#bucky barnes and reader

[marvelstoriesepic]

Scatter My Heart (||)

Pairing: Mob Boss!Bucky x Reader

Summary: As it turns out, you can’t outrun a monster in his own home. You can, however, learn to question whether he was ever a monster at all.

Word Count: 17.7k

Warnings: real big emotions and confrontations; secrecy in a relationship; lots of panic/anxiety/fear/insecurities; weapons (guns, knife); minor injury (cut); references to criminal activity and violence; Bucky is possessive and protective and in love; emotional manipulation (perceived/debated)

Author’s Note: Here we are my lovelies, the second part to His Name Was Never Just Bucky. Honestly, I’m so relieved it’s finally done and I can return to other projects. This took me so incredibly long, but it’s rewarding to have it completed and I’m so proud I didn’t end up abandoning it like so many other things before. I truly hope you enjoy where I took the story ♡

Masterlist | part one

This was probably the worst decision you have ever made.

But, hell, now you officially jumped without a parachute, the ledge is gone, the air is passing by quickly, and your only hope is that you’ll somehow learn how to fly on the way down and you’ll be able to land on your feet.

The hallway outside has lost its symmetry, as you have lost your sanity, and now nothing seems to make sense anymore. Everything seems longer and crueler, your panic stretching the hallways into a long, suffocating throat. Each of your hectic footsteps makes you feel too exposed in this big mansion, they seem to echo your exact coordinates throughout the floors. Every hallway hears you, the walls themselves are turning their heads.

You take the first turn on instinct, then another, and another, trying to remember the route, trying to retrace the thread that brought you here, but your terror and all that bottled-up panic smashes sequence, steals direction, leaves you with nothing but speed because you know that if you stop, you’re done.

Your feel your heart everywhere. In your throat, in your ears, behind your eyes, beating against your teeth.

You blow past a side table where a cluster of pale lilies sits, blooming so aggressively, looking so wrong and even ugly in the corner of your eye, you have to take another turn.

You’re no longer thinking, you’re just running.

Your chest is a hollow chamber and all you hear is your own pants when you pass a maid who startles and calls something you don’t catch. You pass a window tall as a church promise and for one insane second consider throwing yourself through it. 

Somewhere behind you, from the office, you hear a loud crash. His voice follows. His voice. It sounds so much more blood-curdling now. 

He’s calling your name. Loud and baffled and then sharper. He doesn’t sound angry yet, but definitely alarmed in a way that makes every warning bell inside you turn rabid. Because there is something uniquely petrifying about hearing alarm in the voice of a man like him. It means you have disrupted the script. It means he does not understand. It means he is coming.

You run harder, every nerve in your body overflowing with adrenaline.

But, as expected, the house doesn’t simply spit you out. Corridors feed into corridors, archways into alcoves, burnished halls into rooms you have never seen, and every choice you make seems to slide you deeper into the belly of the place instead of toward freedom. 

With a ragged and desperate breath, you shove through one swinging door expecting another passage, and stumble instead into a kitchen vast enough to feed a wedding. There is all this gleaming steel and those butcher-block islands and hanging copper, bright under the lights in a way that feels grotesque after the dim severity of the office. 

It is wrong, all wrong, too open and yet somehow still a trap, because there is no front hall here, no visible exit, only counters and cabinets and startled staff, and you realize with a sick plunge of your stomach, that you have run yourself into a dead end dressed as luxury. 

This is bad, this is so bad. 

You stop abruptly, spinning around helplessly. The breath tears in and out of you like it is trying to escape without the rest of your body. The halls behind you are full of pounding footsteps, and you know it’s just one single set, but you also know it’s him.

He’s advancing and you can’t keep escaping.

A woman near the far counter goes still with a mixing bowl in her hands. Another man freezes by the sink with his hands in water. No one speaks. No one moves. The whole room seems to hold itself in suspension around your panic, everyone watching without watching, and then from somewhere behind you in the corridor comes Bucky’s voice sounds again, practically yelling your name—no confusion left now, only alertness, apprehension; and it punches you in the gut. It rings through you, through the kitchen, through the bright metal and tile and silence, and you know it has all been for nothing. 

But before there is anything you can do, before the ground can open a portal for you to fall through, Bucky appears in the kitchen doorway, looking like an avalanche with a name. A big name. A dangerous name. A name that will be the end of you. 

He doesn’t look raging in the obvious way, but he’s lost a bit of control. And for the man that he is, you don’t know how to survive it. And this intensity with which he came thundering after you is so extremely frightening because it looks expensive on him, tailored to fit, like one of his suits, like one of his watches, like all the impeccable and dangerous things he wears so naturally you once mistook them for elegance instead of that blaring warning sign they actually are. 

Why just have you been so stupid, my god.

He’s totally got you wrapped around his finger—and dick, as embarrassing and daunting as it is—or you would have maybe been able to open your eyes for a second, you idiot. 

But now they are open, wide, wide open, and you see him. You see him as the man he is. But maybe it’s a little too late now. 

He stops the moment he sees you pressed half-backward against the dark island, sees the way your hands have come up slightly as if your body has decided on defense without consulting you, sees the wet shine gathering in your eyes, the terror you are no longer managing to powder over, and something happens to his face that is so brief and so devastating, but all you can do is stare at him so you see that clean strike of realization. 

He doesn’t look confused anymore, and it makes him even more menacing.

He knows. He knows that you know. And he probably knows what he’s going to do to you now but you don’t know if you want to know that.

The air seems to cinch around you, seems to wrap itself around your throat, and squeezes. You can’t breathe. You don’t try to.

Bucky—James, your mind insists now with a sick recoil, James Buchanan Barnes, James Buchanan Barnes, biggest crime boss in the city—does not look away from you when he tilts his face to the staff. That, more than anything, makes your blood run strange. His attention stays fixed on you with a steadiness so absolute it feels like a physical thing, a hand at the back of your neck, while his voice turns toward everyone else in the room and comes out low and unquestionable. “Everyone out.” 

His command is dropped into the kitchen and nobody argues. The immediate obedience of his people makes you visibly shudder. 

A woman near the stove sets down a towel with trembling fingers. The man by the sink lowers his eyes and moves. Another staff member glances at you once with a quick look that seems almost guilty, almost pitying, and you feel the pulse of it pounding all around you, everywhere inside you. 

Nobody looks at you too long, nobody does anything besides leaving the fucking room. They won’t meet your fear and they won’t step between it and the source. Nobody here belongs to themselves enough to choose you over him. But it’s clear that they don’t. They’re his people for a reason. Nobody here will be on your side, whatever happens. 

A door swings. The kitchen empties in a matter of seconds, everyone slipping out with the furtive speed of people evacuating a room where something dangerous has just unsheathed itself. They leave with the scene in their eyes. They leave you with him. And the silence after the last one goes is so sudden it roars.

You take another step back and only feel the unhelpfully solid press of marble against your spine. There is nowhere else to go unless you want to climb onto the counter like a cornered animal, and for one hysterical beat of a second, the idea does not even seem ridiculous. 

You keep your eyes on him because looking away feels somehow more chilling, but your gaze is frantic within that line of sight, darting to the side entrance, to the swinging service door, to the corridor beyond him, to windows that suddenly seem decorative rather than useful, to every possible seam in the room where escape might be hiding in miniature.

There is none. The whole kitchen gleams at you with pitiless order that’s just full of steel and stone and copper, knives in their block and pots all around. 

He notices you looking, but you can’t care; all you have to care about is the distance between you and him, the distance between you and anything that might become escape if panic suddenly grew wings. 

Could you run past him? Maybe, if he were anyone else. Maybe, if this were some ordinary man with ordinary reflexes and an ordinary body and an ordinary life. 

But he is none of those things. You’re in this damn situation because he’s none of those things. 

He fills the doorway without even trying. He stands there in the collectedness of his dark clothes and encroaching presence, looking at you as if he can hear your thoughts tripping over each other and your fear has turned you transparent. 

His shadow has finally caught up to his skin and you now realize how dark it is.

Even if you got around him, where would you go? The front hall might as well be on another continent. Every corridor in this house has already left you stranded. There is no map in your mind now, only panic. No way out.

The knowledge gathers in your chest until it hurts. Behind your eyes, heat stings. Your throat tightens around a lump and only something choked leaves your lips. 

And Bucky sees all of it. You keep trying to shrink back from him because his very outline has now become a threat, and it doesn’t make your situation better, but he already knows, so you don’t have to pretend anymore. 

And his face alters. It’s as if the floor has given way under him. As if he had stepped expecting hard tiles and found air.

He does not advance. That should help. It does not. He stays where he is, one hand dropping slowly from the doorframe to his side, as if he understands that any sudden movement from him might send you straight through the nearest pane of glass. 

There is a fervor to him now that feels different from the one you knew in bed, at dinner, in the soft-lit luxury of his attention. It has made you feel protected, loved, worshipped. 

But there is no feeling of that anymore, none of that, because now it’s stripped of adornment, revealed as what it perhaps always was beneath all that heat and gentleness. It’s focus. Pure and frightening focus. 

His eyes are on you in that unwavering, devastating way of his, but the expression in them is nothing easy. There is something dark in there, something grim and braced, something that knows a door has just slammed shut and is already calculating what can still be salvaged from the wreckage. 

His mouth is set. His jaw is hard enough to cast shadows. He looks, absurdly, heartbreakingly, like a man who has been struck and is refusing to touch the bruise. But he stands, and he’s still so tall, much taller than you thought he could become, and he is not the man you thought you knew. 

He stands there with his hands visible, shoulders squared but not aggressive, and the intensity in him is bridled.

His stare does not feel like a threat in the crude sense, but it’s so full of attention, too much attention, because total attention from a man like him is its own species of fear. 

“Sweetheart.”

His voice has changed. It is calm but only in pretense. It is soft, technically, but not the way it was before. Before, his softness had warmth in it, a hand held out in the dark. 

But this is lower. Straighter. It has gone cool around the edges. It’s not vicious or unkind in any sense, but your body clocks it instantly. It’s almost formal in its restraint, as though he’s speaking across the lip of something that’s close to breaking and he’s trying not to widen the crack.

And that nickname makes you want to let the tears fall. Whatever he tries to achieve by calling you that, it doesn’t work. It’s just torture how familiar he tries to make it sound. 

His gaze falls in fast snaps over your face, your posture, your trembling hands. “This looks bad,” he concedes roughly. His throat works once before he continues. “I know it does. But it isn’t what you think it is.”

The words land in you and do nothing. They just sink. Sit there.

He studies your face, sees he has not reached you at all. “What did you see, baby? What has you—” He breaks off with a crack, shakes his head slowly, and lets out a shuddering breath, eyes still on you. “Tell me what you saw.”

What answer could you possibly give him? 

That you are looking at his mouth and thinking of all the times it softened around your name, and your own mind keeps turning traitor and overlaying that tenderness with headlines, with whispers, with ravening rumor? 

That the same voice which once coaxed and soothed now sounds capable of making rooms empty and men obey and whole situations forgotten? That the current version of his voice is a masterclass in control and it terrifies you to no end?

That his hands are hanging open at his sides, looking so damn human and ordinary, as though they’ve never done anything wrong? 

Which is a lie, you now know, a lie that runs deep and leaves you scarred, because all you can think is that these bare hands are the same hands you’ve had under your chin, lifting your face to his, tucking hair behind your ear, buttoning you up against the cold, and you’ve had them gripping you tight in the dark, moving inside you until you couldn't breathe, wrecking you in the best way possible.

These hands were your favorite things. 

But looking at them now, you picture what they are doing when you aren’t around. Doing the dirty work, the ugly work, the unspeakable work, hidden back in the blacked-out corners of a life he kept under lock and key.

Your throat feels too dry to talk and you stay quiet, letting the stillness in the room ripen, letting your lack of words and the fear in your eyes speak for themselves.

A hard, hollow tension knots his face, makes his jaw grind, and look as solid as a piece of rock. His hands ball into fists and when your eyes snap to them immediately, your body already flinching, he flexes them, but it seems forced. There is an almost brute rigidity to his throat, a silent scream of dread choked down only barely.

“What do you know?” he grits out through clenched teeth. 

The question is gentle in shape and brutal in substance. It makes your stomach turn. Because it sounds like a test. It sounds like inventory. It sounds like the kind of thing a ruthless man would ask before deciding what to do with the damage.

You let your fingers grip the edge of the counter. You can’t answer him. All you can do is try to breathe. All you can do is stare at the exit behind him, and his body standing between it. 

He draws in a slow breath, lets it out. “Look at me, Y/n. Please.”

You didn’t know some part of you would still obey, but you notice too late. Maybe it’s better this way. Your eyes lift fully to his. 

And you can actually see the way he has lost his grip. It’s right there in his eyes. If you were to describe it you’d say it looks distraught. As if he’s lost, his entire biography that’s been neatly written on paper now ripped away and he can’t find the next line. 

Judging by the way you act and look at him, he knows you know something, he just doesn't know what, and the mystery is eating him alive. Just for one disorienting second he doesn’t look that much like this untouchable figure from all those disturbing rumors, but rather like a simple man who knows that if he tries to force his way out of this, he’s just confirming your worst fears about him.

“My name,” he starts with a little hesitance. The gravelly low timbre of his voice makes you shudder, “is James Buchanan Barnes.”

Something in your face gives you away. 

You feel it the moment it happens. Some tiny involuntary flinch. Some helpless widening. 

Because something crosses his expression, his throat bobs hard enough to show that everything inside him is suddenly in pieces. 

He sees that the name is not new to you. He sees that you are already standing several steps ahead of where he hoped this conversation was.

He goes very still.

“You knew that already,” he acknowledges, and it almost hurts how he tries to sound calm about it all. 

Your mouth is dry. Your whole body feels like a struck match. You let out a pitiful small breath.

He takes one careful step forward, and it’s not really a step, not even truly an advance, but you recoil so sharply, you ram your whole body against the wall of marble behind you. Your back stings, but your eyes sting more. 

His face changes with your reaction, something like pain flashing through the severe framework of him before he reins it back in. 

“How?” he asks, and he’s no longer trying for calm. He ducks his head, pleading eyes on you, and he speaks with a wounded quiet. “Sweetheart, how did you find out?”

Your throat works around the answer. “Your tags.” It comes out so faint it is almost nothing, just a shaking breath that accidentally caught a few letters on the way out. 

For a second he shuts his eyes. For just one cut of time. 

His head tips back the slightest amount, and he deflates. A breath of air leaves him in a hitching, rattling shudder, like he’s finally run out of things to hold onto.

He looks back at you and seems briefly at a loss. James Buchanan Barnes, man of closed doors and fixed outcomes, with no ready sentence in his hands. 

It is strange and unnerving and it makes you talk more, bracing for him to yell and threaten and turn cold. 

“And,” you whisper, voice wobbling and blundering around in your mouth, “there was a gun.“ 

You want to explain, want to urge that you didn’t mean to find it, didn’t mean to come across anything at all. You want him to know you would like to dump your eyes in a container of white paint so your vision is a blank canvas and you can color it with other pictures, but it’s too late, and your words already seem to break across him, differently.

He does not move at first. He almost flinches, but catches it halfway, as if his body forgot for a moment to be disciplined. 

His eyes stay on you, and all that’s in there are things you’ve never seen in him before. Or in anyone, really. It is a stricken grief, resulting from the way every new piece of your fear is arriving inside him one by one and finding purchase. 

He looks at you like he can see the exact route your mind took from one discovery to the next, and hates every mile of it.

“Baby, I—” he croaks, having to pause. Instead, he starts toward you again, even slower this time, palms open a little, perhaps meaning only to soothe, perhaps meaning only to be nearer, but simply more trepidation triggers in you before thought can intervene. “Please listen to me—”

Your gaze snags on the knife block. 

The sleek black handles. The bright clean suggestion of defense. It’s without thought that you run to grab one. 

It is graceless and frantic and you don’t brandish it like someone brave in a film. You don’t know how to do this well enough for that and you don’t have the nerve to think about it. 

Your hand shakes around the handle almost immediately, and you pull it close to your chest, because fighting this vile man would be ludicrous considering who he is and who you are, knife or not, but you use it to protect yourself with the mere fact of holding something sharp. Hopeful that this thing will keep your horror from spilling out of your body altogether. 

The blade catches the light and makes it meaner. You hate that you have done this. You hate more that you had to.

Bucky stops dead.

The whole room seems to stop with him.

His eyes go first to the knife, then back to your face, and what crosses his expression then is so nakedly agonizing it is difficult to bear. 

Because he sees that you are not trying to threaten him, unlike how someone in danger might. 

You are not foolish enough to think a kitchen knife turns you into his equal. You are holding it because your body needs one small fiction to survive on—the fiction that you are not entirely empty-handed in a room with a man who could ruin you if he chose to. The fiction that you still belong, in some tiny harrowed way, to yourself.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice cracks clean through the middle of the word.

You have never heard that happen to him before. Never heard his composure split like badly fired glass.

His stare stays locked on yours, but now there is no distance in it, no coolness, no stranger’s cadence. Just a visceral, human ache. “Hey,” he says again, softer, but it sounds so incredibly heavy. It’s the way you’d talk to someone who’s just woken up from a nightmare and doesn't know where they are yet. “I’m— I’m not going to hurt you.”

Your grip tightens. The knife trembles visibly. “Don’t come closer.”

He stops breathing for half a beat and nods slowly. 

“Okay.” The word is a single rasp. “I won’t.” He swallows. You see the muscle move hard in his throat. “I won’t come any closer.”

You cannot stop shaking, no matter how hard you try, because a man with his power shouldn’t see you be so obviously afraid, but there is nothing you can do.

“Please believe me, sweetheart, when I say that I never intended to hurt you,” he swears, and there is no command in him now, none of that cold-sounding authority from a moment ago when he emptied the room with few syllables.

This is worse, in its own way. This undone version of him, this man trying to hold himself very still because the sight of you recoiling has clearly perturbed something structural inside him. “I have a thousand sins on my head, and it’s no use to claim otherwise now,” he speaks with a vulnerability in his tone that washes past you. “I’ve done a lot of things I can’t take back, but hurting you was never on the table. Okay? It was never even a possibility. You were supposed to be the only thing I didn’t ruin,” he ends with a lacerated wince.

You stare at him and have no idea how you can understand anything at all.

The knife handle bites into your palm. Your chest rises and falls too fast. The kitchen is suddenly too loud with all that humming of the refrigerator, the lights, the distant bloodstream of the mansion; and in the center of it all he stands facing you with that wrecked look in his eyes, as if your fear is not merely inconvenient to him but unbearable, and he’d rather be struck than watched this way by you.

And in a world that wasn't currently collapsing, maybe you’d actually care, maybe you’d actually notice how he would take a bullet to the chest just to stop you from flinching, but all you can think is that you are standing in the house of James Buchanan Barnes, with a knife against your own ribs as much as against him, and the man looking at you like heartbreak has found him at last is still the same man the city says should never be underestimated.

It’s so silent all of a sudden that the kitchen seems to be held in a trance. It feels as if there is a vacuum pressing against the walls and now the molecules of the room are terrified to touch the mess of what’s happening. 

The last bit of help you could have possibly still leaned on due to your desperation has vanished, echoes of footsteps now pull back into the depths of this mansion.

The overheads feel hostile, throwing down a flat glare that skims over the stainless steel and floorboards with an inert eye. 

And centered in that manufactured peace is him. 

James Buchanan Barnes.

The name has already erupted once inside your chest, but it keeps echoing, reverberating through your bones in smaller aftershocks. It feels strange to attach it to the man standing in front of you, when his hands have mapped every part of you—right to the most intimate ones—you’ve come to recognize his voice even in half-sleep and his laugh once wound through the cage of your ribs, vibrating against the bone until you couldn't tell its rhythm from your own heartbeat.

It feels like a wronged ownership. It feels like a glitch, an error in the logic of the world, but who are you to find a way out of it. Surrounded by him, in a mansion that is now suddenly as big as the world itself.

But you see it now. And god, it’s so painfully clear. So agonizingly obvious. 

You were delusional, you know that. It’s what hurts so terribly bad. You know exactly how this looks to anyone else. After all, this all started with you dating a guy for over a month and not even knowing his actual, legal name. But when you’re used to being nobody, a little bit of hyper-focused attention feels like a drug. He looked at you as if you were the only person in the room, and you would get this tight, anxious knot in your throat, thinking don’t ruin this. Asking for a last name or a background check felt like a quick way to feel high-maintenance, and you didn’t want to give him a reason to feel uncomfortable and walk away.

It was a habit born of pure insecurity, being so grateful for the crumbs of love that you don’t dare ask who’s baking the bread. He must have picked up on that on day one. He must have realized right away that as long as he kept making you feel special, you’d keep your mouth shut and let him stay hidden.

He used your loneliness, your blind spots. You were so desperately hoping to be seen, that you fell for the most obvious trap. And it’s your own fault, really. But it still makes you feel completely hollow, like someone scooped the air right out of your lungs with a cold spoon.

Now you have to live with the shame of that mistake.

Your jaw aches from clenching it, trying to swallow down the urge to throw up right there on the kitchen floor.

His presence alone seems to pull at the corners of the ceiling, dragging it down to squash you like a grape. He anchors the room to his foundation, consumes it with all he has, and tracks you with a pinpoint focus that has you shivering and sweating, because his gaze is treating the harsh thudding of your pulse as more vital than the massive, blood-stained kingdom currently cooling its heels on the other side of the door.

The roar in your ears turns outwards, seemingly engulfing the whole room with your panicked pulse. Your vision narrows down until the room stops spinning, and for the first time, you actually feel the air in the kitchen

And in the quiet, your awareness gives you the alarm that there is still something jarringly chilling resting just above your heart. It takes you a moment to realize it’s something physical. There is a weight there that now suddenly feels so deeply misplaced. 

Your hand moves on its own, your fingers lifting toward your throat to find the source of that cold, sinister pressure.

The tips of your fingers brush pearls. 

And for a moment, you stay frozen there, grazing the smooth curve of one luminous bead where the necklace drapes across your throat. 

It once made you smile, had your shoulders drop in ease when you made contact with this present of Bucky. But it no longer feels like a present at all, it feels like a bribe, a hook, a trap because its ultimate purpose surely wasn’t meant as a gift but rather to restrict your freedom and keep you bound to him.

This necklace, these shiny pearls, they aren’t about you. Honestly, you don’t think anything is about you. It never was. It’s just a reflection of what he wants you to be, confining you in his version of your identity.

He manipulated you and stole you and wanted to make you believe you’re the luckiest damn girl in the world.

And you had been. But now you’re just the stupidest.

And you keep on being, because your mind just continues jumping back to the evening he gave it to you, how it felt so soft and intimate, something chosen carefully and fastened around your neck with that glint of pride that lived in Bucky’s eyes. And you want to cry and break down at the way he stood there in front of you so awkwardly with the luxurious velvet box in his hand like it was something far more serious than jewelry. The way his voice had gone rough when he said he saw them and thought of you.

And now, sitting against your collarbone all cold, these are no longer gems, but tiny hooks sinking deeper into your skin, reminding you with every little sting, that you walked into this prison willingly.

You let James Buchanan Barnes clasp it around your neck. The man whose name crawls across newspapers like a stain. The man whose stories carry blood and conspiracies and savagery in their wake.

Somehow you manage to close your fingers around the strand despite of their shakiness.

Across the kitchen, Bucky’s gaze drops to your hand the moment it moves.

The necklace feels impossibly smooth beneath your touch, each pearl round and shining like a row of innocent little moons.

A gift.

From a man you didn’t know.

Or maybe a man you knew too well, just not in the way the world did.

Your throat feels hot suddenly and you know it's the cursed pearls burning holes there, pressing into your pulse with every overwhelmed beat of your heart.

You cannot stand it.

Your fingers curl harder.

Bucky's gaze snaps up to your face, then quickly back to your hands, and then he goes still. But still in the way of an animal that sensed the crack of a branch in the forest. Every line of him tightens in subtle increments, his shoulders locking, his breathing halting so abruptly you see the pause ruffle through his chest.

He knows what your heart doesn’t yet.

His attention sharpens and his eyes grow wide. It almost seems like he’s about to move toward you.

“Hey—” he starts softly, though the word is unfinished, frail, fearing the direction your thoughts are taking.

But your brain is no longer interested in choosing to make decisions carefully.

The necklace feels oppressive, every inch of it tied to a truth you did not have when he first placed it there, and so you can’t think or react any differently.

Your hand jerks in one swift motion just as Bucky releases a desperate choking sound.

The strand snaps free from your neck with a sharp little noise, like a thread breaking under too much strain, and now the pearls explode outward from your hand and scatter across the kitchen floor like a sudden spill of tiny white stars. They strike the tile with a bright, haphazard clatter that echoes far too loudly in the empty room.

tik—tik—tik—tik—

Some bounce high, ricocheting against cabinet legs. Others roll wildly across the floor, spinning in spasmodic circles before coming to a stop beneath stainless steel counters and chair legs.

The sound fills the kitchen in poignant, crystalline bursts.

A rain of little impacts.

A beautiful mess.

For a second you don’t even breathe.

You just stare at them—those small, perfect pearls—rolling farther and farther away from each other, punctuating the heartbreak in the air.

Across from you, Bucky doesn’t move. Something is breaking across his face. His breath leaves him in a soft, stunned exhale, and all he can do is stare with his eyes unguarded. It startles you.

He takes a step back. Not a deliberate one. More like his body forgot the floor was there. His boot slides half a pace behind him as though the sound of those pearls hitting the tile physically pushed him away from you.

His mouth parts.

For a moment he looks like he cannot quite process what he just witnessed.

His eyes—those confident, storm-colored eyes that usually hold such controlled intensity—have widened in a way you have never seen before. It doesn’t seem to look like anger, or anything like it.

It looks like hurt. Pure, unhidden hurt.

His gaze falls to the floor, tracking the scattered pearls skittering across the kitchen tiles, watching them roll away from where you stand with that look in his eyes that says he never wished to see them destroyed.

Then his eyes return to you. Slowly. And the expression there is devastating.

Because it is not rage.

It is not even disappointment.

It is heartbreak so unexpected and unfiltered it seems to hollow his chest from the inside.

His jaw tightens as if he tries to speak, but no words come immediately. The muscles along his throat move with a hard swallow, his chest rising and falling once in a slow, unsteady breath.

You realize then that he is looking at your bare throat.

The place where the necklace used to rest, and he stares at the place with sullen eyes.

Then his eyes lift again, meeting yours, and they are still wide, still aching.

For the first time since you’ve known him, Bucky Barnes looks like a man who has just watched something precious fall apart in his hands and realized too late that he cannot gather the pieces fast enough to put it back together.

And in the bright, echoing kitchen, the last pearl finishes rolling.

Tick.

Then silence returns, and your dread turns harrowing and now Bucky doesn’t seem to know where to put his hands, which is such a small, irrational thing to notice in the middle of your terror and yet your mind notices it anyway, because this is a man who has always seemed like a structure that was built out of conviction, who has been a straight line for you to follow in your world of scribbles, a man who enters every room as though the room had the good sense to expect him, and now he stands before you with your fear pointed at him in the shape of a kitchen knife and looks, inarguably, like he has been shoved off-script and dropped into the crack that formed in his foundation and now he is walled in by the very bricks he laid.

His eyes stay on your face, then the knife, then your face again, careful, heartbroken, alert in that frighteningly intense way of his, and you feel yourself shiver as he is tracking every tremor in your fingers, every drag of your breath, every microscopic shift in your balance in case you bolt again or collapse or cut yourself by accident on the trembling edge of your own panic.

“What you think you know about me,” he starts, and his voice is lower now, roughened at the seams, “what you’ve heard… what people say, it isn’t the whole truth. It isn’t even most of it.”

You barely hear the words. They hit the air and fall uselessly to the floor. Because what else would a man like him say, standing in a cathedral-sized kitchen in a house full of people who obey him before he finishes speaking, after you found the gun and the tags and the name that can turn a city’s rumor mill rabid by itself?

No matter what he says, no matter that he looks so unbelievably shattered—the shape of him is wrong now. That is what your body keeps insisting on. Wrong in the doorway, wrong under these lights, wrong with that caution and that gentleness still trying to live in his face as if it is genuine. You cannot make him fit into one meaning anymore. He is split down the middle in your mind—tender and terrible, gentle and catastrophic—and the fracture is making noise inside you.

He takes a breath, slow, as if he is trying not to startle you even with the sound of his lungs working. “I know how this looks.”

A cough breaks in your throat, or maybe it's a huff or a wet laugh, or whatever, but it hurts coming up and out of your throat. Your hand shakes so badly the knife glints in nervous little flashes. “You used me.”

The sentence leaves you wheezy and small and much too true-feeling inside your own head. But they are out, and you take a whimpering breath, and two tears fall. They don’t arrive elegantly, and they sure as hell don’t spill subtly. They feel hot and you feel humiliated and betrayed, so deeply betrayed, and you hate that they are coming in front of him, giving him the satisfaction because your body is not able to choose a fight, to give you steel and armor and an exit and a miracle. All it can provide you with is dread and tears, and a terribly shaking kitchen knife in your unpractical hands. Your whole body has become an argument against calm and there is nothing you can do.

His face changes so sharply it is almost like watching a flame twist drastically in wind.

“No,” he gets out quickly, and his voice trips over itself. It is denial stripped to the bone. Pure and cruel because he’s genuinely the greatest actor on earth. “No,” he chokes out again, softer and somehow more desperate. “No, no, I— It's not— I never—” He swallows, the line of his throat moving hard. He looks like he is about to walk barefoot through broken glass without letting you see the blood. “You matter to me. You— God, shit, that doesn’t even come close to—”

“Stop,” you whimper while a fresh tear slips down. You shake your head because the words feel obscene now, feel almost insulting in their tenderness, like someone laying roses on a crime scene.

“I’m not pretending.”

“Stop.”

His jaw flexes. He looks toward the ceiling for half a second, and it seems like he is trying to gather language before it deserts him entirely, and when his gaze comes back to you there is something naked in it, something grim and pleading and painfully real. He seems to grope for something that keeps him standing.

“I wanted to tell you,” he despairs, voice scratchy. “I was going to.”

You stare at him through your blurred vision. Every instinct in you rejects the sentence on impact. It sounds nonsensical. The knife quivers against your chest with each breath you are somehow able to take, but they are shuddering.

“When?” you choke out. “After what? After I was stupid enough? After I—”

“No.” He takes a step before remembering himself and stopping immediately, hands opening at his sides. “No. When it was safe.”

The word safe almost makes you laugh, except there is nothing funny left in you.

He hears how deranged it sounds in this room, and grief moves across his face in one dark, swift shadow. “Listen to me,” he presses, and his voice cracks, stripped of that expensive control he wears so well. “I know this life is ugly from the outside. I know what my name sounds like to people. I know what kind of stories get told. I knew if I handed you all of it too soon, all at once, you’d run before you ever had the chance to know what was real.”

Your tears keep coming and you don’t have it in you to wipe them away. You fear your heart won’t ever be able to unclench again after this day. If you even make it out of here. “So you thought you’d just let me” —fall in love first— “into your life the way you did?”

He closes his eyes, and you know the sentence hit exactly where it meant to. When he looks at you again there is nothing smooth or seamless about him, and you have never seen him this way. Because you have never really known him. He is no longer buttoned-up and bulletproof. He honestly looks about ready to be hit in the heart one final, fatal time. “I thought I would give you time,” he supplicates quietly, voice husky. “I thought I would let you know me before the rest of it ruined everything.” The breath that follows his words sounds full of sorrow and a deeply seated regret. “Which it seems like it has.”

Yes, it has. Yes, he ruined it. But would you have felt any other way if you found out another way? In another setting, maybe while you were tangled in the sheets together, or while he was holding your hands? You don’t know because it didn’t happen that way and you found out the way you did and now the world is upside down and all wrong-angled, and your mind is spinning in a room with no corners, completely unanchored by a lie you never saw coming, or maybe you have, because a guy like him couldn’t ever want a girl like you, and perhaps first and foremost you’re just mad at yourself.

Your throat has gone tight with crying, with fear, with the dizzying effort of keeping your body upright when your whole nervous system is trying to flee in eight directions at once. He sees you struggling and looks halfway to moving again, then stops himself so hard the restraint shows all over him.

“I’m a patient man,” he keeps going, and you just want to run past him, out of this hell. You don’t hear how there is no pride in his voice, no menace, just a worn sort of honesty, as if this is the one truth he can still offer without it breaking on impact. “I would have waited. As long as I needed to. I was waiting for the right moment, for when you felt safe with me, for when I knew you wouldn’t hear my name and only hear every lie this city tells itself at night.” His voice lowers further. “For when you loved me enough to at least stay in the room while I explained.”

You blink at him as if he has said something in a language your body no longer speaks.

And then, because this nightmare apparently still has room to worsen, he says, very softly, “Because I love you.”

All you can do is stare at this stranger, and it feels like you are looking at him through a broken window.

It is not the first time he has said it, not at all, and you had loved how he had no shame in telling you, how he pressed those very words into your skin night after night, even this early into your relationship.

Gosh, you had cherished it, fallen deeper for him because of it, and now you know it's all been part of his manipulation. So what else should it be now. But at the same time—why should he still be saying it? How can he still say that? How can he say that now, after all of this, after you know who he is, after the room has filled with the bomb of revelation? What kind of man says I love you while being the very thing you are trying to escape from?

You don’t understand him. You have no clue about who this man is and it is making your hands sweat around the handle. You don’t understand how his eyes can look this shattered, how his voice can sound this human, how his face can hold this much pain and still belong to James Buchanan Barnes.

The knife is still trembling against your chest. Your arm aches from holding it so tightly. The tears keep slipping down no matter how furiously you blink. He stands there with grief in his eyes and power in every line of his body, and both things are true at once, and both things are hurting worse because no single version of him will stay still long enough to be hated cleanly.

“I was going to ease you into it,” he explains achingly, as if confession has broken loose now and cannot be coaxed back in. “Slowly. Over time. I was going to tell you what I could, when I could, and let you decide what to do with it piece by piece. I was never going to throw you into the deep end and watch you drown in it.” His throat works. “Y/n, I’m so fucking sorry you had to find out like this.”

But you are not really listening anymore. Or rather, you hear every word and none of them settle. They clatter against your panic and bounce off immediately only to land in a repressed corner of your mind.

Because maybe he means them. Maybe that is the tragedy of it. Maybe he means every single inconceivable word. But meaning them does not open the door. Meaning them does not make this house less of a trap or his name less of a threat or your pulse any less palpitating in your throat. Meaning them does not undo the gun, the tags, the scathingly smooth way everyone in this place disappears when he tells them to. Meaning them does not turn James Buchanan Barnes back into only Bucky, back into the man whose shirt you wanted to pull on because it smelled like him.

All you need now is a way out.

You don’t want justice, or answers, or even the damn truth. You just want a way out of this. You want to get the hell away from him and everything that smells and looks like him. And the room starts reorganizing itself around that instinct. The service door behind him. The hallway to the left. The distance to the far counter. Whether he is standing on the balls of his feet or flat. Whether the island might slow him for a second. Whether dropping the knife would help or harm you. Whether there is any point at all in planning when this is his house, his kingdom, his maze, and you are just a girl crying in the center of it with shaking hands and nowhere good to go.

He sees your eyes move and something in his face folds inward with understanding, with woe, with the excruciating knowledge that while he is pouring his heart out in rough little pieces, all you are doing is looking for exits. He looks completely emptied out, as if his ribs had been pried open and the only soft part of him had been torn away.

“Baby—” And now he just sounds pleading. But he doesn’t get the chance to keep on going with his drama.

The kitchen ignites with noise before you even understand what you are hearing. There was just you with your messy breathing and Bucky standing a few feet away with that awfully gutted look on his face and then the door slams open so hard the plaster cracks and the sound ricochets against your nervous system.

A crowd of men comes flooding through the opening, like a breach in a dam, so fast and threatening and all of them primed for dirtier work than anyone should ever have to do. The floor shudders under their hard slam of boots. Nobody hesitates and nobody asks questions. They all just move on some sick instinct, weapons out and raised in the space of a single heartbeat.

And now all of them are pointed at you.

The sound that hitches in your throat is not at all dignified or brave. You wish you could stare at the end of your life with at least a small sense of bravery, but it doesn’t seem like it. Every weapon these uniformed men hold is fixed on your ribs, your throat, your eyes, and the paring knife you are gripping feels pathetic. It is a useless piece of household metal against a wall of black iron, against men who don’t care that you are small and fearful.

Even so, your knuckles go numb around the handle from how hard you are gripping it. Your fingers lock up, your skin flashing from freezing cold to scorching hot while your heart thrashes against your ribs.

You think, irrationally, that this is how it happens then. There is no big speech, no lightning strike from the sky. It is just going to happen here on the linoleum, next to a bowl of apples on the counter, and a row of clean water glasses that are catching the light of the kitchen while strangers decide to put bullets in you.

Bucky pivots.

It happens so quickly it feels supernatural, like a weather change, like the room altering under the weight of him. He steps in front of you without quite blocking you, but enough that every single man in that doorway seems to remember all at once who exactly they have just disobeyed.

His expression does not merely harden; it shears. Whatever softness had remained in his face a moment ago is gone so completely it is frightening, scraped away until all that remains is authority in its most lethal form.

You feel fused to the counter behind you. You wish you would be.

He fixes his stare on his men and his eyes become glacial, pale and freezing, incandescent with a fury that somehow feels far more menacing than an outburst. He speaks, and the volume is so low that the room has to go completely breathless to catch it.

“Guns down.”

The response isn’t fast enough. No one moves quickly enough. One of the guards hesitates—just a fraction, just long enough to die for it in any other circumstance—and Bucky’s gaze lands on him so heavily, it’s as if he is deciding where to leave the body.

“I said,” he repeats, and his voice comes out with a rough friction, stripped of any emotion except the promise to do harm, “if any one of you ever points a weapon at my girl again, I’ll put you in the ground myself and make sure nobody bothers digging you back up. Do you understand me?”

His words are deadly. It doesn’t even sound like he’s acting at all, he just sounds absolutely lethal. He talks as though he has already buried people before and wouldn’t think twice about doing it again.

Around you, the momentum of the raid falters. The guards look genuinely unnerved, expressions switching so quickly between shame, panic, and obedience in ugly little flashes. Guns lower and now point toward the floorboards. A muted apology gets muttered into the silence and some of them take a step back. But it is too late, far too late, because the last thread inside you has already snapped, and your body no longer cares about reason.

You run.

There is no time for anything else; you simply hurl yourself at the nearest gap in the room, toward the delusive hope of open space, of slipping between bodies, of somehow becoming smoke, becoming speed, becoming anything but this cornered and shaking thing inside your own skin.

You aim for the narrow corridor between Bucky and the island counter, convinced by sheer panic that if you can just get past him this once, just this once, the house might cleft and let you go. Your shoulder twists, your breath catches, your feet slip against tile and then catch again, and the world blurs into motion and noise and the blood-bright animal need to escape.

But Bucky is faster.

His arms hook around your waist in one brutal, seamless movement, and it yanks you backward before you’ve even made it past his shoulder. Suddenly you are no longer running, your feet lose the air, leaving you floating for half a heartbeat, before you are driven hard into the breadth and heat of his chest.

The cry you let out this time actually tears your throat. You thrash on instinct, your body fighting him with the full deranged force of your mind freaking out, and somewhere in that struggle your hand jerks.

The knife you have been using as a means of senseless protection, hits resistance. It slides cleanly, sinking into skin and it makes you gasp sharply, your lungs suddenly jamming. It’s not your skin.

The blade has opened a shallow red line across his forearm.

And that’s gotta be it. You’re now totally and completely fucked.

The knife drops from your hand and clatters to the floor.

For one aghast second you stare at the bead of red welling against his skin, bright as a neon sign, and horror crashes through you so adamantly it almost eclipses your fear.

But Bucky does not let go. He does not even flinch properly or draw back his arms. His wounded arm stiffens only enough to keep you from pitching forward, his other hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, not pinning now so much as containing, as if he is trying to physically keep something from breaking apart right there in his grip.

He seemingly is completely blind to his own bleeding skin, as if the knife you were holding was never a danger to his life and only a threat to yours. Even with his blood on the floorboards, his only instinct is to pull you deeper into his chest.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he calls, and the transformation in his voice makes your head spin, because the man who just threatened death into a roomful of armed soldiers is gone again, folded away, leaving only this hoarse, pleading tenderness that feels almost more agonizing. His mouth is at your temple, right at your hairline, his breath gasping against your skin. “Baby, baby, stop. Please—please, don’t do this, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

You fight him anyway because your body refuses to do anything else. Your hands shove uselessly at his chest, your shoulders wrench, your whole body convulses with the effort of getting free. But he is built like a locked gate, and every single push only burns through the last of your energy. Tears pour hot and shamefully down your face. Your lungs burn. The room swims at the edges. Somewhere nearby, boots shuffle, and Bucky snarls over your head without releasing you.

“Out.”

It is one word, but every person in the kitchen obeys it instantly. You hear the kitchen staff backing away, hear the door open and shut, feel the room empty until there is no one left but you and him and the sound of your own sobbing.

Bucky’s hold eases just a fraction, softening the pressure so you can actually draw in air even if inhaling right now feels like swallowing water. He presses his cheek against your hair for one heavy second, and when he speaks again his voice is breaking in places you have never heard it break before.

“Listen to me,” he murmurs, each word roughened by strain, by remorse, by something that sounds so heartbreakingly sincere you almost hate him for it. “Hear me out, sweetheart, please. I got you. I got you. Nobody’s gonna touch you, nobody’s gonna lay a hand on you. I won’t! I would never. You hear me? You’re safe.”

Safe.

The word is a total deformity. It is so grotesque in this moment you could probably laugh, except it comes out as a broken cry instead.

You feel the way his body tenses around the sound, how it seems to travel straight through him with his heart as the target. He bows his head, his lips brushing your temple by accident or desperation, you cannot tell which.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and now there is nothing controlled left in him, no command, no careful poise, only a man fraying in real time. “Jesus Christ, I’m so sorry. I wanted you to know, doll, I did, just—not like this. Fuck, not like this. You mean everything to me. You gotta believe that. You are everything.”

You shake your head against his chest, small and uncoordinated, feeling spent. You do not know whether you are denying him, begging him, or simply coming apart. His shirt is damp beneath your face now, whether from your tears or the sweat chilled over your skin or the blood from his arm, whatever it is, it feels symbolic somehow—one more blurred line in a night made of them.

“I wasn’t gonna let anybody hurt you,” he whispers, and even that seems to drag through his throat, hitting the walls of it. “Nobody would ever be able to hurt you. Especially me, my love, especially me! I swear to God.” His forehead grinds into yours until you can taste the heat of his skin. “I’m still the same guy who kissed you this morning. I don't care if I’m a monster to the rest of the world, but not to you, sweetheart, please not to you. I would never—god, I would cut my own hands off before I ever used them to hurt you. You have to believe me, darling, please!”

But your body no longer knows the language of swearing, or soothing, or reason. Your muscles don’t translate his pleading into safety. Your body only knows that he is stronger than you, and that the arms holding you are the same arms that can dismantle a life without raising his pulse. The palm mapped so carefully across the curve of your head is the exact same hand that commands a firing squad, directs the local precincts, and seals fates with a slight tilt of his chin.

Every touch from him now delivers a repulsive duality—a rescue that feels like an arrest, a stroke that resembles a chokehold, an overwhelming affection that wears the exact outline of a cell.

You can feel how easy this is for him, how negligible his effort is in keeping you contained even while he tries his best to appear harmless. That insulting fact finally starves out the last bit of resistance left in your veins. Your nervous system runs out of fuel, leaving your body to go completely toothless against his chest, without actually surrendering or any returning trust. Your body is simply done.

Your fingers drop their useless leverage against his chest, your joints go limp and your knees refuse to carry your weight anymore.

You sag in his hold all at once. The sobs keep coming, but weaker now, thinning out, scraping instead of breaking. Bucky feels the change immediately. His grip loosens just enough to become support instead of restraint, his palm rubbing between your shoulder blades in one of those soothing motions you used to love so much and it makes your chest ache with a fresh wave of grief.

“That’s it,” he coos, though his voice sounds completely mangled by the words. “That’s it, honey. I know. I know.”

You don’t know what he means by that. You’re not sure he does either. Perhaps he simply recognizes that your stamina has bottomed out, that even the sharpest panic has its boundaries, and that the rush of survival instincts always burns hot and fast, leaving behind this full-body collapse.

He holds your dead weight upright anyway. He keeps murmuring into your hair but it doesn’t glue your broken pieces back together or erase the reality of what he is, what this fortress hides, and what you stumbled into. His sliced arm stays locked around your waist. You can feel the sticky warmth of his blood soaking through your clothes. It is startlingly human, and it should probably make him look less like a monster, the simple fact that he can bleed. But it makes every detail about your situation so real and dreadful.

When your body finally ceases its rebellion entirely, it isn't an act of submission. It is pure depletion.

And Bucky, keeping you pinned against the wall of his chest, seems to grasp that exhaustion better than anyone else could. His lungs expand and contract in uneven hitching motions. He drops his chin heavily onto the crown of your head. He closes you in not like a conqueror taking a prize but like a man trying, too late, to keep a catastrophe from widening under his hands.

Beyond the kitchen threshold, the entire estate drops into a dead, listening sort of silence, as if the plaster and timber have cocked an ear to the room.

He keeps holding you as if you are something he has no right to touch anymore and still cannot seem to make himself release, and it’s crazy that even like this, even with your body rigid from all the things you have learned too quickly and too late, he is still somehow heartbreakingly careful, his hand spread wide and warm between your shoulder blades, his hold immovable but never bruising, his mouth close to your temple as though he cannot bear to put distance between you if distance means losing you for good.

It is all just so utterly confusing because this is not entirely what you had expected would happen.

“The way you looked at me,” he continues, and his voice comes out rough as gravel dragged through water, ruined by restraint, by panic, by the sheer effort of trying not to frighten you further with the depth of what is in him. He does not sound like the man in the hallway, not like the man who commands rooms into silence with a glance, not like the man whose name can make other people blanch and step backward and say yes, sir, with their pulse all up in their throats. He sounds flayed open. He sounds like the sight of your fear has gone into him like shrapnel and lodged somewhere vital. “The way you looked at me in there—” He stops, breathes in shallowly, like he has run straight into a blade and is trying not to lean on it harder. “Christ. I’ve taken bullets that didn’t hit like that. To have you look at me like I’m something you need to survive.”

Your face is turned into his chest, your tears soaking through the expensive dark fabric of his shirt, and still your whole body is listening against your will, because his voice is all around you now, low and urgent and splintering in places that make something cold move through you.

His hand slides back up the back of your head, not forcing, only cradling, his fingers threading carefully into your hair as though the gesture itself aches. When he speaks again, there is something almost disbelieving in him, some stunned grief that does not seem feigned, cannot possibly be feigned for this long without becoming madness.

“If I could do it over, I would do every goddamn thing different,” he breathes brokenhearted. “Every part of it. I would tell you sooner. I’d tell you cleaner. Shit, I should’ve just told you. I should’ve given it to you straight before it got this messy and before you had to figure it out by yourself and piece me together out of all the worst parts with nobody there to shield you. I would have died before I let it happen like this. I swear.” He swallows hard enough that you feel it where your cheek presses near his sternum.

The kitchen is too bright and everything is stinging so harshly with those clean counters, the severe gleam of copper pans above the island, the neat little arrangement of knives in their block where one slot is now empty, the overhead lights turning everything brutally visible.

There is nowhere for your agony to hide. It shivers right out in the open, lives in the tightness of your lungs and the salt on your mouth, and the fact that every soft word from him only makes the unreality of this more baffling. Because he sounds sincere. He sounds devastated. He sounds like a man speaking over the body of something precious he helped kill.

He says all of this like he’s offering you his throat, while all around you the evidence of his power still glints and twinkles from every glazed surface, every distant footstep, every forced silence in a house built to keep his secrets and carry out his will.

He is talking with all the gentleness he has. He is nearly breaking with it. And still, inside you, fear sits and it pants and it is unconvinced, because love does not make a cage less locked simply because the hands closing it are shaking.

You make a small sound then—not a word, not even close, just some thin and wrecked little fracture of breath—and he tightens around you reflexively, then instantly checks himself, as if terrified you will read force into even that involuntary movement.

His next words come faster, crowding each other, not panicked exactly but pressed by urgency, by the sense that you are slipping through his hands even while he is still physically holding you.

“I know what I am.” He breaks off again, and this time you feel the tremor that runs through him. “I know what kind of man I’ve been, what people say about me, what they’re right about. I know exactly what it looks like from where you’re standing.” His voice goes raw. “But, darling, I never meant for you to be afraid of me. This was never supposed to happen.”

The words enter you but you just don’t know where to store them. There is something so naked in the way he says them that your mind keeps tripping over it, keeps trying and failing to fit it beside the other truth—the guns, the guards, the coldness in his authority, the name that belongs in whispers, the empire standing tall all around you in all its obedience. Or maybe it’s just loyalty. Respect? What even is it?

It’s hard to acknowledge that he still sounds like himself. James or Bucky, the man who kissed sleep into your skin and tucked blankets around your legs and pressed absent-minded kisses to your shoulder while reading beside you in bed still exists inside this other, larger, more terrible man. He has not vanished cleanly enough to make your fear simple. You give a small whimper.

“I was selfish,” he rasps, and now the confession lands without defense. “That’s the truth. I was selfish as hell. Because I wanted you anyway. I wanted you even knowing I should’ve stayed away from you. I know I should’ve left you out of all this. A girl like you deserves something clean and safe, and I’m neither of those things. I knew that. Fuck, I knew that. And it’s been killing me. I let myself have you and it’s been so fucking selfish.”

His breath hitches around the last word, and the grief in it is so unexpectedly torturous it almost makes you nauseous. His forehead lowers for a second against your hair, and he scarily looks so weary, suddenly too full of feeling to carry it elegantly.

“Because you are...” He exhales a broken laugh with no amusement in it whatsoever. “Christ, sweetheart, you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You couldn’t ever imagine what you walking into my life did to it.”

Your eyes squeeze shut and fresh tears slip out anyway. Somewhere inside you, some tired and furious part wants to scream at him for speaking like this now, for laying tenderness over terror as if one can cancel the other out, as if love—even if it is love, even if it is real and not just another instrument in his alluring hands—can unmake what you know. But before you can push any of that into sound, he keeps going, quieter, the words drawn so close to your skin they seem less spoken than confessed into it.

“If you want to go,” he states, and there is a pause before it, the kind that tells you the sentence is costing him blood, “I’ll let you go.”

Your breath snags. You don’t trust it nor believe it instantly, but even imagining the words coming out of him feels like a tectonic event, a mountain bowing. He does not release you yet, but his body changes with the promise, some iron set inside him going rigid with the effort of saying it and meaning it.

“I will,” he says, with more force now, as if he knows you don’t believe him and cannot bear that either. “If that’s what you want, I will. I’m not gonna keep you somewhere you don’t wanna be. I’m not gonna turn into that for you. But, baby—” and here his voice gives way altogether, drops into something so human and stripped down it hardly seems to belong to the same man who froze a room full of armed guards with one look, “—I am begging you not to make that choice before you hear me. I am begging you. Stay this one night, give me one chance to explain it all to you, to answer every possible question you could have. One chance to do this right, even if I already did it all wrong.”

Begging. The word would sound absurd from almost any other man. From him, it sounds cataclysmic. His hand shakes at the back of your head before steadying, his chest rises too sharply under your cheek, and he continues speaking as if silence might kill him.

“I love you too much to let this be the end of it if there’s anything I can do to stop it,” he croaks. “Too much to let you walk out of here thinking none of it was real. It was real. Every second of it was real. Me wanting you, loving you, worrying about you, making room for you in my life in ways I never made room for anybody—none of that was a lie. The only lie was thinking I could hold both worlds apart long enough to protect you from what I am. That was the lie. That was my arrogance. My mistake.”

The mansion remains hushed in that eerie, cathedral-like way that comes after a disturbance, as if everyone occupying this huge mansion is pretending not to hear the aftershocks.

But here in the kitchen, everything feels narrowed to his voice and your breathing and the blood drying on his forearm and the fact that he is speaking to you like a man on his knees, even if he is still standing, even if his arms are still around you, even if his kind of desperation does not know how to unclench fully.

There is a daunting sincerity in him now, not because it is soft but because it is not. Because it is fierce. Because even his tenderness carries the shape of obsession, of decision, of something chosen with his whole irreversible heart.

What can you possible answer here. What can you possibly think.

“I’ll do whatever I have to do.” He sounds so full of conviction. Technically, the words are quiet, but there is a hard core somewhere in his tone, and it glows fiercely. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make you feel safe again. To prove this to you. To earn back one inch of your trust. I don’t care how long it takes, I don’t care what you ask for, I don’t care what I have to lay down at your feet. I’ll do it. I will.” He takes a beat and the next words are so low you almost miss them. “I know I don’t deserve another chance and you have all the best reasons to run, but I’m asking for it anyway, Y/n.“

At that, finally, he leans back just enough to look at you. It’s not much, but the hand at the back of your head can guide your face up with painful gentleness, giving you every opening to pull away if you need to, though you are too wrung out now to do much except tremble.

His eyes find yours and stay there, and the sight of his face nearly brings you to your knees all over again. There is no coldness in him. No cruelty. No mockery. Only a kind of bereft intensity, a ravaged devotion, and beneath it the severe understanding that he is seeing himself reflected in your fear and cannot survive the image.

The whole fact of how broken he sounds starts to mess with your head. It cracks the armor of your panic, if only just a little bit. You’re trying to hate him. Because, honestly, you want to. You want the fear to be this insurmountable wall between you, but his voice keeps crumbling pieces of it.

The worst part is that you can’t just flick a switch and stop loving the guy you were tangled up with this morning. You fell for him so fast, so completely, because his version of happy felt like the safest place on earth. But with all those shocking revelations, that same love feels like a trapdoor that just dropped you into a cellar, and you are so angry at your own heart for still wanting him to hold you.

Underneath the exhaustion, there is a nauseating doubt starting to rot everything you remember about the last few weeks, and you really don’t need your mind going that far, but it does. You start wondering if you ever actually loved him, or if you were just hooked on the way he looked at you.

He treated you like you were the only important thing in the world, and you just hung off that affection, soaking up the protective way he took care of you. Even though he’s standing here right now, bleeding and hollowed out, swearing that every single touch was real, how can you ever be sure? Every memory you have is suddenly poisoned by the thought that it was just a beautifully built illusion, and the whole thing makes you feel completely seasick.

It’s just too much to handle all at once. Your brain is trying to hold two completely different men in the same space—the gentle guy who tucked the blankets around your feet in the dark, and the boss who froze a kitchen full of killers with one word. They are both real. They are both right here in front of you, and the fact that he isn't a cartoon villain makes it a hundred times worse.

If he were just a monster, you could run. But he’s a monster who tells you he loves you with this gut-wrenching, unyielding honesty, and looking at his ruined face, all your willpower just turns to mush.

“I should have asked more questions,” you whisper, and still, your voice breaks, the words tumbling out of you like loose gravel. You aren’t trying to be eloquent anymore, you are just trying to get the noise out of your head before it chokes you. “From the start, I— When you wouldn’t tell me things. I— I don't know, I was scared, I guess.”

Your fingers tighten into the expensive wool of his lapels just to keep your knees from giving out. Letting this mob boss know about your fears is probably a bad idea. But your life consists of you making bad decisions and so your mouth keeps opening. “I think I just liked the way you were to me too much to risk messing it up.”

The words drag themselves out of you like they do not want to be born, like each one has to force its way through the knot in your throat and the salt on your tongue and the simple, mind-numbing fact that nothing in you knows where to place anything anymore—not him, not yourself, not the last weeks, not the hands that held you so tenderly and the empire those same hands command with a flick of the wrist.

Bucky’s gaze is piercing as he looks down at you, listening with his breath visibly held.

“But I— I still don’t understand. I think.“ Your voice comes thin at first, scraped nearly transparent by crying, but it sharpens on pain the way a blade sharpens on a whetstone. “I just— I saw this gun, and—,” you blur out, the memory making your heart do that awful stutter against your ribs again while Bucky nearly flinches. His eyes go wide, pupils shrinking until they look like two dark pinpricks. “It was an accident. I swear it was an accident. I was just— you told me to grab a shirt of yours but I couldn’t reach up your wardrobe and so I was just going to go grab the shirt you've been wearing, but your jacket was there and then it just fell out. And I— I completely lost my mind because I realized I didn’t actually know anything about you, and I’ve been so stupid, and I’m really not good at this. I'm not good at talking things out or figuring out the right things to say. It’s just— this is so much to take in.”

Bucky´s chest hitches, a rough, dry stutter or air that sounds like he just took a fist to the solar plexus. His face looks almost unrecognizable with the pain plastered on it. You feel his hands tremble against you and he slowly takes them away, putting himself at a small distance to perhaps give you some space. His palms stay open, as do his eyes. He looks entirely unhinged by the clumsiness of his own life seeping into yours.

How could anyone understand how a man can kiss your forehead like a saint and still have blood and fear braided into his name. It’s so hard to understand how someone can look at you the way he is looking at you now—like you are both miracle and mortal wound—and still have lied, still have omitted, still have arranged the world around you so skillfully that you walked through it unknowing, barefoot and bright-hearted, straight into the center of his hidden life.

You do not understand what parts were real and what parts were merely curated, and worst of all, there is a terrible little splinter of you that already suspects the answer is not clean enough to save you. That some unbearable amount of it was real.

Your mouth trembles and you know that he can see it.

“You lied to me,” you sob, and although you mean for it to, it doesn’t sound like a weapon you’re throwing at him. It just sounds sad. “You made it so easy. I didn’t even think about it. I just— I just woke up every day and trusted the way you looked at me. And the whole time, I didn’t even know you.”

You look down at his chest so you can stop having to meet those devastatingly sunken eyes. “You let me fall in love with you not knowing who you were.” Your sentence has a shape now, the grief in you finally managing to find a spine. But you still can’t make your words sound all that accusing. Because you got yourself into this situation. You’re supposed to be furious at yourself first.

You haven’t used the word love before. You just dropped it, being the first time it cleared your teeth and the timing of it feels completely disastrous.

And Bucky suddenly undergoes a drastic freeze, as if his nervous system has been struck by lightning. He seems to tip back just a tiny bit but stays in your orbit. He stares down at you, his mouth parted, his chest stalling on an intake of air that he forgets to let back out.

The fact that you love him—and that you are saying it right now, while covered with dread and shivering nearly against his chest—seems to completely break his brain.

There is a dark heat flooding his face, his jaw tight enough to snap a tooth. He looks agonizingly vulnerable like this, the dangerous mob boss utterly gutted by four letters. His fingers twitch where they are now hovering near your neck, desperately wanting to bury themselves in your hair and pull you back into his skin, but he forces his hands down to his sides, his knuckles trembling against his tailored trousers.

“You…,” he starts, eyes burning with a starved intensity that makes the air in the kitchen feel boiling hot. He swallows loudly, taking a moment, staring out into some space behind you, and switching focus back to you. “Don’t call yourself stupid,” he goes on, voice dropping into a rasp that shakes with the failure of his own arrogance. “None of what you told me and none of what you felt makes you stupid.”

His face leans closer to yours and somehow you only shrink back a tiny bit, not really at all. You can feel the wavering rhythm of his breath against your lips. He looks thoroughly undone by his own greed, stuck in the realization that he won the only thing he ever wanted, right at the exact moment he stopped being the man who holds you in the dark and turned into the reason you’re afraid of the dark.

“The love was real,” he sounds so convinced. His face is breaking, but his voice is not. He knows what he is saying. “Every single second of it was real. I am the one who ruined it. But what I feel, and what we have, that isn’t a lie. I swear to you on my life, it was never a lie.” His eyes close briefly, and it looks like he is losing his footing somewhere internal. “I know how it feels from where you’re standing. But I wasn’t playing some game with you. I wasn’t trying to—” He drags a hand over his face, and for an instant he looks older than you have ever seen him, not in years but in burden, in wear. “I wanted more time. That was my sin in it. I wanted time. I wanted to tell you in a way that didn’t make you look at me like this.”

Like this.

The phrase feels unkind. Because yes—there it is again, the damn nucleus of the whole thing. The way your eyes have changed on him. The way he has noticed every flicker of fear in you as if each one were a cut and he keeps taking your terror not as an insult to his pride but as an injury to something much more private and much more vulnerable. And that, more than any fake excuse could have, is so hard to process. 

Because men who only know cruelty do not usually grieve like this over being feared by the woman they supposedly love. Men who are only monstrous do not usually look half-unmade by it.

You don’t want that thought, you honestly don’t, but it does arrive.

Because he has not hurt you. He hasn’t done a single thing to hurt you, and that makes him so much more complicated at the exact moment you most need him to stay simple.

He has had a thousand opportunities by now to become the thing you are bracing against. In the hallway. In the office. In the kitchen. When you ran. When you fought. When you took the knife. When you cut him. At every turn, there has been room for rage, for punishment, for the kind of retaliatory violence your frightened mind keeps expecting from a man like him, and instead he has done nothing but hold himself on a brutal leash, speak softly, plead, bleed, look at you as if your fear is the one thing in this world he has no defenses against.

And it makes you weaker.

Because fear is easier when it is clean. Outrage is easier when there are no counterweights. But now your thoughts begin to buckle under the strain of contradiction, and you feel yourself growing tired in some deeper way, not merely from running or crying or panic, but from the effort of sustaining one total version of him against the evidence of another.

The story you are trying to tell yourself—that he is simply bad, simply dangerous, simply false—keeps snagging on the memory of his hands shaking when he begged, on the way he threw his men out for aiming guns at you, on the heartache in his face now, open and unarmored and miserable with not knowing how to reach you.

None of it erases anything, how could it this fast, but still it matters, and still some fatal hope flares.

Your lungs are burning. You become dimly aware that your body is leaning, not exactly by choice, but because exhaustion is making choices for you now. The kitchen feels too bright and too far away at the same time. Your fingers feel chilled, your knees unreliable, your heart still overworked from all that horror. Even your anger is beginning to lose its clean edges, dissolving into something wetter and more helpless.

“I don’t know what to do,” you admit, and there is no strength in it at all.

The sentence is barely more than breath, but it changes him instantly, makes his misery seem softer, as if your confusion pains him almost as much as your fear did. His gaze searches your face carefully, greedily, looking for any sign that you have not vanished completely from him.

“You don’t have to know right now,” he comforts, and this time his voice is gentler still, worn down to the most tender parts of his body. “You don’t have to decide anything this second. I know I dropped all of this on you in the worst possible way. I know you’re overwhelmed.”

Overwhelmed. The word is so pitifully insufficient you want to cry some more, but the sound catches and turns to another shivery exhale instead.

Overwhelmed is a rainstorm. A bad day. A missed train. This is seismic. This is having the floor beneath your life cleave open and discovering it was built over a fault line all along.

Still, you know what he means.

Because beneath all the fear, and the betrayal and the urgent need to flee, there is now also this leaden, disorienting fatigue, this collapse of certainty.

You cannot keep all your alarms ringing at once forever. The body is not made for it. At some point even terror begins to sag under its own weight, and in that sagging comes the most dangerous thing of all. Maybe not trust or forgiveness yet, but confusion. A human confusion. The realization that if he truly meant to destroy you, perhaps he would have done it already. That if cruelty were the point, he has passed up too many easy chances. That whatever else he is—and God, he is still intimidating, still hidden, still a man with too much power and too many locked rooms in his life—his feelings for you do not look counterfeit. They look catastrophic. They look real enough to have ruined him too.

He had every opportunity to end this argument with force, not even making his hands dirty in a physical sense. But he didn’t, and that roughened sincerity that seems so deeply wounded keeps gnawing at all the things you thought you found out about this man, the stereotype you made him out to be. It makes a guilty stone drop into your belly and land with damaging intentions.

And you do not know what to do with all this honesty and realness, when real arrives dressed as the very thing you were trying to escape.

But you have to acknowledge that your lack of strength is not the only reason why you have stopped fighting him, stopped trying to get away.

Bucky seems to read some fragment of this in your face, because he does not press harder. He does not crowd you with arguments. He simply stays where he is, close enough for warmth, far enough now that his care has space to breathe. His injured arm hangs at his side, blood drying in a dark seam along his skin, ignored. His other hand lifts as if to touch your cheek, then stops halfway and falls again when he sees the flicker in your eyes. That tiny restraint breaks something in you all over again.

“I know I lied by not telling you,” he says quietly. “I know that. I’m not asking you to call it something prettier. I’m just telling you it wasn’t because you meant nothing. It was because you meant too goddamn much, and I was trying to find a way to bring you closer without making you run.”

The honesty of it is so ugly, so naked, so free of self-congratulation that it feels like he just threw a wet sandbag right at your chest, knocking every scrap of air straight out of your lungs. It’s not an excuse, not quite. More like the shape of the selfishness itself, held out in his own hands for you to look at. He wanted you. He kept you. He delayed the truth because he was afraid the truth would cost him the one bright thing he had allowed himself to love. There is no innocence in that. But there is something crushingly human.

Your eyes burn again and your grip on your own certainty loosens another inch.

You hate that, too, because, damnit, it would be easier to stand here shaking and loathing him if he would just become less tender and less heartbreakingly earnest in his regret. But he stays persistently, ruinously genuine, and all at once you feel not only afraid, not only betrayed, but emptied out by the effort of trying to hold every contradiction at once. He is a bad man. He may also love you. He lied. He is also hurting. He hid things from you. He is also standing here looking like your fear is flaying him alive. None of these truths cancels the others. They just crowd together until your thoughts feel waterlogged, too swollen to separate.

So all that is left is the simplest truth again.

You really are overwhelmed.

You are so overwhelmed that language itself seems too heavy to lift.

Your breathing has started to slowly settle in increments, like a storm reluctantly retreating from a coastline it battered too long. It feels like there are bruises left behind in your lungs, but it no longer aches with each inhale.

Your fear has ebbed enough to make you think again, to make you see again, to make you look at him not as the single monstrous shape your panic tried to build, but as the complicated, human contradiction standing in front of you now.

His shoulders are still too tight, drawn up, and perhaps trying to seem smaller. He keeps his hands visible and loose at his sides to perhaps avoid startling you. The cut along his forearm has darkened into a narrow seam of red, drying in flaking lines against his skin and remaining completely ignored by the man attached to it.

His focus hasn’t left your face. And in that focus, there is not an ounce of triumph. Rather, the opposite. There is only pain. Such a grave torment that lives in the corners of his mouth, the prominent crease between his brows, in the cautious way he keeps tracking your movements as though you still might shove him away and try bolting for the door again.

You swallow and feel the ballast of everything press back down on your chest.

“I—” you start, timidly, using every last scrap of your bravery. You don’t meet his eyes, staring at the floor beside him. “I’ve seen them.” Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, small but a little bit more poised now, like glass that hasn’t shattered but still remembers the impact. “I've seen the news, and the headlines. All the stories about you.”

The words suspend themselves in the space between you.

Bucky takes a moment to answer. His gaze drifts downward, just briefly, as if the floor might offer him something easier to look at than the defenselessness sitting in your eyes. The vulnerable questions there. When he exhales it is long and tired, and it sounds like all the versions of himself he has spent years outrunning are catching up to him anyway.

“Yeah,” he mutters out breathily. But a little flat. There is no denial in it or some sort of excuse. He drags a hand across the back of his neck, his jaw flexing slightly before he speaks again. “I figured you probably had.” He takes a shivering breath, his whole chest lifting. “They’re not all lies.”

You hold your breath, but don’t step back, don’t let fear take its seat at the forefront of your mind again.

He lifts his eyes back to yours then, and the seriousness in them deepens, intensifying into something resolute.

“I’m not gonna stand here and tell you I’m a good man,” he says. The words come slowly, and his eyes are searching yours while he talks. He is placing them carefully like he’s building something honest out of wreckage. “I’m not.”

Your heart stumbles in your chest, but you still keep your feet grounded and meet his eyes.

“I’ve done things I’m not proud of. Things most people wouldn’t forgive if they knew the full story.” His voice lowers slightly. His eyes are full of sorrow. Despite the things he’s saying he unexpectedly doesn’t look threatening at all and it makes something startle abruptly in your chest. “And yeah, I’ll probably keep doing some of those things.” He doesn’t force anything into his tone that maybe should be there. He´s not saying those things with pride or arrogance or even threat. He has just accepted the callous contours that make his life the way it is. “But not for the reasons people think.”

His eyes soften then, slightly. And it makes you realize that they’ve actually been soft all along.

“I do what I do because there are people in this world who deserve protection. People who don’t have the power to protect themselves.” His gaze holds yours a little more firmly now. “And sometimes the only way to keep those people safe is to be the guy willing to do the ugly work.”

Your throat tightens.

“I’d do just about anything to protect you, Y/n. Even if it’s me you want protection from.”

The kitchen feels very still.

You don’t know what to say to that. You’re not even sure there is something to say. The statement isn’t a justification so much as a window, and looking through it leaves you with more thoughts to sort through and you’ve already gone through so many. But you hear him. You really do.

And he seems to notice that you’re listening now—maybe not agreeing, not forgiving, but truly listening, hearing him out—and some small measure of relief loosens the tension in his shoulders.

He doesn’t move a single muscle, standing before you like a brick wall, his legs pinned wide on the kitchen tiles, his frame perfectly still except for the anxious heave of his chest. His arms are hanging at his side, and shit, your gaze just has to focus on that bloody trail on his forearm. Because right, you’ve cut James Buchanan Barnes through his expensive suit enough to make him bleed. The redness runs from his wrist to his knuckles and you see some dots on the floor. The fabric of his suit is soaking it up, turning a dark wet black around the tear.

He still doesn’t glance down at it. He’s still so entirely anchored to your face, his broad shoulders squared as if he’s trying to shield you from the very room he owns. The survival instinct that had you clawing at the air drops away and now there is a sudden freezing emptiness in your head. And in that blank space, something takes place.

You look at the knife on the linoleum, then at the wet red tracking down his arm, and your stomach completely plummets through the ground. The panic you felt earlier didn’t protect you, it turned you clumsy and ignorant.

“Oh, no,” you choke out, gaze fixed on his arm, your words hacking up from your chest miserably. “Bucky, I— Your arm, I— I didn’t mean— This is my fault, I swear I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey,” he cuts in, his voice lowering into a rough, immediate hush that clips the words right out of your mouth. “Hey, no, sweetheart. No.” He steps back into your space and his huge palms come up, traveling slowly until they map themselves carefully across your jawline.

His fingers are trembling and the pressure is incredibly light. His skin is warm, smelling of that same familiar soap from upstairs, and his thumbs softly brush the wet tear tracks off your cheekbones, forcing you to look straight into his eyes. He doesn’t even spare a glance at his forearm.

“You don’t ever apologize to me for that,” he whispers hoarsely, his chest hitching against yours as he tries to get his breathing normal. There is so much regret in his voice, it is too much for your heart to handle. “You were scared out of your mind and I did that to you. That?” He tilts his arm toward you, indicating that he is talking about the cut. “That is nothing, sweetheart. Nothing.” The corner of his mouth lifts faintly, but the expression is gentler and definitely much more somber than humorous. “I’ve taken hits that should’ve put me in the ground, and none of them touched me.”

You shake your head in his palms. “But, I—”

“Doll,” he shushes, his arms keeping your chin locked, but not firm at all. His gaze is drilling into yours and it feels like he’s bleeding more from the inside and not the outside. “That little scratch hurts a hell of a lot less than watching you run from me.”

Your hands slowly stop trying to find leverage against his chest. The heat of his palms against your jaw feels like a grounding force, something so familiar but also completely new. It’s not entirely unpleasant in its newness.

You look up into his eyes, seeing the complete lack of the monster he just unleashed on his guards, and you can’t help but feel a little unmoored.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” you admit breathily, your voice cracking as your forehead drops forward to rest against his tie.

Bucky lets out a long, ragged exhale, his chin resting against the top of your head as his arms wrap around your shoulders, pulling you into a hold that feels firm but unforced.

“You don’t have to figure it out right now, darling,” he eases, his words spoken with a splintered scrape into your hair. “You don’t have to decide anything today, or tomorrow, or next week. Take all the time you need. Turn it over in your head. Think about everything you saw, everything I am. And whatever you choose to do—if you want to pack your bags, and disappear, if you never want to see my face again—I will let you go. I will make sure you are safe, and I will support whatever choice you make. I swear it.”

He pulls back just an inch, his thumbs gently guiding your face up again so he can look straight into your eyes. There is something desperately begging in his stare, but he keeps his posture completely still, refusing to pressure you.

“But please.“ His knuckles tremble slightly against your cheek. “Just stay the night. Don't run out now while this is all still so new. Stay until morning. As soon as the sun’s up, the car is yours,” he promises sorrowfully, his thumbs catching the last of the dampness on your cheek. “If you want to leave, you leave. You can walk out of here and never look back, and I won’t follow you. I won’t look for you. If that’s what it takes to make you feel safe, I’ll let you go.”

He stops, his jaw clamping tight for a second, a sharp, jumbled hitch in his ribs breaking his breathing.

“But god, I hope you don't,” he shoves the words past the tightness in his throat, his eyes wide and burning into yours so achingly. “I will spend every single day of my life doing whatever it takes to fix this. I’ll earn back an inch of your trust at a time. I’ll show you the rest of me—the real parts—if you just give me the chance to try. I want you to love me again. I want that more than anything.”

He hitches his weight just a fraction closer, his large hands still framing your jaw with agonizingly slow caution.

“But just stay this single night,” he pleads with a strain in his voice, his forehead dropping down to rest lightly against yours. “Just stay until morning. Let me get you out of this kitchen, and you can just sleep. That’s all. Just tonight.”

You stare at the dark red crusting on his wool cuff, then look into that heavy, broken-down look in his eyes. Trying to picture next week or even tomorrow feels like watching a knotted ball of wire and not finding out where to start untying it.

But right now, your muscles are just running on empty, completely flattened and powerless from feeling all that panic. You let out one long shudder of air, asking your awareness for any reasons why you should still try to get the hell away from this guy, and come up with nothing yet. It’s all too fresh to truly give this some thought and right now all you want to do is curl up in those silky sheets and sleep it all off.

You give him a small nod. “Okay. Okay, Bucky, I’ll stay the night.”

Bucky’s shoulders drop with a massive, rattling relief. He doesn't say anything else, he just tucks your head back under his chin, his big arms closing around you to carry your weight out of the quiet kitchen, leaving the knife and the blood behind on the floorboards.

You don’t know what comes when the sun is up. You don’t know what loving a man like him means. You don’t know if the life he lives can ever exist beside the life you thought you wanted.

You don’t know if trust can grow again from the cracked ground beneath your feet, and considering your decision making skills, you shouldn’t let your heart handle things anymore.

But, frighteningly and also not all that much surprisingly after all, when you imagine leaving now—truly leaving, turning your back on him and walking out of this mansion forever—the image doesn’t bring relief.

It brings something bleak.

Because for all the discoveries of tonight and all that fear, all that shock, and the trust that has been abruptly broken, there is a bullheaded part of you that understands something you can’t yet put into words for him to hear.

You could run from this house.

You could run from his name.

But you are not sure you could run from him.

“The truth is rarely pure and never simple”

- Oscar Wilde

A/n: Looking at the word count now, I honestly probably could’ve turned this into a mini series but because this whole thing is essentially one long scene, splitting it up even more just didn’t feel right to me. So I guess I just have to admit that this became an unexpectedly long two-parter lmao.

As always, I would absolutely love to hear your thoughts on this continuation, if it gave you hope, or even if you expected something different to happen. I always enjoy hearing your interpretations and feelings after reading ♡

I also wanted to gently address something else. I’ve received a few critical comments regarding certain reactions, choices, and dynamics in the story, and I truly hope this second part helped answer some questions or at least offered a little more perspective. If it didn’t, that’s completely okay too.

What I want you to know, I genuinely do appreciate helpful criticism, especially when it comes to my writing itself, because I’m always trying to improve and become better at what I do. Constructive feedback that gives me something to work with is always welcome and appreciated. But if something in the story simply wasn’t for you, or you personally disliked a choice I made, then sometimes it’s okay to just move on from it instead of tearing it apart. And if you do choose to criticize something, I just ask that you do it kindly. We’re still a community here, and there’s no reason to be harsh or blunt. Talk to me like a human being.

I put a lot of time, emotion, and effort into these stories, not to be told this makes no sense or this is weird without any real conversation behind it. Sometimes I don’t think through every single detail deeply because at the end of the day, this is still fiction born from messy little ideas in my head, written for comfort, entertainment, and emotion—not perfection!

Still, thank you to everyone who continues to boost me and my work and helped me stay motivated to finish this part ♡

And if you enjoyed my work, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi ♡

[brownininini]

Let me give you my love.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes × Female Reader.

Word count: +900 words.

Tags: MDNI! +18, sexual content (if you are underage, do not interact with this work or I will block you), established relationship, porn without plot, p in v, missionary position, pussy inspection, dirty talk, gentle Bucky, rough Bucky, unprotected sex, breeding kink, praise kink, Bucky aka big dick, Bucky calling you stupid once.

Notes: I didn’t know how to write a summary for this—it’s just porn... 😭

Masterlist.

"This pussy is so fucking beautiful."

You moaned softly as your legs spread even wider, feeling your boyfriend's fingers part your swollen, wet folds, only to watch as your entrance dripped with arousal and tightened around nothing.

Your hips jolted as his fingertips brushed against your clit and your hole.

"Please, please, Buck." You screamed desperately as your arm wrapped around his neck.

"Oh, baby..." he murmured adoringly upon hearing your plea.

He kissed you deeply, pushing his tongue between your lips and swallowing your moans, while his vibranium hand gripped the base of his cock to guide it toward your pussy.

He pressed the swollen head of his cock against your entrance, rubbing it up and down your slit to coat it with your lubrication and making you moan. Then, with a gentle thrust of his hips, he pushed forward.

The thick tip forced your tight entrance to stretch around it and let him in slowly as he listened to your muffled cry against his lips.

“Shhh, relax, baby. You’re doing so well, you’re taking me so well,” Bucky murmured against your lips.

His metal hand moved up to gently stroke your hair.

He paused when he felt your walls flutter around the head of his cock, and his hips almost jerked forward with pleasure, but he had to fight with all his might not to as he let out a low moan.

"I’m going to fill this tight little pussy so good, baby. I’m going to claim this pussy as mine." His voice trembled with the desperation to fuck you the way he wanted. "But I’ll only be able to do it if you let me give you my love."

You were frowning and squeezing your eyes shut tightly as your legs trembled at the sides of his hips, overwhelmed by those few inches that had entered you. And you managed to nod gently after a few seconds.

His lips were back on yours, kissing you slowly and devotedly to keep you distracted before he thrust forward.

He moaned as he felt your silky walls rippling around him while he slowly sank inch by inch into your heat.

His meaty hand gripped your hip, holding you steady as he pushed slowly and steadily all the way in.

Feeling your nails dig into his back and shoulders, he thrust the last of his cock in until his heavy balls rested against your ass.

“Damn, baby, you feel incredible.” He praised you in a tense voice.

He began to thrust in earnest then, sinking slowly into your depths, giving you time to adjust to his size with every thrust.

“So tight and hot around me. I knew this pussy would be perfect the moment I saw you.”

Her breathless, lust-filled voice filled the few empty spaces in your mind, which was overwhelmed by pleasure as you felt her tip constantly touching that sensitive spot inside you.

Bucky was driven wild by the way you moaned, utterly enchanted and breathless, by how you rolled your eyes back when his hips thrust harder than before, and by the sight of your pussy stretched as wide as it could go around him.

He couldn’t help it; his thrusts became frantic.

The sound of skin against skin echoed off the walls of the room, as did the creaking of the mattress. Every movement of his hips was sharper, more desperate now, chasing that red-hot edge.

You moaned loudly at the change in rhythm, and your back arched off the mattress, shamelessly showing him how your tits bounced with every impact.

"Bucky!..."

He leaned over you, kissing the side of your forehead and your cheekbone with a tenderness that stood in stark contrast to the way he was brutally fucking you, his hand gripping your hip tightly while the metal one kept your leg locked against his hip.

"Don't cry, love," he whispered against your cheek between gasps. "I'm just making love to you."

His voice came out broken and possessive as hell.

And then, the sweet Bucky cracked.

“Is this what you wanted when you begged, baby?” he gasped, watching your tits bounce with every movement of his hips. “Me fucking you until you’re stupid? Making you forget everything but this cock?”

Your walls contracted around him, enchanted by that desperate, rough side of his that came out whenever his climax was near.

You nodded, unable to speak properly because you couldn’t stop moaning and sobbing with pleasure.

“Please…” you moaned shakily, unable to finish the sentence as you felt that tingling sensation in your belly.

“I’ll give it to you,” he promised in a raspy voice.

Bucky knew what you meant. You didn’t need to finish the sentence for him to know you wanted to beg for his cum.

“Your pussy will be raw and stretched out by the time we’re done.”

Sweat dripped down his temple as the muscles in his back tensed under the sting of your nails.

Your body trembled beneath his with every thrust inside you, feeling him mercilessly pound that soft spot inside you to intensify the tingling in your belly.

Finally, you reached your orgasm.

Your nails dug mercilessly into his back, and you screamed his name as if it were a prayer while your pussy clamped down on him like a vice.

"Fuck!" His roar was raw, animalistic.

Bucky’s hips stuttered, thrusting into you one last time before his release tore through him violently.

Hot spurts flooded your tight pussy. His cock contracted deep inside you as he emptied every drop, claiming you, breeding you, just as you wanted.

"I want to keep loving you, baby. Let me keep loving you." He pleaded, once again becoming your sweet boyfriend.

[beckywritinglibrary]

Waiting for the right time...

avengers!bucky x avengers!freader

plot: it’s been long time since you became a team member and Bucky fall’s in love with you but never add the chance to confess it, until a Stark’s party night comes in the way

warning: SMUT and fluff , the smut part can be skipped, i’ll write it in another color (purple) there’s many things going on like cunnlingus , p n v, unprotected sex (don’t do that ;) ) and so on

word count: 10k

author’s note: well, this came in my mind this morning hope you enjoy, in some part it’s even hilarious :)

MDNI 18+

There’s a way Bucky Barnes looks at you—like he’s memorizing the shape of your smile, the cadence of your voice, the secrets you carry behind your eyes. It didn’t start out this way. Your story with Bucky began in darkness, in a Hydra compound where hope was just a rumor.

You’d been Hydra’s secret project, their weapon made of silk and steel. They called you their “honeytrap,” trained to seduce, disarm, and extract secrets from powerful men. Every lesson was another layer of armor—how to turn a glance into a promise, a laugh into a lure. You learned to play the part, but inside you built walls, keeping yourself safe with every lie you told.

The cell was cold—always cold—and you’d lost track of time inside its concrete walls. You were curled on the narrow cot, wrists raw from the metal cuffs, when the alarm klaxons began to blare. Red lights flashed overhead, and you pressed yourself against the wall, uncertain if this was another Hydra test or the end of everything.

Sudden gunfire rattled down the corridor. Shouts—Hydra agents barking orders, then the low, deadly command of someone else. The door shuddered under a heavy blow, then exploded inward in a shower of sparks and metal. Smoke billowed, stinging your eyes. You coughed, heart hammering, as a figure stepped through the haze.

He moved with terrifying efficiency: dark hair pulled back, jaw set, steel arm gleaming in the emergency lights. You recognized him from whispered rumors—a ghost story Hydra agents told each other at night. The Winter Soldier. But when his eyes met yours, they were startlingly gentle.

You flinched as he knelt in front of you, scanning the bruises on your wrist. “Easy,” he said, voice low and rough, but meant to reassure. “I’m here to help.”

You stared at him, breath trembling. “Another one of their games?” you whispered, voice hoarse. “Or are you real?”

He offered a small, crooked smile—just for you. “I’m real. Name’s Bucky. Let’s get you out of here.”

He pulled a small device from his belt and, with practiced precision, disabled your cuffs. The metal fell away, and you flexed your aching hands, staring at the grooves left in your skin.

“Can you stand?” he asked, concern flickering in his eyes. When you hesitated, he offered his flesh-and-blood hand. You took it, surprised by how warm and solid he felt.

He steadied you gently, letting you lean on him as you found your balance. “You’re with the Avengers?” you asked, voice still uncertain.

“Yeah. Steve’s down the hall causing a distraction,” Bucky said, lips quirking. “We’re getting everyone out. Including you.”

A fresh burst of gunfire echoed from the hallway. Bucky’s body tensed, and he pressed you behind him, pulling a sidearm with his free hand. “Stay close. Do exactly what I say.” His tone brooked no argument, but you could sense the protectiveness in every word. You nodded.

Navigating the chaos, Bucky kept himself between you and danger, his metal arm deflecting a stray bullet, his aim swift and deadly. When Hydra reinforcements appeared, he didn’t hesitate, dispatching them with brutal efficiency—then turning back to check if you were okay.

At one point you stumbled, nerves and exhaustion making your knees buckle. He caught you, steadying you with both hands. “You okay?” You nodded, swallowing hard. “I haven’t walked in days.” “We’ll go slow. I promise you’re safe.”

He led you through the labyrinth of corridors, barking into his comm, “Asset secured. Heading for extraction.” Steve’s voice crackled back, “Copy that. North stairwell’s clear—move!”

As you neared the exit, another Hydra agent lunged at you. You froze, but Bucky reacted instantly, slamming the man into the wall with his metal arm. He looked back, making sure you were unharmed. “Nobody’s going to hurt you again,” he said, voice fierce.

Finally, you burst out into the night air, the quinjet’s engines roaring in the distance. Bucky shielded you as you sprinted across the tarmac, his hand never leaving yours. Once you were inside, he wrapped a blanket around your shoulders, his gaze softening. “You’re safe now,” he said again, quieter this time, as if promising it to himself as much as to you.

For the first time in ages, you let yourself believe it.

Recovery at the Avengers Compound was a blur of medical tests, sleepless nights, and cautious introductions. The team welcomed you, but it was Bucky who made you feel seen. He was there from the start—watching over you with that quiet, steady presence, never pushing, never prying. He understood what it was to wake gasping from nightmares, to flinch at sudden sounds, to squint against the sunlight after too long in the dark.

Bucky made the transition bearable. He’d find you in the kitchen at three in the morning, both of you haunted by sleep, and wordlessly pour you a cup of tea. Sometimes you’d sit in silence, the comfort of shared solitude enough. Other nights, you’d talk in hushed voices: about Hydra, about the way the past clung to your bones, about the strange hope of starting over. He never judged—he just listened, offering his own stories when the words came easier.

In the gym, he became your sparring partner. You started with slow, careful drills, relearning how to trust your body and your instincts. Bucky was patient, always adapting his pace to yours, pushing you just enough to help you find your strength again. “You’re tougher than you think,” he’d say, a rare smile tugging at his lips when you landed a hit. Sometimes you’d find yourselves laughing, breathless, sweat-damp and smiling in a way that felt new and clean.

Your friendship deepened in the quiet, everyday moments: the way he’d bring you a blanket on movie nights, sitting beside you on the couch so your knees brushed. The way he’d wait for you after briefings, walking with you down long hallways, protective but never possessive. He learned how you took your coffee, how you hated thunderstorms, how you always hummed when you were nervous. You learned that he liked jazz, that he was hopeless at video games, that he still carried guilt heavier than his metal arm.

Bucky became the one you trusted most, the person you could go to on good days and bad. With him, you never had to pretend. He let you see his scars, and you let him see yours. And in between the jokes and late-night talks, in every brush of fingers and lingering glance, something unspoken started to bloom.

Sometimes you wondered if he felt it too—the possibility that friendship could be a beginning, not an end.

_______________________________________________

For Bucky Barnes, trust was a fragile thing. After decades of being used and discarded, he never expected to find comfort in another person, let alone someone who understood the shadows in his mind. But after your rescue from Hydra, you became that rare light in the dark—a friend who never flinched from his past or his silences. You let him in, and bit by bit, he found himself wanting to let you in too.

He would never forget the first nights at the compound: the way you’d sit together in the kitchen, sharing tea when sleep wouldn’t come. You’d talk quietly, sometimes about nothing, sometimes about everything. Bucky noticed how your voice softened when you spoke to him, how you’d nudge his arm to make him smile. He couldn’t help but memorize the way you looked in those moments—hair mussed, eyes tired but bright, your trust in him quietly evident.

It started as gratitude, then as fierce protectiveness. But soon it was something else—something that made his pulse stutter when you laughed at his jokes or when you brushed against him during sparring. He found himself lingering in doorways, just to watch you read or listen to music. Sometimes, he’d catch himself staring, heart in his throat, and force his gaze away before you noticed.

One night, after a long mission, Bucky found Steve alone in the gym, the clang of metal and the distant hum of the city their only company. He hesitated by the door, nerves prickling at his skin. “Hey, Steve, got a minute?”

Steve tossed his towel aside, instantly attentive. He studied Bucky the way only an old friend could—reading the tension in his shoulders, the uncertainty in his eyes. “Of course. You alright?”

Bucky crossed his arms, metal fingers tapping restlessly. “I… I need to talk. Not about the mission.”

Steve nodded, patient. “I’m listening.”

A long moment passed before Bucky spoke, voice low and raw. “I think I’m in love with someone.”

Steve’s expression softened, but he didn’t smile. Instead, he waited, letting Bucky find his words. “You think, or you know?”

Bucky let out a breath, almost a laugh but not quite. “I know. Been knowin’ for a while. I just… didn’t know what to do with it. Was scared, I guess.”

Steve set his water bottle aside, moving to sit on the bench beside Bucky. “Who is it?”

Bucky hesitated, eyes fixed on the floor. “Does it matter?”

Steve’s voice was gentle, steady as bedrock. “It matters if it matters to you.”

Bucky swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s Y/N.”

There was a flicker of surprise in Steve’s eyes, but it melted into something warm, almost proud. He reached out, resting a reassuring hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “You’ve always cared about them. I see the way you look at Y/N. The way you talk about them, even when you try not to.”

Bucky’s defenses cracked, fear and hope mingling in his chest. “What if I mess it up, Steve? What if I say the wrong thing, or… what if they don’t feel the same?”

Steve shook his head, kind but unwavering. “Buck, you’ve survived worse than a little heartache. You owe it to yourself to be honest. Y/N deserves to know how you feel. And you deserve a shot at happiness.”

Bucky studied Steve, searching for any hint of doubt. “You really think so?”

Steve’s answer came without hesitation. “I know so. You’re not alone in this, Bucky. You never have been. Whatever happens, I’m here.”

Bucky looked away, but this time there was the faintest smile on his lips—a fragile hope taking root.

A few days later, Bucky found Sam alone in the hangar, elbow-deep in Redwing’s guts. Bucky hovered, shifting his weight like he was waiting for a bus rather than a pep talk.

Sam didn’t even look up. “Barnes, unless you’re here to confess a deep love for my drone, you gotta use your words.”

Bucky snorted. “You wish, Wilson. Nah, I, uh… got a situation. Thought you might have some advice.”

Sam finally glanced over, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Don’t tell me. Is this about the mystery heartthrob you’ve been mooning over? Steve told me you’ve been sighing at the windows like an old dog in the rain.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I do not sigh.”

“Whatever you say, Romeo. Who’s the unlucky soul?”

Bucky hesitated, then mumbled, “It’s Y/N.”

Sam dropped his wrench, eyes wide. “You’re kidding. That took you, what, a decade to figure out? I had money on you realizing before the millennium was out.”

Bucky groaned. “You all need new hobbies.”

“Hey, at least you finally caught up with the rest of us. Next you’ll tell me you just discovered indoor plumbing.”

Bucky shot him a look, but there was a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “You done?”

“Not even close. But I’ll spare you—on one condition: you actually tell Y/N. No weird coded messages, no tragic stares across the training mat.”

Bucky scratched the back of his neck. “So I just… say it?”

Sam shrugged. “Worked for me. Well, mostly. You want a script, or you wanna keep making puppy eyes until Y/N has to propose to you?”

Bucky huffed. “You’re a menace.”

“Yeah, but I’m the menace with the best advice on the team. Tell ‘em, Barnes. Worst case, you get shot down and we all get to make fun of you for eternity. Best case? You get the happy ending. Either way, I win.”

Bucky shook his head, but the laughter in his eyes said it all. “Thanks, Wilson. Knew I could count on you for emotional support.”

Sam winked. “That’s what friends are for, Barnes. Now get outta here before I make you clean Redwing’s rotors.”

Bucky left the hangar with Sam’s laughter chasing him down the hall—and with a little more courage in his step.

_______________________________________________

Bucky didn’t think he’d ever been this nervous around anyone—not even when he was a kid, not even on missions that could end in life or death. Every time he looked at you, every time you laughed at one of his dry jokes or leaned into him on the couch, the urge to tell you how he felt grew stronger, almost painful. He saw the way you looked back at him sometimes, eyes lingering, as if you were waiting for something too.

He tried to confess one rainy Friday night. The compound was quiet, rain streaking the windows, thunder rumbling in the distance. You were both on the couch—legs tangled under a blanket, a bowl of popcorn between you, the low glow of the TV painting your faces in shifting color. Bucky could feel the warmth of your body pressed against his side, hear the soft hitch of your breath when he shifted a little closer. He took a deep breath, reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, and whispered, “Y/N, I need to tell you something—” But before he could finish, F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice sliced through the intimacy: “Avengers, debriefing in Conference Room B in five minutes.” You startled, blinking up at him, then gave a sheepish smile. “Duty calls,” you said, giving his arm a soft squeeze before untangling yourself and heading down the hall. Bucky sat there, heart pounding, the words dying on his tongue.

A few days later, he tried again. The two of you were on the compound’s rooftop, the city glittering far below. A cool breeze ruffled your hair as you leaned against the railing, looking out over the lights. Bucky stood close, hands jammed in his jacket pockets, rehearsing what he’d say. Just tell her. Don’t be a coward. “Y/N,” he began, his voice rough with nerves, “there’s something I—” The rooftop door banged open, making you both jump. Sam poked his head out, pizza box in hand. “You two lovebirds gonna join us or what? Or are you planning on making me eat all this by myself?” You laughed, cheeks pink, and shot Bucky an apologetic look before hurrying after Sam. Bucky followed, jaw clenched in frustration, the confession lost once again.

The third time, he’d been sure he wouldn’t let anything get in the way. After a brutal training session, you both collapsed on the mats, sweat cooling on your skin, breathing hard but grinning. Bucky watched you, your eyes bright with adrenaline, and felt the truth burning inside him. He sat up, reaching for your hand. “Y/N, I—” Steve’s voice echoed from the doorway, cutting him off. “Sorry to interrupt, but Tony wants us in the lab. Something about malfunctioning tech.” You groaned, rolling your eyes. “We can never catch a break, can we?” Bucky forced a smile, watching you disappear down the hall, the ache in his chest growing sharper every time the moment slipped away.

Each failed attempt left Bucky more frustrated, more restless. He’d lie awake at night, turning the words over in his mind, wondering if he was cursed or just too slow to seize the chance. Sometimes, he’d catch you looking at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention, a question in your gaze that made him want to run after you, take your face in his hands, and finally say everything.

Bucky’s frustration simmered for days. One evening, after a tough mission that left everyone battered and depleted, he found you in the kitchen, making late-night pancakes. The compound was quiet, the air thick with the scent of butter and sugar. You looked up, tired but smiling, hair falling in soft waves around your face.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked, offering him a plate.

He took it, his fingers brushing yours. “Not really. Mind if I sit?” “Always,” you said, patting the stool beside you.

He ate slowly, watching your profile in the dim light. This was it—no interruptions, no teammates barging in. Just you and him, close enough to hear each other breathe. He put his fork down, heart thumping. “Y/N, there’s something I—” But before he could say more, the fire alarm shrieked. Smoke began to seep from the oven, and F.R.I.D.A.Y. announced, “Kitchen fire detected. Evacuate immediately.” You cursed, scrambling to open the oven and wave away the smoke, while Bucky stomped out the small flames. By the time the alarm stopped, your pancakes were ruined, and so was the moment.

Later, as dawn was breaking, Bucky trudged down the hallway, shoulders slumped in defeat. He found Steve and Sam sitting in the lounge, mugs of coffee in hand. They glanced up as he entered, sharing a look.

Steve spoke first. “Everything okay, Buck? You look like you lost a fight with a toaster.”

Sam grinned. “Or like you haven’t slept in a week. What’s going on with you and Y/N? You two fighting?”

Bucky shook his head, rubbing his eyes. “We’re not fighting. I just… I can’t do this. I’ve tried to tell her how I feel, but every damn time something happens. It’s like the universe is against me.” His words came out sharper than he meant, exasperation clear in his voice. “I’ve never even had a chance. It’s always an alarm, a mission, someone walking in…”

Sam raised his eyebrows, then exchanged a knowing glance with Steve. “Well, lucky for you, tonight’s Tony’s party,” Sam said, a sly grin spreading across his face. Steve nodded in agreement. “Big crowd, good music, everyone dressed up. You’ll have the perfect excuse to steal her away for a private moment.”

Sam elbowed Bucky, eyes sparkling with mischief. “But you can’t show up in your usual brooding-black getup. You gotta dress sharp, Barnes—make her look at you like you’re the only guy in the room. Hell, maybe try looking a little sexy for once.”

Bucky groaned, but Steve just chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. “You can do this, Buck. Just talk to her tonight. Don’t let anything—or anyone—get in your way.”

Sam added, “And if you chicken out, I’m telling Nat to set you up with karaoke duty. Shirtless. Your choice, barnacle.”

Despite himself, Bucky cracked a reluctant smile. Their teasing eased some of the pressure in his chest. Maybe tonight, with a little luck and the right moment, he’d finally say what he’d been carrying for so long.

_______________________________________________

Bucky stood in front of his closet, heart drumming in his chest as he eyed the outfit Nat had insisted he buy for occasions like this. It wasn’t the classic navy suit he’d expected—Natasha had steered him toward something bolder, something that made him look, in her words, “like a goddamn movie star instead of a secret agent.” He reached for the hanger and drew out a sharp, charcoal three-piece suit with a subtle black-on-black floral pattern woven into the fabric. The vest hugged his torso, and the jacket’s cut was slim, accentuating his broad shoulders and trim waist. A burgundy pocket square—Nat’s idea—added a daring pop of color. The shirt beneath was a deep, midnight gray, open at the throat just enough to look relaxed, not stuffy.

He set the ensemble on the bed and took a steadying breath. His palms felt clammy, which was ridiculous—he’d stared down Hydra hit squads with less anxiety. But this was different. Tonight, you’d see him not as the soldier or the weapon, but as the man who’d fallen for you, heart and soul.

He showered, letting the hot water loosen the tension in his muscles. After, he stood at the mirror, carefully combing his hair back—not too sleek, leaving a few soft waves to frame his face the way you once said you liked. He dabbed on a hint of cologne Sam had thrust into his hand with a wink—something warm and woodsy, just enough to linger if you leaned close.

He shaved, leaving just a hint of stubble along his jaw, remembering how you’d once teased him about looking “dangerously handsome” when he let it grow. Pulling on the crisp shirt, he buttoned it slowly, fingers trembling, then slid into the vest and jacket. The fabric felt luxurious and heavy, utterly unlike his tactical gear. He checked his reflection—shoulders broad, tie knotted perfectly, vest hugging his waist. He looked…almost like he belonged in this world, in this golden, glittering evening.

Natasha slipped in, heels clicking softly on the hardwood. She paused, arms crossed, eyes sweeping over him with an approving smirk. “Now that’s what I’m talking about, Barnes. You’re going to break hearts out there. Especially one in particular.”

Bucky’s cheeks went a little red, but he managed a crooked smile. “You sure it’s not too much?”

Natasha shook her head, straightening his lapels and tucking the pocket square just so. “Trust me, it’s perfect. You look like you could walk straight off a magazine cover. Y/N won’t know what hit her.”

He let out a shaky breath, flexing his metal hand before slipping on a sleek pair of black dress gloves—partly for style, partly for comfort. He grabbed his watch, a vintage piece Steve had given him, and buckled it onto his wrist. One last look in the mirror: the suit fit him like armor, but tonight he felt exposed, vulnerable, hopeful.

Sam appeared in the doorway, letting out a low whistle. “Damn, Barnes. Didn’t know you had it in you. Seriously, if Y/N doesn’t fall for you tonight, I’ll eat my own tie.”

Bucky rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a nervous grin. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Wilson.”

Sam grinned. “Just go get her, man. You look like a million bucks.”

_______________________________________________

Bucky paused at the top of the sweeping staircase, gripping the polished wooden banister, the din of Tony’s gala swelling below him. The chandeliers cast a golden glow over the crowd, scattering diamonds of light across marble floors and swirling dresses. But for Bucky, the world narrowed to a single point—the sight of you.

You stood at the marble-topped bar, golden silk clinging to your body like molten sunlight. The gown was backless, the fabric pooling at the small of your spine before skimming over your hips in a perfect, liquid drape. The low dip revealed a secret: a delicate chain pendant, glinting as it brushed the hollow just above your tailbone, and beneath it, ink curled and playful—a tramp stamp he’d never seen before. For a heartbeat, he was mesmerized by that little tattoo, wondering about the wild story behind it, the choices you’d made when you were younger and reckless, and how you’d kept that part of yourself hidden until now.

His gaze roamed upward again, drinking in the length of your bare back, the gentle shadows playing over your skin, the way the pendant traced your spine with each breath. The dress’s delicate straps rested just at your shoulders, leaving the rest of you gloriously exposed, every movement making the silk shimmer and shift. He realized, with a heated flush, that you wore nothing beneath it—no bra to interrupt the clean lines, no barrier between you and the cool caress of the fabric. When you shifted, the silk clung and slipped, hinting at curves and softness that made his pulse stutter.

Your legs were long and elegant, accentuated by open-toed gold heels that flashed with each step. The heel made you stand taller, your posture regal and impossibly graceful. Every so often, as you turned and laughed, the dress parted just enough to reveal the smooth lines of your thighs and the strength in your calves.

Your makeup was subtle, expertly done—a whisper of shimmer at your cheekbones, a touch of gold at your eyelids, lashes dark and feathery. Your lips were softly tinted, a shade that made them look impossibly kissable. It wasn’t heavy or theatrical; it was just enough to make you radiant, to draw every eye in the room, and to make Bucky’s heart twist with longing. You looked like yourself—just more luminous, more untouchable and dazzling than he’d ever seen you.

He watched as you smiled at Clint, your eyes sparkling, your laugh ringing clear as crystal. You seemed so free, so alive under the golden lights. For a moment, Bucky was struck by the contrast to the you he’d first known: wary, guarded, hiding pieces of yourself in the shadows. Now, you stood in the center of everything, unafraid and utterly yourself, your secret tattoo and bare skin on proud display.

Bucky swallowed, suddenly aware of the heat in his cheeks, the tightness in his chest. He’d seen you in every state—battle-worn, sleep-mussed, bundled in pajamas—but nothing compared to this vision. You were bold and breathtaking, and the trust it must have taken to show this part of yourself made him ache with something fierce and protective. He wanted to be the man worthy of seeing you like this. He wanted to be the man who could step into that golden circle and claim you with a touch, a word, a look.

He straightened his jacket, feeling the fine fabric slide against his shirt, grounding himself in the moment. This was it. No more waiting, no more missed chances. He took a steadying breath, eyes locked on you as he descended the stairs, his nerves fizzing, his heart pounding with hope and anticipation.

With every step, he felt the distance shrink. The crowd faded into a blur of color and sound. All he could see was you, golden and glowing, waiting—whether you knew it or not—for him.

Bucky’s world had narrowed down to a golden thread connecting the two of you. Each step down the staircase felt charged, his heartbeat thudding in his ears, the soft lighting casting fleeting shadows across his suit as he made his way through the crowd. He tried to focus on his breathing, on the smooth slide of his dress shoes over marble, but his eyes never left you.

He watched as your fingers toyed idly with the stem of your champagne flute, the gold chain pendant at your back catching the light every time you moved. You looked over your shoulder, your hair shifting like silk across your skin, and for a second your gaze met his. Your eyes widened ever so slightly—just a flicker of surprise and something warmer beneath it. The corner of your mouth curled, inviting and secret, and Bucky felt a rush of adrenaline, a jolt of courage.

He slipped through clusters of party guests, barely noticing the greetings and half-hearted toasts sent his way. He caught Tony’s approving nod from across the room, Nat’s subtle thumbs-up, and Sam’s not-so-subtle wolf whistle, but none of it touched him. His focus was a laser: you, golden and radiant, more beautiful than any dream.

As he drew closer, he let himself memorize every detail—the way your dress shimmered with every breath, the curve of your neck, the laugh lines at the corner of your eyes. He wanted to remember this moment, to burn it into memory: you, open and shining, the secret tattoo exposed for the first time, a flash of rebellion and vulnerability that made his chest ache.

He reached you at last. For a heartbeat, he simply stood there, drinking you in, feeling awkward and awestruck and utterly unworthy. You turned to face him fully, your lips parted in a soft, genuine smile, and the faintest hint of nerves flickered in your eyes.

Bucky cleared his throat, voice rougher than he meant. “You… you look incredible tonight.” His gaze drifted, unable to help himself, over the golden silk, the pendant, the tattoo he couldn’t stop glancing at. “Didn’t know you had that,” he murmured, a hint of playful awe in his tone as he nodded toward the ink at the base of your spine.

You grinned, a glimmer of mischief in your eyes. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Barnes.”

He chuckled softly, emboldened by your ease, and slid a little closer, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “Maybe you could show me. Tell me all your secrets.” His fingers hovered, careful and reverent, near your bare back—close enough to feel the heat of your skin, not quite daring to touch.

Bucky barely noticed the clink of glasses and the swirl of music around you as he stood at your side, heart in his throat, your perfume curling softly between you. The words hovered on his lips, the world shrinking to the soft warmth of your gaze and the pulse of hope in his chest. “Y/N, there’s something I—”

“Lady Y/N!” Thor’s voice boomed like thunder, breaking through the fragile moment. Bucky’s heart sank as the Asgardian strode over, all broad smiles and easy confidence. Thor bowed extravagantly, extending a hand toward you. “Will you honor me with this dance?”

You looked at Bucky, an apology and a question in your eyes. Is it okay? For a split second, he wanted to beg you to stay, to just give him another minute—but he managed a tight smile and nodded, jaw clenched. “Go ahead,” he said, voice rough but steady.

Thor clapped him on the back with enough force to nearly knock him off-balance. “Fear not, Barnes! I shall bring her back to you, safe and sound, after the music.” With a wink, Thor swept you away, your golden dress swirling around your ankles as you disappeared into the crush of dancers.

Bucky felt the sting of frustration as Thor swept you away, and before he could stop himself, he turned toward the bar and ordered a double whiskey. The glass was cool and heavy in his hand, the amber liquid burning a path down his throat with every slow sip. He leaned against the polished wood, eyes never leaving the dance floor.

You and Thor spun through the golden light, the Asgardian’s hand splayed wide on your bare back, your laughter bright and unguarded. Bucky’s grip tightened on his glass. Every time you twirled, the silk gold dress rippled and clung, exposing the elegant arch of your spine, the mischievous tattoo, the chain pendant that swayed and glimmered with each step. The way the dress molded to your body, the way you moved—confident, radiant, and completely free—made his mouth go dry.

A pulse of heat flared low in Bucky’s gut, a sharp, almost possessive hunger. God, you were stunning. The sight of your bare skin, the sway of your hips, the way you laughed with abandon—he felt something hungry and primal coil inside him. He wanted to touch you, to press his hand to the small of your back, to feel your warmth beneath his palm. He wanted you in a way that was no longer just emotional, but physical and raw.

He took another swallow of whiskey, letting the warmth settle his nerves, but it didn’t help. If anything, the ache grew stronger every time Thor’s hand lingered at your waist, every time you flashed that secret smile. Bucky’s mind spun with images: your golden skin beneath his hands, your breath hitching as he traced the chain down your spine, your lips parting for him alone. He muttered under his breath, eyes locked on the sight of you, “You’re trying to kill me, doll. No way you don’t know what you’re doing to me in that dress.”

Bucky set his whiskey glass down, the burn barely numbing the ache in his chest. Bucky’s pulse thundered in his ears as the song faded and the crowd on the dance floor shifted, swallowing you whole. He cut through the press of bodies, scanning for a flash of gold, a shimmer of silk, the delicate chain at your back. A swirl of perfume and champagne made the air thick; conversations buzzed, laughter and music weaving together in a bright, dizzying blur. But all Bucky could think was, Where did she go?

He slipped between couples lost in slow dances and clusters of agents trading mission stories. Someone bumped his shoulder—“Excuse me, Barnes!”—and he managed a brusque nod, not even registering who had spoken. He checked the edge of the dance floor where the light faded into shadow, but found only partygoers in deep conversation, hands tucked around crystal flutes.

He made a quick circuit of the main hall, searching for your familiar silhouette or a glint of that gold dress. For a moment, he caught sight of a woman in something similar—heart hammering, hope flaring—only to realize she was a stranger, her hair too dark, her laugh too sharp. Frustration gnawed at him.

He ducked into a side corridor, just in case you’d slipped away for air. The hallway was empty except for a couple whispering in the shadows, oblivious to his presence. He poked his head into the coatroom. Nothing. He tried the balcony, hoping you’d stepped outside for a moment’s quiet, but the night air held only the distant thrum of city traffic and the faint glow of New York’s skyline.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. He retraced his steps, eyes sweeping the far corners of the ballroom, the lounge alcoves, the tables laden with desserts and crystal. Every conversation sounded too loud, every laugh a little too sharp. He caught Pepper’s eye as she glided past, her dress shimmering silver. “Bucky! Looking for someone?”

He tried to sound casual. “Yeah. Y/N. Have you seen her?”

Pepper shook her head, sympathy in her eyes. “Not since she was dancing. Try the bar?”

He nodded, thanking her absently, and pushed through the crowd toward the marble-topped bar. The bartender polished glasses beneath the lights, but a quick scan of the stools revealed only unfamiliar faces and a pair of agents locked in a quiet debate.

A flicker of panic edged into Bucky’s chest. He doubled back, searching the lounge area—velvet armchairs crowded with partygoers, Natasha and Wanda deep in conversation over half-finished cocktails. “You seen Y/N?” he asked, voice tight.

Natasha’s eyes sparkled knowingly. “Not since you two got interrupted. You lose her already?”

He shook his head, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “She disappeared. I don’t—” He broke off, scanning the crowd again.

“Try the team table,” Wanda offered gently.

He found Steve, Clint, and Sam at a small table in the shadow of a giant floral centerpiece. Steve looked up, concern in his eyes. “Everything alright, Buck?”

Bucky exhaled, trying to quell his impatience. “I can’t find her. I checked everywhere—dance floor, balcony, bar. She’s just… gone.”

Clint, who’d been idly scanning the room, suddenly straightened. “Uh, Barnes. Over there.” He pointed discreetly with his glass.

Following his gaze, Bucky’s eyes landed on you at the far end of the lounge bar. The relief was immediate and dizzying—until he saw who was with you.

You sat perched on a high stool, golden dress gleaming beneath the low lights, your legs crossed elegantly, the chain at your back glinting with every movement. The young SHIELD agent beside you leaned in, his smile a little too bright, his body language confident and undeniably flirty. He said something that made you laugh—Bucky heard the sound even over the music, soft and genuine. The agent’s hand rested on the bar, just inches from yours, inching closer with every word.

A sharp, possessive ache shot through Bucky, mingling with relief and frustration and something hot and urgent low in his gut. He watched the agent scan your bare back, the tattoo and the chain, and that familiar spark of hunger roared back to life, sharper and more insistent than before.

Sam nudged him, voice low and teasing. “What are you waiting for, Barnes? Go get your girl.”

But Bucky barely heard him. He squared his shoulders, set his jaw, and strode toward you—every step fueled by longing, jealousy, and the certainty that he couldn’t let you slip away again, not tonight.

Bucky weaved his way through the throng, every sense sharpened, the party blurring at the edges of his vision as his focus zeroed in on you. The closer he got, the more he noticed: the way your lips curved as you listened to the SHIELD agent, the way your bare shoulders caught the golden light, the pendant swaying gently with each shift of your posture. The agent laughed at something you said, leaning in a fraction too close, his gaze slipping down your back—lingering on skin Bucky suddenly felt intensely protective of.

His pulse thudded in his ears. He could feel the heat in his cheeks, the possessive ache tightening in his chest, the lingering buzz of whiskey threading through his veins. He knew he shouldn’t be jealous, but he couldn’t help it—everything about you tonight made him want to claim you, to be the one who made you smile, who drew you close, who stood at your side for everyone to see.

The agent’s hand slid ever so slightly closer to yours on the bar, his body language bold, confident. “So, you ever think of letting me take you out for a drink somewhere quieter, Agent Y/N?” the agent asked, his voice low and smooth.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. That’s enough.

He stepped between you and the agent, eyes flashing. “That’s enough. I need to talk to you. Now.”

The agent started to protest, but Bucky had already curled his metal hand gently but firmly around your arm. “Excuse us,” he said, not bothering to mask the possessive edge in his voice.

“Bucky—what the hell?!” you snapped, startled and indignant as he steered you away from the bar. The agent stared after you, blinking in surprise, but Bucky didn’t look back.

_______________________________________________

Bucky’s grip loosened only when you reached the quiet stretch of hallway where the team’s rooms lined the walls like sentinels: your door, his door, the familiar safety of home now humming with tension. You spun out of his grasp, fury burning in your eyes, your voice slicing the hush.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Barnes?” You barely kept your voice down, but anger made it tremble. “You can’t just storm in, drag me away like some jealous caveman, and expect me to be okay with it! You embarrassed me in front of half the party!”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, hands flexing at his sides. “I know I did. I know, okay? But you—god, Y/N, you were sitting there with that guy and he was all over you, and I—”

You cut him off, stepping closer, voice rising. “So what? I was having a drink and a conversation! You don’t get to decide who I talk to. You aren’t my keeper, Bucky—last I checked, I don’t belong to you!”

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to steady himself. “I’m not your keeper. I’ve never wanted to be. But I can’t just stand by and watch some guy put his hands all over you—look at you like you’re a prize to win for the night. You’re more than that. You’re… you’re everything.”

You shook your head, emotion tightening your throat. “Then why didn’t you ever say anything before? Why did you just let me think we were just friends, if you felt this way? You don’t get to spring this on me just because you got jealous!”

His voice softened, breaking. “You think I wanted it to go like this? I tried, Y/N. God, I tried. Every time I built up the courage, something happened—someone interrupted, we got called to a mission, you got pulled away. I’ve been carrying this around for months. Do you have any idea what it’s like to love someone and never be able to say it?”

You stared at him, anger still simmering but your eyes shining now with unshed tears. “You don’t get to make me feel guilty for talking to someone else. For moving on when you never gave me a chance to know how you felt. I’m not a mind reader, Bucky.”

He stepped closer, voice rough and urgent. “I know. I know, and I’m sorry. I just… when I saw him, when I saw his hand on you, I lost it. I couldn’t help it. The thought of someone else touching you, making you laugh, seeing that tattoo on your back, that dress—god, Y/N, you don’t know what you do to me.”

You wiped at your cheek, blinking hard. “You can’t just claim me, Bucky. You can’t drag me out here and expect me to fall into your arms because you finally decided you want me.”

He shook his head, desperate now. “It’s not about claiming you. It’s about not wanting to lose you. I never let myself hope you’d want me back. But I do want you. All of you. And I’m sorry it took me getting jealous and making a fool of myself to finally say it.”

You stared at him, breathing hard, torn between anger and longing and the painful relief of finally hearing the truth. “So what now? You finally say it. What do you want from me, Bucky?”

Bucky’s confession landed heavy in the narrow, golden-lit hallway, the words trembling in the hush: “I want you. Every day, in every way. I want all of you—the good, the bad, the stubborn, the brilliant. I want to be the reason you laugh, the person you come home to, the one who gets to love you the way you deserve. I want to be yours, Y/N.”

Your eyes searched his, wide and searching, lips parted, breath unsteady. The silence yawned between you—thick, electric, unbearable. Bucky’s heart pounded in his chest, each second your silence stretched making hope shrivel and dread bloom. He tried to read you, but you were frozen, unreadable, and suddenly every insecurity he’d ever known flooded to the surface.

His voice, when it finally broke the silence, was raw and small. “Guess I read it wrong, huh?” He let out a bitter, choked laugh, looking away, blinking hard. “Stupid,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “I’m the only one who caught feelings. Should’ve known I’d ruin it. I should just—just let you go, let you get back to… whatever the hell that agent’s name was.”

He started to turn away, shame burning in his chest, the image of you slipping through his fingers sharper than any wound he’d ever taken in battle.

But you moved with a speed and certainty that stunned him. Your hands shot out, grabbing his face—one soft hand cupping his jaw, the other tangling hard in his hair. You yanked him back, breath trembling, and for a moment your eyes blazed with everything you’d been holding back.

Then your lips crashed into his—hard, desperate, hungry. The kiss stole the air from both your lungs. You pressed him against the door, your body molded to his, pouring every ounce of longing, frustration, and love into the feverish press of your mouth. Your fingers scraped against his scalp, nails digging in as you took control, as if determined to erase every ounce of doubt he’d ever carried.

Bucky froze for a heartbeat, shock and hope colliding—then he melted into you, hands flying to your waist. One hand splayed wide at the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, the other threading into your hair, holding you in place as your mouths collided again and again—rough, searching, desperate. You tasted like champagne and adrenaline, and your whimper vibrated against his lips, making his body burn with need.

You broke away just far enough to pant, voice husky and fierce, “You’re such an idiot, Barnes. You’re the only one I want. Only you. It’s always been you.”

Relief and hunger warred in his eyes as he pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard. “Say it again,” he demanded, barely more than a whisper, hands trembling where they gripped your hips.

You kissed him again—slower, deeper—then murmured against his lips, “Only you, Bucky. Always.”

With a shuddering groan, he lifted you, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, the door at your back. His hands roamed the bare skin exposed by your golden dress, every inch of you sending sparks through his nerves. Your mouths crashed together, all the pent-up need and love and frustration flowing out in a kiss that left you both dizzy.

He fumbled behind you, finding your doorknob, not breaking the kiss as he pushed the door open and carried you inside

_______________________________________________

The door thudded shut behind you, the quiet of the team’s wing broken only by the frantic sound of your breathing and the rustle of silk. Bucky’s hands were everywhere—possessive and gentle, trembling with restraint and need. He pressed you against the wall just inside the door, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that was messy, desperate, all teeth and tongue and pent-up longing.

You could taste whiskey and the sharp edge of his hunger. He kissed you like he was drowning, like you were the only thing that could bring him back to life. One hand cupped your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, while the other—cold, inhuman, reverent—traced the bare skin at your back, following the line of the chain and the tattoo with a slow, worshipful touch.

“God, you’re… you’re unreal,” Bucky murmured, voice rough, his lips brushing along your jaw, your ear, your throat. He nipped at your pulse, soothing the sting with his tongue, and you gasped, arching into him, hands fisting in his shirt.

You tugged at his jacket, tearing it off his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. Next came his shirt—your fingers frantic, impatient—and he shrugged it off, baring his chest, warm skin and cool metal gleaming in the low light. You ran your palms down his chest, tracing old scars and the seam where metal met flesh, marveling at the way he shivered beneath your touch.

He hooked his fingers in your dress, finding the zipper and dragging it down, slow, deliberate, his eyes locked to yours. “Let me see you,” he whispered, almost pleading. The silk pooled at your feet, leaving you bare in the golden light, save for the chain and your heels. His gaze roved over you, awe and hunger and something heartbreakingly tender in his eyes.

Bucky’s hands explored every inch of exposed skin, mapping you with a devotion that bordered on reverence. He cupped your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it peaked, then bent to take it into his mouth, drawing a gasp from your lips. His metal hand splayed over your hip, holding you steady as his mouth worshipped you—first one breast, then the other, teeth grazing, tongue swirling, lips sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

You moaned, tugging him closer, desperate to feel his weight. “Bucky,” you pleaded, “please…”

He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around him, the cold bite of metal contrasting with the heat of his skin. He carried you to the bed, laying you out like something precious, then knelt between your thighs, pressing kisses to your inner knees, your thighs, your hip bones—anywhere he could reach.

He looked up at you, blue eyes dark and wild. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he confessed, his voice breaking. “Tell me you want me, too.”

You reached for him, fingers twisting in his hair. “I want you. I need you. Please, Bucky.”

He kissed down your stomach, pausing to nuzzle your hip, then settled between your thighs. The sight of you—bare, trembling, golden—made his breath catch. He pressed a lingering kiss to your inner thigh, then looked up, voice rough but gentle. “Tonight’s about you, doll. I want to see you fall apart.”

He licked a slow line over your folds, savoring your taste, his tongue flicking and swirling until your hips bucked and your thighs trembled. His metal hand held you open, fingertips cool against your skin, while his flesh thumb traced lazy circles on your hip, grounding you. He worked you with his mouth, lips wrapped around your clit, tongue moving in slow, devastating patterns that left you gasping, moaning his name.

You writhed, clutching at his hair, urging him deeper. He groaned against you, the vibration sending sparks through your nerves. “That’s it, sweetheart. Let go for me.” His voice was thick, reverent, full of awe.

Your orgasm built in waves—tight, hot, unstoppable. When you finally tumbled over the edge, your body shook, your moan echoing through the room as you clamped around his fingers, your legs quivering. Bucky watched your face, drinking in every gasp, every shudder, every breathless plea.

He crawled up your body, kissing your lips softly, letting you feel his smile as he murmured, “You’re gorgeous when you come undone for me.”

You were still trembling, your head spinning, but you reached for him, pulling him closer. “Want you inside me, Bucky. Please.”

He rose over you, shoving his pants and boxers down, his cock flushed and hard, already leaking for you. He lined himself up, pausing to kiss you, slow and deep. “If it’s too much—if you want to stop—”

You cut him off, wrapping your legs around his waist, arching into him. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He pressed inside, inch by inch, stretching you until you gasped, your nails leaving crescents in his shoulders. He rocked into you, slow at first, letting you adjust, savoring every moment. The sensation of him—thick, heavy, filling you completely—made your breath stutter, your body tighten around him.

“God, you feel perfect,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked to yours. “So fucking perfect for me.”

The rhythm built, your bodies moving together in a frantic, hungry dance. He kissed you everywhere—your mouth, your cheeks, your throat, your collarbone—murmuring your name like a prayer. His metal hand gripped your thigh, spreading you wider, pulling you impossibly close as he thrust deeper, harder, losing himself in you.

You met him thrust for thrust, your hips rolling, your heels digging into his back. You felt another orgasm building, the intensity overwhelming. Bucky’s words were a ragged whisper, “Come again for me, doll. Let me feel it.”

You shattered, your body clenching around him, your cry out his name, your pussy clenching around him in wild pulses.

Bucky’s control snapped; he gasped your name, driving into you with frantic desperation, his release crashing over him as he spilled inside you, burying his face in your neck. You held him through it, trembling, tears streaming down your cheeks—relief, joy, the overwhelming rightness of it all.

He collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms, peppering your face with kisses, his hands gentle as he stroked your hair and back. “You’re mine,” he whispered, voice soft and reverent, as the afterglow settled over both of you.

The world seemed to go still in the soft aftermath. Your heart still raced, but now it was the slow, sweet rhythm of safety and belonging. Bucky held you close, his body still trembling from the force of what you’d shared. His metal arm draped protectively across your waist, the other hand stroking your hair back from your damp forehead. Each breath he exhaled was a gentle kiss against your temple.

He pressed a lingering kiss to your hairline, then to your cheek, before tipping your chin up to study you. His eyes were soft, vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before. “You okay?” he murmured, voice low and rough.

You nodded, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. You reached up, tracing the line of his jaw, feeling him melt into your touch. “I’ve never been better, Buck.”

He let out a shaky laugh, relief written in every line of his face. For a moment, he just stared at you, thumb stroking your cheekbone. Then he swallowed, gathering his courage. “Can I—can I say something stupid?”

You grinned, your fingers running through his hair. “You can say anything, Bucky.”

He took a deep breath, voice trembling with honesty. “I love you, Y/N. I think I have since that first night, after Hydra, when you looked at me like I was worth saving.” He gave a little, nervous laugh. “I want all of this, but I want more than just… this. I want to take you out. On a real date. I want to hold your hand in public, watch you laugh across a table, take you dancing where Thor can’t cut in.” He searched your face, eyes hopeful and scared all at once. “Will you let me?”

Your heart ached at the rawness in his voice. You cupped his cheeks in your hands, smiling through the sting of happy tears. “I love you too, Bucky. Yes. Take me anywhere you want—just as long as you promise to keep looking at me like this.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing you in, the tension finally gone from his shoulders. “I could look at you like this forever, doll.”

A shadow flickered across his face and he pulled back, sheepish and awkward. He cleared his throat, suddenly fidgeting with the sheet. “Um… I probably should’ve thought about this before, but I… didn’t use anything. I just—” He hesitated, worry creeping into his voice. “I didn’t mean to be reckless. I just couldn’t think, you made me lose my mind…”

You silenced him with a slow, deep kiss, pouring reassurance into the press of your mouth. Your hand cradled the back of his head, your body molding to his as you kissed him over and over, until his anxiety faded and he was lost in you again.

When you finally pulled away, you smiled, tracing your thumb over his lips. “I don’t care about anything else right now except you. We’ll figure everything out together. Okay?”

He nodded, a crooked grin breaking through, wonder and affection shining in his eyes. “Okay,” he whispered, his voice husky.

He brushed a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. “Should we… get dressed? Go back to the party? Or—”

You shook your head, laughter bubbling in your chest. Instead, you slid astride his lap, your bare thighs straddling him, hands braced on his broad shoulders. Your skin pressed to his, heat flaring between you once more. You leaned in, lips brushing his ear as you whispered, “Does this answer your question?”

You kissed him—slow and deep, hips rolling against his as you pressed your body closer, letting him feel just how much you wanted to stay right here, with him, for as long as he’d let you.

He groaned, hands finding your waist, holding you there as if you might vanish. “Yeah,” he managed, voice breaking into laughter, happiness and disbelief mingling in every sound. “That’s an answer I could get used to.”

_______________________________________________

You shuffled into the kitchen in Bucky’s shirt, legs bare, your hair a happy mess. Bucky was already there, looking sleep-ruffled and smug as he poured coffee. You made a beeline for him, sinking into his lap and stealing his mug right from his hands.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder. “You planning to steal all my clothes and now my coffee, too?”

You grinned, taking a long sip. “You love it and you know it.”

Sam was the first to notice, brows climbing as he elbowed Steve. “Well, well, looks like someone’s living the dream this morning.”

Steve set down his paper and gave you both a pointed look. “Couldn’t find your own shirt, Y/N?”

Natasha smirked over her mug. “Or did Bucky’s room just seem cozier than yours?”

You rolled your eyes, wiggling back in Bucky’s lap. “His bed’s bigger. And he’s a great pillow.”

Bucky squeezed your waist, biting back a smile. “Guess you’re not complaining.”

Clint snorted. “Not complaining? You two were so loud last night, I thought Thor was back from Asgard and moving furniture.”

Wanda chimed in, mock-innocent. “I did wonder if we were under attack. But then I realized, nope, just Bucky and Y/N celebrating… very enthusiastically.”

Sam grinned wickedly. “I’m just glad I had headphones. Next time, give a guy a warning, huh?”

Tony strolled in, hair wild, sunglasses on, looking extra dramatic. “I don’t know what’s worse—my playlist getting blown out or hearing what I heard through the vents. If you two broke anything in your room, it’s coming out of Barnes’s paycheck.”

Bucky groaned, hiding his face in your neck. “Remind me to ask F.R.I.D.A.Y. for soundproofing next time.”

You nodded solemnly and addressed the ceiling, “F.R.I.D.A.Y., can we get the deluxe ‘can’t-hear-a-thing’ package, please?”

F.R.I.D.A.Y. replied, “Of course, Miss Y/N. I have already prepared a queue for soundproofing requests, considering last night’s… decibel levels.”

Clint grinned. “That’s efficiency. Maybe we should all chip in for a ‘do not disturb’ light.”

Sam piped up, “Yeah, or just get a playlist of ocean waves to drown out the moaning.”

You and Bucky burst out laughing, cheeks pink but not a hint of shame between you. He squeezed you tighter, whispering, “Maybe we should just never leave the room.”

You shot him a sly smile. “Not if you keep making breakfast this good.” You took another sip of his coffee, earning a mock-offended gasp.

Natasha winked. “Well, congrats, lovebirds. Try to keep it down tonight—or at least invite us to the wedding if this keeps up.”

You grinned, pressing a kiss to Bucky’s jaw, and he just looked at you like you’d hung the moon.

Sam raised his mug, smirking. “To Bucky and Y/N: the reason F.R.I.D.A.Y. is traumatized and the rest of us are sleep-deprived.”

Everyone toasted, laughter echoing around the table, and you settled further into Bucky’s lap, happier than you’d ever been.

You and Bucky exchanged a laughing look—no shame, only warmth and joy. Then, in the middle of all the teasing, Bucky slides his hand up to your cheek and pulls you into a long, deep kiss—one of those slow, melting ones that makes the whole room fade away.

The table erupts in groans, whistles, and mock outrage.

Clint covers his eyes. “Breakfast, guys! I’m trying to eat!”

Natasha laughs, “At least get a room. Or you know, stay in the one you broke last night.”

Steve sighs, but he’s smiling. “You two are unbelievable.”

You finally break apart, both breathless and grinning.

Sam shakes his head, standing and stretching with a dramatic yawn. “You know what? If you two end up having a kid, I’m telling that child I was right here during their conception. Front row seats, traumatized for life!”

[of-apollo]

₊⊹ THROUGH INNOCENT EYES !

PAIRING: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader.

SUMMARY: Bucky has done all that he can to keep his past as the Winter Soldier from your daughter, Becca. But, when Yelena slips up with one action figure, the truth begins to trickle out. Becca’s reaction is not at all what Bucky expected, and he becomes emotional over a life he never thought he’d have.

NOTES: Toddler daughter, uncle Bob and aunt Yelena, fluffy domestic Bucky, mentions of past violence/trauma, mostly fluff w/ hurt/comfort.

NAVIGATION | MCU MASTERLIST | KO-FI

The smell of burnt toast and sweet vanilla was the first thing that greeted you when you opened your eyes. It was immediately followed by the soft, rhythmic patter of tiny feet against the hardwood floor outside the bedroom door.

You smiled, stretching your limbs beneath the heavy duvet. From the hallway, you could hear the muffled, deep-toned rumbles of Bucky’s voice attempting to hush your three-year-old daughter, Becca.

"Shh, Becs," Bucky murmured softly. "Mommy is still sleeping. Let’s let her rest, okay?"

"But I want to help make the big pancakes, Daddy!" Becca’s high-pitched voice carried clearly through the door, full of morning excitement.

He was always so careful with her, treating her as if she were made of the finest, most fragile porcelain. It was a stark contrast to the strength he carried in his frame, a strength he constantly tried to downplay. For the past three years, Bucky had thrown himself into fatherhood with a desperate, beautiful intensity. He was determined to be nothing but a source of warmth and safety for the little girl who carried his bright blue eyes.

Yet, beneath that devotion lay an unspoken, rigid boundary that he refused to cross. Becca was never, under any circumstances, to find out about the Winter Soldier. You had told him a thousand times that it was alright, that she would love him regardless, but he remained steadfast. To Bucky, the shadow of who he used to be, in and out of Hydra’s control, was a monster that could taint his daughter’s innocent world.

Stepping into the kitchen, you found Bucky dressed in an oversized grey sweatshirt as he expertly flipped a pancake. Becca sat securely on the kitchen counter, her small legs swinging back and forth.

"Look, Daddy! Mommy’s awake!" Becca squealed, pointing a sticky finger toward the doorway.

Bucky looked up, his eyes softening instantly as a genuine, relaxed grin broke across his face. "Morning, sweetheart," he said softly, leaning across the counter to press a gentle kiss to your lips. "Did we wake you up? I swear I was trying to keep the monster under control."

"I'm not a monster, I'm a helper!" Becca protested, giggling as she pointed at the flour dust on his nose.

"You're a very messy helper," you laughed, wrapping your arms around Bucky’s waist from behind. You felt the slight tension that never truly left his shoulders, a silent reminder of the internal vigil he kept every single hour of the day.

"Pancakes are almost done," Bucky whispered, turning his head slightly to kiss your cheek. "Go sit down. I've got it under control."

The peaceful morning routine was delightfully disrupted around midday by a loud, familiar commotion at the front door. Yelena didn’t believe in knocking politely. Instead, she used her spare key to barge right in, carrying a massive cardboard box under one arm. Bob shuffled in behind her, looking slightly overwhelmed.

"Auntie Yelena! Uncle Bob!" Becca shrieked with delight, scrambling off the sofa and sprinting towards them with her arms outstretched.

"Ah, there is my favourite tiny diva!" Yelena announced proudly, catching Becca with a dramatic gasp and spinning the toddler around in the air before setting her down. "Bob, look how much she has grown since last week. It is ridiculous."

"She grows fast, Yelena," Bob said with a soft, sheepish wave, offering you and Bucky a warm smile. "Hello, everyone. Sorry to just drop in."

Bucky emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. A fond but slightly wary expression crossed his face as he greeted Bob with a firm nod and a pat on the shoulder. "You're always welcome, Bob. Yelena, however, needs to learn what a doorbell is."

"Doorbells are for boring people," Yelena shrugged, setting the large box down on the coffee table with a heavy thud. "Look what I have brought for the little one. I was in the toy shop in London, and they have a whole section for the New Avengers. The selection was very bad until I found the vintage section."

"Yelena, what did you buy?" you asked, a faint note of caution in your voice as she began rummaging through the box.

"Only the best," Yelena said, pulling out a wooden bow and arrow set. "Here, for targeting practice."

"Maybe we keep the arrows away from the television," Bob gently suggested, taking the toy from her hands with a worried mutter about safety.

Yelena rolled her eyes affectionately at Bob before digging deeper into the box. Her face lit up as she pulled out a sleek, modern action figure dressed in dark tactical gear with a distinct, shining silver arm. "They had a special anniversary release of the historical figures. I thought, why should the star-spangled captain get all the glory when the moody one does all the heavy lifting?"

Bucky frozen instantly. The dishcloth slipped from his fingers onto the counter as his entire body went rigid, his eyes locking onto the plastic figure in Yelena's hand. It was a highly detailed Winter Soldier action figure, complete with the masked face, the tactical harness, and the red star emblazoned on the metallic left shoulder.

You felt a sudden spike of anxiety in your chest, looking from Bucky’s pale, struck face to Yelena. She was completely oblivious to the silent panic she had just initiated. She truly didn’t realise that Bucky kept this entire chapter of his life a strict secret from his daughter. To Yelena, their pasts were just something they lived with, an objective fact of their existence rather than a source of deep, suffocating shame.

Before you or Bucky could intervene, Yelena knelt down to Becca’s eye level and handed the toy directly to the toddler, giving her a bright, encouraging nod. "Here you go, little Becca, a proper warrior to protect your dollhouse from the boring civilian toys."

"Yelena, wait—" Bucky’s voice was barely a choked whisper, but it was too late.

Becca took the action figure, her small hands gripping the plastic tightly as she turned it over. She studied the silver arm that caught the midday sunlight streaming through the living room window.

Bucky looked as though he had stopped breathing entirely. His knuckles turned white against the edge of the kitchen counter as he prepared himself for the worst. His mind was undoubtedly racing with the fear that his daughter would look at the toy, look at him, and see a monster.

Becca traced the tiny painted red star with her index finger, her brow furrowing in deep concentration as she compared the toy to the man standing frozen across the room. She looked up at Bucky, her eyes wide with a sudden, pure realisation, and then looked back down at the figure in her hands. A massive, gap-toothed grin spread across her face.

"Mommy, look!" Becca chirped, her voice echoing clearly in the sudden, tense silence of the flat as she held the toy up high. "Wow, this superhero looks just like daddy! He has a shiny arm and everything!"

The silence that followed was absolute, but the tension in the room instantly shifted from suffocating fear to a profound, heavy emotion that seemed to knock the breath right out of Bucky's lungs.

Yelena blinked, finally picking up on the strange atmosphere. She looked between Bucky and Becca with a sudden realisation of her own. "Oh," she murmured, her voice dropping its usual teasing edge. "I did not think..."

Bob awkwardly cleared his throat, offering a soft, sympathetic smile to Bucky. "It's a very good likeness," he offered gently.

Bucky stood completely still, his eyes wide and glossy as he stared at his daughter, his mouth opening slightly but no sound coming out. The word 'superhero' hung in the air, vibrating with an innocent weight that shattered every single wall Bucky had built up over the last three years. Becca didn't see a brainwashed assassin. She just saw her dad, the man who made her pancakes, immortalised as a protector of the world.

Seeing her father’s shocked silence, Becca toddled across the room, her small shoes squeaking against the floor. She pressed the plastic figure against Bucky's leg, looking up at him with absolute adoration.

"Are you going to fly later, Daddy? Superheroes can fly, right?" she asked earnestly, her voice full of the unshakeable faith that only a three-year-old could possess.

Bucky slowly sank to his knees, his movements mechanical as he brought himself down to her level. His breath hitched in his throat as he looked into her bright, innocent face. He carefully reached out with his flesh hand, his fingers trembling slightly as he tucked a stray curl behind her ear.

"No, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice completely thick with unshed tears when he finally managed to speak. "Daddy doesn't fly. I just stay right here with you."

"That's okay," Becca said authoritatively, patting his knee comfortingly. "Superheroes need to stay home for dinner anyway."

Becca seemed entirely satisfied with this answer, turning back to Yelena to show off her new favourite toy, completely unaware of the tectonic shift she had just caused in her father's soul.

Yelena, realising her blunder but seeing the beautifully unexpected outcome, quietly gathered the rest of the toys. She gave you a softened, apologetic look as she signaled to Bob that it was time to leave. "We will go find some lunch now," she said softly, her usual bravado replaced by genuine care. "Goodbye, little Becca. Take care of your superhero."

"Bye, Auntie Yelena! Bye, Uncle Bob!" Becca waved, already distracted by her new game. Bob gave Bucky a supportive squeeze on the shoulder on his way out, and within a few minutes, the front door clicked shut behind them.

For the rest of the afternoon, Bucky was unusually quiet. His eyes never left Becca as she played on the living room rug, orchestrating a complex game where the Winter Soldier action figure saved a group of plastic farm animals from a plush monster.

"Look, Daddy! He saved the cow!" Becca shouted happily, holding the silver-armed figure in the air.

"He did a good job, sweetie," Bucky replied, his voice a little tight but filled with immense warmth.

Every time she made the toy strike a heroic pose, Bucky’s chest would heave with a silent, shaky breath. A mixture of profound relief and overwhelming emotion washed over him. You stayed close to him on the sofa, resting your hand in his, letting him process the incredible truth that his daughter's love was unconditional.

By the time evening arrived, Becca was thoroughly exhausted from her heroic adventures. Her eyelids dropped as you gave her a warm bath and changed her into her favourite pyjamas.

"Can Daddy tuck me in?" she mumbled, rubbing her eyes as she held the action figure tightly against her chest.

"Of course he can, sweetheart," you said smoothly, kissing her forehead before calling Bucky into the room.

Bucky carried her to bed, holding her a little tighter than usual. He rocked her gently in the dim light of her nursery whilst she mumbled softly about superheroes and shiny arms until her eyes finally closed for sleep.

He stayed by her crib for a long time after she fell asleep, just watching the peaceful rise and fall of her chest. His metal hand rested gently on the wooden rail, no longer hidden away beneath layers of clothing as it often was, but completely accepted in the open air.

When he finally stepped out of the room and closed the door with a quiet click, the weight of the day seemed to catch up with him all at once. His shoulders sagged as he walked back into the living room where you were waiting for him on the sofa.

The room was illuminated only by the soft glow of a single floor lamp, casting long, warm shadows across the space. Bucky walked over and sank down beside you, his entire body suddenly trembling.

"Bucky?" you asked softly, reaching out for him.

Without a word, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his large arms wrapping around you with a desperate, clinging grip as the first sob broke through his chest. It was a low, agonising sound, the release of decades of tightly coiled pain, shame, and fear that he had carried alone for far too long.

You wrapped your arms around him tightly, running your fingers through his hair. "I've got you," you murmured softly against his ear as he wept openly, his tears soaking into the fabric of your shirt. "It's okay, let it all out."

He was crying with a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show, his broad frame shaking with the sheer magnitude of the relief that had washed over him. He gripped the back of your shirt as if you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

"She called me a superhero," Bucky choked out, his voice cracked and raw with emotion as he pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were red and swimming with tears that ran down his stubbled cheeks. "She looked right at it, she saw the arm, and she didn't run away. She wasn't scared of me."

"I told you she wouldn't be," you said gently, wiping a tear from his cheek with your thumb. "She loves her dad."

He shook his head, a fresh wave of tears spilling over as he leaned his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. "I spent so many years being a monster. Being the thing that people screamed at when they saw me coming. I never thought... I never thought I'd get to have this."

"You deserve this, Buck. More than anyone," you whispered, holding his face in both of your hands.

"A normal life," he wept softly, closing his eyes as he pressed his lips to yours for a brief, emotional moment. "A home. A little girl who looks at me and thinks I'm a protector, not a killer. I didn't think it was possible."

You reminded him, firmly and lovingly, that Becca was right. He was a hero for fighting his way back to his humanity, and he deserved every single ounce of the love and peace he had found in this home. Bucky let out a long, shaky breath, closing his eyes as he held you close, finally letting go of the ghost of the Winter Soldier, safe in the knowledge that to the person who mattered most in the world, he was simply her hero.

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[moonstoneandmoonlight]

bucky barnes is the kind of guy who doesn’t want you to see his bad side.

he only wants you to see the good side. the guy that gave you his jacket when it rained. the one who opened doors for you. the one who swept you into his arms and carried you when you told him your heels were hurting your feet.

bucky didn’t want you to see the side of him that was plagued by nightmares. the guy who flinched at the sight of a white lab coat. the guy who couldn’t stand even the thought of strangers touching him.

but when he had fallen asleep one night on your couch instead of heading home like he usually did—you finally saw it.

“hey—james,” you murmur, your hands reaching out to gently shake him awake as he thrashed about on your sofa. “james, my love, can you please wake—”

the growl that bucky let out was one you didn’t recognise and you jump back just in time—a metal hand reaches out and wraps around a nearby lamp. you let out a small gasp as bucky goes to throw it at the wall.

“—bucky—wait, no! it’s me!”

it’s then he stops. it’s then he comes to. it's your voice that pulls him out of the darkness that clouded his vision. his eyes dart from the lamp in his hand—then back over to you. your eyes wide in concern for him. something he mistakes for fear—fear of him.

"i'm sorry," he whispers in a voice so quiet—so broken that you almost missed it. the lamp returns to your side table. he gets up from the sofa. "i-i'll go."

"go?" you repeat in a gentle voice that bucky felt he didn't deserve. "james—please don't go. it's okay—"

"it's not," bucky interjects. jaw clenched and shame already creeping inside his gut like an old friend. "i could have—"

i could have hurt you, he almost says. but he doesn't because even the thought of it makes him feel sick. makes him feel like the monster everyone told him he once was.

you seemed to know what he was about to say and your face turns stern—eyes flashing with a determination bucky had not seen before.

"but you didn't," you say, grabbing his arm before he could reach for his jacket. bucky's breath hitched in his throat when he realised you had grabbed his vibranium arm without even a split second of hesitation. like you trusted him. like you weren't scared of him.

you should be, he thought.

"but i could have."

"but you didn't."

bucky looked at you—really looked at you. all your soft edges and kind words against his jagged edges and harsh glares. he wondered, not for the first time, whether he deserved something as good as you after everything he had done.

it was like you could read his mind—see him spiralling before you because your hand finds his and it's like a soothing balm over the ache in his chest.

"don't you do that," you tell him quietly, stepping closer and making it impossible for him to look away. not that bucky wanted to look at anything else beside you. "don't you dare do that. don't try and convince yourself you don't deserve something good."

the argument dies in his throat when he sees in the look in your eyes. hears the conviction in your voice. feels his hand being placed over your chest—where he could feel your heart beating. could almost hear it due to his enhanced senses. he swore it was a sound that could soothe him to sleep.

"i don't deserve—"

"you dare finish that sentence," you say sternly, eyes blazing with a quiet anger he hadn't seen before. not angry at him—but at those who had hurt him in the past. the ghosts that lived in his chest—the ones that continued to haunt him. "i refuse to let you push me away. it's not going to happen james. i'm stuck to you like glue. the good, the bad—i want it all. so stop hiding."

bucky's still tempted—to run, to walk out of your cosy little apartment he felt as though he didn't belong in but something in your eyes kept him rooted to the spot. and it's that moment that bucky let himself fall. let himself imagine a future where his shoes sat besides yours by the front door, a future where he made you dinner after a long day at work. everything he had never imagined for himself and more.

"you're really persistent, you know that?" he asks, corners of his mouth twitching in an almost smile. "like really persistent."

you soften when you see that smile—the one that made your heart beat a little faster. the one that made your face feel warm and stomach feel as though you had missed a step going downstairs.

"yeah well—i'm not going to let you go that easily, james."

"good," bucky murmurs, leaning down to kiss you gently. wanting to always remember how you smiled into the kiss. how your arms wrapping around his neck and how your body felt pressed against his.

when you pull away, bucky can't stop smiling. you try not to be too pleased about it.

"you wanna stay over?" you murmur quietly.

bucky tenses for the briefest of seconds—because in the two months you had been together, he hadn't stayed over.

but now he knew you were all in, he nods—taking your hand in his and tugging you towards your bedroom.

"hope you don't snore too loud, doll."

dividers by the lovely @zclhs

💌 a very fluffy (and mildly angsty) bucky blurb! second blurb today—sorry i just really missed bucky

to be added to my taglist | masterlist | requests page

[watermelongirl01]

Convenient 02

CEO!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: When a cheating scandal rocks your marriage, the life you built with your husband begins to unravel. The alleged other woman? His best friend, Sharon, newly unemployed, newly working by his side, and now at the center of every headline. Now, as the world questions his integrity, you’re forced to question his heart. Did Bucky give in to something he couldn’t resist, or is he the victim of a cruel illusion? And how can he possibly convince you to believe him again?

Warnings: ANGST, and little fluff. Yearning Bucky.

This is the second part of the mini-series Convenient.

Morning came without sleep.

The light filtered in slowly, cruel in how normal it felt after a night like that. You lie on your side, facing the window, eyes burning, head aching, the weight of everything pressing down on your chest.

The small box was hidden deep inside your bag, zipped and buried beneath folded fabric like a secret you were afraid might breathe too loudly.

Down the hall, you heard movement.

Bucky.

Your body tensed automatically, heart stuttering as his footsteps approached the bedroom door and then stopped. You waited for him to knock. He didn’t. You heard him hesitate, heard the quiet sound of him leaning his forehead against the wood.

“Doll,” he said softly. “I made coffee.”

You swallowed. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

There was a pause. You could almost feel his disappointment through the door. “Okay,” he murmured. “Take your time.”

When you finally came downstairs, the house felt wrong, too careful, too quiet. He stood by the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from a rushed shower, eyes shadowed with guilt and fear. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all.

Neither of you reached for the other.

He poured you coffee without asking, just like always, and slid the mug toward you. His fingers lingered for half a second too long before pulling away.

“I talked to the lawyer,” he said finally, voice tight. “They’re handling the press. Those photos were staged. I swear to you, I moved. I never touched her.”

You nodded, staring into the dark surface of the coffee.

“But you don’t believe me,” he said quietly.

That made you look up.

His eyes were red. Not angry. Broken.

“I do,” you said, and that was the truth. “I just… need time.”

He exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath since last night. “Take all the time you need. I’ll do anything. I’ll sleep in the guest room. I’ll quit if I have to. I’ll—”

“Don’t,” you interrupted, sharper than you meant to. You softened immediately. “Please. Just… don’t make promises right now.”

He nodded, jaw tight, hands fisting at his sides. He wanted to touch you. You could see it in the way he leaned toward you without realizing, like his body still believed you belonged together even if his heart was terrified you might slip away.

The silence stretched.

Your hand drifted, unconsciously, to your stomach.

He noticed.

His eyes flicked down, then back up, confusion crossing his face. “Are you okay?”

Your breath caught.

For a moment, just one, you almost told him. The words sat on your tongue, heavy and fragile and dangerous.

I’m pregnant.We’re having a baby.I was waiting to tell you.

But then you remembered the screen. The photos. The way your world had cracked open in front of strangers.

And the words stayed trapped inside you.

“I’m just tired,” you said instead.

Something in his face fell, not dramatically, just a quiet, resigned kind of hurt. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”

He stepped back, giving you space even though it clearly cost him. “I’m going into the office later. Just to show my face. It won’t be long.”

“Okay.”

He lingered for another second, searching your face for something, permission, forgiveness, hope. When he didn’t find it, he nodded, placed a kiss on your hair, and turned away.

As he walked out of the room, your hand pressed more firmly against your stomach.

——————————————————————

The office felt colder than usual.

Bucky stood near the windows, jacket still on, hands braced against the glass as the city stretched out beneath him. It all looked the same. busy, indifferent, uncaring. Like nothing had changed.

Everything had changed.

The door opened behind him.

“James,” his lawyer said carefully, closing it softly. “We need to talk about strategy.”

Bucky didn’t turn around. “You saw the footage?”

“Yes. We’re moving fast. The photos are staged, angles, timing, everything. We can discredit them.”

“Good.” His jaw tightened. “Do it.”

There was a pause. Too long.

“But,” the lawyer continued, voice professional, measured, “there are personal implications we also need to prepare for.”

Bucky finally turned. “Like what?”

The lawyer adjusted his glasses. “Public perception. Damage control. And… the possibility that your wife may choose to distance herself legally.”

Bucky stared at him. “Distance herself?”

“A temporary separation, at minimum. Or—” He cleared his throat. “Divorce.”

The word hit like a punch to the chest.

“No.” Bucky’s voice was immediate, sharp, feral. “That’s not happening.”

“I’m not saying it will,” the lawyer said quickly. “Only that it’s a scenario we must consider. If she files, we need to—”

“She won’t.” Bucky cut him off, stepping forward. His hands were shaking now, barely contained. “She knows me. She knows I wouldn’t do that to her.”

“James—”

“You don’t get to say that word like it’s an option,” he snapped, eyes blazing. “Not about her.”

The lawyer held up his hands. “I’m trying to protect you.”

Bucky let out a bitter laugh. “Protect me?” His voice cracked. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He turned away, pacing now, running a hand through his hair. Images flashed through his mind uninvited: your face when he found you, the way you couldn’t look at him, the sound of your voice when you asked him not to sleep beside you.

“She’s everything,” he said quietly, the fight draining out of him all at once. “She’s my wife. My home. If I lose her—”

He stopped himself, swallowing hard.

The lawyer softened. “Then we fight this,” he said. “Publicly and privately. We prove the truth. But you need to be prepared for her to protect herself.”

Bucky shook his head. “She shouldn’t have to,” he whispered. “She didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No,” the lawyer agreed. “But she’s the one everyone’s watching.”

Bucky’s hands clenched into fists. “Then make it stop. Make it go away. I don’t care what it costs.”

“We’ll need her cooperation eventually.”

Bucky looked up sharply. “No.” His voice was low, dangerous. “Leave her out of it. She’s been through enough.”

Silence fell between them.

Finally, the lawyer nodded. “Alright. We’ll proceed carefully.”

As he turned to leave, Bucky sank into his chair, elbows on his knees, head bowed.

Divorce.

The word echoed in his mind, hollow and terrifying.

He couldn’t lose you. Not now. Not after everything.

——————————————————————

You were in the living room, with the curtains drawn just enough to let light in, but not enough for the cameras to see you clearly. Bucky stood near the fireplace, arms crossed, jaw tight, watching the street like he was waiting for something to explode. He had just arrived from the office, and now his house was surrounded by cameras.

When May opened the door and announced him, your stomach dropped.

“Mr. Alvarez is here, Mrs. Barnes. He says it’s urgent.”

You barely had time to answer before he stepped inside, briefcase in hand, expression calm in the way only people who deal in damage control ever are.

“Good afternoon,” he said politely, nodding once at Bucky. “James.”

Bucky stiffened at the familiarity. “What’s this about?”

Your father’s lawyer didn’t sit.

“I’m here on behalf of your family,” he said, turning to you. “Given the circumstances, they’re concerned about your reputation and your legal exposure.”

Bucky’s shoulders squared. “She doesn’t need protection from me.”

Mr. Alvarez glanced at him, unimpressed. “That remains to be seen.”

Your chest tightened. “You didn’t have to come here.”

“I did,” he replied evenly. “The situation has escalated. The press narrative is settling, and silence is being interpreted as acceptance.”

Bucky laughed bitterly. “So now you’re telling her to leave me?”

“I’m telling her she has options,” the lawyer said. “Very clean ones.”

Bucky turned to you. “Doll—”

“She’s being watched,” the lawyer went on. “Every expression, every silence. People aren’t asking if you cheated. They’re asking if she will tolerate it.”

Bucky dragged a hand over his face. “She shouldn’t have to tolerate anything. I didn’t do this.”

“I believe that you believe that,” Mr. Alvarez said calmly. “But you married into a family that plans for storms before the clouds show up.”

Bucky went quiet, breathing hard.

“Let me be very clear,” he said, voice calm, professional. “My role here is not to judge your marriage. It’s to protect my client.”

You nodded stiffly. “I understand that.”

Bucky didn’t look convinced.

“From a legal standpoint,” he continued, “a separation or divorce would be straightforward. No children. No custody battles. Minimal entanglement.”

The words hit you like a slap.

“No children,” he repeated calmly. “Which significantly simplifies the process.”

Something inside you snapped.

“That’s enough,” you said sharply.

Mr. Alvarez blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“You don’t get to walk into my house,” you said, standing now, hands shaking, “and reduce my marriage to bullet points.”

“I’m trying to protect you.”

“By erasing my life?” Your voice cracked. “By acting like I’m disposable?”

Bucky moved closer instinctively, alarmed. “Baby—”

“No,” you said, turning toward him briefly, then back to the lawyer. “You want to talk about how easy it would be?”

Mr. Alvarez straightened. “Given the lack of—”

“I’m pregnant.”

The room went silent.

The lawyer froze.

Bucky didn’t breathe.

“I’m pregnant,” you repeated, louder now, furious tears streaming down your face. “So no, it wouldn’t be easy. And you don’t get to make decisions about my body, my marriage, or my family like they’re assets on a spreadsheet.”

Bucky stared at you as the world had just cracked open.

“So no, “I haven’t thought about divorce. I’ve been thinking about how to protect our baby.” 

The lawyer recovered first. “This… changes things.”

“No,” you said coldly. “This ends this conversation.”

Bucky took a step toward you, hands trembling, eyes wet and disbelieving. “We’re having a baby?”

You turned to him then, all the anger collapsing into something raw and exposed. “Yes.”

Mr. Alvarez cleared his throat. “I’ll inform your father. Given this development, I suggest we—”

“You can go,” you said flatly.

He hesitated, then nodded. “We’ll speak later.”

“You think?” you snapped, turning on him. “Then you can tell my father that his ‘options’ just became irrelevant.”

The door closed behind him, leaving the house unbearably quiet.

Bucky sank onto the couch as his legs had finally given out, hands covering his face.

“Oh God,” he breathed. “Doll…”

You stood there, arms wrapped around yourself, exhausted and exposed.

“I didn’t want this to come out like that,” you whispered. “But I wasn’t going to let him talk about my life like it meant nothing.”

Bucky looked up at you, eyes full of awe, terror, and devotion all at once.

“I don’t care how it came out,” he said hoarsely. “I care that you’re here. That our baby is here.”

Bucky reached you then, careful, reverent, like he was afraid to break you. His hands hovered at your waist before settling there, grounding, protective.

“I swear to you,” he said hoarsely, eyes locked on yours, “I didn’t touch her. I didn’t betray you. And I will spend the rest of my life proving it to you, to our child, to anyone who doubts me.”

You leaned into him, exhaustion finally overtaking anger.

Bucky rested his forehead against yours, breath shaky.

“I’m terrified,” he admitted. “But I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You closed your eyes. “So am I.”

Outside, the world was still watching.

But inside, the truth had finally been spoken, and there was no going back now.

He held your hands when he started talking.

His thumbs rubbed slow, anxious circles over your knuckles, like it was the only thing keeping him anchored.

“There’s something I should’ve told you months ago,” he said quietly. “And I hate myself for waiting this long.”

You nodded. Your chest felt tight, but steady. “Tell me.”

He took a breath. “That night… the night she came into my office late. She stayed after everyone else left.”

Your grip tightened, but you didn’t pull away.

“She thanked me for the job. Said she wanted to help. Then she started talking about college. About how she thought I’d always been in love with her.” His jaw clenched. “I shut her down. I told her I had a wife. I told her I love you.”

You swallowed. “That’s not what it looks like.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “She said I married you for convenience, that I didn’t love you. That I was using your family’s money.” His voice broke. “I almost threw her out right then.”

Your heart twisted. “And the photos?”

“She undressed while I was still sitting there like an idiot, trying to process what was happening. When she leaned in to kiss me—” He shook his head sharply. “That’s when I moved.”

You lifted your chin. “But the photo shows her kissing you.”

“No,” he corrected gently. “It shows her trying to.”

Your eyes searched his face, desperate for certainty. “So you’re telling me you never kissed her back.”

“I’m telling you I pushed my chair away so fast I nearly fell over,” he said. “I never touched her. I never wanted her. Not then, not now.”

Silence settled between you.

“You loved her once,” you said quietly.

“Yes,” he admitted. “And I was young and stupid and thought that meant something. But loving her was nothing like loving you. What I feel for you—” He shook his head, words failing him. “That’s my life. That’s my future. That’s our child.”

Your breath hitched.

“I should’ve told you immediately,” he continued. “I was scared. I thought if I said her name out loud, it would bring trouble into our home. I thought I could protect you by staying quiet.”

You closed your eyes. “You don’t protect me by shutting me out.”

“I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry.”

You opened your eyes again. “Why didn’t you fire her?”

“I wanted to,” he admitted. “But she left before I could. Said she’d quit. I didn’t think she’d—” He stopped himself. “I didn’t think she’d do this.”

You exhaled slowly, the tension in your chest loosening just a fraction.

You studied him, searching for cracks. You found none, only fear, guilt, and devotion laid bare.

“I needed to hear that,” you whispered.

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. “I’ll tell you everything from now on,” he promised. “No secrets. Not ever again.”

Your hand slid to your stomach, his following it instinctively.

“This family,” he said softly. “You and our baby, that’s all that matters. I’ll spend the rest of my life proving I deserve you.”

You closed the space between you, holding him not because everything was fixed, but because, finally, the truth was no longer buried between you.

And for the first time since the scandal broke, you believed you could survive it together.

“Can I kiss you?”

Not a statement. Not an expectation.

A question.

Your heart swells so much it almost hurts. You step closer, close enough that you can feel his breath, his warmth.

“Yes,” you say. “I want you to.”

He leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away, but you don’t. His lips brush yours at first, barely there, like he’s testing the moment. When you don’t move, when you melt into him instead, the kiss deepens just a little, the restraint cracks. The kiss isn’t hurried, but it’s deep, full, searching, like he’s been starving for you and is finally allowed to eat.

You sigh into his mouth, the sound soft and broken, and his hand comes up instinctively, cupping your jaw like he’s afraid you’ll slip away again. His thumb brushes your cheek, grounding, reverent.

God, he’s missed this.

Missed the way you fit against him. Missed the familiar press of your lips, the way you kiss back like you trust him completely. The scandal, the distance, the silence, it all falls away as he kisses you again, a little slower this time, like he’s memorizing you.

His breath stutters.

You feel it before you see it, the way his mouth trembles against yours, the way his forehead drops to rest against yours as if the weight of everything is suddenly too much.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, barely audible, the words brushing your lips. “I’m so sorry.”

You start to shake your head, but he kisses you again, short, broken, emotional, like he needs the contact to stay upright.

“For the headlines,” he murmurs between kisses. A press of lips. A pause. Another kiss, softer. “For not protecting you better.”

His hand tightens at your waist, not rough, just desperate. Anchoring.

He lets out a broken sound and kisses you again, deeper now, emotion bleeding into it. His hands clutch at you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, and you hold him just as tightly, grounding him there.

“I didn’t think I deserved you anymore,” he admits, lips brushing yours between words. “Didn’t think I deserved this.”

You pull back just enough for him to see your face. “Look at me,” you say softly. When his eyes meet yours, you kiss him again, slow, certain, full of warmth. “You deserve love. You deserve us.”

His breath shudders. He nods, barely holding together.

You guide his hand to your stomach, covering it with yours. “We’ll figure it out,” you promise quietly. “Together. I’m not going anywhere.”

That’s when he finally breaks, just a little. His forehead drops to yours, tears slipping free as he kisses you again, softer now, relieved. Like he’s finally letting himself believe you mean it.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice thick.

You kiss him once more, slow and steady. “I love you too.”

And this time, when he holds you close, one hand on your back, the other still resting protectively over your stomach, it doesn’t feel like fear anymore.

It feels like trust.

——————————————————————

But Bucky couldn’t stay like this, arms crossed, silent, waiting for his lawyers to scrub his name clean while the world tore his family apart. He wasn’t built for stillness. So after a few quiet hours of you curled against him on the sofa, after making sure you finally slept and your breathing had evened out, he eased himself free. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head and left the house with one purpose only: to drag the truth out of Sharon, no matter what it cost.

You woke to noise that didn’t belong, with the sound of voices, engines idling too long, the sharp click of cameras, sounds that didn’t belong in the quiet stretch of road leading to your home. 

You reached for Bucky instinctively, but the space beside you was cold.

A dull ache settled in your chest as you moved closer to the window.

They were everywhere.

News vans lined the street like vultures. Reporters clustered near the gate, phones raised, microphones at the ready, waiting for a door to open or a curtain to part. Your name was already being said out loud, carried on the wind like something they owned.

Your stomach twisted.

“So it’s really happening,” you whispered.

May appeared beside you, pale. “Mrs. Barnes, I tried to keep them back, but—”

“It’s okay,” you said softly, even though your chest felt too tight to breathe. “Thank you.”

You turned away from the window just as your phone buzzed in your hand.

Dad.

Your heart dropped.

You hesitated for only a second before answering. “Hi.”

“Is this true?” His voice came through sharp, controlled, the way it always did when he was angry but trying not to scare you. “Because every channel is saying my son-in-law humiliated you in front of the entire country, and now Mr. Alvarez is telling me my daughter is pregnant.”

Your throat closed.

“No, it’s not true,” you said immediately. “And I just found out about the baby, you can’t blame me for that.”

There was a pause. “You sound tired.”

“I am,” you admitted. “But not because of him.”

Your mother’s voice joined the call, quieter but no less worried. “Honey, we’ve seen the photos.”

“So have I,” you said, voice steady despite the tremor in your hands. “And they don’t tell the truth.”

“Sweetheart—” your mother began.

“He didn’t cheat,” you said, firmer now. “I know my husband.”

Your father exhaled slowly. “Then why does the whole world think he did?”

“Because someone wanted them to,” you replied. “And because people believe what’s easiest.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“If you want out,” your father said carefully, “you don’t have to protect him. We’ll support you. No matter what.”

Your eyes burned.

“I’m not protecting him,” you said. “I’m standing by him. There’s a difference.”

Outside, a reporter shouted your name.

You flinched.

Your mother softened. “Are you safe?”

“Yes.”

“Are you happy?”

The question hurt more than you expected.

“I love him,” you said instead.

“Have you been to the doctor?” Your mother asked

“Not yet, but I will, I promise.” 

“Honey, we are happy about the baby, we really are, it’s just that—” Your mother made a pause. “We are worried.”

“I know.” You said. “But I believe him.” 

Silence followed, heavy but respectful.

Finally, your father spoke again. “Alright. Then we wait. But if he’s lying to you—”

“He’s not,” you said, cutting in gently but decisively. “And if he ever hurts me, you’ll be the first to know.”

You ended the call before they could say anything else.

Your phone slipped from your fingers onto the counter as you leaned forward, gripping the edge, breathing through the tightness in your chest. Outside, the shouting grew louder.

“Mrs. Barnes!” “Are the rumors true?” “Have you filed for divorce?”

You closed your eyes.

Your hand drifted to your stomach without you thinking about it, a protective, instinctive gesture.

——————————————————————

But on the other side of the town.

Bucky shouldn’t have gone there.

He knew it the moment he pulled up to the curb and saw the building swallowed in darkness, press vans still idling a block away like vultures waiting for the next body to fall. This wasn’t smart. This wasn’t safe.

But he needed answers.

Sharon’s apartment door opened on the second knock.

“James?” she said, surprise settling onto her face with practiced ease. “I didn’t expect you.”

Her voice was soft. Measured. She stepped aside slowly, smoothing her skirt, eyes wide in a way that looked almost… wounded.

“I thought your lawyers would handle this.”

“I didn’t come as my lawyers,” he said evenly. “I came because I want the truth.”

She nodded, swallowing hard. “So do I.”

They stood in the middle of the living room, neither of them sitting, the air thick with things unsaid.

“We need to talk,” Bucky said.

Her expression faltered just a little. “About… all of this?” She gestured vaguely, as if the scandal had simply materialized on its own. “Because I swear, I don’t understand how everything got so twisted.”

His jaw tightened. “You don’t?”

“No,” she said quickly. “God, James—this is humiliating. I can’t even leave my apartment. People think I—” Her voice cracked at just the right moment. “I would never do that to you. Or your wife.”

Something in his chest loosened. Barely.

“Then explain the photos,” he said.

She hesitated. Not too long. Just enough to seem real.

“I honestly don’t know,” she said quietly. “You have to believe me.”

But Bucky didn’t budge.

“I know how this looks,” she continued, stepping closer. “But it wasn’t me. You know me better than anyone.”

He took a step back. For a split second, something sharp crossed her face, gone before he could name it.

“Then how did those photos end up on every damn news channel, Sharon?” he snapped.

Her breath caught. “You’ve never spoken to me like that.”

She reached for his chest, fingers curling around the necklace resting there.

Bucky recognized it immediately.

He’d given it to her years ago.

“I’m ashamed,” she said softly. “My only mistake was thinking you could love me back.” Her eyes filled. 

Anyone else might have heard the manipulation in her words.

Bucky didn’t.

“And now,” she whispered, “I’m almost naked on every TV screen in the country.”

She wrapped her arms around him, trembling. “You have to believe me. You’re my oldest friend. I love you, Bucky.”

He swallowed hard, conflicted, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder, not holding her, not pushing her away.

“But if it wasn’t you,” he said, “then who did this?”

She pulled back slightly, wiping her eyes. “Maybe someone was watching you. There was a man once who asked me a lot about you.”

That did it.

Frustration and guilt collided in his chest as Sharon folded in on herself, suddenly small. Broken.

“Who was he?” Bucky asked.

“I don’t know,” she said, sinking onto the couch, face buried in her hands. “He cornered me at the coffee shop near your building. I can’t even remember his face.”

“I’ll find him.”

Relief flickered across her features.

“You believe me,” she said.

He nodded once.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not assuming the worst of me.” She offered a sad smile. “I’d never want to hurt you. Or your family.”

Family.

The word lodged painfully in his chest.

“Stay away from the press,” he said. “If anyone contacts you, send them to my lawyers.”

“Of course,” she replied. “I just want this nightmare to end.”

“So do I.”

He turned to leave, pausing only once.

“You quit,” he said.

“I had to,” she answered quietly. “Every time I step outside, someone has a phone in my face. Leaving felt like the least I could do… for you.”

“For us,” he corrected automatically. “My wife.”

She nodded. “She must hate me.”

“She doesn’t,” he said stiffly.

“I wouldn’t blame her if she did,” Sharon murmured. “I hate myself enough for whatever role I played in this.”

The humility in her voice disarmed him.

“If you remember anything,” he said, “anything at all, tell me. My family is on the line.”

“I promise.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Alright.”

As he reached for the door…

“James?”

He stopped.

“I’m really sorry,” she said softly. “I never wanted to hurt you. And if there’s even a small part of you that still loves me… I’d like to know.”

“There isn’t,” he said without turning around.

She nodded sadly.

Bucky walked away believing her.

Believing it was all a misunderstanding.

Believing the woman who nearly destroyed his marriage was just another casualty of circumstance.

And at home, you trusted him.

Which made the lie far more dangerous.

Behind the closed door, Sharon leaned back slowly, exhaling.

Her face smoothed into something unreadable.

And for the first time since it all began

She smiled.

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[simplyholl]

Filthy

Summary: After a long mission, Bucky needs you.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger F. Reader

Warnings: Smut. Minors DNI. 18+ ONLY.

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"Would it be too crazy if we slept together?" Your sweet voice replayed over and over in his mind. He hadn't flat out refused your offer, but he hadn't said yes either. Now as he laid under the rubble of the bomb Hydra had detonated, it was all he could think of.

You were friends, one of the only people besides Steve to make him feel welcome on the Avengers. The others were wary of him, and he didn’t blame them. He had done unforgivable things as The Winter Soldier. Now he was fighting for the right cause. He couldn't help the reoccurring nightmares of the horrors he encountered in his past. He didn't want to get too comfortable in his new life, the one Steve helped him obtain because he was scared The Winter Soldier was still lurking around in his brain somewhere.

That's why he never dated. Sam would tease him, telling him he could have anybody he wanted, but he settled for his hand every night. Bucky couldn't afford to get too close to anyone. Especially someone who was weaker than him like the opposite sex. He was scared he would lose control while being intimate and hurt or even kill his partners. So he never let anyone get too close, until you.

You came bouncing into his life unexpectedly. You were brought on the team shortly after him. He would never forget your first day. Steve introduced you to everyone at the morning meeting. You were all smiles, your bubbly personality instantly drawing him in. The others were making comparisons between the two of you immediately. You were so happy, so upbeat all the time and Steve was the only one who could get Bucky to crack his cold exterior and actually smile.

Despite your differences, you got along great. Which was a bonus since Tony liked to pair you together for missions. You worked well together, complimenting each other in ways you had never thought of. Who knew almost dying together every week can cause you to form close bonds? You were spending all your free time together. You introduced him to your favorite films, some of them were awful, but he would never tell you that. You would stay up late together watching old reruns of 90's sitcoms for comfort after long missions. Bucky would go shopping with you, holding every bag you had and never complaining.

The team thought something was going on between you. Why else would the cold super soldier follow you around like a lost puppy? They put Steve up to asking about it, but Bucky denied anything but friendship. There had never been anything happen in the whole year you knew each other. You never sat too close or crossed any boundaries, never thought about it until a month ago.

One of the longest, most dangerous missions you had ever been on finally came to a close. There had been too many casualties and you were upset. Even the comfort of your warm pajamas and favorite movie didn't ease your mind. Bucky thought you needed to be alone, so he told you goodnight and headed for his room. You called after him pleading him to stay with you. You couldn't be alone, not after that.

He hesitated, he never stayed the night with anyone because of his nightmares. Tony even gave him a pass when a mission required room sharing. He was the only one who didn't have to pair up. He was afraid he might hurt you or scare you during his sleep. He tried to tell you, but you couldn't be swayed. He found himself under your fluffy pink comforter on heart shaped pillows, surrounded by a mountain of stuffed animals but he felt oddly at home.

You tried to cuddle up to him, but he scooted away. He didn't want you too close to him while he was asleep just in case he had a nightmare. But you didn't care. You told him if he attacked you in his sleep, you would blast his dick off. That made him a little less worried. "How do Tony and Clint do it?" You asked as you wrapped your arms around him, trying to snuggle the grumpy super soldier. "Do what?" He relaxed a little under your touch. "The whole normal family thing. They have a wife, kids, the works, and they are the only ones. The rest of us can't keep a relationship for more than a month, and some only do one night stands. It's hard being a hero when you have to give up stuff like that."

Bucky considers your words carefully. "Is that something you want?" You throw your leg over him, trying to get comfortable. "Eventually, I want to settle down. I'm thinking at least ten years from now, not any time soon. It's just hard to tell who is asking you out for the right reasons or because you're famous. I can't tell you how many phones I've destroyed after dates because they were trying to live stream the whole thing. Is that why you don't date?"

Bucky tenses, explaining how his past as The Winter Soldier scared him away from anything like that. "So you haven't been having sex because you're scared you will hurt someone?" He nods and you giggle. Bucky looks at you like you've grown a second head. "I'm sorry Bucky, that's ridiculous. Your arm must be so tired! Oh my God! Do you use the metal one?" His silence makes you laugh harder. "Bucky there are super powered women you could have been sleeping with this whole time. People who could at least put up a fair fight if something like that happened, but you're okay now right? I thought the code words didn't work anymore." You rub his back soothingly.

You gasp as an idea hits you. "Would it be too crazy if we slept together?" It was like word vomit. You didn't mean to say it out loud, but you couldn't take it back now. Bucky is so still that you think he's fallen asleep. Thankful he didn't hear your unhinged suggestion, you lay your head down to go to sleep.

"You mean that?" Bucky asks after a few minutes of silence pass. "If it wouldn't hurt our friendship then, why not? I trust you. And I could hold my own if things went sideways. Plus, I'm a lot hotter than your hand, you have to admit that." The quip earned a chuckle from him. "Can I think about it?" He asks, his seriousness taking over. "Of course." You snuggle back into him, sleep finding you more quickly than you would've liked. That was a little over a month ago, neither of you brought it up afterward. You figured he didn't want to hurt your feelings, so you let it go.

Steve grabbed Bucky’s hand helping him to his feet. "I thought we lost you back there." He says leading him to the quinjet. On the ride home, Bucky thought about his life, how unhappy he had been lately. He thought of you and how he kept you at arm's length to protect you from himself. You were always so open to him, always letting him know what was on your mind. When you suggested the two of you sleep together, he was shocked. Of course, he wanted to but he couldn't. You were too sweet, he was jaded. He would end up hurting you somehow, he was sure of it. But you weren't scared of him, you trusted him.

Bucky thought of all the times he laid alone at night, masterbating when he could have went home with someone instead. He always turned them down, he couldn't risk it. He lived too dangerously. He could lose his life any moment saving the planet from the next alien attack. Wasn't it time he started living for himself? He had his mind made up when the quinjet landed. Steve told him to go get the cuts on his face and arm examined but he ignored him.

He almost ran to the elevator, not bothering to wait for Steve to get on before pressing the button to shut the doors. When it finally stopped on his floor, he walked by his room, stopping three doors down right outside of yours. He should have cared that it was three in the morning, that he would be waking you up, but he didn't. He tapped on the door loud enough to wake you.

He regretted coming straight here as he waited for you, he should have went to his room to shower first. His leather jacket was dirty and torn. There was a small gash on his arm that had finally stopped bleeding. His face was filthy and according to Steve, he had a cut there too. He probably looked terrifying. He thought about leaving to clean up, but then he heard the pitter patter of your feet as you approached the door.

You pull it open slightly at first, to see who is outside, opening it wider when you see him. He steps inside as you shut it back, locking it behind him. Bucky looks around the dark room noticing the glow from your tv. Your hair is messy, you must have been sleeping fitfully. His gaze drops to your body, you're wearing a black t-shirt that stops at your hips and black lace panties.

"Are you okay?" You ask taking in his disheveled appearance. You turn to get something to clean his wounds, his vibranium hand catches your wrist. "Bucky? What hap-" He picks you up with one arm, holding you close to his body as his lips crash into yours. He walks you to the edge of your bed, tumbling on top of you as your back hits your fluffy pink comforter.

"Do you still want this?" He asks, his voice rougher than he intended. You can't think clearly, not with him on top of you, caging you in like this. His blue eyes search your face as he waits for an answer. Your panties grow wetter with each second that passes. Your nipples are peaked under your shirt, desperate to be touched as you press your chest to his dirty leather jacket. "Yes" You somehow manage to whisper your confirmation.

His mouth is on yours again, rough and demanding, almost desperate. You cup his face with your hands, "Slow down, I'm not going anywhere." You assure him, breaking the kiss. He groans, hating the loss of contact. "Can't" He rasps, his face nuzzling against your neck. He nips and kisses the sensitive skin there, his tongue licking from your shoulder to your jaw.

His flesh hand travels to your chest, rubbing his thumb over your clothed nipple. He keeps kissing his way back down your throat until he reaches the collar of your shirt. His metal arm grabs the top, slipping underneath to get a good grip on it. He rips it down the center with little effort.

You gasp as the cold air hits your now exposed chest. But you're not cold for long, Bucky's lips capture a nipple between his lips tugging and sucking like his life depends on it while his flesh hand toys with the other one. You're not sure what has gotten into him, you never expected it to be like this, like he needs you.

He kisses a trail down your stomach to your panties. They aren't exactly see through, but they don't hide anything either. His vibranium fingers dig into your hip as he lowers his face, his pink tongue licking up the center of your soaked panties. You whimper underneath him, your fingers sliding in his hair, pulling at the short strands.

He grunts as he licks you through the lacy material. You try to close your legs around his head, hoping to bring yourself more relief. Bucky's steel grip on your hip tightens as he brings his flesh hand to your thigh, pulling it off him. He opens you wide, continuing his desperate assault on you. "I need more, please." You whine, needing to actually feel him against you.

He thankfully takes mercy on you, removing his hands to grab both sides of your panties. "Lift your hips for me." You do as your told, and he slides the unwanted garment off of you. He drags you to the edge of the bed, lowering himself on his knees in front of you. He parts your thighs, metal hand returning to its rightful place on your hip. You place your leg over his shoulder, taking a deep breath as the anticipation makes your skin prickle.

His hot breath on your soaked core makes you tremble. You feel him smirk against you. "I havent even touched you yet and you're shakin' like a leaf." A dark chuckle escapes him and he dives in. His tongue flat against you as he gathers your slick, bringing it to your clit and swirling it around. He moans, loving the way you taste. He wraps his lips around your most sensitve part, drawing you in, causing your hips to buck upward.

His grip on your hip tightens, a bruise beginning to form under his thumb. "Be a good girl for me. Stay still." His voice is soft, gentle, a complete contrast to his actions. He alternates between sucking you roughly and licking you slowly. You squirm underneath him, you're so close. He suddenly stops, removing his face from you.

His flesh hand rubbing your stomach, before laying his arm on you forcefully to keep you from moving. "I said stay still." He growls, his tongue swiping your clit before he sucks it between his lips once more. It takes every ounce of concentration you have to not writhe against him. You've never seen him like this so needy, almost feral. He's like a wild animal slurping you down like you're the first thing he's eaten in weeks. You don't dare to disturb him. So you lie as still as you can, letting him have you.

He needs this. He needs you. He flicks his tongue expertly over your clit, sendng you spiralling. He holds you down as he takes all he wants from you. He's not satisfied until you come three times. Your legs are wobbly, you couldn't get up if you had to. Tears stream down your face from how intense it was. He finally stands, unbuttoning his pants, sliding them down just enough to free himself.

He adjusts himself between your legs, filling you up. You gasp, grabbing onto his grimy leather jacket for support. You wonder why he didn't bother with getting undressed, but you don't mind. You love how dirty he is. How the filth on his jacket rubbing against your bare chest is the sexiest thing in the world right now. How you can see the cut on his arm, dried blood on his sleeve. You don't know if it's his or some Hydra asshole's, and you don't know which is hotter.

His hair is disheveled. His face is scraped, dirt from the mission caked on him, remnants of your arousal still on his mouth. He fills you completely over and over, holding you as close as he can. His pants rub the back of your thighs as he pounds into you. You caress his face, "Can I be on top?" You ask quietly, afraid you'll offend him some way in his feral state. He flips you so his back is on your mattress. Normally you would be upset that your sheets were getting dirty, but you didn't mind at all. You place your legs on either side of him, sliding down his length. Your ass hits the fabric of his jeans as you take all of him.

You look behind you noticing how big he looks on your bed. His leather boots covered in mud, hanging off the edge. A gush of arousal floods his lap, his hands hold your thighs, pulling you closer. You begin to lift yourself up and down on him, your legs still shaky from your earlier orgasms. Bucky notices you won't be able to keep it up for long, so he clutches your hips, taking over. He thrusts underneath you, your hands land on his shoulders needing to steady yourself. You love that it's giving the illusion that you're in control, your body on top of his, but he's calling all the shots, moving your body like he owns it.

You've never felt so full. It's as if Bucky can read your mind, his flesh hand pressing on the bulge he's making in your stomach. He works you harder now, his vibranium thumb coming between you to swirl your clit. Your vision goes blurry, stars bursting behind your eyelids. You come with a loud cry of his name. He follows shortly after, spilling inside you. He holds you close, as you listen to his breathing slow down as he drifts off to sleep while still inside you.

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[apenny4thots]

A Family Affair

Stepbrother! Bucky Barnes x Reader

AN: Sloth 02, for @theoracleofsin event Summer of Sin: “It’s too late to fix it now, so why don't you just lie down here in the dark with me?"

AN2: Divider courtesy of @saradika-graphics

🚨WARNING🚨DDDNE (Dead Dove Do Not Eat) The following work deals with stepcest. The author also trusts that you know your own triggers before you proceed. PLEASE READ RESPONSIBLY.

🚩Content Warning🚩 language, stepcest, relations between step-brother & step-sister, including but not limited to: kissing, dry humping, fingering, groping.

If the above makes you uncomfortable in any way, please do not continue. Your mental health should always be a priority. Complaints to the inbox will be ignored/deleted. You’ve been warned plenty.

You slip into the quiet beach house after midnight, the wooden stairs creaking under your bare feet. The family vacation was supposed to be chill, a respite from college finals. You just wrapped up your first year at NYU with your brother, Bucky. Unlike many traditional students, the two of you commuted to/from Manhattan. The perks of living in Brooklyn.

And if you want to be technical, Bucky is your stepbrother.

Bucky is also the guy who’s been glaring at you like he wants to either fight you or fuck you since your parents got hitched last year. Maybe both.

Nothing’s ever neutral with Bucky Barnes around.

The living room is dark except for the faint glow of the ocean through the big windows. You freeze when you see him already on the oversized sectional, one arm slung behind his head, shirtless in those low-slung gray sweatpants that should be illegal. Moonlight cuts across the hard lines of his chest. He doesn’t look surprised to see you. Like he was waiting.

“Couldn’t sleep either, huh?” His voice is low, rough.

You swallow, clutching the hem of your oversized sleep shirt. “Just… getting water.”

But you don’t move. The air between you feels charged, like the storm rolling in off the water. Weeks of this—sniping at each other during family dinners, him “accidentally” brushing against you in the kitchen, you catching him staring when he thinks you’re not looking. The tension’s been building since that stupid fight last month while you were cramming for exams. It ended with him pinning you against the wall and growling that you were driving him fucking crazy.

He shifts, patting the cushion next to him. “C’mere.”

“Bucky.”

“It’s too late to fix it now,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours, dark and intense in the shadows, “so why don’t you just lie down here in the dark with me?”

Your heart slams against your ribs. This is crossing every line. The kind of wrong that makes your thighs press together even as your brain screams bad idea. But your feet carry you over anyway. You sink onto the couch, keeping a careful foot of space between you. He doesn’t let it stay that way. One big hand curls around your waist, tugging you closer until your curves are pressed against his solid warmth, your breasts brushing his side, your thigh draping over his.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he breathes, nose brushing your hair. His fingers trace lazy circles on your hip, slipping under the shirt to find bare skin. “Been thinking about this since you walked in wearing that little bikini earlier. Acting all innocent while your ass is out there tempting me.”

“Bucky, we can’t.” Your protest is weak and breathy, because his other hand is already sliding up your thigh, calloused palm rough and possessive.

“Too late, doll.” His voice drops, lips ghosting your ear. “Parents are asleep upstairs. House is quiet. And I’ve been hard for you for months. You gonna keep pretending you don’t want it too?”

You shiver as he kisses your neck, slow and open-mouthed, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. His hand cups one of your breasts, thumb circling your nipple through the thin fabric until it’s aching. “God… been dying to get my hands on you properly. So fucking soft and perfect.”

You arch into him without meaning to, a little whimper escaping. He chuckles darkly, flipping you so you’re straddling his lap, your panties grinding against the thick bulge in his sweats. “That’s it. Ride it a little. Let me feel how wet you already are for your stepbrother.”

His words are filthy and loving all at once, hands worshipping every inch like he’s claiming what’s always been his. He pulls your shirt up and off, mouth latching onto your breast, sucking and biting while his fingers dip between your legs, pushing your panties aside to stroke your slick folds.

“Such a good girl for me,” he growls against your skin. “Gonna make you come on my fingers first, then my cock. Quiet, though little sister. We don’t want them hearing how bad their sweet little daughter’s cunt needs her big brother’s cock.”

You bury your face in his shoulder, rocking against him as he works you open, two thick fingers curling just right while his thumb teases your clit. The ocean waves crash outside, matching the rhythm building inside you. It’s wrong. It’s everything.

He flips you onto your back suddenly, hovering over you, sweatpants shoved down just enough to free himself. “Look at me,” he demands, lining up at your entrance. “Want to see those pretty eyes when I finally fuck you.”

You bite your lip hard, those your eyes wide and glassy as you take him in.

Fuck, he’s big. Your mouth waters at the idea of sucking him and swallowing his load.

You grin and hook your thumbs onto your panties. You lift your hips, ready to pull them down. “Then come take what’s always been yours dear brother.”

FIN.