, and the way your breath hitched made his smirk deepen.
He dragged his knuckles up the inside of your thigh — lazy, teasing, almost cruel. “This close,” he breathed, his voice hot against your lips. “And you’re already melting. You know that, right?”
You let out a shaky laugh — half breathless, half overwhelmed. “Shut up,” you whispered, but it came out more like a plea than an order.
Bucky’s grin turned feral. “I will.”
And then he devoured your mouth.
It was hungry—his hands sliding around your waist, dragging you forward until your hips pressed flush against his. His mouth claimed yours, wet and warm and desperate, like he’d been waiting all damn day to do it.
You gasped against him, and he took advantage of it, deepening the kiss until your giggles turned into little, breathless sounds that got swallowed between his lips.
His vibranium hand gripped the edge of the workbench, the other tilting your chin up just enough to make you arch toward him. You had nowhere to run—not that you wanted to.
Then he tugged you even closer, his chest fully pressing against yours now, his hips fitting perfectly between your thighs. The wet denim of his jeans brushed against your skin, making you shiver.
“See?” he murmured against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged. “This is what happens when you mess with me, baby.”
His fingers slipped beneath your shirt — slow, teasing, sliding over the warm skin of your waist, thumbs pressing into the soft curve just above your hips. You shuddered under his touch, your hands curling tighter into the muscles of his shoulders.
“Bucky…” you whispered, but it came out as more of a sigh than a protest.
He smirked against your lips, kissing you again — deeper this time, teeth gently catching your lower lip before his tongue soothed over it. “Yeah,” he whispered against your mouth, voice low and smug, “say my name like that again.”
His hands roamed higher, up your ribs, spreading warmth in their wake. Every brush of his fingertips made your body react without thought — your back arching slightly, a quiet, shaky laugh escaping you against his mouth because you couldn’t contain the way he made you feel.
And Bucky? He was eating it up — every giggle, every soft gasp, every time your body answered his touch like it belonged to him.
His mouth dragged along your jawline, hot and wet, teeth grazing just beneath your ear as he murmured, “You really think those guys on your phone can make you feel like this?”
“No, of course not.” You shuddered, a laugh escaping even as your breath hitched. His hands slipped further beneath your shirt, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra, and your knees pressed against the sides of his hips like instinct.
Bucky tilted his head, lips brushing against the sensitive spot just below your ear. “God, you’re giggly tonight,” he breathed, amused and utterly in control. “Cute.”
You let out a soft, breathless laugh — and just as your fingers curled into his damp hair, the unmistakable sound of a car door slamming echoed from the driveway.
Both of you froze.
Then came the sound of footsteps. And a very familiar voice.
“Hey Buck, you left your—”
Sam stepped right under the garage door’s awning, stopping dead in his tracks. The image before him: Bucky shirtless, standing between your legs on the workbench, your hands tangled in his hair, his hands up your shirt, and both of you looking like you’d been caught making out behind the gym in high school.
For a heartbeat, nobody moved.
Sam blinked once. Twice.
“Oh,” he said slowly, lips twitching. “Well damn. I did not need to see that.”
You slapped your hands over your face, trying and failing to stifle the mortified laugh bubbling out of you. “Oh my god,” you whispered against your palms.
Bucky didn’t even flinch. He groaned—more annoyed than embarrassed—his forehead resting against your shoulder for a second like he was gathering patience from the heavens.
“Sam,” he gritted out, eyes narrowing over his shoulder, “you’ve got exactly five seconds to back out before your damn windshield disappears.”
Sam raised both hands in mock surrender, backing away like he’d just walked into a crime scene.
“I was just droppin’ off your folder, man! Jesus—” he motioned vaguely between the two of you, “—next time close the garage! Normal people do that!”
“Get out, Wilson.”
Sam muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Can’t even deliver paperwork in peace…” before disappearing back into the night.
The garage went quiet again. The only sounds were the rain and the fact that you were trying so hard not to laugh you were shaking.
Bucky straightened up, squinting at you like a man personally victimized.
“Don’t,” he warned.
A snort escaped anyway. “I can’t—” you wheezed, laughing into your hands. “Sam—Sam’s face—”
Bucky dragged a hand down his own face, muttering, I hate everyone.
But when he looked back at you, still perched on the workbench, cheeks flushed and giggling uncontrollably, the corner of his mouth twitched.
“You’re lucky I like that sound,” he grumbled, “Now. . . where were we?”
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