#bucky barnes reader insert

[bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky]

I Think I’ve Seen This Film Before | Bucky Barnes x Reader

I am back to writing after moving cities, starting a new job, going through a death in the family, and breaking up with my ex! Please enjoy the angst.

Word count: 20.4k

Warnings: anxiety, talk of cheating, vomit

The persistent buzzing was wearing on your last nerve.

“Buck!” you called, “your phone is ringing- again!”

Bucky’s phone sat on the opposite side of the kitchen island, vibrating into oblivion, just as it had been for the past few minutes. Part of you wanted to answer the damn thing and put a stop to whatever telemarketer spam was plaguing your boyfriend’s phone. And if it weren’t for the cookie dough covering your hands, maybe you would’ve.

And so, you called to him again. 

“I think it’s probably pretty important!” You let out a sigh, “Cause they won’t stop fucking calling.”

Bucky chuckled from down the hall. Damn his enhanced senses. Not even words mumbled under your breath could escape his hearing.  

“Just let it go to voicemail,” he hollered, content to ignore his ringing phone.

Bucky never had much affection for his phone. He felt it was more of a bother than an advancement. That it didn’t fit comfortably into his life. He never wanted to be this accessible. This available to other people. Until he met you. 

Overnight, his opinion changed. Texting, he decided, was his favorite thing about the modern world. No longer did he have to wait for a response to the love letters he drafted. No longer did he have to hang around the mailbox hoping for an envelope stained with your lipstick. He could simply fire off an adoring text, and your replies were almost instantaneous. 

But it was uncommon for his phone to blow up like this when the two of you were together. When you were apart, it buzzed every few minutes with your responses to his loving messages. But when the two of you were both home, nestled in the apartment you shared, Bucky abandoned his phone. In his eyes, everything and everyone else could wait. 

He often ditched the thing upon returning home, leaving it on the counter or the coffee table. He didn’t squirrel it away into his pocket or keep it on his bedside table. No, he disconnected from it completely. Happily. He only ever wanted to be present with you. To be completely free from distraction when you were around.

But whoever was calling didn’t get the memo. They called once, twice, five times in a row. 

You’d called out to Bucky every time, letting him know that a very persistent individual was eager to get ahold of him. But he didn’t seem to care. He was too busy folding and putting away your laundry in the bedroom. Too content in this perfect picture of domestic bliss.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said as he finally swept through the kitchen, empty laundry basket in hand. “I’ll worry about it tomorrow.”

“It seems like something,” you told him. “What if it’s Sam or Joaquin? What if something’s wrong?”

Bucky thought it over for a moment. His distaste for his phone was strong, but his concern for his friends was infinitely more powerful. And while he didn’t want to be the kind of boyfriend who spent all of his time occupied by his screen, he opted to give the missed calls a glance. Just in case.

A familiar number- a number he hadn’t seen in ages- was splashed across his notifications. It wasn’t saved in his contacts anymore, but he’d recognize it anywhere. Before he had a chance to wonder why it was plaguing him, his phone began vibrating once again. That same number, one he saw as an ancient relic of a past life, illuminated his screen for a sixth time.

He stared at his buzzing phone. He didn’t want to answer. Had no interest in speaking to this person. But just as he tried to place his phone back on the counter, something gnawed at him. Nagged at him. Told him there had to be a good reason for these calls. 

He eyed you for a short moment and answered the call.

“Um… hello?”

There was no way this was Sam or Torres, that much you knew. But who else would call Bucky six times in a row? Who else would bother him on a Saturday? Whose call would he answer while at home with you? Nat was more of a texter, and Yelena had broken her phone in an “incident” only a few days prior. You found yourself at a loss for answers.

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky said into the phone, almost irritated. “Did you need something, or-”

He listened for a long time, throwing in the occasional “yeah” or “okay”. Whoever was on the other end, he didn’t seem thrilled to be speaking to them. But he was hearing them out. Giving them a chance. He even reached for a piece of scratch paper and a pen and jotted down a few notes here and there. You and your cookie dough sat in suspense.

“Um, alright. I’m going to…” His eyes found yours, “Let me think it over and I’ll get back to you.”

And just like that, the mysterious call was over. 

Bucky slipped his phone into his pocket. It wasn’t like him.

“Well?” you stared at him, expectant. “Who was that?”

Bucky let out a sigh. His head fell an inch or two. He smoothed the crease between his brows with the pad of his thumb. He stayed this way for a long, quiet moment. Until finally, he, asked:

“Do you remember me telling you about Tara?”

Tara. Tara. 

“Yeah.”

How could you forget?

He’d told you about his ex-girlfriend Tara a few times. She’d been a fellow special agent with SWORD; that’s how they met. The way Bucky described it, their breakup was amicable and quiet, no dramatics. He said it was for the better. That they simply grew apart.

Sam told a different story. 

After nearly three years together, Tara left. She got a job offer on the other side of the world. She didn’t know how long she’d be gone, didn’t know if she’d ever come back. And while Bucky wanted to stay in Brooklyn, wanted to stay in the only real home he’d ever known, he promised her he’d follow. That he’d go with her, if that’s what she wanted.

But she didn’t ask him to tag along.

Instead, she ended things. She boarded a jet and began an entirely new life, a life that didn’t include Bucky. 

And it destroyed him. 

He wanted, more than anything, for her to be happy. Wanted her to pursue the opportunity. But her departure ate through him like acid. It hollowed him out, turning him into a shell of himself. He had loved her so much. So deeply. So endlessly. They talked about the future they’d share. About getting married. He’d considered their relationship a sure thing. A guarantee. 

And then she was gone.

Sam helped him pick up the pieces. But it took time. A long time. Sam said he barely recognized his friend at times; he was more of a husk than a person. 

An intense feeling of unease settled into your stomach. Why had Tara called? Was she finally back in town? Did she want a second chance with Bucky? Would he leave you for her? Were you just his placeholder until she returned?

“Well, she’s back in the city,” Bucky told you.

Your heart dropped. A pang of anxiety struck you like lightning, but you refused to show it. 

“Oh yeah?” you asked casually. Maybe too casually.

“Yeah. And she wants my help.”

It took you off guard. 

“With what?”

Bucky sat down on one of the barstools that lived under the kitchen island. He scratched at his stubble. “Her new organization thinks they found another underground sect of Hydra.”

“Oh.” You stomach twisted. “Shit.”

Bucky nodded. “They want me to come work with them for a while. Help them handle it. Cause I’m,” he let out a small, cynical laugh, “Cause I’m the expert, or whatever.”

A small part of you, the selfish part, was relieved. Tara had called about a work matter, nothing more. There was nothing romantic to it. But a much larger part of you fell stricken with worry. 

Anytime something Hydra related came up in Bucky’s work, it knocked him off kilter. His nightmares returned. His anxiety worsened. It pushed him to the precipice, forcing him to cling to his newfound peace by his fingernails. It killed you to see him that way. Killed you to know that he was hurting. 

But he refused to back down when it came to Hydra. Refused to shy away from the harsh reality that Hydra was still lurking. Still skulking in the shadows. And no matter how it affected him, he was dedicated to toppling every last Hydra holdout. For the good of the world. For himself.

“So, what do you think?” He stared at you expectantly.

You stared right back. 

“Um, what do I think?”

You weren’t quite sure what he was asking. Or why. This decision was entirely up to him. It was his mental health on the line. His trauma being unearthed all over again. But you offered him your opinion regardless. 

“Well, I think it’s… it’s going to be hard on you,” you said. “Every time you deal with Hydra, it has consequences. But I know you want to take them down- rightfully so.” You shrugged, “So you should do whatever feels right to you. If it gets to be too much, you can always take a step back. And I’ll be here for you the whole time. So-”

Bucky’s smile put a stop to your words.

You couldn’t help but laugh a little, “What?”

“I meant, what do you think about me working with Tara?” He asked. “Don’t get me wrong, your answer was great- perfect, actually. And I definitely needed to hear that,” he smiled at you again, totally smitten.  “But I need to know if you’re comfortable with this. And be honest with me, okay? Because if this makes you feel weird, I won’t do it.”

“Oh, um…” you shrugged.

The truth was complicated. And though you would rather Bucky not work with the previous love of his life, what option did you have? How could you possibly ask him not to take this job? He felt a responsibility to eliminate Hydra, to tear them apart the way they did him. And you weren’t going to get in his way. 

In the grand scheme of things, Bucky working with his ex didn’t matter. If partnering up with Tara meant cutting off yet another head of the snake, it was more than justified. 

You swallowed to your immature, childish, petty feelings about the situation, and put on a smile.

“I mean, it’s a work thing. It’s not like she called you up and asked you to marry her,” you forced a laugh. “We’re all mature adults here. If you want to do it, then you should. I know how much it means to you that Hydra is wiped off the map. And I’m not going to stop you just because the two of you used to be-” 

The words ‘in love’ got stuck in your throat.

“Used to be together,” you said. “Plus, I trust you. I’m not worried about you straying.”

You were, in fact, very worried about him straying. About him spending time with Tara. About him remembering just how much he loved her. About dormant feelings suddenly awakening. In a previous life, she was ‘the one’ for him. The love of his life. And you feared that she’d returned to reclaim her title.

But before the dread could set in, he rose from his seat and made the way around the counter. He wrapped his arms around your waist and settled his chin in the crook of your neck. 

You feared he’d notice your thundering pulse. Your unsteady breathing. 

“You definitely don’t have to worry about me straying,” he said, his breath fanning your skin. “Thank you for always being so understanding. I love you.” 

You leaned back against him, eliminating what tiny space remained between your bodies. And for a split second, you felt at ease.

But the voice in the back of your head, the one that you’d wrongfully silenced in the past, told you this was a mistake. That this was the beginning of the end. It told you that you’d seen this film before and that the ending would by agonizing. It screamed at you, warning you that you were, once again, repeating a well-known pattern. 

But you muzzled it, just like you had before.

Because, while the situation did have a haunting air of familiarity to it, Bucky was different. He was loving. He was trustworthy. 

Wasn’t he?

Yes. Of course. 

You chastised yourself for even wondering. For doubting. It wasn’t fair to saddle Bucky with the weight of your failed relationships. To be suspicious of him when he gave you no reason. 

You wriggled until he loosened his grip, allowing you to turn around. 

“And I love you,” you let your lips melt against his. “So, when do you start?”

It wasn’t so bad at first. 

His days started early, much earlier than yours. He slipped out the door and into the dark morning before you woke each day, leaving you in an empty bed. Waking without him next to you, with his side of the bed empty and cold, stung. 

Gone were the early morning chats over coffee. Gone were the shared showers before work. But you didn’t allow yourself too much time to mourn these lost moments with Bucky. They would return one day, you knew they would. Once his work with Tara’s organization was over, things would return to normal. You just had to be patient.

And while your shared morning routine was a temporarily put on hold, your usual evening schedule was alive and well.

The two of you cooked and ate dinner together every night, just as you always did. You shared a glass or two of wine. Did the dishes. And when the kitchen was clean, you’d curl up against Bucky’s side for a little tv time. 

There was one notable difference, however. One noticeable change to your evenings, to your home as a whole. 

Bucky’s phone never left his side. He always had it with him, either tucked into his pocket or cradled safely in his hand. It sat on his nightstand at bedtime, only inches away. It buzzed with emails, texts. And he refused to let them go unanswered, even for a few minutes. 

Surely, he wasn’t doing it because he wanted to. Right? It was all business, all professional. It had to be. He was the expert, the authority on Hydra. He had to be reachable, that was all.

But his newfound habit didn’t pair well with his borderline constant comments about Tara.

“Tara said the funniest thing today.”

“Tara had a great idea.”

“Do you like this coffee? Tara introduced me to it.”

Tara.

Her name pinballed around inside your head, buzzing like a swarm of angry bees. It was loud, almost deafening. A deep, animal instinct screamed at you, warning you: something wasn’t right. He talked about her far too often and far too highly for this to be an innocent professional relationship. Surely, there was something amiss. Something going on between them behind closed doors. 

There had, at one time, been so much love there. Was it really possible that that love died out?

The suspicions piled higher and higher as the days passed. Every time Bucky reached for his phone, a knot twisted in your stomach. Surely, Tara was sending him flirtatious texts. She had to be. You found yourself dying to dig through his phone. To investigate each and every message she sent. But you restrained yourself, never daring to break the trust you and Bucky had so carefully built.

After a short while, you found yourself hating Tara. Cursing her. Raging against her inside your own head. The stories you came up with, the horrible pictures you painted- they twisted her into a villain. An evil siren sent to sink her claws into the love of your life and steal him away.

It almost frightened you how easy it was for you to hate her. To hate someone you didn’t know.

And she hadn’t even done anything wrong. 

But you couldn’t help it; you were jealous. Jealous of all the time she spent with Bucky. Jealous of how often he spoke with her. Jealous that, even when he was at home, she was still on his mind. 

And you hated the feeling. Hated the immature thoughts that stirred inside your head. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t overcome the weight of the green-eyed monster on your back.

Two weeks into Bucky’s new gig, you stood at the kitchen counter, waiting for him. He was late. On a normal night, he returned home between six and six-thirty, but the clock neared seven and there was no sign of him. He didn’t answer your calls, didn’t respond to your texts. It wasn’t like him.

You started on dinner without him, though you couldn’t remember the last time you cooked a meal alone. The two of you always worked together, evenly sharing the labor of making dinner. It was part of your routine, one of your shared patterns. And ever since your morning routine was snatched out from under you, you grew to cherish the time spent making dinner with Bucky. 

Suddenly, you felt startlingly alone. 

You woke up alone. Got ready for work alone. Returned home to an empty apartment. And with Bucky otherwise occupied, you made dinner alone, too. 

As eight o’clock rolled around, you once again fiddled with the tin foil covering the meal you’d so carefully prepared. After doing your best to keep it warm on the stove, a distinctive burning smell forced you to pull it from the burner. You supposed lukewarm and covered in foil was better than charred into oblivion.

As you tore another piece of foil from the roll and wrapped it tightly around the dish, your phone buzzed, and Bucky’s picture lit up your screen. All at once, you found your tight muscles relaxing. 

A deep, calming sigh left your chest. Some silent, subconscious part of you had feared that something happened to him. That Hydra silenced him once and for all. That he couldn’t answer your calls because he was lying dead somewhere. It was a reality too horrible to even acknowledge. And so, you’d pushed it to the darkest corner of your mind and opted focused on dinner. But that didn’t stop your hands from shaking. 

The tremors calmed a bit as you answered his call.

“Buck?”

“Hey, sweetheart,” he sounded out of breath. Hurried. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer- I’m so sorry I’m late. I got pulled into a last-minute meeting and it ran long.”

“That’s okay, it happens,” you told him. “Dinner’s ready. Will you be home soon?”

“Twenty minutes, I promise,” he told you. “Did you eat already?”

The question almost offended you. “Of course not, baby. I’ve been waiting for you.”

He let out a disappointed sigh, “Doll, you didn’t have to-” 

“I wanted to. I’d much rather eat with you, even if it means waiting a while.”

He was quiet for a moment; you could almost see the sad smile spreading across his face. “You’re too good to me- you’re the best. I’ll be home soon, okay?”

And he was.

The two of you ate your room temperature dinner together and discussed your respective workdays. Bucky, of course, namedropped Tara more times than you could count. And by all accounts, she was incredible. It made you wonder when Bucky would realize that you couldn’t compare. That you couldn’t compete with her. On paper, she was his perfect match. She was his other half. Tara was whip smart and worldly. Hilarious. Gutsy. And absolutely deadly. 

How could you compete against someone like that?

Sleep evaded you each night as you as you compared yourself to his lost love, to the one that got away. Over and over again, you listed your attributes against Tara’s, examining how you might stack up to her. You played out every possible scenario in your head. Not one of them ended with Bucky choosing you. And you couldn’t blame him.

His weekends were soon consumed by work. No longer did he spend his Saturdays and Sundays with you, browsing the farmers market and enjoying brunch. No longer did the two of you have movie marathons or bake fresh cookies. Instead, he spent his weekends at headquarters or locked in your home office. The two of you didn’t go on dates or spend time with friends. No, Bucky spent all of his time with Tara. 

A month later, Bucky studied you over another late dinner. 

“Are you feeling alright?” he asked.

He put down his fork and pressed the back of his hand to your forehead, your cheeks, searching for a fever. 

“Um, yeah. I think so…” you eyed the hand pressed against your cheek. “Why?”

“Are you sure? You seem tired, baby.” He looked at you closely, examining the most minute details of your face. His gaze dropped to your plate, and he frowned at your virtually untouched meal. “Are you not hungry? Maybe you’re getting sick.”

A small sigh pushed through your lips. 

It wasn’t at all what you needed to hear. Ever since Bucky started working with Tara, you feared he’d fall back under the spell of her otherworldly beauty, of her wit and charm, and leave you in the dust. The thought kept you up, driving you slowly insane each night. And knowing that you looked tried, that Bucky thought you looked sickly, drove another pang of anxiety into your chest. 

“I just haven’t been sleeping well lately,” you told him. “It’s been- work has been really crazy.”

It was such an easy lie. You reached for it two days prior when Bucky asked why you’d bitten all the skin off your bottom lip. And it came in handy three days before that, when he asked why your nails were bitten down to the quick, why your cuticles were raw and bloodied. 

“Oh, that’s right. Of course. I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He removed his hand from your cheek and placed it instead on your forearm. “Do you know when things will go back to normal?”

You simply shook your head. 

And that was the last night you ate dinner together.

The following night, you found yourself back in the kitchen, cooking dinner alone once again. You’d never realized just how much you hated cooking until you had to do it by yourself. With Bucky around, you looked forward to making dinner every night. Looked forward to dancing in the kitchen and watching him chop vegetables with his expert knife skills. But without him, it became your most dreaded chore.

You glanced longingly at the clock and found a renewed sense of hope. It was nearly eight, which meant Bucky would be barreling through the front door and wrapping you in his arms in no time. You poured two glasses of wine and placed them on the table, allowing yourself a smile. He would be home soon.

At least, that’s what you thought.

Around nine-forty, your phone buzzed. Bucky’s name appeared in block letters across your screen. And before you could even say hello, he was speaking.

“Baby, hey. I don’t- I’m so sorry. I’m leaving right now, okay? I promise. I’m on my way.”

It took everything in you to keep your disappointment from seeping into your words. This wasn’t his fault- you knew it wasn’t. And it wasn’t fair of you to be upset with him. To make him feel worse. But you missed him. Desperately.

Never before had any of Bucky’s meetings lasted this long or run this late. You knew in your gut there was something going on. Something secretive and sinister. Something that would rip you to shreds.

The manufactured casual tone you adopted didn’t sound convincing to you, but you hoped he’d buy it. “It’s- don’t worry about it, Buck. Okay? It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not, doll. I didn’t- I was gonna be home normal time. But I couldn’t step away from this briefing.” His words came out in a flurry, “I’m so sorry, I should have at least called. This is- it’s not okay. I feel awful.”

“Don’t feel awful, baby. It happens.” You wondered if this ‘briefing’ included everyone from the team. Or if Bucky and Tara had been the only ones in attendance. “Um, dinner is in the fridge, okay? I made-”

“Please tell me you ate without me,” he nearly begged. 

“Oh, um. Yeah. Yes. I did- I ate already.” 

With crossed fingers, you hoped Bucky would believe your lie.

With Bucky MIA, you hadn’t even considered eating. Nothing sounded remotely appetizing. In fact, your stomach had tied itself into a thousand intricate, painful knots. The nausea crept in soon after, and the idea of eating dinner flew entirely out the window. 

But it was easier to lie, to tell him you’d eaten. It would save him a little guilt. And if you could convince him that you’d already had your share, he wouldn’t ask about your lack of appetite. 

But you adopted your best happy-go-lucky tone and pretended that you weren’t losing your mind.

“Sorry, Buck, I wasn’t planning on eating without you, but it got pretty late and-”

“No, no. I’m glad you ate. I’m sure you were starving,” he said. “I’ll be home soon, okay? I can’t wait to see you.”

He rushed through the front door twenty minutes later, apologies falling from his lips one after another. He scooped you into his arms and dotted kisses all over your face between “I’m sorrys”. And you assured him that all was well. But you had to wonder if his affections were genuine. If his apologies applied only to his late arrival, or if he’d committed some other transgression he’d yet to confess. 

But you sat at the table with him anyway as he reheated the dinner you’d made by yourself. You listened to him tell you all about Tara’s brilliant work in the briefing. And you wondered how much longer you’d get to keep him. 

Dinner became non-existent for you, as did most other meals. You did your best to stomach small, infrequent snacks here and there. But the anxiety of Bucky’s possible infidelity made it almost impossible to keep food down. 

You still cooked, though. Regardless of the intense nausea, the biting stomach pains, you still managed to put together decent meals for him. You’d tuck the food neatly into Tupperware and stack it in the fridge, knowing damn well he’d never be home in time to eat it warm.

It was as if, after his first excessively late arrival, a seal had been broken. Never again did he return home at a reasonable time. He came through the door ever-later as the days dragged on. Nine-fifty. Ten-thirteen. Ten-thirty-five. Eleven. You did your best to stay awake, at least. To be there to greet him when he got home. But as his homecomings grew later and later, you found yourself dozing off before he’d even texted to let you know he was on his way home.

Some nights, he didn’t come home at all. You’d wake in the morning to find his side of the bed untouched. His boots missing from the front hall. On those mornings, it became obvious just how disconnected you were. On those mornings, you realized that the two of you were just ships passing in the nights. On those mornings, you wretched in the shower before work. 

Every obvious warning sign was there. Every red flag. Every neon fucking sign pointed to the fact that Bucky was having an affair. And it threatened to eat you alive.

You’d never been so miserable. So heartbroken. Pain radiated through your chest and pulsed through your veins. Every cell in your body throbbed with agony. You wanted someone to put you out of your misery. To wipe you from the face of the earth and save you from Bucky’s confession and eventual departure. But no such mercy came.

Part of you wished you’d spoken up. Wished that you’d told Bucky not to take the job. 

If you’d just voiced your concerns, maybe he never would’ve strayed. Maybe things would still be normal. And god, did you miss normalcy. You missed the patterns. The routines. The “boring” domestic life you once shared with Bucky. You missed talking to him. Spending time with him. Being close with him. The distance between you seemed to grow every single day. And you feared you’d never bridge that gap.

But you didn’t have to.

Bucky returned home one Sunday night in unusually high spirits. He found you in the bathroom, getting ready for bed, and lifted you into his strong arms.

“Baby…” He buried his face in your neck and smiled against your skin. “I’m so excited for next weekend.”

You were so lost in his touch that the words didn’t register for a quite a while. It had been so long since he was this affectionate, this close. Tears threatened to pool in the corner of your eyes as you relished in the sensation of his arms knitted around your back. His breath on your skin. And for a moment, you allowed yourself to consider the possibility that things might be okay.

Suddenly, you realized what he’d said.

“Next weekend?” You pulled away just a hair, allowing yourself a glimpse at his face. “What’s next weekend?”

 “’What’s next weekend?’” He let an exaggerated, over-dramatic gasp fill his lungs, “I can’t believe you forgot! We’re going to the cabin, sweetheart! Next weekend, remember? It’s the weekend of the nineteenth! Keep up, doll.” He shot you a wink.

The cabin?

Sure, the two of you had planned to escape upstate to your aunt’s cozy little cabin. But that was agreed upon months ago. Long before this job. Long before Tara. You’d assumed that with Bucky’s long hours and lack of weekends, that that plan was defunct. But apparently, you were wrong.

“Wait, we’re still going?” you asked, incredulous.

“Of course,” Bucky said. “I told them I can’t work next weekend, no ifs, ands, or buts.” He snaked his hands from your spine to your sides and allowed them to slowly inch up your body. When they finally cupped your face, he pressed his lips to yours in a long, deep kiss full of longing. “I’m long overdue for some interrupted him with my best girl.”

Your heart fluttered. 

“I know I’ve been really busy. And tired. And distracted. And- I’ve been a fucking absentee boyfriend,” he sighed. The self-hatred in his voice was almost palpable. “I didn’t think this job would be so… intense. I’ve barely been home. And I know this whole thing has gotta be tough on you.”

Tears sprang forth once again. You did your best to blink them away, but they persisted, and a few rolled down your cheeks against your will. 

You sighed, “I just miss you.” The words had a fractured quality about them. 

“Oh, sweetheart…” The heartbreak in his voice forced more tears to your surface. He pulled you into his body, wrapping you in the tightest hug he could safely manage. “I miss you too. So much. I promise nexxt weekend is going to be just for us. And when I’m done with this job, we’ll go away together for a long time, okay? No phones,” he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “No distractions,” he left a second kiss to your nose. “Just you and me,” he leaned down and dropped a third and final kiss against your lips. 

It was a simple promise, nothing extravagant. But it was exactly what you’d been dying to hear. You’d been so convinced that Bucky would end things any day now, so sure that your time with him would soon be over. But hearing him make promises for your shared future helped ease the agony you’d been shouldering. And just like that, the storm clouds in your soul parted, revealing your first taste of sunshine in weeks. 

Bucky was still yours. And he still wanted you to be his. 

In the days leading up to your weekend away, you found yourself floating through life. Everything seemed easier, brighter, warmer. The constant nausea let up and the anxiety quieted. You ate a real meal for the first time in an indeterminable number of weeks. Sure, Bucky was still glued to his phone at home and staying late at the office. But you could see a light at the end of the tunnel. 

After the absolute misery you’d experienced, hope felt so foreign. So other. But you welcomed it with open arms.

All you had to do was survive until Friday. Bucky talked his team into granting him an early departure from the office, allowing the two of you to escape the city by noon. You’d drive upstate with the windows down, blaring some top 40’s hits from decades past. And together, you’d settle in for some much-needed reconnection.

On Thursday night, Bucky returned home around ten. And regardless of his long day, he was more exultant than ever. He practically vibrated with excitement as he shoveled his dinner into his mouth and rushed to the bedroom to finish packing. It was the most energetic you’d seen him in quite some time. 

“Okay, I double and triple checked my bag,” he told you. “I’m ready.” 

“I’ve been packed since Tuesday,” you bragged. “And I got us…” you rifled through your duffle and unearthed a knotted grocery bag. “S’mores supplies.”

Bucky was floored. “You fucking think of everything!”

When the two of you settled in for bed that night, it almost felt like the good old days. Like the days before your doubts and suspicions and private agony. Before Bucky’s obsession with his phone. Before his late nights and his stories about Tara.

You slept like a rock that night, taking comfort in the fact the next day, you’d have Bucky all to yourself for an entire weekend.

He woke early the next morning, as he always did, and did his best not to disturb you. But you were too excited to sleep any longer. As he slowly and carefully rose from the bed, your eyes flew open. 

“Happy cabin day,” you whispered into the dark. 

Bucky’s startled gasp sent you into a fit of laughter. 

“You scared the hell out of- were you just laying there in the dark waiting for me to wake up?” 

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Well… happy cabin day, you creep,” he laughed, still catching his breath. “Leaving at noon sharp?”

“Noon sharp,” you said back. 

He dressed for his half day of work and allowed you to accompany him to the front door. 

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he left a kiss against your forehead, “And we’re out the door right at twelve.”

“Right at twelve,” you nodded. “See you soon, Buck.”

But you didn’t. 

Eleven rolled around without any sign of Bucky. Eleven-thirty and eleven-forty passed. And as the clock closed in on twelve, you wondered why you’d gotten your hopes up. Why you allowed yourself to get invested in this trip. Why you believed that things would actually work out.

But still, you held out hope. You sat perched on the arm of the couch. Waiting. Your duffel and Bucky’s sat at your feet. Waiting.

Your texts went unanswered. Your calls went straight to voicemail. 

‘Maybe he’s just running a bit late,’ you thought. ‘Maybe he’ll be home by twelve-thirty. Or one.’

But he wasn’t.

Nor was he home by two. Or three. 

The familiar nausea crept back in. The anxiety returned.

At four, you tossed your packed duffel into your closet and stripped out of your roadtrip clothes. You donned a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt and sank into the couch under the weight of your disappointment. All the hope, all the optimism you’d felt in this last week evaporated. And in their place settled a pointed shame. 

You couldn’t believe you’d been so stupid, so naïve. You should’ve known better. Should’ve managed your expectations. This was your own fault, really. If you’d been smart enough to read between the lines, you wouldn’t be so heartbroken. 

Around five, your stomach gave a hollow, gurgling growl. You’d been too excited to eat that morning as you rushed around completing last minute tasks before leaving for your weekend away. And after the realization that Bucky had gone back on his word, you were too sullen to even think about food, made nauseous by your anxiety.

But the nausea subsided for a moment, leaving an unbridled hunger in its wake. For a long moment, you considered putting together a simple dinner. There were groceries in the fridge, and you certainly had plenty of time to cook and eat, seeing as Bucky sabotaged your plans. But you didn’t have it in you.

Every night that you cooked dinner alone required a herculean effort. You had to push yourself, had to give yourself a rallying speech. And every night, it worked. Every night, you somehow found it in you to drag yourself to the kitchen and assemble a decent meal- albeit, a meal you wouldn’t eat. But with your hopes for a romantic weekend away dashed, the pep-talk didn’t work. Encouragement didn’t work. Nothing on the planet could force you to make even the simplest dinner. The kitchen seemed too far; you couldn’t fathom walking all the way to the cupboard for a snack.

But your bedroom? That was close by. That was doable. 

With a pitiful groan, you heaved yourself up off the couch and lugged your body into the next room. You fetched your duffle out of the closet and fished your hand around inside until you unearthed the bag of s’mores supplies. With your bounty tucked under your arm, you made the journey back into the living room and settled onto the couch once again.

A few marshmallows and a graham cracker or two would have to suffice; it was all you could manage. 

At six, your phone rang. Without even looking at the screen, you knew it was Bucky. Knew he’d be guilty and repentant and upset. Knew he’d promise to make it up to you. Knew he had a perfectly good reason for blowing off your trip. 

The petty part of you wondered if he’d simply had trouble tearing himself from Tara’s side. 

On the final ring, you answered his call. 

And you were right, he was guilty. And repentant. And upset.

“Baby, I’m- you have no idea how sorry I am. I wanted to call sooner, we were just- I was so busy. We’re working on a new lead and-” he huffed, “It’s not an excuse, I know it’s not an excuse. I made you a promise and I’m so sorry I let you down again.”

A few tears welled in your eyes, your nose burned. 

“It’s fine,” you said. “Happens.”

“I’m on my way home right now, I’ll be there as quickly as I can and as soon as I get there, we’ll leave for the cabin. We can-”

“We’re gonna hit too much traffic,” you told him, your voice flat. “That was one of the reasons we decided to leave at noon. We didn’t want to get stuck, remember?”

“Right. Well…” He went quiet for a moment as he searched for the right thing to say- for anything to say. “T wanted me to extend her apologies.”

‘T’? He was giving her nicknames now?

“She didn’t mean to keep me so long,” he said.

Your pitiful dinner churned in your stomach, fighting desperately to crawl back up your esophagus. 

Tara. Kept him. It seemed to you that Bucky was somehow reading your mind and acting on your greatest fears.

“Hey, have you eaten yet?” He asked, filling the silence, “I can pick up something for dinner, anything you want.”

The marshmallows and graham crackers looked at you with pity.

“That’s okay, I already- I’m not hungry,” you sighed. You didn’t mean to sound so dejected, but you didn’t have the energy to hide it. “I’ll just see you when you get home.”

You hung up and let your phone slide in between the couch cushions. Never before had you felt so much like an island.

Bucky tore through the door twenty minutes later, his face shiny with sweat. You knew he’d desperately rushed home, hoping it would somehow fix the situation or at least mitigate some of your disappointment. It didn’t. 

“Sweetheart…” he flew to the couch and sat by your side, “I am so, so sorry. I- I didn’t mean to be late.”

He eyed you for a moment, waiting for you to speak. But you didn’t. You remained still, leaning back against the couch cushions. There were no tears, no rageful words. You were quiet. Resigned. 

He averted his gaze, too guilty to even look at you.

“I didn’t want to stay,” he swore. “But T needed me. She practically begged me.”

T needed him. Not the team. Tara. 

It should’ve upset you, but it didn’t. You were past the point of being upset.

“Six hours late is…” You shook your head. “How does that even happen?”

Bucky ran a hand down the side of his face, “I don’t know. I’m the authority on this stuff and Tara said it was really important, so I- it doesn’t matter. I told her I needed to leave at noon, and I didn’t. I fucked up, not her.”

You nodded. You didn’t want to fight with him. And even if you did, you were too tired. 

“I hope you know I’m not actively trying to make you miserable. I don’t want to be gone all the time.” He ran a hand through his hair, “I hate this. I hate that we never get to do anything together, and I hate that I can never spend any real time with you, and I hate that you look so…” He fell silent for a long moment as he drank you in. 

His close observance made you want to shrink away. You knew he was taking inventory of your hollow, heartbroken stare. Your tired eyes. These days, you barely recognized yourself in the mirror. The face looking back at you wasn’t yours- it couldn’t be. It was too empty. Too deflated. More like a fragile husk than a person. 

 “I… I don’t remember the last time I saw you really smile,” the realization swept over him as he spoke.  “Or… heard you laugh,” a deep crease formed between his brows. “I miss it. I miss you.”

You nodded, feeling suddenly guilty. The cynical, sour part of your brain had gotten to you, convincing you that Bucky was relishing in your destruction. That he was taking joy in draining you, gutting you. 

But as you watched the tears gather slowly in his eyes, you realized just how wrong you’d been.

 “I didn’t think it would be like this,” he swore. “I knew I’d be busy, but I…” He shook his head, “I didn’t know I’d be leaving  you alone all the time. And breaking promises. And it’s-” With the back of his left hand, he all too aggressively swiped a rogue tear from his cheek; you were certain the sharp bite of the metal stung as it dug into his skin. “Hurting you like this is- it’s my biggest regret. And that includes everything I did for Hydra. I promised you we’d always be on the same team, and I’m…”

He pulled his phone out of his pocket; your chest tightened. Was he really pausing to check a text from Tara? Now?

“I’m calling the Tara,” he said, “I’m quitting.”

You unearthed yourself from the couch cushions, yanked upright by Bucky’s words. “What?”

“I can’t do it anymore. If I keep working on this, I’m gonna lose you,” he said, his voice wavering, desperate. “And I can’t risk that.”

Suddenly, a distinct and pointed feeling of guilt engulfed you. Here Bucky was, prepared to abandon his efforts to topple Hydra- for you. He was willing to allow that hideous, evil organization to rise again- for you. He was ready to default on the promise he made to himself- for you. 

How could you have doubted him? How could you have been so suspicious? He’d done nothing wrong, aside from coming home late. But that wasn’t an indictment of his character or an accurate depiction of who he was as a partner. He was kind. He was trustworthy. He was loving. 

His fingers flew over his screen, dialing Tara’s number; you didn’t love that he had it memorized. But before he could finish, you rested a hand atop his, stopping him.

He stared at you, “What are you-”

“I can’t let you quit.” 

“But-”

“If you don’t see this through, you’ll regret it. It’ll eat away at you for the rest of your life.”

He tried to protest, to prove you wrong, but you silenced him.

“I know you, Buck. I know how you feel about Hydra. And even though I’m… yeah, I’m miserable right now, but it’s fine. It’s short-term. I’ll survive.” You outstretched your free hand and settled it on his forearm. “You need to do this for you. If you quit, you’ll hate yourself. And if, heaven forbid, Hydra makes some big resurgence, you’ll always blame yourself. You’ll always wonder if you could’ve stopped it, here and now.”

He considered your words for a long, quiet moment; you watched a war rage beneath his surface. You knew you were right. Knew that you’d read his mind. Knew that if he sat idly by and allowed Hydra to claw its way back to power, it would kill him. People would get hurt; people would die. And it would be his fault, at least partially. But he couldn’t help the desperate longing in his gaze, the fraught ache as he stared at you. 

You could practically see him being torn in two by the nearly impossible choice.

“You’re…” he gave a small shake of his head, “You’re right. But this whole situation is- it’s eating you alive. You just said that you’re miserable. I can’t-” He looked down at his phone once again, “I can’t let you to be miserable. I can’t do that to you.”

You shrugged, hoping to assuage some of his guilt. “So, it’s not ideal.” The laughed you tacked onto the end didn’t convince him; it didn’t even convince you. 

A long silence filled the room. A deep frown settled Bucky’s into Bucky’s mouth as he hemmed and hawed over his options. You knew he’d choose to stay on. Hoped he’d quit. Feared he’d tell you he was leaving you for Tara.

Finally, he spoke.

“I can’t… I can’t walk away from the job,” he sighed, “It goes against everything in me.”

You gave him a polite nod; his decision wasn’t a surprise.

“But that doesn’t mean that I’m okay with- with the way that things have been going for us,” he said. “I’ve been so preoccupied that I haven’t really been- what does my therapist call it?” He thought it over for a moment. “I haven’t been ‘emotionally present’. I haven’t been physically present much, either.”

You shrugged, “You’ve been under a lot of stress. I understand-”

“Yeah, but you’ve been in this by yourself,” he huffed, angry at himself. “And it’s not fair. I turned this into something one-sided.”

Alarm bells blared in your head at the word “one-sided”. What the hell did he mean by that? Was this him telling you that your feelings were no longer requited? Was he apologizing for hurting you, only so he could tell you he was leaving you?

“I’m gonna tell Tara I have to scale back my hours, or something.”

The alarms quieted a few decibels.

“If there’s anything I can do to make this whole thing easier on you, all you have to do is tell me. I’ll do it. Whatever it is.” He bit down on the inside of his cheek, “Cause I can’t keep doing this to you. I can’t keep apologizing and hoping that it’ll fix all the late nights and broken promises.” He shrugged, “But even though I know it won’t fix anything… I’m sorry. I mean it.”

Another long stretch of quiet occurred as you looked him over. His shoulders were hunched in defeat, devastation. His jaw was tense, his brow furrowed. He held one of your hands in his warm palm, and rested his metallic hand on top, as though cradling something delicate. Something precious. He looked genuinely miserable. Genuinely despondent. And your heart ached for him.

He was a good person. He took this job to protect the world, to protect you. Who were you to crucify him for coming home late a few times? Who were you to be suspicious of his intentions when all he wanted was to mend things with you? It wasn’t fair to accuse him of infidelity. To assume that he was stepping out on you behind your back. Your insecurity, you decided, was not his fault nor his problem. 

And so, you vowed to stop jumping to conclusions. To stop assuming the worst of him. To stop writing fiction about what was going on between Bucky and ‘T’. 

However, you did want to ask him one question. 

“I really appreciate the apology- the apologies,” you corrected yourself. “And I know you’re not doing anything malicious. You’re just trying to do your best.”

He nodded. 

“You’re not in an easy position here. I want a lot from you; your job wants a lot from you. You’re being stretched really thin right now. And I know you’re stressed out about how this is affecting me.”

Bucky nodded again, more emphatically this time. 

“There is- there’s one thing you could do that might make things easier on me,” you told him.

Bucky scooted a bit closer, “anything.”

“And I need you to be one hundred percent honest with me.”

“Cross my heart.”

You hesitated, second-guessing your question. But if you were to stay sane for the remainder of this job, you needed a straight answer. There wasn’t a mature, adult way to ask. Each way you phrased it sounded pettier and more childish than the last. 

And so, you simply dropped the question in his lap. 

“Is there anything going on between you and Tara? Romantically or-” you winced, “Sexually?”

He stared at you, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly agape. 

Was he simply surprised to hear such a preposterous question? Or was he shocked that you figured out about his torrid affair?

“What?” he finally said. “Between Tara and- no!” He shook his head, an incredulous look on his face. “I would never do that.”

The weight that had been sitting on your chest ever since Tara’s first phone call suddenly felt lighter. It didn’t vanish completely, but it lessened. You’d been aching to hear those words come out of his mouth. And now that they finally had.

“I’m not that kind of guy, sweetheart. I don’t do that sort of thing,” he swore. “Did you think that I was-”

You forced a laugh and shrugged. “No, no. Of course not. I didn’t actually think you’d-” the word got stuck in your throat. You had to force it out, “-cheat on me,” you lied. “But with the long hours and the late nights and all the texts and phone calls you guys share…” 

“It is not like that, I promise,” he said, denying the accusation with his entire being. “Tara is great, and yeah, we spend a lot of time together. But I love you. You are the only person for me.”

He went on. And on. And on. For a solid two minutes, at least. He vowed that he wasn’t sleeping with Tara, swearing on every holy book in existence that he didn’t have feelings for her. He promised that he was in love with you, that he wanted you, that you were the love of his life. Only you.

And it should’ve made you feel better. But as Bucky continued his unrelenting, gushing promises about his love for you, he unknowingly planted more seeds of doubt. He strong denouncements and fierce denial of any romantic or sexual wrongdoing brought one phrase to mind: 

“Thou dost protest too much.”

You knew then, without a doubt, that you were losing your mind. 

But you couldn’t stop the vicious cycle; the ghosts of relationships past refused to allow it. And so, over the course of the next few minutes, you found yourself endlessly oscillating between ‘he’s laying it on thick to hide the fact that he’s cheating and ‘he loves me so much, it’s so awful of me to think he’s hiding something.’ 

You thanked the universe that mind reading was not amongst Bucky’s enhanced abilities. If he’d been able to hear all of your thoughts, if he knew how quickly your pendulum swung from one end of the spectrum to the next, he’d think you were crazy.

“All this to say,” he paused, and locked eyes with you in a moment of deep, genuine connection. “I love you. And only you. I don’t want anyone else.”

And though a sliver of suspicion remained, you accepted his words at face value. 

“I love you too, Buck.”

He pulled you in for slow, long kiss. The two of you melted together, desperately affixing your bodies together in an attempt to make up for lost time. 

“What do you think?” Bucky said when the two of you finally parted, “You still want to go up to the cabin tomorrow?”

You had no reason not to. You gave Bucky the affirmative and a wide smile stretched across his face. The previous night’s excitement returned and together, you made a plan for the following morning. 

But when the following morning came, you woke to an empty bed. Again.

When your alarm went off at seven, you bolted upright. Today was the day that things between you and Bucky were finally going to get back on track. But when you turned to his side of the bed, he was nowhere to be found. His pillow was cold. 

“Buck?” you called, your voice bouncing off the walls of the deserted apartment. “Are you here?”

No answer. 

“Of fucking course.” 

With a deeply disappointed sigh, you flopped back down and decided to sleep until noon. How could he do this to you- again? How could he ditch you? How could he promise to be more present, only to turn around and disappear? A tornado of anger swirled inside your chest, interrupted only by tidal waves of hurt. Of grief. 

But just as the first tear slid its way down your cheek, the front door opened. 

Cautious, quiet footsteps crept through the living room, down the short hallway, and into the bedroom. Bucky’s head slowly peeked around the corner. And once he realized you were awake, he rushed to your bedside with his hands concealed behind his back. 

“Good morning, sweet- hey, are you okay?” Concern eclipsed his smile as he eyed the rogue tears clinging to your lashes. “Are you crying?”

You wiped your eyes with your t-shirt and gave a shake of your head, “No, I’m- I just had a really strange dream. It was a sad one.”

Bucky frowned, “I’m sorry, baby. Do you think that a bacon, egg, cheese, and hashbrown breakfast sandwich on an onion bagel would help?”

Your eyes widened, “You went to The Hot Bagel?”

Bucky nodded. From behind his back, he revealed the brown paper bag printed with your favorite bagel shop’s logo.

“Oh my god, this is- how long was the line?” In one swift motion you stole the bag from Bucky’s grasp and tore into it, revealing a miracle wrapped in tinfoil.

“It wasn’t long at all. There were only two people in front of me,” Bucky said, his smile proud.

“Buck…” you narrowed your eyes at him.

His face dropped. He feared that he’d ordered incorrectly. That he’d taken the wrong bag from the counter. “What?”

“If there were only two people in front of you, what time did you get there?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he gave a small shrug. 

“But it’s one of the busiest shops in the city and-”

“And I know it’s your favorite. So, I went.” He said it so matter of factly, as though it were a no brainer. “I would’ve been back a little earlier, but the onion bagels weren’t quite ready when I got there. I almost got you an everything instead, but…”

Your expression grew incredulous. He let out a belly laugh. 

“But I knew you’d give me that exact look. So, I waited a little longer.”

Together, the two of you inhaled what you deemed the best breakfast sandwich in New York. And once you’d tucked the s’mores supplies back into your bag and gotten ready for the drive, Bucky led you by the hand down to the car. 

The drive was exactly what you’d imagined. Windows down. Clear skies. Invigorating music. Bucky danced with you to today’s hits. Eighties ballads. Forties crooners. He provided backup vocals and took the occasional solo. This was how it was supposed to be. This was what your relationship had always been: warm, safe, comfortable.

There was no room here for doubt or suspicion or distrust. 

As the cabin rolled into view, you made a conscious decision to remove any inkling of wariness from your mind. Bucky was yours. And you were his. And that was that. 

Like a perfect gentleman, he unloaded the car and carried the bags up the porch steps. The cabin sat tucked in amongst a swath of trees that shielded it from the main road. Its interior was decorated with thought, with care, with love. It welcomed you in and instantly, you felt right at home.  Rounding out the space was a small yard, complete with a hammock and fire pit.

It seemed that the weekend might be saved after all, until you glanced into Bucky’s bag.

As he was unpacking his toiletries and getting his clothes sorted, the shiny silver corner of his laptop caught your eye. It was tucked under a pair of sweatpants, but you knew in your bones that it was his computer. Upon further inspection, you discovered a hotspot hiding amongst his clothes, as well. 

So much for the ‘uninterrupted weekend’ he’d sold you.

But instead of assuming the worst, instead of spiraling, you reasoned with yourself. He’d packed his bag prior to your heart to heart. Prior to your admission of being miserable. Prior to his promise to scale back his hours. It was perfectly logical to think that he’d simply forgotten to remove his computer and his hotspot from his bag. That he had no intention of using them this weekend. That he only packed them in case of an emergency.

And maybe- just maybe- he didn’t intend to work during your getaway. 

But work he did, anyway.

Bucky found you lounging in the hammock, protected from the sun by the shadow of a large, old tree. 

“Where have you been?” you asked, looking up from your book. “You said you were right behind me.”

He had said it would only take a few minutes for him to “send one last email” before he could “completely unplug.” But that was forty-five minutes ago.

“I know, I’m sorry. One email turned into a phone call, and that turned into a zoom,” he said, exasperated. “But I’m here now. Does that hammock have room enough for two?”

Some childish and petty part of you wanted to call him on his shit. It wanted to throw the words “uninterrupted weekend” back at him and watch as he ate them.

But he looked so tired. Everything about him screamed ‘rundown’. This was the longest you’d ever seen his stubble. His hair was longer, too- longer than he liked it. There was a defeated air about the slope of his shoulders. And every breath seemed more like a sigh. He didn’t get to go out for long runs in the park anymore; this was probably the most time he’d spent in the sun in weeks. 

The loving, devoted, compassionate part of you won out against your immature instinct, and you allowed him to share your hammock. He climbed in with a warm smile stretched across his face and tucked his body into your side. It was the perfect way to spend an afternoon- save for his near-constant texting. But you figured that a preoccupied Bucky was better than no Bucky at all.

He never even cracked the book he brought along for the trip. He, instead, allowed it to rest at his side while he responded to Tara’s messages. Every once and a while, you caught a glimpse of his screen, and everything appeared to be on the up and up. There were no emojis. No flirtations. No double entendres. Just business. 

And though you wished he’d knock it off and be present with you, you let it to slide. He was just trying to make everyone happy. Trying to stretch himself thinner than thin. And he was clearly miserable, himself; you thought it best not to add insult to injury.

And the weekend was still lovely regardless. It was the most time you’d spent together since he started with Tara’s organization, and you swore you could feel yourself coming back to life. The two of you ate and danced and made s’mores and fell asleep under the stars. And even though it was a truncated version of the trip you’d hoped for, you wouldn’t have traded it for anything. 

Things were looking up. 

Another respite from Bucky’s hellish schedule came a few weeks after your cabin jaunt. Just as the sense of renewal granted by the getaway started to wear off, Bucky came home from work one Friday night with a nearly cartoonish grin on his face. 

He bounded through the front door and threw himself at you, sweeping you into his arms. It was unexpected, almost strange; he never came home with his energy intact like this. But you welcomed it; you missed seeing him this way. 

“I have good news,” he said. “Do you wanna guess what it is?”

“Hmm…” you thought it over for a moment, “Are you-”

He didn’t allow you to properly formulate a guess; he was far too excited. 

“I’ll give you a hint: guess who has the whole weekend off?” he asked, spinning you around as though on a dance floor.

Your jaw dropped. “Really?”

“Really.” 

It was like music to your ears. Like your birthday and New Year’s Eve and Valentine’s Day rolled into one. You could’ve sworn that confetti fell from the ceiling. That fireworks exploded outside your window. It wasn’t just good news. It was great news. The best news you’d ever received. 

“We’ve hit a wall with this lead we’re working on,” he told you. “There’s some information we need in order to move forward, but not even our access team has been able to get to it. It’s not in any of the systems they’ve looked through.”

You gave him a strange look, “What’s an access team?”

He rolled his eyes and laughed a little, “They’re hackers. But they told me to stop calling them ‘hackers’ cause apparently that sounds ‘cheesy’.”

You shrugged, “‘Hackers’ kinda does make it sound like you’re in a bad spy movie.”

“They hack! It’s the name that makes the most sense!” he laughed. “Anyway, they think it’s probably being stored on a drive somewhere off-network, that way no one can hac- I mean, access it. And our entire strategy hinges on that information. So, there’s not much we can do right now.”

It struck you that maybe you were supposed to be sensitive to this plight. To the frustrations of his job. Maybe deep down, he was disappointed that Hydra’s fall would have to be delayed. But he didn’t seem all that bummed about it. If anything, he seemed unburdened. 

“They called things off for the weekend so everyone can recharge,” he told you. “I think they’re hoping that a free weekend will help people come back with fresh eyes and clear minds.”

“Yeah, it’s almost like allowing your employees to rest helps them be better problem solvers,” you quipped.

“Who could’ve seen that coming?” he laughed. The sound hit you deep in your chest; you realized just how much you missed that laugh. It vibrated against his lips as he pressed them to yours.

The possibilities of how the two of you might spend this rare, free weekend- farmer’s markets, museums, drinking and dancing- evaporated from your mind as he kissed you. And suddenly, they were replaced by hungrier, more salacious options.

But for the time being, you quieted them. This was Bucky’s weekend, his free time.

He never had the time to do what he wanted to do anymore. Ever since he started this job, his time no longer belonged to him. This job owned every day, every minute; he was lucky enough to get a few hours on loan so he could sleep.

“Well, whatever you wanna do this weekend, I’m in,” you told him when you finally parted. “You get to pick since you never have free time anymore.”

He fell silent for a long moment, thinking. 

“Anything you want!” you promised him. “We can go on a bike ride or roam around in that fancy bookstore in SoHo or-”

“If it’s alright, I’d rather not.”

“You’d rather not what, Buck?”

He sighed, “Would you mind if we didn’t do… anything? I don’t want you to be bored all weekend, but I just…” 

He let out a long sigh and looked around the room. As his gaze swept through the space, you watched him take in the subtle changes here and there: a new throw pillow on the couch, a different set of coasters on the coffee table, a new lamp to replace the one he’d accidentally broken. 

This was the apartment you’d hunted for together. The apartment he’d called his “safest place”. His “favorite place”. And yet, he’d barely spent any time within its walls in recent days. He was more like a guest here. A stranger. A foreign transplant.

His eyes filled with the same desperate longing you’d seen before the cabin trip. “I just want to be home, you know? But if you want to go and-”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you told him. “If you want to stay home all weekend, we’ll stay home.”

He eyed you warily, “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” you promised. “I’ll never say no to weekend at home with you.”

A satisfied smile spread across his face. 

You weren’t quite sure if he was excited to spend the weekend at home with you, or if he was simply thrilled to lounge on the couch for a few days. Either way, you were happy to have him all to yourself. Happy to keep him out of the clutches of others for a few days. 

“Maybe we could get some snacks and have a movie marathon? There are a ton of classics I’ve never seen,” he said. “Jaws, Jurassic Park, Alien. What do you think?”

You quirked a brow at him, “I think it’s criminal that you’ve never seen Jurassic Park.”

“I know,” he groaned. “That’s why I’m trying to rectify it! What do you think?”

You, of course, agreed to his proposal. The two of you made a list of movies and a list of snacks, and you couldn’t resist the excitement building in your chest. This weekend was going to be the mulligan. The do-over. After your cabin weekend was cut short, after it was tarnished by Bucky’s constant correspondence with Tara, the two of you needed a second chance at an uninterrupted weekend. And the opportunity had finally arrived.

The next day, Bucky settled in next to you on the couch. He draped a blanket over your lap, pulled you securely into his side, and pressed play on Jaws. Jurassic Park followed shortly after, and he raved about it as the two of you made and ate lunch. A slew of movies spanning multiple genres left Bucky in awe. It was a strange experience, watching Alien after West Side Story, but you didn’t care. Bucky was home, and that’s all that mattered.

And much to your surprise, he hadn’t mentioned Tara once. Hadn’t texted her. Hadn’t paused the movie to read one of her emails. And for the first time in a long time, things inside your apartment felt less crowded. 

But a nagging thought needled at you. What if he was simply being more covert about corresponding with Tara now? What if he had gotten better at covering things up?

No. You wouldn’t allow yourself to think that way anymore. 

With a deep breath, you nestled yourself deeper into Bucky’s embrace and vowed to simply enjoy the weekend. You didn’t know when- or if- you’d get another one like this any time soon. And you damn sure weren’t going to waste it by concocting wild speculations.

Once the sun finally set behind the skyscrapers, Bucky pressed play on your last movie of the night: When Harry Met Sally. But just as Harry and Sally bumped into each other in a bookstore, there was a knock at your front door. 

Bucky looked at you. You looked at him. 

“Were you expecting someone?” he asked.

You shook your head.  

“Hmm,” Bucky rose from the couch, “Maybe it’s a neighbor.”

He strode toward the front door and pressed his face against its surface, peering through the peephole. You could’ve sworn you heard a quiet gasp fill his lungs.

“Who is it, Buck?”

He didn’t answer. He removed the chain on the door with a slow intensity. Inched the deadbolt open at a glacial pace. His movements were painstaking, deliberate. Almost sluggish. Whoever it was, Bucky didn’t seem too pleased to see them.

When he finally turned the knob, he pulled the door open only a few inches. A sliver, really. He leaned his head out into the hall and spoke quietly with the mystery visitor. 

It was odd, his behavior. He had no reason to be secretive or cagey when speaking to a neighbor. He had no reason to hide his conversation from you. To shield you from this surprise guest. 

As quietly as you could, you rose from the couch a crept closer to the door, hoping to catch a word or two.

“Yeah, and I thought I told you never to come to my apartment,” Bucky said, his words hurried. 

Something about it made your stomach turn. Why would he feel the need to give someone such a specific stipulation, unless he had something to hide?

And then a woman’s voice filled the air. 

Not any woman’s voice.

Tara’s.

“I know, but I need you, Buck.”

A flash of heat scorched your insides. And before you knew what was happening, you’d wrenched the door all the way open. 

Tara stood before you in a floor length maroon gown dripping with intricate beading. She towered over you, her perfect body elongated by elegant heels. Her auburn hair was twisted and tucked into a fabulous updo. Diamonds dangled from her ears and encircled her slender neck. And deep red lipstick accentuated her perfect pout. 

You thought it possible that she’d stepped out of a magazine or off of a runway. 

And suddenly, you wondered what the fuck Bucky was doing with you. What he saw in you. How he could be with you when she existed.

A violent pain tore through your abdomen, nearly stealing your breath. It seemed that something sharp and jagged was ripping through your insides, shredding your guts into confetti. But you forced yourself to remain composed. To appear unbothered. 

Bucky shifted his gaze to you and then back to Tara. He looked nervous, as though you’d caught him red-handed. 

“Sweetheart, this is Tara,” he gestured to the devastatingly beautiful supermodel standing in the hall. “Tara, this is-”

“It’s nice to meet you,” she said in a rush, her attention barely drifting from Bucky’s face. “But we really don’t have time for pleasantries right now, Buck. This is an emergency.”

“I don’t think I can tonight,” Bucky told her. “I have plans, we’re watching-”

“I know how to get the drive, I know where it is.” Tara shrugged, “Okay, I’m pretty sure I know where it is.”

Bucky didn’t answer, he simply quirked a brow at her, allowing her to continue.

“There’s a huge gala tonight at Thomas Weller’s house,” she said.

Bucky perked up.

“Weller’s house…” he said, thinking it over. “He lives in the-”

“The prohibition era mansion with the hidden room that acted as a speakeasy. Yeah,” Tara nodded, her eyes a bit wild. She seemed truly exhilarated by the circumstances. “He’s the only one Hydra would trust to keep the drive secure, and tonight’s the only chance for us to find it,” she said. “He has to be hiding it in that secret room- I feel it.”

 “But we can’t be sure…”

“Barnes, I’m sure.”

Bucky thought on it for a long, quiet moment. “Are you willing to stake Magdalini’s on it?”

Tara’s face lit up as her head fell back in a laugh. A loose auburn curl bounced at the nape of her neck. Her perfectly polished nails brushed against her chest as she caught her breath. You were certain she was the princess from every fairytale you’d read as a child.

“Yes!” she finally said when she composed herself. “I am willing to bet you a doz- TWO dozen cookies from Magdalini’s.”

Bucky took this very seriously. A knowing look eclipsed his face, and he granted Tara an understanding nod. You, on the other hand, were left in the cold. You weren’t sure what had just happened between them, but they knew something you didn’t. They shared something you were not a part of. Whether these cookies were an inside joke or some kind of metric, you weren’t sure. But they were important. 

You waited for an explanation, for one of them to afford you an invite to the joke. But no such offer came. 

“Do you still have your tux from the SWORD anniversary party? The one where we knocked over the ice sculpture?” Tara asked.

A small smile flickered across Bucky’s face. He cut his glance toward you, dropped his smile, and nodded at Tara.

“Then get dressed,” she told him. “The party starts in twenty minutes and it’s basically across town.”

“Okay, yeah, just-” Bucky began to make a sweeping gesture of invitation but cut it short when his eyes met yours. “Um, I’ll be out in a minute,” he told her, before shutting the door and leaving her in the hall.

With the door shut, the two of you shared a long, loaded look. 

“I’m sorry…” he finally said. “I know we were gonna watch movies and-”

“It’s fine, Bu-” you stopped yourself, not wanting to use the same nickname as Tara. “Babe.”

He sighed, “I keep disappointing you.”

You shrugged, “It is what it is. This is part of your job.”

You meant it. You knew he wasn’t doing this on purpose. Knew he wasn’t trying to hurt you. It wasn’t fair to blame him. It wasn’t even fair to blame Tara, though you wanted to. She, too, was just doing her job. Just trying to stop Hydra. And who were you to stop those efforts? 

But you couldn’t help the frustration that ground your teeth together. The disappointment. The irritation. It all pooled together into a sinister, inky cocktail that coated your insides. It seemed that, at every turn, Bucky chose Tara. You knew it was childish to feel that way. Knew it was petty and stupid and immature. But you couldn’t stop it. 

And Tara’s piercing beauty didn’t help. Her perfect cheekbones and flawless skin made you want to double over. Made you question if you were even the same species.

Bucky dressed in his tuxedo quietly, eyeing you every now and again. You sat on the edge of the bed, waiting to assist with his tie, if need be. Another heavy, endless silence wedged itself between the two of you. The kind of silence that precedes disaster. 

“So, what’s the deal with Magda… Madgolee-”

“Magdalini’s?” 

“Yeah.”

 “It’s this bakery out in New Hampshire,” he told you. “Tara and I were in Concord doing recon for this job, and we kind of randomly stumbled upon the place.”

You waited for something more, but nothing came. 

“But what do cookies have to do with you going to this party?” you asked.

“Well, when Tara and I were togeth- when we worked together,” he overcorrected. “If one of us had a feeling about something but no proof, we’d bet the other a dozen cookies from Magdalini’s.” He gave a quiet laugh, “Since it’s all the way in New Hampshire and always sells out before noon, it’s a pain in the ass to get those damn cookies. You have to trek out to Concord early in the morning and wait in a long line and it’s- it’s a whole thing.” He shrugged, “So her telling me that she’d bet two dozen of those cookies on this party tonight means she’s sure. Cause if she’s not, she’s gotta drag her ass all the way out there.”

Bucky smiled as he buttoned his shirt, clearly awash in the memories of that bakery. And the woman he shared it with.  And suddenly, you hated those damn cookies. 

You hated the inside jokes and shared memories Bucky had with Tara. Hated that he was leaving you. Again. To be with her. Again. Hated that you were so goddamn jealous. 

“Just um… let me know if you need help with your tie,” you muttered before fleeing the scene.

You found solace in the quiet, empty living room, and leaned against the back of the couch. Over and over again, you forced yourself to take deep, calming breaths. This wasn’t Bucky’s fault, you told yourself. He had a job to do; and as unfortunate as it was, this was part of it. When the dust cleared, things would go back to normal. Tara would disappear once again and your relationship with Bucky would be returned to its former glory. That was the silver lining, the light at the end of the tunnel. Your heartrate slowed, your frustration evaporated, and you discovered a newfound hope.

Until there was another soft knock at the door.

Just as you turned to face the sound, the door opened just a sliver. 

“Hi,” Tara leaned her head in, an apologetic smile on her beautiful face. “Do you mind if I wait inside? Your neighbors are staring,” she chuckled.

Of course, your neighbors were staring; a runway model was loitering in their hallway.

And though you didn’t want her in the space you shared with Bucky, what choice did you have?

You gestured for her to enter,  “Sure.”

She stood just inside the door, her elegant ensemble completely out of place in your home. She tucked her designer clutch under her arm and gave your apartment a once over. 

“It’s so cozy in here,” she said without a drop of condescension. “I love that painting. Where did you get it?” She gestured to the framed canvas hanging on the opposite wall.

“Oh that’s- I painted it,” you told her, suddenly sheepish.

“You did? Wow. It’s beautiful. You’re really talented.”

“Thanks,” you forced a smile. 

Not only was she smart and beautiful and skilled- she was nice, too?

“You um, you look really nice,” you told her. “I like your dress.”

It was painfully awkward. You were certain Tara could feel the envy radiating from your every pore. But you had to make an effort. Had to make nice. She was Bucky’s coworker; and regardless of the punishing schedule she’d set for him, she hadn’t technically done anything wrong. That you knew of. 

But the way she lit up when Bucky walked out in his tux made you wonder. 

Maybe it was unfair, you thought, to condemn her for her reaction- anyone with sight would react the exact same way. Bucky was always attractive but seeing him all dressed up made your knees weak. The custom-fitted tux hugged him in all the right places and accentuated his physique. It took every ounce of your strength not to pounce on him right then and there. 

“Is this okay?” he asked, looking down at his ensemble. “I had a little trouble with the tie.”

“I can help with-”                         “Oh, here, let me-”

Both you and Tara took a step in his direction, arms outstretched, prepared to assist him. Simultaneously, you snapped your head in the other’s direction and locked eyes. Tara flashed you a smile that you categorized as ‘almost apologetic’ and with a sweeping gesture, conceded. 

The tension in the room settled atop the three of you, forcing everyone’s eyes down.

After a deep breath and a shake of your head, you took your rightful place in front of Bucky. With nimble fingers, you adjusted the fabric of his tie until it was perfect. He shot you a look, silently apologizing for the incident. 

You wanted to brush the whole thing off. To pretend that it didn’t bother you. But it did. 

Sure, Tara was nice. But why would she feel entitled to get so up close and personal with Bucky this way? And why would she feel comfortable doing so in front of you? In your home? She was his ex, his coworker. It made no sense for her to be the one to fix his tie, especially when you were right there. Of course, it was just a bow tie; Tara hadn’t volunteered to French kiss him or anything of the sort. But the way she jumped at the chance to enter his personal bubble rubbed you the wrong way.

Maybe, you feared, Bucky allowed her to get close to him at work. Maybe the two of them spent time cozied up in her office when they were supposed to be attending meetings. Maybe she’d gotten so used to being intimate with him that this kind of task had become second nature to her. And maybe she’d been so overwhelmed by the sight of her lover in his tuxedo that she’d forgotten she had an audience. 

Maybe he wasn’t staying at work all night, laboring over this job until the early morning hours. Maybe he was sleeping at her apartment, in her bed.

The possibility trapped your lungs in a vice, cutting off your air supply. Bile rose in the back of your throat; it took everything in you to force it down. By some miracle, you remained composed, and adjusted Bucky’s tie.

“There,” you said , “All done.”

Just as Bucky tried to express his gratitude, he stumbled to the side. Tara had yanked him by the hand and began hauling him toward the door. Bucky stumbled behind her for a few paces before locking eyes with you. He slipped his hand from her grasp and doubled back to place a kiss on your cheek. 

“I’m really sorry about this,” he said. “I-”

“I won’t have him home too late!” Tara called from the door with a laugh. “Thanks for sharing him with me!” 

Before you had the chance to blink, Bucky and Tara disappeared out the door and down the hall.

‘Sharing’ him? Another vicious bout of pain ripped through you. And without an audience, you were free so succumb. You doubled over, allowing the agony to take hold of you. The sharp, searing pain sliced its way from your gut to your throat, flaying you wide open. Only when it quieted to an angry throb were you able to stand upright and hobble to the couch.

After an hour or so, you forced yourself to stop thinking about them. About Bucky and Tara together. About the things that might be transpiring on the other side of town. It wasn’t healthy, wasn’t productive. The pain in your abdomen had finally dulled and you knew that if you continued to ruminate, it would return with a vengeance. 

And so, you wiped your tears and dragged your body off the couch. You took a long shower, did your skincare, and slipped into your most comfortable pajamas. All you had to do was delude yourself into believing that Bucky was out with Sam or working with Yelena. It was the perfect fix, albeit temporary.

After your shower you climbed into bed and dove into your favorite silly sitcom. The canned laughter and over the top storylines helped distract you, helped lift your shattered spirits. With one tap of your remote you skipped half a season- expertly avoiding a storyline about the main character cheating on his girlfriend- and resumed your rewatch in a happier spot.

Still, you picked and bit at what was left of your nails. Eyed the clock every few minutes. Checked your phone more than you would’ve liked. You couldn’t help it.

Just before eleven o’clock, you heard the front door open. 

“Buck?” you called, hoping it was only him.

“Yeah…” he said. He sounded different. “It’s me.”

His keys clinked against the wall as he hung them on the hook by the door, and you knew he’d be in the bedroom soon. Knew he’d have his tail between his legs. Knew you were in for a long night of discussions and apologies. You turned off the tv and waited, expecting his slumped shoulders to lean against the doorframe any second.

But he never appeared. 

Something- instinct, intuition- nudged you out of bed.

Something was wrong. 

You cautiously made your way out of the bedroom and into the living room as the pit in your stomach doubled- tripled- in size. 

You found Bucky still standing by the front door, motionless. His eyes were downcast; his hands were shoved into his pockets. The bowtie you’d so meticulously fixed for him was draped loosely around his neck. The first few buttons of his shirt were open.

“Hey…” you called. 

He barely looked up, and only for a split second. “Hi.”

The distance between you seemed much vaster than it was. He seemed to be miles away, adrift somewhere far and unfamiliar. No one moved, no one spoke. The tension in the air grew heavier by the second, nearly crushing you.

And after a while, you couldn’t take the strained silence.

“Um, how’d it go?” you asked. “Is everything okay?” 

Finally, Bucky dragged his gaze from the floor. The misery in his eyes sent a pang of anxiety ripping through your chest.

“Something h-” he gave a small shake of his head, cleared his throat. “Something happened. Between me and Tara.”

His words knocked you off balance. Your nails dug into the couch as you fought to remain upright. The unforgiving pain in your abdomen exploded once again. And a tidal wave of nausea swallowed you whole.

“It was part of our cover, it wasn’t- there wasn’t anything romantic about it,” he swore. The words tumbled out of his mouth in a panicked rush. “We weren’t supposed to be in Weller’s office- a security guard was coming and if they knew we’d taken the drive, Weller would’ve had us killed. So, Tara k-” he choked on the word. “She kissed me. She made it look like we were a couple who’d gotten, I don’t know, carried away or something. Like we were just looking for a private room to…” He didn’t finish his sentence.

Suddenly, his eyes grew wide. 

“But we didn’t- we didn’t do that!” he said, almost frantic. “It was just the kissing, nothing else. I swear.”

Finaly, he unrooted his feet and made his way toward you; he stopped just a foot from where you stood.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m so- I didn’t know that was gonna happen,” he said. “I had no idea. She just did it without telling me. I didn’t want to- I didn’t want her to do that.”

His words settled into your body, creating fractures and fissures as they went. 

A storm of sympathy rained down on you as you stared at him. He was in utter agony, that was no secret. His hands shook, his face was flushed, his eyes brimmed with tears. He hadn’t wanted that kiss. Hadn’t known about it or expected it. And he was suffering. The love of your life was suffering. 

But the ghost of relationships past returned, screaming at you over and over. Gloating.

“I told you so!”

“I told you so!”

“I told you so!”

This was exactly what you’d feared. What you’d dreaded. And regardless of the circumstances, your old wounds were ripped open once again. The flashbacks hit you like a truck; the familiar words tore you to pieces. There was no surviving this; no making it out alive. It seemed that you would bleed out, that you’d be lifeless and cold in a matter of moments. 

But the first tear dripped down Bucky’s face, and brought you back to reality.

It took all your might, all your strength, but you forced your impending collapse and demise to wait. Everything would have to wait. 

“I’m s- I’m sorry that happened to you,” you said.

His brow furrowed, “What?”

You breathed through the throbbing, unrelenting ache in your chest, and repeated yourself. 

“I’m sorry that happened to you, Buck,” you said, matter-of-factly. “She shouldn’t have ki- she shouldn’t have done that. You didn’t want it. Didn’t consent to it. It’s not okay.”

He stared at you, wide eyed. Another tear spilled onto his cheek, but he didn’t seem to notice; he was far too shocked.

“Sweetheart, I don’t care about that- I’m fine,” he shrugged. “I’m worried about you. About hurting you.” He dug his teeth into the inside of his cheek, “About what this might- what it might do to us.”

The words came out quieter, weaker than you’d hoped. “Wasn’t your fault.” 

“Baby-”

“I’m sorry, can you-” you cleared your throat, “Can you just give me one second?” You gave him a strained smile and turned slowly back to the bedroom. Bucky faltered awkwardly in the living room as you fled.

You turned too sharply around the corner into your bedroom, knocking the point of your shoulder into the wall. But you barely noticed; it didn’t hurt. It should’ve; you’d run into this corner enough times to know that it should kill. But it didn’t. You barely even noticed it. Some tiny portion of your brain registered the hit and catalogued it for the future, for when you’d discover the bruise and wonder about its origin.

On unsteady feet, you flew into the en suite bathroom and shut the door behind you. You didn’t mean to slam it, but the panic creeping into your bones stole your sense of decorum. It turned you into a jittery, unstable version of yourself. The sound of the door banging into its frame made you jump. 

With the lock twisted into place, you leaned against the nearest wall and promptly fell apart.

The was the breakdown of the century, the monster you’d been fighting off with sword and shield. But fighting was useless. It came at you like a natural disaster. Unstoppable. Uncontrollable. Life-threatening. It was your own personal category 5 hurricane. Your uncontained wildfire. Your San Andreas fault.

The tears soaked your shirt in mere moments. Your breathing was ragged, labored. A burning sensation clawed at your throat, your chest, as your lungs begged for oxygen. The weakness in your knees forced you to slide down the wall, searching for the stability of the floor. 

But even as you fell to pieces, you forced yourself to stay quiet. To do your damnedest to keep Bucky from hearing. Because no matter what happened at that party, he was still the great love of your life. And you didn’t want to upset him. 

But it was too late. 

“Baby…” Bucky called from the bedroom, his voice jagged with worry. “Baby, I’m so sorry. Please, can we talk?”

The handle of the bathroom door jiggled as he tried it, but found it locked. He sighed. 

His metal knuckles knocked gently against the wood, “Sweetheart, please… open the door.”

You didn’t answer.

“Baby, I’m-” he choked on the panic. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing- there’s nothing going on with me and T-” he didn’t say her name. “I swear to god, I swear on my life. I swear on Steve’s. It’s not like that.”

The logical part of your brain knew he was telling the truth. Nothing about James Buchanan Barnes said ‘cheater’. He was a loyal, decent person who would rather die than hurt you. Never over the course of your relationship had you ever caught him so much as looking at another woman. 

But the tortured, traumatized part of your brain was too busy falling down a rabbit hole of flashbacks to listen to reason. All at once, it grew to be too much.

Once again, bile crawled its way up the back of your throat. And though you tried to resist, you didn’t have any fight left in you. Your mouth flooded with saliva, and you threw yourself to the floor in front of the toilet. Pain rocketed through your knees as your crashed against the cold tile.

And finally, after months of staving off the nausea, you let it win. You allowed yourself to be sick. To be weak.

All of the fear and worry and pain exited your body in an almost violent fashion. It had been building up for so long, slowly taking over every cell. And now, it had forced you to the ground. Forced you to your knees. Forced you to lean over the toilet and retch, over and over again.

“Sweetheart?” Bucky called, distressed. There was a heightened sense of alarm in his voice. A pleading desperation. “Are you okay? Can I get you anything?”

Answering wasn’t an option, as you were otherwise occupied. 

“I’m gonna get you some water, okay? But I’ll be right back.”

‘See?’ you thought, ‘He does care.’

The thought only brought on another wave of sickness.

The force with which your body lurched forward would most likely leave you sore the next day, but you didn’t care. You didn’t care about anything other than bringing air into your lungs. 

Bucky’s voice entered your consciousness every minute or so as he checked on you; he sounded like he might be sick himself. But you weren’t able to ask.

Finally, it was over. The contents of your stomach were long gone, and you’d expelled only bile for the past few minutes. But after a spell of dry heaving, the forceful retching came to an end. You allowed yourself to slump against the nearest wall with relief. A sharp burn ripped through your throat and nose. Your hands shook. Tears clung to your cheeks and lashes. But it was over.

Your head fell into your hands, and you forced yourself to take a few deep, even breaths, though they did little to calm you. Images of Bucky and Tara still pummeled you from every angle. You wondered if you’d find her red lipstick smudged up and down his neck. 

In all honesty, you didn’t mean to say it out loud. You didn’t mean for Bucky to hear you. But you’d lost control of yourself long ago, and the words slipped out before you had the chance to stop them. 

“I can’t do this again.” 

The fire scorching down your throat banished the haunting visions of Bucky and his lost love and dragged you back to reality.

No part of you wanted to face him after the dramatic show you’d put on. After he’d kissed another woman. After everything that could’ve gone wrong did. The anticipation conjured a dark, swirling pit to open in your stomach. Would he end things tonight, after witnessing your instability? Or would he wait till the morning? Would he immediately fly into Tara’s arms? Or would he wait a few days out of respect? 

The nausea returned, but you didn’t have anything left to expel. You dragged a few greedy breaths into your lungs and forced yourself to face the facts: the longer you waited- the longer you hid- the worse it would be. And so, you pulled yourself up off the floor and rinsed your mouth in the bathroom sink.

Bucky hovered closely to the bathroom door. He was so close, in fact, that he left you almost no room to exit. 

“Are you doing alright, sweetheart?” His eyes were red; his cheeks were stained with tear tracks. “I brought you a glass of water if you’re interested.” 

He reached for you tentatively, his hand shaking ever so slightly. 

There was a time when you never would’ve avoided his touch. Never would’ve imagined pulling away from his hand. But you did. Maybe you didn’t mean to, maybe it was a reflex. But you did it. You yanked your body out of his path and tucked your arms into your chest, as though protecting yourself from some great danger. 

More than anything, you wanted to flee the room, the apartment- maybe the state. But you knew there was no point in running. Instead, you took a few long strides across the room, putting some distance between you and Bucky. It felt safer here. More comfortable.

The look on Bucky’s face nearly made you sick again.  

“Sorry,” you said, flames scorching down your throat. “I-”

“No, hey- it’s okay, I get it.” He forced the saddest smile you’d ever seen. “Um, I’ll just- I’ll put this on your nightstand.” He set the glass of water down behind him and turned back to you with anguish carved into his face. 

“Baby…” he sighed. “I’m so-”

“You don’t have to apologize again,” you told him . “It’s-” 

A wave of dizziness crested over you, sending the world around you into chaos. Black, shiny spots shimmered on the edges of your vision. Desperately, you grabbed onto the corner of the nearby armchair in an attempt to steady yourself. Your nails dug into the upholstery as you breathed through your tremulous grip on the world.

Bucky took a small, cautious step in your direction. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m-” You listed to the side once again. “I’m gonna pass out.”

Bucky’s eyes widened, “What?”

And then you were falling. Falling forward. Black clouds obscured your vision, your ears started ringing. A gust of air fanned your face as you quickly folded toward the floor. A pair of strong arms locked around you suddenly. One encircled your waist; the other, your chest. And then you were out.

Everything was still black and cloudy; the sounds came back first.

The words were fuzzy at first, lacking any real, definable structure. But you could tell it was Bucky saying them. Could tell by his tone, his gentle voice, that he was reassuring you. The garbled, shapeless words grew slowly clearer until you finally made them out. 

“I got you,” he said. “You’re okay, baby. I got you.”

A cool sensation glided across your cheek; it sent goosebumps crawling over your skin. It felt so familiar. Why did it feel so familiar? The cold, metal drifted across your skin again, and you recognized Bucky’s vibranium hand. 

“You’re alright, I’m here,” he told you. “I’m right here.”

Finally, you rediscovered the ability to open your eyes. It was harder than you remembered, more taxing. But you did it. And Bucky’s face was the first thing you saw- his beautiful, anxious face. He sat next to you on the bed, leaning over you with unparalleled worry. 

“Hey,” his brow creased with concern. “How are you feeling?”

It took a moment for you to formulate the words, but eventually, you managed an “I’m fine.”

And technically speaking, you were. You weren’t dizzy or nauseous anymore. You hadn’t been injured when you blacked out- Bucky didn’t allow that to happen. So, physically speaking, ‘fine’ was accurate. 

But the embarrassment burned your face; you were certain that your skin must be scorching to the touch. It was all just so dramatic. So over the top. The sobbing, the vomiting, the fainting… It was like something out of a soap opera. 

“Are you sure?” he asked. His voice was still thin, still brittle with concern. 

You gave a cautious nod, “Yeah. I swear.”

He relaxed the tiniest amount. But if you knew anything about him, you knew he’d remain hypervigilant for the rest of the night, just in case. Hell, he’d probably remain hypervigilant for at least a week, ready to save you if need be.

“Thanks for catching me, Buck.” 

“Yeah- of course,” a small smile crept across his face. “Always, baby.” 

He ghosted his thumb over your cheek again, “Is this- has this ever happened before?”  he asked, “Or is it something new?” 

He worried more than anyone you’d ever known. And always about you. You kicked yourself for thinking he would ever stray. For thinking that he didn’t care.

“It hasn’t happened in a long time, but I used to pass out a lot when I was younger. Whenever I was really-” You cut your sentence off at the knees. 

He eyed you, “Whenever you were really what?”

There was no sense in saying it. Bucky already felt guilty enough, adding to his shame wasn’t going to help. 

“When you were what?” he asked again, more insistent this time. Anxiety practically dripped from his words. 

You sighed. “Whenever I was really upset. Or extremely stressed.”

Bucky matched your sigh with one of his own. His was heavier, weighed down by his responsibility for your episode. He gently stroked your face once more, but pulled away before his thumb could sweep the entire length of your cheek bone. He tucked his hands safety at his sides.

“Sorry,” he said. It was almost imperceptible.

“No, I’m-” you began to try and sit upright.

“Okay, hey, let’s just take it slow, alright? I don’t think you should get up yet.”

But you were determined to sit up. If you continued to lie there, Bucky would continue to dote on you. To wring his hands. And it would only increase the evening’s embarrassing dramatics. 

Much to Bucky’s dismay, you didn’t listen to his cautionary words. You pushed yourself up to a seated position without difficulty and rested your back against the headboard. 

In a flash, Bucky was on his feet. He stood right against the bed, his hands anxiously hovering over you, poised to save you at a moment’s notice. If you began listing toward the edge of the bed, he’d catch you. Again.

But no such incident occurred. You were perfectly steady, perfectly safe. You accepted the glass of water he offered you for the second time and drained it in a matter of seconds. 

“Do you want some more?” he asked, already heading for the kitchen, “I’ll go get-”

“No, no, I’m okay,” you said. “I want you to stay here- I wanna talk to you.”

Bucky halted in the doorway, frozen. Dread bloomed in his eyes. He lost his grip on the glass in his hand and barely reacted quickly enough to stop it from shattering. 

“Oh. Okay. Yeah…” he said; his words has a wounded quality about them. 

He took a few slow steps toward the bed but stayed at a cautious distance. His shoulders tensed, his jaw tightened. He sucked in a sharp breath and coiled his metal hand into a tight fist. He seemed to be waiting for something, expecting something. 

But after waiting only a few short moments, he spoke again.

“You don’t- you don’t actually have to say it, if that’s okay. I don’t think I could handle hearing the words,” a broken smile flashed across his face for a split second. “But I understand. I won’t beg you reconsider- I get it. And I’m sorry, for what it’s worth- if it’s worth anything.”

“What?”

He placed the empty glass on your nightstand and headed for the closet. 

“I’m just gonna grab a few things. Some clothes and stuff. And then I’ll-” he sighed, “And then I’ll get out of your hair.”

You shook your head, “What are you talking about, Buck? I just said I wanted us to talk-”

“I know, sweetheart.” Something in his words sounded like begging. Like pleading for mercy. “And I know I need to let you say your piece, but I don’t know if I can h-handle it. At least not right now. And I know that’s selfish of me. And I’m sorry. But I’m-”

He was practically falling apart at the seams. Parts of him seemed to be peeling away, stripping him down to his most raw, vulnerable self. His hands shook. His voice wavered. His breathing came in shallow, erratic bursts. His body was determined to self-destruct before you could deliver the final, deadly blow. 

You jumped out of bed on unsteady feet, your arms outstretched toward him. If you could reach his side and anchor him to the earth quickly enough, maybe you could stave off the panic attack that loomed on his horizon. 

He, of course, protested. He tried to say something, something cautioning you against getting up in such a hurry. Against running across the room. But his voice barely carried any weight. 

“Hey, it’s okay. We’re okay.” Your hands cradled his face, “Breathe, baby. I don’t want you to leave. I want you here.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. His hands found your waist. And he dragged deep, even breaths into his lungs. He was so focused, so concentrated on staying above water that you weren’t sure he heard your whispered reassurances. But you voiced them anyway. Just in case he could hear you. In case your words helped him somehow.

 It was a long time before he came back to you. But you waited patiently for him. As you always did. 

When he finally opened his eyes, he looked you over slowly, drinking you in as though seeing you for the first time. The panic had dissipated from his expression, leaving tentative relief in its wake. It seemed that he was just grateful you were still there. Grateful that you hadn’t cut your losses and left him in the dust.  

Finally, he spoke. It was a genuine question. No levity. No humor. 

“You still love me?”

It crushed you.

“Of course- of course, I do, Buck.” Your hands slipped from his cheeks, down his chest, and wound around his back. He pulled you tighter, crushing you against his body. 

“Even after-”

“Yes,” you said against his chest. 

“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. About tonight- about all of it.” He smoothed his hand up and down your back in an endless loop. “I know this hasn’t been easy on you. I know I hurt you. And it’s just so- I’m done working with her. I promise.”

This conversation felt a bit too familiar. Hadn’t this happened before? Hadn’t he already offered to quit? And hadn’t you stopped him? It seemed that you were trapped in a timeloop of sorts, forced to endlessly relive this version of reality. You were about to, once again, stop him from quitting, but he spoke before you had the chance. 

“I know what you’re gonna say, but I can’t do this anymore. I can feel-” he cleared his throat, forcing the emotion down. “I can feel you slipping away. And I can’t keep putting what we have at risk-”

“Buck,” you sighed, “I trust you. Tonight wasn’t your fault. And if you need to keep working with-”

“No.”

And that was it on the subject. He wasn’t open to any arguments or rebuttals. 

“I’m not losing you over this,” he insisted. “I know you want to be supportive, but nothing is worth losing you.”

It was quiet- inaudible, really.  But you mustered up a “thank you” that only someone with enhanced senses could’ve heard.

The relief brought tears to your eyes. Never before had anyone actually chosen you like this. Never before had anyone dropped everything for you because they wanted to. It was a new feeling for you, and you wondered how you’d survived this long without it.

But the relief only lasted so long. 

“What about Hydra? If they’re getting stronger, if they’re coming back, shouldn’t you-”

Bucky shook his head, “The team can take care of it without me. I’ve given them everything I can; they know everything I know. And they have the drive now.” He shrugged, “They don’t need me anymore.”

The two of you remained locked in a tight embrace. A comfortable silence settled around your bodies. And for the first time in months, the suspicious voice in your head was quiet. There were no doubts, no fears. Only comfort. Finally, comfort.

“I’m sorry I reacted like that.” You unearthed your face from Bucky’s chest and did your best to look up at him. “The crying and the vomiting and the passing out, it’s…” you rolled your eyes and let out a huff, “it was a lot.”

He tightened his grip around you. 

“No, don’t be sorry. I’ve been- I’ve kind of been torturing you for months. I put you in such a… I put you in a terrible position- the worst position. And I wasn’t even there for you. I kept hurting you and leaving you and- and then tonight with the…” he shook his head. “I can’t imagine what that felt like for you.”

“But I-” You struggled against his inhuman strength until he begrudgingly loosened his grip and allowed you enough room to really look at him- though he refused to let go completely. “I made this all about me,” you said, disgusted. “She-” you had to force yourself to say the words; they tasted like vinegar. “She kissed you against your will. I know what that’s like, it’s not fun. And I made it about me- it was selfish.”

“Sweetheart-”

“What happened tonight wasn’t your fault.” Your words were steadfast. Unflinching. “I should’ve been there for you. I should’ve been supportive. I should’ve-”

He took your face in his hands, “It’s all okay, sweetheart. I’m okay.”

“I’m sorry.” The words came out so defeated, so bathed in shame. “And I’m sorry I ever thought- I’m sorry I ever even considered that you might cheat. I know you’re not the type- of course, you’re not the type.”

“It’s okay. The late nights and the phone calls and all the-”

“It’s not just that,” you sighed, “I mean, that stuff was definitely part of it. But this whole thing just felt so…” 

For a split second, you allowed your eyes to close. The memories of betrayal and infidelity clawed at you, hissing and snarling as they tore open a pit in your stomach. You gave a slight shake of your head and opened your eyes, willing the past to dissipate. 

“It felt so familiar- too familiar. Like I’ve been here before.”

Bucky’s eyes widened a bit as he put the pieces together. He didn’t know much about your past relationships, just as you intended. He knew only that your exes hadn’t treated you all that well. You never went into great detail about how or why things ended, and Bucky didn’t pry. But a knowing look bloomed across his face as he allowed your words to settle over him. 

“You’ve been cheated on,” he said. 

You nodded, “Three times.”

A sharp gasp filled Bucky’s lungs; disgust twisted his features into a horrified mask. “Three times?”

Again, you nodded. 

“In a row. We were- I was really serious about each of them. We lived together. Talked about building a future together. And then… yeah.”

Bucky was too shocked to move, to blink. 

And suddenly, his disturbed stare was too much. His hands were too big and warm against your skin. His grasp was too tight. You freed yourself from his embrace and put some distance between his body and yours. The air around him was just so heavy, so hot. A similar heat scorched your cheeks as the embarrassment of your admission caught up to you; you dragged deep breaths of cool, crisp air into your lungs. 

Bucky stayed right where you left him; you weren’t sure if it was out of respect or utter shock.

“Is that…” He paused, probably wondering if he should even ask. You nodded, assuring him that it was okay. “That’s why I heard you say, ‘I can’t do this again’?”

A fresh wave of heat struck your cheeks, and you gave a reluctant nod. 

“Yeah.” You rolled your eyes, “I didn’t mean to be so dramatic about it.”

“You weren’t-”

“My instincts have just been screaming at me for months, you know? And I’ve been trying really hard not to listen to them and then tonight happened and- and it was like a chorus of thousands of people screaming ‘I told you so!’” You gave a shake of your head, “It was like all the old wounds were ripped open and I was bleeding out again and it was no one’s fault but mine for not learning from my past mistakes.”

Bucky nodded.

“But it’s- I mean, obviously, this situation is different, cause you didn’t actually do anything wrong. It was just, I don’t know, muscle memory.”

“Makes sense. You’ve been through a lot. Three times is…” He stared at you with heartbreak in his eyes. “Being cheated on isn’t your fault, sweetheart. You said ‘past mistakes’ like you’re to blame, but you’re not. You know that, right?”

Your shrug was cold, detached.

Bucky took a step toward you, “Baby, it’s-”

“I didn’t even tell you the best part,” you said. A cynical smile spread across your face, “Those guys all cheated on me with an ex.” 

Bucky’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“Yeah,” you leaned against the nearest wall, crossing your arms over your chest. Suddenly, you felt too exposed. “I know how it sounds, but it’s true. It was- it’s why I was losing my mind the whole time you and Tara were working together. I’m not this possessive, jealous person. I just- I thought the pattern was starting again.”

Bucky made a beeline toward you. He cautiously extended a hand in your direction and rested it against your cheek with a feather-light touch. There was something in his eyes, something sad and compassionate and concerned. The most genuine, heartfelt pity. 

“Baby, I’m so sorry.” He wrapped his arms gently around you, “I’m so sorry. No one should have to go through that. And I never would’ve taken this job- I never would’ve worked with her. I had no idea.”

“It’s not your fault. I didn’t want you to know.”

Bucky released you from his arms and took a step back, meeting your eyeline. “Why not?”

For a few seconds, you allowed your head to dip. Your eyes closed. Your jaw tensed. Speaking to Bucky openly and honestly wasn’t hard. He was the last person to judge or mock; he always listened with and open mind and open heart. But some things were hard to admit, even to him. He deserved the truth, though. Didn’t he? He deserved to know why you felt this way. Why you’d grown nervous at the first mention of Tara all those months ago.

“Because it’s embarrassing. Because I feel like…” you raised your head but deftly avoided eye contact. “I feel like I have this weird, very specific curse, or something. Like there’s something about me that pushes people back into the arms of their ex. Like something about being with me is so…” disgust colored your voice, “so awful that- that it kind of gives people a wakeup call, or something. And it helps them realize that the person they left behind is way, way better than anything I could ever offer them.”

He gave you the saddest smile you’d ever seen, “Sweetheart, that’s not true-”

 “Maybe if it had only happened once. Or even twice. But what’s that thing they say, ‘once is random, twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern’?” The half-hearted shrug you threw his way was almost too pathetic. “When this kind of things happens to you three times- in a row- it makes you wonder if you’re the problem.”

A heavy silence filled the room. Bucky was still, his eyes trained on you. You fidgeted under his gaze, picking at the last remnants of one of your nails. The voice inside your head wailed. It wondered why Bucky wasn’t refuting your argument. Why he was completely silent. It feared that he agreed with you. That he’d taken your words to heart and finally seen the light, finally realized that there really was something wrong with you. That Tara was the better choice. That he was to be number four.

The urge to slap yourself across the face surged through you. There you were, doubting him once again. Projecting your problems onto him. Suspecting him of things he had never done- would never do. It took all of your strength, but you wrangled those skeptical, distrusting thoughts and shoved them into a dark corner of your mind. 

“But um, I know that this is my issue, not yours,” you said. “It’s something I need to work on. Cause it’s not fair of me to- I shouldn’t have put all of my shit on you. I know you’d never-”

“I would never,” Bucky insisted. He closed the space between you and cradled your face gently in his big hands. “I would never do that to you. You’re the only person I will ever want.”

You gave a slight nod. There was something shameful in your words. “I know- I know that. But the logical part of my brain was, I don’t know, hijacked. Or something. All I could think about was…” you sighed, “All I could think about was when you how going to tell me. I wondered if you’d sit me down and say it to my face- or if you’d tell me at all. I thought maybe I’d come home from work one day and all your stuff would be gone.”

His hands left your face. But before you could mourn their absence, his arms were wrapped securely, protectively around your waist. It seemed as though he was trying to save you from the pain of your past, to shield you from the ghosts. It was the same protection you offered him when the nightmares came calling, when the weight of his Hydra days grew too heavy to carry alone.

He let out a contented sigh as your arms wound around his neck and pulled you closer until you were certain that your body and his would meld into one. His heart beat against your chest, his breath ghosted across your skin. And for a long moment, you forgot the fear and agony that had plagued you these last few months. For a long moment, it was perfect.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised, “Ever.”

“I know,” your arms tightened around his neck. “I’m sorry for being so suspicious. And so upset. It’s not that I don’t trust you, I-”

Just then, he pulled away, just enough that his eyes could meet yours.

“I know you trust me. But you had plenty reason to be upset. And suspicious.” He brushed a kiss against your forehead, “You’ve been through a lot. It’s not your fault- your instincts were trying to protect you.”

“But-”

“No. No ‘buts’. Okay?” He was steadfast, almost stern. “You thought you recognized a pattern from your past, and you were scared. But you were just doing your best with the information you had. And that’s enough. You reacted in a way that makes sense, given the context. You don’t have to apologize or browbeat yourself for it. Okay?”

He eyed you for a long while until you gave him an unenthusiastic ‘okay’.

“And you aren’t cursed, by the way,” he asserted. “There is nothing wrong with you. There is nothing about you that is going to send me running back to Tara or any of my other exes. You are…” His intense expression softened, melting into the purest form of adoration. “Everything to me. I could never want anyone more than I want you. Everything that I’ve been through- I would do it again. All of it. Because it led me to you-”

A quiet laugh left your chest.

“I’m dead serious,” he said, his expression grave. “I’d go back and do all of it again-  I wouldn’t change a single thing. If it brought me to you, I’d do it in heartbeat.”

There was no more humor in your expression, no more laughter bubbling on your surface, because he meant it. He really would repeat every heinous, awful thing that had ever happened to him- just to get back to you. Without a word, your tucked yourself against Bucky’s chest once again, and allowed his arms to crush you into his body. 

He was the good, trustworthy, loving man you always knew him to be. He was gracious. Understanding. Compassionate. Better than you ever dreamed. Better than you thought you deserved. He wasn’t a rerun of your past. No, he was a fresh, blank page. A clean slate. A brand-new story. For the first time, you didn’t have to worry about soul-crushing plot twists. You didn’t have to fear that the story might end prematurely, or that the next page might bring heartbreak. 

Your story and his were inextricably wound together, and that’s how they’d remain.

[smorgaswhored]

null & void (part three)

pairing: sugar daddy!Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut (p-in-v & unprotected, oral - f!receiving, fingering, creampie, lots of dirty talk, edging, p-pronouns, light p-inspection, mentions of somno and free use), dom!Bucky, power imbalance, sugar daddy / sugar baby dynamic, age gap (reader in mid-to-late twenties while Bucky’s in his early forties), money troubles, i.e., debt, bills, etc., alcohol consumption, no mentions of y/n

word count: 10.7k

part one - part two - masterlist

summary: The arrangement is simple enough: you give him friendship, he gives you a better life. But between the private dinners cozied up in a booth and the charity galas pressed to his side, it’s getting harder for you to hold up your end of the bargain when you’re starting to feel things for your sugar daddy that were not included in the contract…

sammy speaks: wow I’m at a loss for words again. thank you so much for the love on this series! it’s been so fun going on this ride with all of you, and I really hope you enjoy this final part!!! don’t worry, sugar daddy Bucky will be back soon (;

Things are…different when you return home.

Bucky is as charming and attentive as ever, but his touches have grown fleeting, infrequent, passive. Somehow he orchestrates a healthy amount of distance between the two of you whenever you’re next to him that reminds you of your early days together.

And what he lacks for in physical contact he tries to make up for with gifts. You’ve never had such an onslaught of surprises from him before: dresses, jewelry, shoes, handbags, a new laptop, a new phone; you’re forced to draw the line at a car, a beautiful red convertible that looks like one button could turn it into a space ship.

“Bucky, I don’t even have my license.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t look at it, doll.”

It sits untouched in his parking garage for weeks.

He still dedicates most of his time to you, he still texts you every minute of the day when you’re not together, he still deposits money into your account and makes you promise him that you’ll treat yourself.

But he doesn’t stare into your eyes while holding you close anymore. His lips don’t linger against your skin when he places a kiss on your forehead.

It’s still him, still Bucky — just at an arm’s length away. And it’s maddening. You miss him — even when he’s standing right in front of you, you miss him.

But you don’t push it. You’ve done enough. Keeping him happy is the goal, and if an added six inches of space makes him happy, then that’s what you’ll do.

Unfortunately this means sleepovers have been very rare since returning from the Maldives. Your toothbrush sits untouched next to his in the bathroom for days, your side of the bed tucked in immaculately for weeks. Your heart throbs painfully each time you look at his bedroom door, so you start avoiding looking at it altogether.

Neither of you say anything — it’s the obvious elephant in the room, but you keep it in the corner and ignore it as if you both explicitly agreed on it, even though you didn’t.

Instead, you end your nights by giving him a small smile and flashing your phone, declaring Bob’s arrived to pick you up, and he gives you a small smile back before riding down the elevator with you and walking you to the car. Before he shuts the door, a voice in your head screams at him to stop you, to ask you to come back up and spend the night cuddled up to his chest where you belong.

But he doesn’t.

It hurts every time.

You know tonight will be no different. You’ll cook dinner, you’ll sit a foot apart on the couch while you half-heartedly watch Below Deck, you’ll make small talk about his work, and then you’ll leave. Rinse and repeat.

Your night is off to a very bad start.

Bucky calls you when you’re five minutes from his place, slouched in your seat in the back of Bob’s car.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and tired. “I’m gonna be late — I’m held up at the office. The CFO quit today and our lawyers got a tip off that he’s been funneling deal information to Hydra Investment Partners for the last month. Fucking Rumlow—“ He cuts himself off with a growl. “So I gotta meet with them to go over the non-compete and start building a case.”

“Shit,” you breathe. “I’m sorry, Bucky, that’s awful.“

“Yeah. It’s a goddamn mess, and it’s only gonna get bigger.” He sighs. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“We can reschedule if you want—“

“No, I want to see you. I think it’s the only thing that could make this day better.”

You bite your lip. “Okay, if you’re sure…”

“Positive. I’ll see you at home in a couple hours.”

The line goes dead. You catch Bob’s questioning look in the rear view mirror and summon a smile. “All good, Bob.” He gives you a salute and drives on.

Bucky’s penthouse is dead silent when you step into it. A light is on over the stove, but the rest of the apartment is dark. A half-drunk mug of coffee sits in the sink, an unchosen tie is draped across the kitchen island, and a protein bar wrapper is discarded on the floor near the trash.

Bucky oozes out of every displaced item and unobtrusive mess around the place. You can picture him clear as day in your head creating these nuances: tossing papers to the other end of the couch when his eyes grow too tired, kicking his dress shoes off haphazardly as soon as he gets through the elevator doors. It makes you want to laugh as much as it makes you want to cry, being able to see him living his life so clearly just from an out-of-place wrapper.

Or maybe you want to cry because there’s a part of his life that exists without you around.

You shake your head. There you go again with the dramatics. You’ve been seesawing between rational and irrational since finals — you’d think you’d be leveled out by now. But you suppose unrequited love might make a person a little imbalanced.

You start on dinner before the silence of the apartment can press too hard against your heart. You turn on the TV for some background noise and hum a nameless tune to keep you company. Thankfully, you fall into the motions of preparing the dish with ease, and time slips by unnoticed.

You’re turning down the heat on the risotto when the elevator doors open and Bucky spills out of them.

He looks just shy of defeated, the color drained from his face and chosen tie askew. He shrugs off his suit jacket with a groan and it crumples to the floor. Your lip wobbles between a pout and a smile seeing it lying there.

“Hey, doll,” he mutters, sliding in beside you to place a chaste kiss against your hair.

“Hi,” you say softly. “How did it go?”

“About as good as it could go, but that doesn’t make it any easier. He’s clearly violating the non-compete, but now we have to get the evidence that he’s been passing information along, and that could take months.”

“Jesus.”

“It’s gonna be a long fucking spring,” he replies, slumping into a seat at the counter. He undoes the tie around his neck, tossing it next to the forgotten one from this morning. “Smells amazing,” he adds, voice warmer.

“You’re just saying that, I told you I’m not a great cook.”

He rolls his eyes, popping open the top three buttons of his shirt. You turn quickly back to the stove to avoid the sight of his chest hair. The fucking chest hair that started this mess.

“I don’t think you’ve ever cooked for me before.”

“You never let me.”

“I find that hard to believe when it’s my job to give you what you want.” Your stomach does a filthy little flip.

“Every time I offered, you told me to go study instead.”

“Hmm. Well I’d say that’s a pretty valid reason to say no to you, then.”

“Always taking care of me, aren’t ya?” you tease.

“I try,” he says, and his tone is more serious than before. You gulp.

Bucky asks about your day because he always does, no matter his mood or circumstances, and you fill him in on the stream of trivial events that made up your schedule: breakfast at the cafe around the corner from your apartment, vet appointment for Lucky, lunch with a girl from your class who shows promise as a new friend, you started a book you’d been meaning to read, manicure and pedicure, and also…

“I got an email from my Digital Marketing Analytics professor,” you say, stirring the risotto. “He sent me some details on this position opening up at a marketing firm next month — he knows a few of the higher ups there and thought I’d be a good fit for it. Asked if I wanted him to write me a letter of recommendation.”

Behind you, Bucky stays silent. You glance over your shoulder to find him on his phone, but his eyes aren’t moving.

“…So I took a look at it, and it seems like a great opportunity. The company’s well respected, Glassdoor ranks it high for employee satisfaction…401K, hybrid, four weeks paid time off…”

Bucky’s still staring blankly at his phone.

“And the role seems fair. Challenging, but the good kind. I’d be putting my degree to work, but that’s why I got it, right?” you say lightly.

“Hm,” Bucky grunts, barely audible.

You cut off the heat on the stove and turn to face him. “What do you think?”

He looks up at you finally, eyes distant, face neutral. “It sounds great.”

You wait for him to say more — he doesn’t. Your jaw falls open slightly. “Oh. Well…good.”

He’s back to his phone. The lines of his shoulders are rigidly straight, a muscle in his jaw ticks. You play back every word you just said, trying to figure out where you went wrong with the conversation.

“I think I’ll tell him to write me the recommendation, then.”

“Hm.”

You tilt your head. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, but his fingers grip his phone tighter. “I’m fine. Just…thinking about Rumlow.”

You pause before speaking, letting his words sit. “Okay…”

You begin serving up the food, your mind still analyzing Bucky’s sudden change in behavior. He was perfectly fine when you mentioned the lunch with your classmate, and he seemed smug when you admitted you treated yourself to the nail appointment.

You watch him closely when you slide his plate in front of him; he barely looks up when you set down the fork, muttering a quiet “thanks” that’s nowhere near his usual praise.

“Are you sure you’re good?” you ask as you dish up for yourself.

His phone clatters to the counter. “I said I’m fine,” he says quietly, picking up the fork and jabbing at his food. “Just stressed from work.”

You say nothing, your eyes falling to your plate. Slowly, you set it down on the counter, still empty.

“I can go,” you start, “if you need some space to…”

His head snaps up, his eyes wide. He looks like you hit him across the face. “What? Why?”

Small embers of anger begin to kindle inside of you, patience wearing thin. “You’re obviously in a mood about work,” you answer, irritation leaking into your tone. “You seemed fine earlier but it’s clearly getting to you again. I’d rather not force conversation out of you when you’re like this.”

He gapes at you, food falling from his hovering fork. He sets it down with a soft clink and closes his eyes.

“No, that’s not—“ He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. It is work, but it’s also— it’s not—“

“What is it, Bucky?” you push.

“I can’t just— it’s hard to say, you wouldn’t get it—“

You see red for a second. “Try me.”

His mouth shuts with a snap. He’s got a hundred different emotions passing through his eyes, all of them unrecognizable to you. He says nothing.

“Okay, well.” You wipe your hands on the back of your jeans with crisp resignation and reach for your purse. “Sounds like you need some time to yourself to process the Rumlow situation, so I’ll just call Bob and get out of your hair—“

“Come on,” he mutters, reaching out a hand that you ignore in favor of grabbing your phone.

“It’s fine, Bucky,” you answer airily, “you’re dealing with shit, it happens to all of us. We can just resched—“

“It’s not—“ He cuts himself off with a groan and tries again. “It’s not Rumlow, it’s you.”

You whip around. Bucky’s got his head in his heads now, staring down at his plate, shoulders slumped forward like he’s facing a losing battle. Your body stills as you take him in, this deflated version of the confident man you’ve grown to know intimately over the last eight months — you’ve never seen him like this before.

“What do you mean?” you ask slowly.

He exhales deeply, and even that shakes.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, finding your eyes. “I shouldn’t have treated you like that. You were talking about something important to you, and I blew it off. Please forgive me.”

Your anger is caught between growing into a roaring inferno, or dissipating into smoke.

“Tell me what you meant,” you demand, standing firm on the other side of the island. “How is it me?”

Bucky runs a hand down his face. He looks exhausted, conflicted, desperate…but also resolute.

“I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not you, it’s…” He takes another breath. “When you started talking about the job, I think it just…hit me. That you got what you wanted. And I panicked.”

Your lips part in question, but he continues on.

“The night we met,” he murmurs, “you told me that all you wanted to do was make it through school so that you could get a job, a job exactly like this one, and then you’d get things under control again, get your life back on track. And I said I’d help you do it. That’s how this started.” The corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly. “Now you’re here. You’ve done it.”

“I don’t have the job yet—“

“Don’t kid yourself,” he interrupts softly. “You’ll get any job you apply for — you’re brilliant, you’re headstrong, you’re hardworking. It’s not a matter of if, it’s when.”

Bucky’s head tilts, a sad smile stretching across his face.

“I think I’ve been secretly dreading the day that ‘when’ comes. The day you don’t really need me anymore,” he says quietly.

Your breath stutters out of your lungs.

It’s written plain as day across his face that it took a lot for him to admit that, and you understand; it’s a reveal of weakness, something you didn’t think Bucky possessed, which you’re almost certain was by his design. And why should he have weaknesses? With his money, success and looks, there’s nothing for him to fear.

Except, apparently, losing you.

The irony of it all doesn’t escape you. But if he can be brave, so can you. Moving on unsteady legs, you come around to his side of the island.

“Bucky,” you tell him. “I’ll always need you. More than you know.”

His eyes flick across your face, his breathing deep.

“Yes, we only found each other because of my…financial situation,” you admit softly, “but it’s grown to be so much more than that. It — it’s crazy, how much I’ve come to depend on you. And I’ll be honest, I didn’t think it would get this far, but…but somewhere along the way, you became my best friend.”

Bucky’s shoulders sag imperceptibly. For a moment, relief crosses his face, and his eyes are the warmest you’ve seen them all night. You keep going before he can say anything, though, before you can lose your nerve.

“So I couldn’t just leave you, even if I tried,” you tell him, meeting his gaze. “Even if the parties and the vacations and the gifts stopped. Even if all your money dried up. I still wouldn’t dream of leaving you.”

Bucky releases a shaky sigh that slips into a shaky laugh. Wordlessly, he reaches out his hand, beckoning you closer; you take it, allowing him to pull you toward his chair slowly but surely.

“You don’t know what that means to me to hear that,” he murmurs, other hand folding over the one holding yours. “I’m not…I never felt like this…with my other friends,” he starts delicately. “When our time together was done, it made sense. I could wish them well and move on without looking back.”

He takes a deep breath that syncs up with your own, looking up at you through his dark eyelashes.

“But with you…I can’t even picture my life without you in it. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you here for as long as I can.”

His words hit you like a battering ram. Your heart cracks from the effort of holding back every feeling you’ve pushed down, every urge you’ve suppressed. A voice floats through your head, soft but clear.

Tell him.

And for the first time since the floodgates opened, it feels right.

You take a deep, steadying breath before moving closer to him, slipping into the space between his knees. He quickly releases your hand in favor of holding onto your waist, like it’s instinct. His brow furrows in confusion, but he gives no sign of you crossing a line, so you find the courage to slip your hands into his hair, slowly, intentionally, threading your fingers through it on the back of his neck.

“Give me all of you,” your voice is barely a whisper, “that’s how you keep me.”

You watch him process your words, and it’s like seeing the sun rise for the first time; realization dawns across his face and settles with a look of searing intensity. Your heart thunders in your chest. He tugs you closer before his hands carefully cup your jaw, eyes flitting down to your lips and back up.

“All of me?” he whispers back, searching your face.

You nod, holding your breath. Bucky whispers your name reverently, and your eyes slide shut, waiting for the other shoe to drop. One excruciatingly long heartbeat later, his lips are on yours.

You melt instantly, meeting his mouth with a soft groan, your fingers tightening in his hair. He kisses you carefully, purposefully, like he’s writing the story of you and him in real time with his lips. It’s greater than anything you thought it would be, and you vow to yourself to hold onto this moment forever.

With reluctance, he pulls back enough to allow a breath, lips tenderly brushing yours, pupils blown wide.

“Are you sure?”

You let out a shaky exhale, brain scrambling to process if the kiss was a dream or reality. “Yes, I want this, Bucky. I want the last part of you that you haven’t given me yet.”

His eyes flutter shut.

“How long?”

“Since New Years,” you answer, a flush creeping up your neck. A dry smirk crosses his face.

“You mean I’ve been holding myself back for nothing?”

You pull away further, forcing his eyes open to meet yours. “What?”

He chuckles, the sound somewhere between bitter and amused. His thumb pulls down your bottom lip, sweeping across the delicate skin.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I’ve been in love with you since the night you walked across the city in the rain just to make sure you weren’t losing me.”

There’s a pressure growing between your ears, like the feeling that comes before you pass out; if your knees weren’t weak before, they are now. Your hand slides down to his chest, over his heart, and you fist the fabric tightly.

“You love me?” you breathe.

“Yes,” he answers, strong and certain. His blue eyes honest and open.

So you kiss him, throwing all that you have into it. He gives it all back to you, mouth dancing with yours till you can taste every emotion on his lips. “I love you,” you whisper against them. “I love you I love you I love you…” He groans, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss; his tongue brushes yours, and you let him in.

The room fades around you — it’s just you and him in the world.

He tugs you onto his lap, hands moving from your face to the small of your back. His body is warm and soft in all the right places, and you sigh into the kiss from the contact. A heat is starting to spread through you, starting in your heart but growing strongest in your core. It builds slowly, like a balloon filling up with air, and the more you get familiar with how Bucky Barnes kisses, you know it’s only a matter of time before it pops.

You pull at the collar of his shirt, he slides his hands under yours. Your skin is feverish beneath his touch, and soon enough you’re in desperate need of less clothing, less barriers between you and him. His lips chase after yours when you come up for air. “Bucky…” you whisper, fingers dancing down the buttons of his shirt.

Simultaneously, you feel him harden beneath you, the mere outline of it sending a thrill down your spine while a flicker of nervousness darts across his face.

“Doll, I…” he begins softly, “you should know, I can get…carried away in these moments. I don’t — don’t usually let my friends see this side for a reason.” He swallows roughly, brushing a hair from your eyes. “I say things, I—I do things...They can be—“ He swears softly against your jaw. “They can be a lot…”

You draw closer, your nose bumping his. “I told you I want all of you. I meant it.”

There’s a quick pause as he stills. “Promise you’ll tell me if it’s too much.”

Your core ignites, as well as your curiosity. “I promise,” you say.

Bucky seals your promise with a searing kiss, tongue pushing its way into your mouth; your surprised gasp is cut off and swallowed by him when he lifts you effortlessly from his lap, depositing you on the edge of the counter. His mouth parts from yours as he pushes you back gently, until your spine kisses the cool marble, his plate shoved out of the way and landing with a crash on the floor that you both fail to acknowledge.

Your brain spins as you watch him pant above you — you swear you’ve seen him like this before in dreams — struggling to catch up to reality. But your body is already there. You can feel the effects of his kisses dripping into your panties, soaking them through. You’d be embarrassed if Bucky didn’t look like he was ready to devour you.

His hands run down your body appreciatively, gentle and tender. As he cups your breasts through your shirt, he releases a soft noise from the back of his throat. You arch into him, nipples visible through the fabric, and he circles them with expert precision with his thumbs.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “If you knew how many times I’ve thought about this…”

He trails off, but the message is clear. You move your hands on top of his, meeting his eyes. “I’ve thought about this, too.”

He licks his lips, eyes dark with want, then moves his hands lower, reluctantly parting with your chest. His fingertips tickle your sides as they make their way to your jeans, hooking into the waistband and circling the edge until they meet in the middle. He pops the fly and drags the zipper down slowly, either to prolong the moment or to tease you brutally as his knuckle drags against the front of your underwear.

Your hands seize his again, “Bucky,” you whimper. He shushes you with another rough kiss, his stubble rubbing the skin of your chin raw in a way that you’ll never forget, even when it heals. You’d like to drag that stubble over every inch of your body.

With ease and grace that you know you don’t have, he peels your jeans down your legs; you kick them off your feet and they land on the floor behind him. Instantly, his big palms are pushing your legs apart; goosebumps erupt all over you when the cool air finds your slick panties.

Bucky stares.

But not in a way that makes you want to close your legs — in a way that makes you open them wider, any insecurities flying out the window just from the intention of his gaze. His breathing is heavy as he watches that adjustment.

“This for me?” he whispers, dragging a finger along the edge of the dark patch, outlining your entrance through the fabric.

You bite your lip and nod. His eyes flash to your face.

“I need to hear it. Please.”

“Yes, all for you, Bucky,” you sigh as he runs his other hand down your leg and to your ankle. He grips it for a moment before pulling your leg up against his chest, foot just angled off his shoulder; he steps closer, the bulge in his pants irrefutable, borderline painful-looking, aligned with your center. You moan softly when he palms it through his pants, obscene and without an ounce of shame.

“My girl,” he says, “fucking perfect.” He curls his finger into your underwear. The tip of it slips down your folds, cataloguing how wet you are with his hands-on approach; he withdraws it and quickly sucks the finger into his mouth, holding your gaze. Your body sings for him in response.

“Sweetest thing I’ve tasted,” he mutters, spit-soaked finger yanking your panties down your legs with a blind recklessness that you find incredibly attractive. He doesn’t release your eyes yet. “Tell me you’re mine. Before I eat you out on my kitchen counter. Wanna hear that you’re mine.”

Your exposed pussy clenches around nothing. “I’m yours,” you choke out, “fuck, I’m yours forever. Wanted you for so long—“

He grabs your jaw and pulls you up for a bruising kiss, bending your leg back to your chest with a stretch that burns too good. You meet his passion with your own, tongues clashing and teeth knocking. When he pulls back, your head is floating from the increasing levels of desire, levels you’ve never reached before with anyone else. God, if he just looked at you a certain way, you swear you could come on the spot—

“No going back,” he says against your lips, voice low. “Not now that I have you.”

He makes his descent back down your body, placing chaste kisses over your covered nipples. You whimper and writhe when he sinks to his knees, eagerly throwing your other leg over his shoulder so that he’s trapped between them. You prop yourself up by your elbows to better see the dirtiest, most breathtaking view in front of you.

Bucky’s chest heaves, his eyes drinking in your glistening, aching core. You move your hips in the hopes of enticing him closer, but his hands put a stop to your motions.

“Let me see her,” he mutters. Your heart beats in time with your throbbing pussy. He observes his newest possession like a collector observes his prized item. With awe and greed and devotion.

Slowly, so slowly, he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, shaky breath warming the skin. You sigh again, head tipping back. “Bucky,” you whisper to the heavens.

God doesn’t answer, but Bucky does.

His lips trail up to the juncture between your thighs, mouthing at your folds with light touches. You let out a soft wail at the sudden contact. Your hips buck in his hold, but he pins you down firmly and begins to eat.

His tongue finds your clit and attaches to it, flicking back and forth in tiny circles that awaken feelings you’ve never felt before from your own hand or with others. Instantly, the sounds start falling from your lips, whimpers and half-curses and incoherent words; they seem to encourage him, because he doubles-down against your clit, pressing harder with his tongue as he continues to bring your body to life.

“Fuck, I’ve wanted this for a long time,” he exhales on your core before diving back in. Your hips try to escape his hold when he does something special with the top of his tongue, but he forces them back down firmly, reinforcing the controlled way he explores your pleasure.

And when he sucks your clit into his mouth—

“Yes, yes — oh, right there—“ You bite down on your hand to cut off the whining; Bucky takes one glance at you and pulls away immediately, brow furrowed.

“Don’t do that,” he says roughly, his breath warm against your folds, “I want to hear you.”

You obey without arguement. Your hand slumps down to the counter, nails sliding along the smooth surface.

He works you slowly, torturously, following the lead from your hitches in breath and involuntary noises until he’s found an enthusiastic pattern that sends pleasure to every nerve ending. You’re impossibly close already, you can feel your arousal dripping down your ass and onto his chest, that cord in you threatening to snap.

But he draws back like he read your mind, meeting your eyes to create an image that will be burned into your retinas for all of eternity. The cord loosens from lack of attention, finding slack, and you whimper.

Bucky says nothing, opting to lick around the outside of your folds like he’s cleaning you up. It’s cruelty in a new form, and you hate it and love it at the same time. For once, Bucky’s refusing to give you what you very clearly want, and it sends a rush of heated desire through you.

You’re about ready to beg when his tongue slips across your folds and lands directly on your entrance with a gravely hum. You cry out, your spine defying all anatomical physics, but Bucky pays it no mind. His rhythm starts with languid strokes, getting acquainted with the tight hole that cries for him; he laps at it with care and concentration, allowing no corner unattended.

Bucky’s good at this — way too good. His hands press harder against your hips, leaving you at the mercy of his mouth, and it’s quickly becoming too much for you to handle.

Bucky notices it like a sixth sense once again, but decides to indulge it with a long, thick finger taking the place of his tongue. The air leaves your lungs with a choked cry. He grunts and nips at your leg.

“Jesus, sweetheart, she wants it so bad…”

Your fingers find his hair and pull, just to keep yourself grounded when he moves his mouth back to your clit, sucking and swirling it around while his finger slides in and out of you at a deviously slow pace. He very quickly adds another finger, stretching you out as he curls them and strokes your walls.

They take their time exploring you until they come across the spongey spot that opens your stairway to heaven. Your jaw goes slack and a moan slips out, stars blooming across your vision.

“Right here, honey?”

You blink until you can see clearly, finding him watching you from between your legs with his mouth still pressed to your clit. “Yes,” you breathe, “like that, I’m close…”

That’s when he releases you with a *pop*, fingers stopping inside of you. “Not yet,” he rumbles. “Gonna make this last. You taste too good.”

He keeps you on the brink like this for ages — hours could have passed and you would have never known. Just as the cord begins to splinter, he slows his hand and releases your clit, breathing heavily over it like he’s catching his breath, like he’s the one being brought to the edge. Every time he does this, you whine his name through your teeth, tears blurring your vision, until he decides you’ve been patient enough and resumes his assault.

“Talk to me,” he mutters, free hand pulling you closer to his face, then laps at the little button just above your entrance. You arch off the counter, skin on fire.

“Fuck, I’m so close, Bucky, so close — just wanna come, please — wanna come on your face—“

He buries himself into your center with a fierce determination, fingers gliding in and out with brutal dedication and curling at the right places.

“Bucky…B-Bucky, I—“

“Give it to me,” he growls, flicking his tongue rapidly against you.

You fall apart in seconds, your body tightening and releasing with a snap as the cord breaks. Slick leaks around his hand in a sudden gush that stains his sleeve. You curl into yourself as the orgasm wracks your body, legs closing around his head, keeping him in place, threatening to suffocate him.

Bucky works you through it, making soft noises against your flesh, pressing his fingers to the special spot inside of you while frenching your clit. He eases up when your legs tremble around him, your fingers twitching against his roots from oversensitivity, and pulls away to watch you come back down to earth.

When you finally get reacquainted with reality, you only see him.

Kneeling before you, he looks the part of a sinner at an altar, seeking absolution in the divine. From the look in his eyes, you think he’s found it.

He stands, holding your legs steady against his chest; the lower half of his face is soaked, glistening in the soft light of the kitchen. He licks his lips before leaning over you, dragging his mouth across yours with a featherlight brush. Your tongue eagerly reaches out to taste yourself on him, a surge of possessive pride running through your blissed out body.

He moans into your mouth at your boldness, giving you what you’re searching for. His tongue strokes yours from back to front, sharing the taste of your arousal. It’s sweet and sour at the same time, new and surprisingly addicting; you understand why Bucky wanted to stay rooted at the source.

Just as your body begins to hum at the thought, you feel the length of him behind his slacks press into your center. It makes you jump, letting out a small squeak, but Bucky shushes you, sliding his arms around your back, setting you upright on the counter.

He finds your eyes, cups your jaw in his hand. “I’m gonna fuck you now.”

He says it so simply, like it’s a known fact the universe has held on to for a millennia. You frantically reach for him, arms winding around his neck as your lips meet.

In a blur of moving walls and flashing lights, he picks you up and carries you to the bedroom, laying you gently down on top of his bed. His hands find the hem of your shirt and tug it over your head efficiently, leaving you completely bare to him now. He leans back to stand at the foot of the bed, taking in your naked body splayed out for him and only him.

You imagine how you must look in his eyes, bottom lip bitten raw, nipples stiff, pussy swollen and wet with his spit and your arousal. You hope he likes what he sees.

Based on the hungry look on his face, you think he does.

Bucky places trembling hands on both of your ankles, rubbing at the bone before they slide delicately up your calves, the ghost of a touch that turns your core molten. When he gets to your knees he squeezes, pushing on a pressure point that makes your legs jump apart.

He lets go, restraint written all across his face as he begins to slowly take off his shirt.

“God, look at you,” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded. “She’s so pretty like that.”

The fact that he’s talking about your pussy makes your eyes roll back. Never has dirty talk sounded like music to your ears, until now.

“I’ve been thinking about you like this for weeks — fucked my hand in the shower to you before you’d come over. I felt horrible for it every time…turns out you were thinking about me like this, too.”

He meets your stare as he pulls his under shirt over his head, leaving you to ogle at the sharp angles of his chest, the hard cut of his abs. The dark chest hair expands across his skin, leading down to a trail that disappears into his pants. You want your mouth on it immediately.

You reach for him, one hand lifting in the air, but Bucky smacks it away with a light tap. Your eyes go wide.

“Whole time I could’ve had you like this, I was just imagining you instead. I’ll never forgive myself for all that time lost, spent picturing you spread out for me, or on your knees for me, or handcuffed to my bed…”

Bucky trails off, watching you squirm from his words. He undoes his belt, the clink of metal interrupting the heavy silence; he lets his pants slide down his legs before he reaches into his briefs and pulls out his cock.

Your lips part, drool pooling at the corners.

He’s thick and long with a flushed, leaking tip. His thumb runs over it to smear it down his shaft, hand moving slowly along the skin, just enough to keep him rock hard.

“Are you gonna let me know what the real thing is like?”

“Yes,” you gasp, your fingers creeping toward your center. “Yes, Bucky. I want it all, please—”

He spots your fingers beginning to tease at your clit. In a flash, he has your wrists in one hand, the other picking up the pace on his cock. One look from him is the only warning you need.

“Next time I’ll hold you down any way I want,” he says, voice dangerously low. “I’ll take my time. Make sure you never forget how I feel inside of you. I’ll make you come until your body gives out on me.”

You shudder underneath him, a sticky warmth dripping out of you.

“And in the morning, when you’re cooking me breakfast to thank me for the best fuck of your life, I’ll take you again on the counter because I can. The food’ll burn, but you won’t say anything, you’ll just let me like you should.”

His hand tightens around your wrists.

“And when I get home late from work, and you’re passed out in my bed, I’ll wake you up with my cock inside you, because I haven’t thought about anything else all day, and I won’t waste a second of finally being able to fuck you again.”

Your whimper is positively shameful, the mess between your legs growing worse by the minute. Bucky releases you. Your hands fall onto the bed with a hollow smack — you don’t dare move them. Not when he’s watching you with those sharp eyes.

He loses the briefs, leaving him utterly naked before you. How many times have you dreamt of this? Too many to count. Slowly, he crawls onto the bed and over your body. You feel his cock glide up your thigh, rigid and hot to the touch.

“But tonight I just wanna feel you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours. “Don’t want to wait any longer.”

The hand around his cock moves to your core, expertly gathering your arousal and dragging it up your folds. You follow his hand with your hips, moaning, your fingers twitching to touch him but unsure of the consequences.

He plays your body like he’s known it his whole life. Fingertips rolling your clit back and forth before teasing your entrance. Your breath catches when he eases a finger in, making his lips curve up in a smile, open mouth hovering over yours; he watches your face with unwavering focus, learning your tells and tics as you come apart for him once again.

When he’s knuckle-deep in you, your spine locks up. You moan his name, hands flying up to grasp at his neck. He exhales heavily as he fucks you with his finger, warm breath fanning across your lips.

“That’s it, baby, show me how it feels…I wanna see what I do to you…”

Your nails dig into his skin, bound to leave marks. You huff when he suddenly skips a second finger, going straight for three. “Oh!”

“Come on, sweetheart, you can take it. Be my good girl.”

Bucky’s fingers are much bigger than yours, and reach greater depths; you feel full of him already, and it’s not even close to what his cock will do to you. The stretch burns around his fingers, the muscles protesting yet welcoming them at the same time.

“B-Bucky, it’s…too…too—“

“Gotta open you up, doll, you’re not ready for me yet,” he murmurs against your cheek. “Relax and let me take care of you…”

His words are your command; you sink into the mattress and tilt your hips up until he hits a spot that releases the tension from your body. Your pussy flutters around him, pulling him deeper.

“There she is,” he whispers. “God, you feel unreal like this. So warm and tight.”

You let out a high-pitched whine when the heel of his hand comes down forcibly on your clit. The stimulation rocks through you with an hedonistic effect, pleasure building quickly to the point of no return.

“Fuck,” you cry out, biting at his ear. His answering groan is lewd.

“You gonna come for me again?” he grits through his teeth, grinding his palm over your bundle of nerves.

“Oh, God,” you sob, arching into him. You can feel the wave of pleasure building, building, growing in intensity. He leans back to spit directly onto your clit, then smears it with his hand, moving faster, fingers plunging in and out at a delicious tempo.

“Let’s see it,” Bucky says, “show me you want my cock. You said you wanted it, show me you can take it.”

His fingers curl against your walls and you shatter as the wave crashes into you. Your whole body is a sea of live wires and nerve endings as you come for him, muscles tensing and relaxing and tensing again like your body’s hooked up to an electroshock machine. He breathes heavily over you as you convulse, thumb gently circling your clit to ease the comedown, until you’re panting and gasping and twisting out of his grip.

He releases you, nose nudging at your temple as your breaths even out.

“Gonna take my cock so well, sweetheart,” he whispers. A whimper escapes you, a spent tear sliding down your cheek. He brushes it away with his lips.

His knee nudges your legs further apart, making room for his broad body to settle firmly between them. He lines himself up with your center, the tip of him just grazing your needy entrance. Bucky looks down at you then.

“You want this?” he murmurs, voice low and soft and…vulnerable, the bravado from earlier stripped away now. His eyes ask for one last confirmation that this is real.

It sparks a set of real tears from you, and you have to blink quickly to keep them where they are. You silently grieve for the Bucky who thought he’d never get this with you, who thought it’d only ever stay a dream, just as you grieved the same thing for yourself, knowing how much pain lived within you each day just from carrying a silent love for someone.

But you’re here now, fitted underneath him like missing puzzle pieces reuniting, and it’s very, very real.

Your chin tilts up to brush a kiss on his mouth. “I love you, Bucky,” you breathe.

A shudder runs through him, a sharp exhale falling from his lips. He rolls his hips forward automatically and the first inch of him slides home. He splits you open on his cock with a finality that soothes as much as it burns. You gasp with him, open mouths sharing a breath and eyes locked together as he feels your pussy pull at him, adjusting to the size while asking for more.

“Love you,” he mumbles, pushing forward, his cock slowly dragging down your walls. “Love you so much.”

“Oh!” you moan when the size of him makes its presence known by knocking against your sweet spot already.

A breathless laugh leaves him as he hovers above you. “Of course you’re this fucking tight. Like you’re fucking made for me.” He hisses as he slides fully in, you answer with a low whine. “Feel so fucking perfect.”

Bucky’s panting by the time his hips rest against yours, swearing under his breath. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other holds your leg open, seeking out a final nonexistent inch of space to get closer to you. You’re clenching hard around his cock, testing his resolve, accommodating to the feeling of being stuffed full of him. It’s all-consuming and disorienting and feels much bigger than just two people becoming one. Your face nuzzles into his shoulder, whimpers escaping your throat.

“Oh, God, you’re…” you whisper.

Bucky shushes you. ”I know, baby. Doing so good.”

He draws back at a glacial pace, revering the feel of your tight walls against his cock, until just the tip is left and you’re already aching for him to fill you again. He pushes back in easily, fitting into place with a slow, deep thrust.

“Fuck,” he mutters, kissing your forehead. You whine. He responds by starting a brutal pace, sliding a big hand down your thigh to hitch it higher around his waist. He pushes your other leg against your chest, opening you up to the steady, rhythmic motion of his hips. You feel the warmth sparking in your core again, growing hotter and hotter with each thrust, building in intensity every time he mouths at your throat or forces you to meet his eyes with a firm grip around your jaw.

He’s commanding in the softest way possible, anchoring you to this moment with touches and kisses that sear your skin, some featherlight, some heavier, shocking your system each time with their contrast, until all of existence has been consumed by him.

Bucky’s cock hits every delicious point within your walls like he’s already memorized your body. He draws out whimpers and soft cries from you repeatedly, to the point that you think he’s become addicted to them, finding the right spot and honing in on it like a man obsessed. The noises you make layer over the muffled, wet sounds of your bodies joining, of heated skin moving against heated skin, and it sounds like a goddamn symphony of love.

He doesn’t leave you guessing how good you’re making him feel either.

He groans his approval every time you arch up into him, meeting his hips with your own.

“That’s it, sweetheart…taking me so well…”

You let out a moan when his tip drags along your cervix, pussy fluttering around his cock. Bucky makes a choked noise, pace stuttering.

“Fuck, she’s—she’s milking me, honey,” he gasps, pupils dilating till there’s no more blue. “God, you feel incredible. So perfect. My girl…” His mouth reaches for yours, drawing you in for an earth-shattering kiss; the heat in your belly swells as your tongues dance, his words seeping deep into your soul.

“Bucky—“ you whine against his lips, feeling the start of your orgasm begin to crest. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, his back, tethering yourself to him.

Bucky can feel you’re close. He speeds up, licking down your chest to pull a nipple into his mouth, sucking and biting to multiply the sparks dancing up and down your body. One hand locks itself into your hair again, the other slips down to your clit, thumb brushing back and forth just slow enough to draw the pleasure out.

“Oh! Oh shit — fuck, Bucky—“

“Let me hear it,” he growls against your skin, his arm shaking beside your head where his forearm holds himself up on the mattress. You turn to bite into his bicep as the buildup inside of you finally explodes.

You shudder through a low groan, equal parts pained and relieved. Your orgasm crashes through you like waves on a beach, sending your brain tumbling to the brink of a dark abyss. Your eyes flutter closed.

Bucky takes every pulse and throb you have to offer him, riding it out with frantic thrusts that are borderline manic. His eyes are wild but eternally locked on you as he extends this moment for as long as possible, continuing his assault on your clit while you jerk and shake underneath him.

“F-fuck— Jesus, baby—“

Through the heavy haze of your world-bending pleasure, you can feel Bucky’s cock twitch inside of you. He pulls at your hair to tilt your chin back.

“Look at me,” he begs lowly. You open your eyes to find him hovering above you again, eyes wide as they drink you in, pink lips shiny from his work on your nipple. “Good girl,” he breathes, thrusts faltering when he meets your gaze. “Good fucking girl. Keep your eyes on me while I fill you up.”

You arch into him again, a powerful aftershock of your orgasm ripping through you. Bucky groans, forehead falling to yours.

“You like that, sweetheart? You want me to fill you up?”

His hips smack into yours, finally giving your clit a break as his arm pushes back both of your legs as far as they can go. You think you see another planet when his cocks finds a new place inside of you that you didn’t know existed.

“Oh, God,” you sob, feeling like you’re floating out of your body from the change in angle. “I want all of it, Bucky—”

“Yeah?” he grits out between his teeth, slowing down to hard thrusts that push your body up the bed. “Greedy little thing. I’ll give you all of it, baby, you can take it.”

You nod because your words have turned into babbling cries — Bucky’s removed all coherent thoughts from your head. You’re reduced to the five senses now, and all of them are overwhelmed with him.

“Gonna give it all to you just like this,” he says, and brings you in for a desperate kiss.

Your body hums and vibrates through the final waves of your orgasm while Bucky nears his, pounding into you with a deep intensity that you feel in your bones. When he comes, he moans unashamedly into your mouth, broad body locking up as his hips still with a loud snap against yours.

“Fuck, never letting you go,” he stutters out, words slurred, “never giving up this pussy. All mine—“

You can feel the heat of his cum pool into your core, filling you up as it was meant to, leaving you satisfied in ways you’d like to explore deeper another time. Bucky breathes heavily into your mouth, a groan slipping out every now and then as he lets the pleasure wash over him.

When both of your breaths have evened out, he pulls back, far enough for those dark eyes — slowly changing back to the bright blue — to search your face.

“You okay?” he asks softly, shyly. Your hands slide down his back, gentle over the nail marks you’ve left on it.

“More than okay,” you whisper. “That was…amazing…you’re amazing.”

He shakes his head.

“That was all you, my love.”

You smile, your fingers brushing the damp strands of hair on the back of his neck. “I think I like that nickname the best.”

A tender smile curls his lips, and he leans down to press a kiss to the space between your eyebrows, then the tip of your nose, then your lips. You keep him there, moving your mouth languidly against him until Bucky’s cock has softened enough inside of you for him to pull out.

You both hiss at the loss of contact, and there’s a cool edge to the air as it brushes against your well-abused pussy. With a light groan, Bucky pushes himself back on his knees, your legs falling bonelessly to the bed on either side of him. You watch with love-drunk eyes as he ducks down to observe the slow trickle of his cum from your hole, and your cheeks flare up with heat when he bends over to place a kiss on your clit.

“Bucky,” you mumble, legs closing on instinct, but he holds them open as he begins lapping at both of your releases spilling from you, cleaning you up while also stuffing it back into you with his tongue.

You cry out from the new sensations on your oversensitive pussy, a hand darting down to his hair to push him away or tug him closer, you’re unsure. Either way, you’re a panting mess again by the time he’s had his fill — literally.

He crawls up your body slowly, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand before settling over you. You can feel yourself relax once the skin of his chest meets yours again.

“Had to taste you again,” he murmurs, “somehow y‘taste even better with me in you.”

A delicate shiver rolls down your spine. He’s fucking filthy and you love it.

He kisses you deeply, the remnants of your combined releases waking up your tastebuds, then pulls away, leaving you alone on the bed. Your heart flutters as you watch Bucky’s naked figure disappear into his closet, returning half a moment later clad in briefs and holding another pair along with his comfiest, biggest sweatshirt and a wet cloth from the bathroom.

“Come here, sweet girl,” he whispers, kneeling on the edge of the bed.

You comply as best as you can, rolling yourself toward him with whatever strength’s left in your body, which isn’t a lot. He meets you halfway, hauling you close with his big, strong arms, and runs the warm cloth along your center, gentle strokes that only pull out the softest of sighs from you; he tosses it into the hamper once you’re clean before sliding the briefs up your legs gently, rubbing your skin along the way, and pulling the sweatshirt over your head, helping your arms through as well.

When you’re bundled up in his clothes, he climbs onto the bed and lays you across his chest like you weigh nothing, like you’re made of rubber, like there’s not a thought in your head capable of doing it for yourself.

There’s a good chance there isn’t.

Bucky tugs the covers up to your waists, entwining his legs with yours and pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. Your hand finds his chest and strokes the skin there, feeling his heartbeat with every pass.

“Can’t believe we could’ve been doing this for weeks,” you mumble.

You hear a low rumble of laughter in Bucky’s chest. “Lots to make up for.” He pulls you tighter against him as your eyes begin to droop, the feeling of a long, hard fuck rendering you exhausted. His sigh into your hair tells you he feels the same, and his cheek drops to the top of your head.

After a quiet moment, he says, “You didn’t eat.”

You giggle sleepily. “It wasn’t that good anyway.”

“Not true, it was just…a different take on Italian.”

“Nice save.”

“Seriously. Do you want something?”

You hum into his chest. “Maybe pizza, from Luigi’s? Later, though. Right now I just want this.”

His heart skips a beat beneath your hand and he wraps impossibly closer around you. You’re grinning like a deranged lunatic into his skin, the giddiness of your current predicament keeping you awake for a few moments longer.

“My love,” he breathes. Not a question, nor the start of a statement. Just the name, new and bold and absolutely perfect.

Your brain recalls that first gala together, when he introduced you as his friend all night, and it made sense until it didn’t, until your heart moved to a place your brain couldn’t get to yet and decided that “friend” wasn’t enough. Listening to him now, you know your heart’s been patiently waiting for this the whole time.

Then your mind conjures up another memory, more startling than the last: of the days leading up to the agreement, when you moved around your apartment like a ghost as you considered his offer, ignoring your bills and worrying a path into your hardwood floors. You had all but decided to say yes to Bucky, but the thing that gave you pause was your mom. Your brain couldn’t help but wonder what she’d think of you for agreeing to something like this, what’d she say if she knew her daughter signed a contract with a billionaire for companionship.

As you listen to Bucky’s steady heart beat in his chest, as you feel his hands stroke tenderly down your skin, you’re struck with the answer you couldn’t find then: she’d be so fucking happy for you.

Smiling, you melt against him, basking in the dawn of something new, something beautiful that awaits you on the horizon with Bucky by your side.

His hand traces circles on your arm, his lips brush your hair, he whispers your name over and over and over until you fall asleep surrounded in his love.

Luigi’s comes much later than you planned. The two of you don’t stir for a long time, until the early morning hours when the sky is still gray and traffic is just a trickle. Bucky shifts beneath you as your eyes flutter open, arms tightening around your waist.

“Tell me I’m not dreaming.”

You sigh, tilting your face up to his, a soft smile stretching across your face.

“Want me to pinch you?”

He’s watching you with a sleepy, adoring gaze, hands creeping under your sweatshirt to press against your warm skin.

“How ‘bout a kiss instead?”

Bucky’s drawing you closer before he finishes his sentence, gently capturing your lips with his in a slow, lazy kiss.

“Still think you’re dreaming?” you whisper against his mouth.

“Mmm. Need a little more to make sure…”

His hands slide up your back as he kisses you again, deeper this time, with intention, until you’re breathless putty in his arms. Bucky’s mouth moves down your jaw when you pull back for air. “Bucky…” you breathe, feeling his leg slide between yours, and a certain hardness pressing into your stomach. But as his thigh reaches the juncture between your legs, you twitch, wincing, biting down on a moan. You’re sore — very, very sore.

Bucky notices right away, leaning back to search your face. “You’re hurt.”

You quickly shake your head. “Not hurt, just sore. The good kind,” you add when you see the beginnings of guilt cross his face. You take his jaw in your hands, keeping him close. “You made me feel things I’ve never felt before last night, Buck. Worth it.”

Bucky stares at you for a moment, face blank, until his forehead drops to yours. He groans softly, thumbs smoothing the skin of your shoulders.

“Now I know I’m dreaming. You’re too perfect to be real.”

“You know, you’re real corny after you get some. Should I expect breakfast in bed next?” you tease.

He buries his face into your neck, hiding the pink flush to his cheeks. He mumbles something, but you can’t make it out.

“What was that? Something about rose petals in the bath?”

Bucky nips at your collarbone in retribution as you laugh. Eventually he shows his face to you again, still flushed, but his expression is somber.

“I’m sorry if I was rough with you. I can learn to be softer, if—

“Don’t. I love you just the way you are,” you hush him, pulling him in for another kiss. He responds softly, lovingly, easing his leg between you gently until you’re crisscrossed together beneath the sheets, waiting for the first rays of light to shine on the first day of the rest of your lives.

“Don’t forget to call me if you need me!” you shout to your assistant as she all but shoves you out the door. Her sarcastic salute tells you that she will not be calling you during your time off, even if the office burned down.

You slide your sunglasses on as you walk out into the September sunshine. It’s a beautiful day, the first chill of fall in the air reminding you of why it’s your favorite time of year. Well, that and a certain anniversary.

Bucky’s leaning against the sleek red sports car at the curb (your gift is finally having its moment). He’s devastating in a light blue suit with the button down open to give you a generous view of his chest hair. The smile breaks across your face automatically, instinctively, and you all but skip down the steps to him.

He wears his own smug grin as you approach, arms opening to catch you when you launch yourself into them; his mouth is on yours instantly, bringing you close for a searing reunion kiss.

“How was your day, my love?” he murmurs against your lips. You smile, fingers sliding into the hair at the back of his neck.

“Busy. Long. Lonely without you,” you tease.

“Mmm, same here. Feels like it’s been years since I last saw you.”

“You saw me at lunch, babe.”

“Too long.”

You kiss him hard again, feeling the familiar planes of his body press into yours. He pulls back reluctantly with a groan when you’re good and dizzy.

“As much as I’d love to continue this, we have a plane to catch.”

You tilt your head. “If it’s your plane, don’t they have to wait for you?”

“Doesn’t work like that, sweetheart.”

“I thought it works whatever way I want it to.”

He gives you a look as he opens the door for you, raising an eyebrow. “Eager, are we?”

You slide into the seat. “Can’t a girl celebrate a little?”

“Well, I’ve never had road head before, but I’ll try anything once.” He swings your door shut with a wink before coming around to the driver’s side; you’re still laughing when he joins you.

“Nice try,” you say, “but your driving would put an end to that real quick.”

“I’m a good driver.”

“Honey. No.”

“Says the girl without a license. Talk to me when you can drive.”

The words hold no real bite as he puts the car into drive and pulls into traffic. His free hand takes its place on your knee, squeezing gently; you cover it with your own, fingers threading together, in search of the soothing feel of skin-to-skin.

“What’s the first thing you want to do when we get to Paris?” you ask. He smirks, eyes on the road.

“Practice my French on your pussy. Ma magnifique amante.”

Your other hand reaches for his ear, giving it a quick pinch that earns you a tighter squeeze to your thigh.

“Stop distracting the driver.”

You laugh. “I’m serious! What do you want to do?”

He glances at you, a twinkle in his eye. “I thought you had everything planned. You paid for this trip with your hard-earned, Senior Marketing Analyst money, after all.”

“I know,” you say, smiling giddily, “but I thought we could decide together. Make it our trip. You only celebrate your one year anniversary of meeting each other once.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, taking a sharp right turn that has you careening into him; he takes advantage of the physics and presses a kiss to your cheek, making you blush. A year after knowing him, and four months of being ravished by him day and night, he still gives you butterflies from the simplest gestures.

“Is that what we’re calling it? Sounds like a mouthful. I could give you—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence, James. Even the French can censor themselves,” you warn, wagging a finger in his face. He snaps at it, baring his teeth, and your heart explodes with warmth at his playfulness.

“Alright,” Bucky concedes, “we’ll decide together. But this is still your trip.”

You reach over to caress his cheek softly, drinking in his profile as if you haven’t already memorized it. “Deal. Only because I like taking care of you — when you let me.”

Bucky smiles, leaning into your touch. “I’ll start thinking up some ways to thank you,” he replies.

“Please don’t. It’ll probably be something amazing that one-ups my trip to Paris,” you joke lightly, scratching at the gray in his beard. Bucky huffs a laugh, eyes finding yours and shining with something bright and mysterious.

“We’ll see,” he says, placing a kiss to your palm before he turns back to the road. You lean back in your seat, smiling gently, mind already in Paris, picturing the silk sheets you’ll be tangled up in with your boyfriend in a matter of hours.

Bucky shifts in his seat with a small grin, feeling the weight of the ring box tucked safely in his pocket, bringing you closer and closer to your next adventure.

sammy speaks again: yeah I’m emotional. sorry it took so long, I was on vacation!!! can’t believe it’s over, but thanks for coming along with me on this ride. seriously it has been SO fun!!! can’t wait to give you more soon (very soon lol)

[brnssldr]

SNICKERDOODLES

pairing: bucky barnes x gn!reader

summary: you bake bucky his favorite cookies even though you're allergic to the cinnamon in them. when he finds out, he's not letting it slide.

warnings: reader is allergic to cinnamon, readers is kinda stupid, reader bakes, allergic reaction symptoms (migraine, rash, throat irritation), established relationship, protective bucky, domestic fluff, soft banter, kisses, food/comfort baking, happy ending.

wc: 3.5k

a/n: this may or may not be self indulgent.

masterlist

The kitchen is warm, the kind of heat that sticks to your skin from the oven running too long. You’ve already pulled one tray of muffins out, their tops cracked and golden, and the scent of vanilla still clings in the air. Baking has always been less about the end product and more about the ritual: measuring, stirring, waiting. It’s steady. It fills the silence in a way you like.

The front door clicks open and shuts, and a familiar shuffle of boots makes its way down the hall. Bucky always walks heavy, like he’s still bracing for cobblestones under his feet. He doesn’t call out when he gets home—never has—but the second his head pokes around the kitchen doorway, the tension he carries everywhere eases a little.

“What’s cookin’, doll?” His voice is rough in the casual way it always is, but softer at the edges, too. He leans against the counter, eyes immediately scanning the cooling rack.

“Muffins,” you say, sliding the tin closer to the edge of the stove to cool. “Chocolate chip. Thought it’d be nice to have something for breakfast.”

Bucky grins like you’ve just handed him a plate of gold. He’s never subtle when it comes to food you make—never hides the way he appreciates it. He reaches for one without hesitation, hissing when the heat bites his fingers.

“They’re hot,” you warn, unable to keep the laugh from your voice.

“That’s never stopped me.” He tears the muffin open with his metal hand, steam curling into the air, then takes a huge bite. His shoulders drop with the kind of relief you only ever see when he eats something homemade. “God. These are good. You know what I haven’t had in years?”

You glance over from where you’re wiping down the counter. “What’s that?”

“Snickerdoodles.” He says it so casually, like it’s nothing, but there’s this flicker in his eyes—nostalgia, maybe even longing—that catches you off guard. “Used to get ‘em at a bakery near my ma’s place. Big ones, soft in the middle, all that cinnamon sugar on top. Haven’t tasted anything like it since before…” He trails off, shaking his head as if to push away the thought. “Anyway. Muffins are amazing.”

You hum in response, trying not to let the word snickerdoodle lodge itself too firmly in your mind. Cinnamon sits on your tongue like a warning just hearing it. Still, you find yourself nodding, as if you’ve already made a mental note.

Bucky finishes the muffin in a few more bites, licking a smear of melted chocolate off his thumb. “You’re spoilin’ me, you know that?”

“Maybe I just don’t want you living off takeout,” you tease, setting the dish towel aside.

“Maybe I like that better,” he shoots back, half-smiling. Then his expression softens, the way it always does when he thinks you’re not looking. “Seriously though. Thank you.”

The oven ticks as it cools, filling the quiet between you. You watch him lick the last crumbs from his fingers and tuck away the image of that look on his face—the kind of happiness that’s unguarded, rare. And maybe, you think, it wouldn’t hurt to try.

The thought doesn’t leave you. Not after the muffins are gone, not after Bucky falls asleep on the couch later with the empty plate balanced on his chest.

Snickerdoodles.

It repeats in your head while you wash dishes, while you scroll aimlessly through your phone. You’ve never made them before—not for yourself, at least—but you can still picture the look on his face when he talked about them. The softness in his voice, the way his shoulders had gone loose like just saying the word gave him a little comfort.

By the next morning, you’ve already decided.

It’s a Saturday, the kind of day that feels too bright to waste indoors, and you find yourself walking the few blocks to the little family-owned market near the edge of town. The bigger grocery store would’ve been easier, but you want something better than the dusty jar of cinnamon you know is sitting in their baking aisle. If you’re going to do this, you want it to feel special.

The market smells faintly of ground spices and coffee beans. There are baskets of produce at the front, and hand-lettered signs taped to shelves. You take your time, weaving through the narrow aisles, letting your fingers brush over the jars lined up like they were placed there just for you to find.

There’s a whole section for spices—rows of glass containers with neat labels, cinnamon among them. Your hand hovers, your throat prickling just at the thought of what it’ll do to you. Still, you pick the jar up, its weight solid in your palm, the cinnamon dark and fine inside the glass. A better version than the kind you’d find in bulk, the kind you hope will taste like memory for him.

The rest of the list is easy: flour, sugar, eggs, butter. Things you already have at home, but you want them fresh. You stand in line behind a woman with a basket full of apples and listen to the cashier chat about the weather. It’s all so ordinary it makes you smile.

Back home, you set the groceries out on the counter like it’s an offering. The cinnamon jar catches the light from the window, glinting at you, daring you. You pull a mixing bowl from the cupboard and start to work.

There’s comfort in the rhythm. Creaming butter and sugar together until the mixture is pale, cracking eggs one at a time, folding flour into the dough until it sticks to the spoon in clumps. The air grows warm with the oven preheating, and your hands move almost automatically, muscle memory from years of baking everything except this.

You set up a shallow bowl with sugar and the cinnamon, whisking them together until the air carries that sharp, sweet spice. It burns faintly in your nose, makes your eyes water just a little, but you push it down. You roll the dough into small balls, coating them in the mixture until your fingertips are sticky with sugar.

The first tray slides into the oven, and you lean against the counter, wiping your hands on a dish towel. For a moment, you just stand there, breathing in the scent that’s beginning to bloom—warm, sweet, unmistakably cinnamon.

You can almost see it already: Bucky walking in, catching the smell before he even rounds the corner, his face lighting up with something unguarded and childlike. The thought makes your chest ache in the best way.

When the timer dings, you pull the tray out, and there they are—golden at the edges, soft in the middle, sugared tops crackling under the heat. They look exactly like every picture you’ve seen, exactly like something worth remembering.

You don’t taste one, you don’t need to. The joy, you know, will be in watching him.

The cookies cool while you rummage through the cupboard for the little box you’d picked up weeks ago at the craft store. It’s one of those things you’d bought without a plan, drawn to the neat fold-over lid and the window on top. White cardboard with a thin gold trim. Decorative but not flashy. Perfect.

You line the inside with a sheet of wax paper, stack the cookies in carefully, and fold the lid shut until it clicks into place. It feels almost silly, how much care you put into it, but something about giving them this way makes it feel like more than just a plate of cookies. It feels like a gift.

Bucky’s sprawled on the couch when you walk into the living room. He’s half-slouched against the armrest, one hand draped over his chest, the TV flickering in front of him. A news channel, muted. His hair’s a little messy, like he’d raked a hand through it a few too many times.

You clear your throat softly, and his head tilts toward you.

“What’s that?” he asks, noticing the box immediately.

“Something for you.” You offer it out, trying not to look too eager.

He sits up, curiosity flickering across his face as he takes the box into his hands. “For me? What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion.” You shrug, tucking your hands into your pockets. “Just… open it.”

The lid pops open, and for a second his expression doesn’t change. Then the scent hits him. His eyes widen, mouth parting like he’s not sure he’s seeing right.

“You didn’t.” His voice is low, almost reverent.

“Snickerdoodles,” you confirm, a little shy despite yourself.

The way he looks at you makes your chest feel too tight. He’s quiet for a beat, then sets the box on the coffee table and stands, closing the space between you before you can think. His hand finds the side of your face, rough palm against your cheek, and he leans in to press his lips against yours.

It’s not rushed. It’s not anything but soft gratitude poured into a kiss. Warmth blooming from the press of his mouth to yours. When he pulls back, there’s a tiny grin tugging at his lips, like he can’t help it.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your jaw before he finally lets go.

You’re still reeling when he sits back down and pulls the box into his lap. He takes one cookie out, studying it like it might vanish if he blinks too long, then takes a bite. His eyes shut almost instantly.

“Oh my god,” he says around a mouthful, half-laughing. “This is… this is perfect.”

He doesn’t stop at one bite. He devours the whole thing, licking cinnamon sugar from his thumb exactly the way you imagined he would. And then, still chewing the last bit, he leans toward you again. This time it’s a quick kiss on the cheek, careless with how happy he is, the taste of sugar still on his lips.

The spot tingles almost instantly. A faint burn spreads under your skin, just enough to make your throat tighten in sympathy. You cover it with a smile, force your hand to stay relaxed at your side instead of pressing against the flush you know is rising.

“Best thing I’ve had in years,” Bucky says, licking a stray crumb from the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t notice the way you swallow a little harder than usual, doesn’t see the way your eyes water just slightly before you blink it away.

All he sees is the box in his lap, and you standing there with that same quiet smile.

“Seriously,” he says again, shaking his head like he can’t believe it. “You didn’t have to do this for me.”

You laugh, soft and easy, even as your cheek still burns faintly. “I wanted to.”

The first time after that, it isn’t planned. You’re already in the kitchen, measuring flour for something else when you see the jar of cinnamon on the counter. Before you can talk yourself out of it, the flour and butter are going toward cookie dough again. By the time Bucky wanders in from a run, his hair damp and shirt clinging to him, the smell is already curling through the apartment.

“You’re kidding,” he breathes, peeling the damp fabric from his shoulder. “Again?”

You slide the tray out of the oven, the tops of the cookies glistening faintly with sugar. “Couldn’t help it.”

He doesn’t even wait for them to cool. Burns his tongue on the first bite and laughs around it anyway, crumbs sticking to his lower lip. You laugh too, but while his eyes are closed in bliss, you’re tucking the itch at the back of your throat away, swallowing it down with a sip of water.

Another time, it’s because his day has gone sideways. He comes home late, shoulders drawn tight, jaw set hard. You can see the storm in him from the second he shuts the door. He doesn’t say much—just hangs his jacket on the hook, kicks his boots aside, and drops heavily into the chair at the table.

You’d already made the cookies earlier, just because. They’re waiting in the kitchen, stacked in a tin. You slide it across the table to him, wordless.

He glances at it, then at you, suspicion softening into something else when he lifts the lid. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

But he takes one. Then another. By the third, his shoulders are looser, his sighs quieter, the sharp edges of his mood worn down by cinnamon sugar and the quiet way you sit across from him, pretending not to notice how he’s watching you between bites.

By the time the tin’s half empty, he leans forward, rests his hand over yours on the table, and says quietly, “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Your throat burns worse than usual that night, but you swallow it down with a smile, squeezing his hand back.

The third time, it’s just because the weather’s turned cold. Rain lashes against the windows, thunder rolling low in the distance. He’s curled on the couch under a blanket, reading something thick with a bent spine, when you bring over a small plate balanced in your hands.

“Guess what I made?” you say, though the smell gives it away immediately.

Bucky sets the book aside, his grin already spreading before he even sees the cookies. “I don’t deserve you.”

You sit beside him, tucking your legs up under yourself as he takes one, warm enough that the sugar leaves his fingers tacky. He chews slow this time, savoring, then leans into your side with a content sigh.

“Feels like home,” he murmurs. “You feel like home.”

You tilt your head against his shoulder, letting the heat of him soak into you, ignoring the faint prickle that flares when his lips brush the side of your temple in thanks.

It becomes a pattern after that. Sometimes he finds the box waiting for him on the counter when he gets back from missions, sometimes you bring a plate into the living room without warning. Each time, the joy on his face makes the tightening in your chest and the itching in your skin worth it.

You tell yourself it’s a small price. A handful of symptoms traded for the sound of his laugh, the rare softness in his eyes. The way he always kisses your cheek after the last bite, cinnamon sugar still on his breath.

It starts small. A headache you can’t quite shake, one of those dull, pulsing things that creeps behind your eyes after the third batch in a week. You tell yourself it’ll pass. It usually does. But then your nose won’t stop running, and your throat feels scraped raw like sandpaper. By the time Bucky gets back from the store that evening, your skin is prickling with a faint rash along your arms.

You’re on the couch, blanket pulled around you, trying to breathe evenly when you hear the door unlock.

“Hey, I grabbed milk—” he starts, but his words trail off when he sees you. His brow furrows instantly, groceries abandoned on the counter. “What’s goin’ on? You sick?”

“I’m fine,” you say too quickly, voice hoarse. You try for a smile, but it pulls weakly across your face.

He kneels down in front of you, metal hand resting on the edge of the couch, flesh hand hovering like he’s not sure if he should touch you. His eyes scan over the flushed heat in your cheeks, the way your nose is raw from tissues, the small red blotches climbing your neck.

“This ain’t just a cold,” he mutters. “What happened?”

You shake your head, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. “It’s nothing. Just—just a migraine.”

“Bullshit.” His voice is sharp, but not unkind. He leans closer, searching your face. “Don’t lie to me. What’s wrong?”

There’s no use pretending when his gaze is that steady, that unrelenting. The truth claws its way up before you can stop it.

“It’s the cinnamon,” you admit, voice low. “I’m allergic.”

The words hang heavy between you. You expect him to laugh it off, maybe scold you lightly. Instead, his expression twists, something almost like betrayal flickering there. He leans back just enough to take you in again, as though seeing you for the first time.

“All this time,” he says slowly, voice rough. “You’ve been makin’ those cookies. For me. Even though…” His jaw tightens. “Jesus, no wonder you’ve been lookin’ off some nights.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first. Finally, you manage, “You love them. You light up every time. I just—wanted to give you that.”

His hand finally lands on your knee, grounding, though his touch is still tense. “At the cost of your own health?” His voice cracks in disbelief. “You think I want that? You think cookies matter more than you bein’ okay?”

You swallow hard, throat burning in a way that has nothing to do with the allergy. “It was worth it. Seeing you happy—”

“Don’t.” He cuts you off gently, shaking his head. His thumb presses harder against your knee, almost like he’s trying to anchor himself. “Don’t ever say that. You’re worth more than some damn cookies.”

The silence that follows is heavy, punctuated only by the soft hum of the fridge in the kitchen. His eyes are wet around the edges, though he blinks it away before it can fall.

“I can’t believe you hid this from me,” he murmurs, softer now, more hurt than angry. “You could’ve ended up in the hospital. And I never even—” He stops himself, jaw working, then exhales through his nose. “That’s it. No more snickerdoodles. Not in this house. Not anywhere near you.”

A small laugh slips from you despite the lump in your throat. “You’re really going to ban cinnamon?”

“Damn right I am.” His voice is firm, though the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “Every jar’s goin’ in the trash tonight. I’ll tear through the pantry myself.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s hard not to melt when he shifts closer, brushing a hand carefully over the side of your face. His touch is gentle now, thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone as though he’s afraid you’ll break.

“No more secrets like this,” he says quietly. “Promise me.”

You nod, throat tight. “Promise.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead—soft, lingering, nothing rushed. And for the first time, you let yourself lean fully into him, letting the warmth of his presence settle into your bones.

The cookies were always for him, but this—this is for you.

True to his word, Bucky doesn’t even wait. The second you’ve steadied yourself enough to follow him into the kitchen, he’s already got the pantry door swung wide and his sleeves shoved up, scanning every jar on the shelves like he’s on a mission.

“Buck—”

“Don’t try to stop me,” he mutters, pulling down a spice rack with his metal hand. The glass jars clink together as he squints at each one, tossing cumin and paprika aside until he lands on what he’s hunting. The cinnamon.

You groan as he plucks it up triumphantly. “That’s the expensive one. I went out of my way for that, you know.”

He doesn’t even blink. The jar’s already heading toward the trash can.

“Bucky, seriously—”

“Nope.” He drops it in with a thunk and dusts off his hands like it’s a job well done. “Don’t care if it costs a hundred bucks. You’re not breathin’ that stuff in again.”

You cross your arms, trying to sound stern even as the corner of your mouth betrays a smile. “It wasn’t a hundred. It was twenty. Still. That was small-market, high-quality cinnamon.”

He turns, pulling his wallet from his back pocket with an exaggerated slowness. “Twenty bucks?”

“Twenty bucks,” you confirm, eyebrow raised.

Without hesitation, he peels out two twenties and presses them into your hand. “There. Paid you double. Hazard pay for even bringin’ it in the house.”

You stare down at the bills, incredulous. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, well, get used to it.” His grin is crooked, but his eyes are soft as he steps closer, brushing his thumb over your knuckles before tucking the money deeper into your palm. “Not takin’ chances with you. Not ever.”

The kitchen is quiet except for the hum of the oven cooling, the faint scent of cinnamon still lingering in the air like a ghost. He leans down, presses a gentle kiss to your cheek this time—careful, sweet, without the sting that came before—and lingers there a moment longer than necessary.

“From now on,” he murmurs, lips close to your skin, “I’ll find somethin’ else to crave. Something safe.” His eyes flick to yours, soft and steady. “Got a feelin’ I already have.”

You laugh quietly, shaking your head as you lean into him, the crumpled twenties still clutched in your hand. The cookies were good, sure. But the warmth of him wrapping his arms around you now, holding you like you’re the only thing that matters—that’s better than any recipe.

[bucky-fricking-barnes]

For You

Title: For You

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Analyst!Reader

Word Count: 9.7k

Warnings: Injured reader, fluff, angst, kissing, and mentions of blood, broken bones, surgery, and the Blip

Summary: Y/N is an analyst at the compound, but there’s something about her that Bucky can’t quite place. After an attack, he finds out that her secret involves more than just herself.

A/N: This takes place after Endgame, but everybody lives! This fic is probably a little more niche, but I hope you all enjoy it anyway. As always, thank you for reading and supporting me in all the ways you do. Dividers by @firefly-graphics

His new therapist has instilled it in him to look for constants to ground himself, things in his life that he can always count on, though Bucky is fairly certain that that instinct has been there long before the doctor put words to it. He’s always thrived on consistency, even before the war.

By far, his favorite constant is the playlist that Y/N plays every night as she readies for bed. Their bedrooms share a wall. He can vaguely place the instrument as a violin, or maybe a cello, but he’s never had the nerve to ask her which. He hadn’t been allowed to listen to music during his imprisonment, and before he fell off the train, he was always more focused on the company than the background music. He didn’t—and still doesn’t—go to a lot of concerts, either, which leaves him in the lurch when it comes to identifying instruments.

The faint strains wind their way from the speaker in her room to Bucky’s apartment. Every night he listens for it. When the music finally arrives, he closes his eyes and lets it carry him to sleep. On the nights when the nightmares plague him and keep him from fully drifting off, Bucky listens all the way through her playlist. Though he doesn’t know any of their names, he can recognize most of the songs by now, even when she stops them partway through or listens to the same few sections over and over again. The constant rewinding is an odd habit, that much he could admit, but her music has become a source of comfort for him. She rarely adds new songs, too, which he appreciates.

Bucky never mentions to anyone how much he enjoys listening to Y/N’s music. His interactions with her are few and far between, and he knows the team would give him hell if he admitted any kind of link with her. She’d joined the team as an analyst during the last year of the Blip, and she’d moved into the compound when it became clear that she could do her job more efficiently if she was nearby. Originally, she’d had the whole hallway to herself, but once Bucky and the rest of the population returned and the compound had been rebuilt, Bucky took an apartment next door to hers. He hadn’t initially wanted to have a direct neighbor, but Fury had insisted that the units be given out sequentially, and Bucky hadn’t wanted to start a fight. Either way, that part of the residential wing now holds two occupants, both of which keep to themselves. He’s perfectly happy with the arrangement.

“You were up late last night,” Sam says, and Bucky grunts as he pours himself a cup of coffee. It’s thick and dark, which means that he’ll have to add more sugar than usual. Whoever made the pot clearly doesn’t know the value of good coffee in the morning, or maybe they just don’t care.

“Aren’t you gonna ask me how I know that?” Sam presses after a few moments.

Bucky can feel him staring and he sighs, reaching for the glass sugar container pushed up against the wall. Sam takes a sip of his own coffee.

“Did you get your little bird to follow me around?”

Sam scowls, almost a perfect mirror of Bucky’s own expression. “His name is Redwing, and no. I was in Y/N’s room last night. It was pretty late when I left and I could hear you moving around in your room.”

“Oh, that’s not creepy at all,” Bucky remarks. Sam narrows his eyes, which Bucky ignores as he spoons sugar into his mug and then pushes the container back into place. “I didn’t know you and Y/N were friends.”

Shrugging, Sam shifts his mug to the other hand and grabs one of the muffins Wanda had left out for the team. She’s been on a baking kick lately, not that Bucky’s complaining.

“We’re friendly enough. Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Friends with Y/N,” Sam replies.

Bucky glances over at him, suspicious. “No. We only talk when she’s helping on missions. Why?”

Sam only hums in response and takes a bite of the muffin. He’s being obnoxious on purpose, but Bucky doesn’t have the energy to take the bait and fight back. He had been up late the night before. Y/N’s music hadn’t helped like it normally did, so Bucky had worked out on the floor, forced himself to journal for his therapy appointment, and paced the perimeter of his room. By the time he finally wore himself out, the sun was about to rise. He’d only slept maybe an hour before his alarm had gone off.

“She plays louder for you, you know,” Sam says, shouting after Bucky as he leaves the kitchen.

The hallways of the compound are blissfully empty, which allows Bucky to relax a little as he walks back to his room. His temple throbs and he ignores it, taking a sip from his mug. The coffee scalds his throat on the way down. It doesn’t matter—the serum never lets his tongue or fingers be burned any longer than an hour unless it’s major.

Turning down the hallway of his apartment, Bucky pauses for a split-second at the sight of Y/N backing out of her room.

“Good morning, Sergeant Barnes,” she says, shooting him a quick smile.

He returns it, though from the worried look she gives him in response, he can only assume that his expression held more of a grimace than anything.

Y/N turns her attention back to her doorway as Bucky passes by, and he catches a glimpse of a black wheeled case. It just barely fits through the door. She pulls it out of her room and steadies it with one hand when it rocks as it rolls over the vinyl divider separating her apartment carpet from the concrete hallway.

“I’ll see you around!” she calls after him.

Bucky glances back over his shoulder, surprised that she even thought to say goodbye after his initial response, and he lifts his mug in farewell. Y/N smiles again—a warm, devastatingly genuine smile that makes Bucky’s stomach flip and his throat tighten—then turns forward and keeps walking.

Her black case trails steadily behind her. Bucky stares after her for a moment, watching as she turns the corner towards the elevators. He feels like he should know what’s inside of it, but he can’t quite put his finger on whatever it is. The case definitely doesn’t hold weapons, at least not any that he’s seen before, though it’s very possible Stark created new tech without telling him. Then again, Y/N isn't the person to be testing new tech anyway. She has minimal field training; all employees in the compound have to master a list of basic defense skills and she’s no exception. Bucky’s seen her in action. She can hold her own, but she isn’t one to go out of the way to try a new tactic or do something fancy. That means it probably isn't new tech, and that irritates him more. His temple throbs again.

Why can’t I figure this out? What the hell is it?

Shaking his head, Bucky keeps walking and heads into his apartment. The door slams behind him, muffling FRIDAY’s automatic greeting.

“Dim the lights,” Bucky grumbles, and the room immediately gets darker. “Mission status report?”

“Captain Rogers and Agent Romanoff are scheduled to return at 0800 hours. The mission was successful and there were no injuries. Would you like me to contact them?”

Bucky lets out a sigh of relief. “No, thank you.” He pauses, sipping his coffee and staring out at the forest that lines the property. Sam is headed across the lawn towards the tree line, no doubt to test the new Redwing tech he’s been working on with Torres. The soldier had been here earlier in the week. Bucky had hid in his apartment.

“Do I have anything I have to go to today?”

“Your schedule is clear, Sergeant Barnes. Would you like me to add something?” FRIDAY asks.

“No,” he answers, maybe a little too quickly. Then again, FRIDAY won’t judge him, at least not to his face.

The carved wooden coaster Y/N had bought him on the only vacation she’d taken since before the Blip has gotten lost somewhere under the bed. He’d probably knocked it down during a nightmare. Silently, he takes another sip from his mug and then sets it down in the bare spot on the nightstand where the coaster should be before dropping himself onto the edge of the bed. He can feel bad about the water rings on the wood later.

“Is Y/N scheduled to work on any missions this afternoon?” The question escapes before Bucky can even process what he’s thinking, let alone saying.

“Today is Miss Y/L/N’s day off,” FRIDAY reports.

Is it Tuesday already?

Rubbing his eyes with his right hand, Bucky tries to focus. He’s gotten by on less sleep than this before. What’s gotten into him? Why did seeing her in the hallway leave him so rattled?

His phone chimes with a text alert and he drops his hand back down, sighing, then reaches for the device. It’s Steve—they’re on their way back and he’s sent a special report back to Y/N. Though it’s her day off, it’s urgent. Steve asks if Bucky can check in with her to make sure she’s gotten it.

“Why’re you always asking me to ask her this stuff, punk?” Bucky grumbles. He texts that to Steve, then sends another message affirming that he’ll check in with Y/N, regardless of whose job it should be. Steve doesn’t answer.

"FRIDAY, has Y/N left yet?”

“Miss Y/L/N just got off the elevator on the second floor.”

With a groan, Bucky pushes himself up from the mattress and downs the rest of his coffee. He leaves the mug on the nightstand to be cleaned up later, then heads out of his room toward the elevator.

The analysts’ room is only one floor down, but it’s secure and requires a retinal scan or an intense series of passwords. It takes up most of the level, with the exception of a meeting room, the break room, and a small lab where Tony tests his non-lethal designs. There are no windows, mostly due to the confidential nature of the missions, but there is a small one in the break room that Y/N had outfitted with a Roman shade shortly after the new compound had opened. She’d added plants too, claiming that looking at greenery when you’re stressed will help to calm you down. Bucky isn’t sure if he believes her, but when he stays back to help with longer missions, he takes advantage of the window in the break room if the analysts’ room starts to feel claustrophobic.

Y/N’s desk sits against the largest wall of the room so she can have plenty of room for screens, and there’s a glass wall separating her set up from the others. It turns opaque and soundproof at the touch of the button, providing even more confidentiality for important missions. Since joining the team, she’s quickly proven herself to be a vital asset and a good friend to the group. Bucky can easily admit that his job would be a lot harder without her, as would his life. Every mission that she works goes smoother, leaving him with less stress before and after. Between that and the music, life is infinitely better with Y/N as part of the team. Not that he’ll admit it aloud to anyone.

Y/N is now the main analyst at the compound, hence Steve pulling her in on her day off. She won’t complain. She never does. It’s part of what sets her apart from the rest; she, like Steve, never takes a break.

When the elevator doors open, Bucky’s first thought is that the lights shouldn’t be off. Even the emergency panels are dark. His stomach twists in warning, he wishes he’d brought a gun. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Something is definitely wrong. His second thought is that Y/N can’t be here like FRIDAY had told him. If she had come down to the analysts’ room, she would’ve told someone about the lights being off right away.

“Hello? Is somebody there? I need help!”

Y/N’s voice echoes through the dark hallways and spurs him to action. Bucky draws back his left fist and smashes the glass protecting the fire emergency kit built into the wall. He grabs the ax and stalks down the hall on high alert. There are no signs of an intruder, but he grips the handle in his right hand and clenches his other into a fist.

“Y/N?” he calls. “Where are you?”

The relief in her voice makes Bucky’s heart clench. “Bucky! I’m at my desk! I’m— I’m stuck, I can’t get out!”

He practically runs to her desk. The serum sharpens his vision enough that he’s able to see the damaged desks strewn in his path despite the blackout, and he climbs over them or pushes them out of the way with ease.

When he gets to her, Bucky sets the ax within arm’s reach and crouches beside Y/N. His brain quickly catalogues the scene, creating a mental list of all the hazards and threats. With no imminent danger from an assailant, the only threat is to Y/N’s health.

The desk has been flipped and she’s pinned underneath it. Most of the weight is on her limbs, but she’s laying on her back and a spike of panic goes through him when he realizes that she could have spinal damage or internal bleeding.

Several of the screens have fallen from the wall onto one of her legs, and shattered glass litters the floor. The glass wall between her desk and the others has been completely destroyed as well. A loose wire lays nearby and the sharp smell of gasoline burns his nostrils the longer he stays beside her.

“FRIDAY?” Bucky called. When there’s no response, he pulls out his phone and orders it to call Tony. He puts the phone on speaker, sets it in a relatively clear spot on the floor, and turns on the flashlight while the call connects.

“Tony, the second floor’s been compromised. Y/N’s trapped and I’m getting her out now. Have Cho prep the medbay for her.”

Tony’s response is just as urgent as he predicted it would be, and almost immediately, Bucky hears the alarms going off on the other floors. No doubt Sam is running in from the forest now, and Steve and Natasha will be alerted that the compound's been compromised. The call ends and he turns his attention back to Y/N.

She shifts slightly, then lets out a sharp cry of pain and a sob. It rips his heart in two.

Focus, he reminds himself. The longer she’s stuck, the greater the damage could be.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart, I’ve got you,” Bucky soothes. “Stay still for me, okay?"

She inhales sharply and nods. “I’m sorry, Sergeant Barnes.”

“It’s not your fault. I need you to stay still so I can get this off of you, alright?”

She nods again, and Bucky gets to work inspecting the desk and screens. Once he’s sure that moving them won’t endanger her any further, he carefully lifts them up, then away. He moves everything closer to where it belongs and then comes back to where she’s still laying on the floor. She hasn’t attempt to move, though he’s not sure if that’s due to her training or if she’s simply unable to.

“Okay, Y/N. You think you can move?” he asks. “Start small.”

“I think so,” she says, though her voice sounds less than confident. She starts to roll over onto her side, but she jerks back in pain and lets out a shout as soon as she puts weight on her arm. The sound of her crying will echo forever in Bucky’s head, he’s sure of it.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Hold still.”

He looks her over, searching for blood or exposed bones. There’s nothing that seems extremely dangerous for her, though she’s clearly broken at least one bone in her arm and her pants are dotted with splotches of blood from where the glass has cut through the fabric.

Bucky sits up and looks back toward the elevator, listening for any sign that Stark or the others are on their way. All he can hear is the wail of the sirens reverberating down the elevator shaft. He clenches his teeth.

If they don’t get here soon…

Her voices breaks when she pleads, “Stay.”

Y/N shivers as shock sets in, and he can tell after only a few seconds that she’s clinging to consciousness. Her eyes are unfocused, though her gaze is directed toward him. After a moment more, he resolves himself to get her to the medbay on his own.

“I’m stayin',” he promises. With great care, and slower than he’d like given that he isn’t sure where the intruders went, Bucky shifts her legs so that he can slip his arm underneath the backs of her knees. He wants to adjust her hands so that her wrists are crossed over her chest, but his hands hover over her long enough that she realizes his intentions.

“My wrists…. Bucky…”

She’s never called him solely by his first name. His heart squeezes inside his chest, and for a second he thinks he’s having a heart attack. “I know, sweetheart, I know. I’m gonna get you out of here. I’m gonna carry you up to medbay.”

“What?” Panic fills her expression. His breath catches in his throat. “What? No, Bucky, it hurts! Please don’t—”

She lets out a shout when Bucky lifts her up, cradling her against his chest with his right arm behind her knees and the vibranium one supporting her back. Her wrists rest loosely over her abdomen. Y/N continues to shake, both from the shock and the pain, but also from her continued sobs. Her throat sounds raw and Bucky grits his teeth, his own eyes filling with tears.

As he climbs back over the rubble of the analysts’ room, Bucky tries to keep from jostling her as much as possible, but by the time they reach the elevator, she’s passed out with her head slumped against his chest.

He bends at the knees, squatting down just enough to press the button to call the elevator with one finger. When it doesn't light up, he mutters a curse and turns towards the stairwell door behind him. There’s a noise from the other side of the door, and then it flies off the hinges and he finds himself staring into Tony’s palm. It’s already alight with bright white energy and Bucky instinctively backs away.

“Whoa! Whoa! Hey!” Bucky shouts. “Back off, Stark!”

“Well, don’t stand in front of doors if you don’t want ‘em shoved open! What do we got?” Tony replies. He drops his hand back down to his side, his head turning as he scans the dark analysts’ room behind Bucky for signs of danger or an intruder.

“Power’s out, including FRIDAY and the elevator. I haven’t seen or heard anything since I got down here, but everything’s destroyed and it smells like gas. Not sure if it’s a leak or if they tried to light the place before I got here, but she seems to be breathing fine.”

Tony steps closer. His mask lifts, revealing his face. Bucky doesn’t need any light to see the concern and fear in Stark’s eyes. He’s clearly not the only one affected by Y/N’s state.

“What happened?” Tony asks, glancing down at Y/N.

“I don’t know if they attacked her or if she was trying to keep the information on the computer safe, but I found her pinned underneath her desk. The screens fell, too, but mostly on her legs.”

Tony nods. “Sam’s checking the other floors, but we haven’t found anything. We’ll take it from here. You get her up to see Cho.”

Nodding, Bucky climbs the three flights of stairs to the fifth floor, leaving Tony to search the analysts’ floor for any information on the intruders and their motives.

The medbay is tucked in between the two main labs, where the different researchers have easy access to doctors. They need them more often than they’d like to admit, but thankfully, any researchers in the vicinity evacuated when the alarms went off, leaving the medley clear and the staff free to take care of Y/N.

As soon as the stairwell door opens, Helen is waiting for him. Tony must have relayed that he was on his way up with Y/N, because even when the medical team is ready to stitch people up after missions, they only come running if they knew there’s an emergency. Two medical assistants rush over with a gurney.

“What happened?” Helen asks.

Bucky follows their lead and carefully lays Y/N on the bed as he replies, “She was trapped underneath two smashed screens and a desk. I don’t know what else happened, but she’s definitely injured her arms, wrists, or hands. The cuts on her legs are from the shattered glass. She passed out about two minutes ago, most likely from the pain.”

Helen nods and starts walking behind the gurney as they wheel her away. “We’ll take it from here, Sergeant. We’ll let the team know if there are any significant updates.”

Though he should be relieved that Y/N is in good hands, Bucky’s stomach still twists as he watches the medical team disappear through the double doors and into the medbay. He’s frozen in place as he watches the access light beside the doors turn red, locking out any unwelcome visitors.

A hand on his arm makes him flinch, and he turns, already pushing the person away. Steve immediately backs up to give him space, both hands in the air.

“Whoa, hey. It’s just me, man,” he soothes. “Is Y/N in there?” He nods at the medbay doors, still keeping his distance. He slowly lowers his hands. “Tony told me what happened.”

“The whole floor was destroyed, Steve.”

“Did they hurt her?” Steve asks, a hint of iron in his voice. He clearly doesn’t like the thought of Y/N facing danger alone, either. The entire team loves her. If someone hurt her, they’d pay.

I’d make them pay, Bucky thinks.

“I don’t know.” He clenches his jaw and his fists follow suit. “She was trapped under her desk and two screens, but I swear, if we find out they did something—”

Steve places a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll find them, Buck. Don’t worry.”

Bucky shrugs him off and goes to stare out the windows. As much as he hates to admit it, the sight of all the greenery surrounding the compound helps calm his racing heart, just like Y/N always says it will. For a second, his mind wanders, wondering if he should get a plant for his apartment.

Does she have plants? As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he frowns at himself. Don’t be a creep.

The elevator down the hall chimes, and Bucky doesn’t have to look away from the windows to know that Tony has arrived, along with Sam and Natasha.

“How is she?” Nat asks. Steve answers, and Bucky tunes them out, focusing instead on the tree line and the tangled thread of thoughts going through his head over and over again.

If I’d only gotten there sooner, this wouldn’t have happened.

If I hadn’t gone back to my room to avoid Sam, maybe I would’ve been able to stop whoever it was.

If I’d stopped to ask what was in her case—

Bucky straightens. It’s as if someone has poured ice water over his head. Y/N’s case, he remembers. The strangely shaped black case hadn’t been anywhere near her desk, at least not that he’d seen, but he hadn’t been looking for it at the time. He’d been so focused on helping her that he’d forgotten all about it. If the case holds weapons or Stark tech of some kind, he needs to find it.

“I’ll be back,” Bucky says, already marching past the rest of the group towards the stairwell. “Is the power back on the second floor?”

“Yes, but—”

He ignores the rest of Steve’s response, already flinging open the door and taking the stairs in twos. It only takes him forty-five seconds to get back to the analysts’ room.

With the power back on, Bucky can truly see the damage, and he has to stop in the doorway to catch his breath. There isn’t a single desk, chair, or computer setup in the room that hasn’t been destroyed. From the doorway, he can even see that the lab has been raided, and several people have already begun the clean-up process on that end of the floor. His train of thought sticks for a second, providing him image after image of the horrible things that could have happened to Y/N if he hadn’t gotten there in time or if the assailants hadn’t fled. He pushes them away, focusing on the task at hand.

It takes almost a half hour of searching, but Bucky finally find Y/N’s discarded case wedged upright against a wall by a desk strewn lengthwise on its side. He tips the desk off the case, then lowers it back to the floor with his left hand while he holds the case against the wall with the other.

Unsure of what he’ll find, Bucky lowers the case to the floor and exhales sharply. He kneels down beside it. His hands hover over the strange, curved top for a second while his heart pounds in his chest. If this is a weapon, there’s no telling what might happen when he opens it up. He still has the strange feeling that he should know what’s inside of it, but it’s like his brain won’t focus. He’s used to missing pieces of his memory, especially things he would’ve known before HYDRA. His therapist would be telling him to talk it out and try to make connections between what he knows now and his memories from back then, but there’s no time for that. The only logical thing a case like this could be in the Avengers compound is a weapon, and if it’s been damaged or armed, he can’t risk it.

He pulls out his phone and dials on autopilot. The line connects almost immediately.

“Where did you go?” Steve asks.

“Second floor. Listen, Y/N had some kind of case with her when she was attacked. I’m not sure what’s in it, and if whoever trashed the place tampered with it—”

There’s no cordiality in Steve’s voice when he answers, “I’m on my way.” The call ends a second later.

Steve appears within a minute, walking with purpose across the room. He’s still in his gear from the mission. Behind him, Sam enters in full gear as well, his shoulders tense and his vision focused forward.

“What do we know about the case?” Steve asks as he approaches.

“Nothing, but I feel like I should. Maybe it’s one of those weapons that Stark was talking about last week in the conference room?” Bucky never pays attention during the bi-weekly and post-mission debriefs, and everyone knows. Nobody dares correct him.

Once the two men are close enough to see the case laid out on the floor, Sam lets out a relieved chuckle. “Oh, man,” he says, and he stops a dozen feet away.

Steve stops too, his hands on his hips as he sighs and tilts his head back, closing his eyes. He turns to the side after a second, just enough that Bucky can’t tell his expression, but his posture is infinitely more relaxed.

“What?” Bucky asks, sitting up a little straighter. He hates feeling like everyone knows something that he doesn’t, especially when he already feels like he should. “What is it?”

Sam grins down at him. Bucky has the sudden urge to deck him.

“That’s her cello,” Sam explains, continuing when he narrows his eyes at him, “She must’ve been on the way to her lesson.”

Bucky blinks, and suddenly, everything makes sense. It’s like he’s walked into a brick wall that knocked something into place, and now all the pieces of the story are connecting, one by one. The instrumental music, the way it repeats over and over again, the way the case looks oddly familiar… Everything makes sense.

“She plays the cello,” Bucky murmurs. He stares at the rubble around them, his mind spinning as he uses that information to make sense of so many other interactions he’s had with Y/N, including the one from this morning.

Steve drops his hands back down to his sides. “You didn’t know?”

“No, I—” Bucky clears his throat and glances up at him, then looks away. He turns back to the case on the floor and hastily unzips it. Inside, laying carefully cushioned by black velvet, is a cello. The overhead light reflects off the red wood, showing off the grain, and though a small part of Bucky desperately wants to run his fingers over it—his real fingers, so he can feel the smoothness of the wood and the tension in the strings—he restrains himself. He knows better than that.

“I knew,” he says, quieter than before.

The room falls silent for a few moments before Steve rests his fingertips on Bucky’s shoulder, just for a second, then walks away. Sam follows him, but Bucky doesn’t turn to watch them leave. He sits on the floor beside the cello, just looking at it. He listens to the chatter and the noise coming from the lab clean-up, but mostly, he looks at Y/N’s cello. It’s beautiful, and well taken care of. It’s a miracle that the case protected it from the attack. The case itself doesn’t even look scuffed.

Sam had said she was on her way to a lesson. Bucky hadn’t even known that she played the cello, let alone that she took lessons, though in retrospect, he should’ve figured it out. She’s been playing for him every night for months now. How had he been so blind?

Finally, after the stairwell door slams again and several more moments have passed, he zips up the case. Then, carefully, he lifts it up by the handle at the top, tilting it so the wheels stay solidly on the floor. It takes some maneuvering to get it through the analysts’ room to the now-working elevator. He has to keep stopping to move desks, screens, and toppled chairs out of the way, and each time, Bucky stands the cello case upright, gently supporting it with both hands until he’s sure it’s stable.

After what Y/N’s been through, he tells himself, she doesn’t deserve to have something so important to her destroyed.

He makes it to the elevator and heaves a sigh, but he keeps the cello close until he’s back outside his apartment. He only lets go of it just long enough to get the door open. Bucky stores it on the floor of his empty closet, where he can lay it down with nothing around it. His clothes are all in the dresser anyway, and he promises himself it will only be there until Y/N is safely back in her room, rather than in the medbay.

“Sergeant Barnes,” FRIDAY says, and Bucky flinches. He closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath.

“What?”

“Captain Rogers is requesting your presence in the medbay. He says to tell you that it’s urgent, but that Y/N is fine.”

It feels as if all the tension in Bucky’s body has drained been out through his feet. He hangs his head, his hand on the wall beside the closet door, and nods.

“Okay.” Sighing, he runs a hand over his face and inhales deeply, then closes the door the rest of the way. “Okay. Tell him I’ll be right there.”

FRIDAY doesn’t answer, as usual, so Bucky heads up one floor to the medbay. The rest of the team has dispersed, but Steve remains standing outside the double doors. The light beside them is green. He looks up when the elevator chimes. He still hasn’t changed out of his gear.

“She’s okay,” Steve reassures.

Bucky nods. “I got your message.” He doesn’t have to say it, but they both know that he’s grateful Steve repeated it anyway.

“The doctor says she’ll make a full recovery.”

“Why does it sound like there’s something more?” Bucky asks. Sighing, Steve glances back at the doors.

“Her right wrist is broken and she’s got three broken fingers on her left hand.”

“So she’s out of commission for a while.”

“At least twelve weeks, maybe more, depending on how the recovery goes. She had to have surgery.”

“We’ll have to find someone to help out on missions when she can’t,” Bucky says. “I’m sure that Fury has some kind of hierarchy we can use.”

Steve shakes his head. “Buck, she won’t be able to play cello that whole time. That’s— That’s gonna feel like a death sentence to her. To you.”

Bucky turns and stares out the windows again. A crow flies by, cawing loud enough that he can hear it through the glass.

After a moment, he asks, “Did everyone know that she played cello except me?”

“It was never a secret. It’s in her personnel file,” Steve tells him.

Bucky sighs again. He’s never read anyone’s files. It feels like an invasion of privacy. He’s gone most of his life without privacy, and he hates the fact that anyone can know whatever they want about people in the compound. He refuses to betray anyone else that way if he can help it.

“Listen,” Steve begins, and Bucky turns to face him. “She asked for you.”

“Me?”

He smiles a little, clearly amused, though there are bags under his eyes. He still hasn’t slept since returning from his two-week mission somewhere in the Arctic. “You rescued her.”

As much as Bucky wants to scoff at his friend’s expression, he can’t argue when it comes to Y/N. He just can’t. “Right.”

“Just… Get in there. Tell her to let us know if she needs anything.”

“Will do, pal.” Bucky stays put until the elevator doors close behind Steve and the numbers above them start to descend. He goes into the medbay then, quietly, just in case Y/N is asleep.

“Sergeant Barnes.”

Helen steps into view with a tablet in hand and Bucky straightens. Her presence always sets him on edge, though he knows she’s part of the team.

“Doctor. How’s she doing?”

She gives him a tight, polite smile. “She’s recovering. She’s already awake, and she’s asking for you. I assume that’s why you’re here?”

Bucky nods, then hesitates. “With her injuries… She plays the cello.”

The polite smile turns into a pitying grimace. “It’ll be quite the recovery for her, but Tony has already told us he’s on the lookout for the best physical therapist he can find.”

Already nodding again, Bucky turns towards the doors to the surgical recovery room. He’s been here before, once for himself and once for Steve, and he knows the layout like the back of his hand. He doesn’t need to, however, because Y/N is blinking at him from her bed, her expression soft and sleep-addled.

“Bucky,” she murmurs, and she squints a little. Her speech isn’t quite slurred, but she’s less clear than normal. It makes his heart clench to see her like this. “The light’s are bright.”

“I’ve got it.” He dims them with the switch on the wall before taking the chair beside her bed.

She’s laying on her back with her right wrist on the bed beside her. It’s heavily bandaged. Her left hand is on top of her stomach, also wrapped in clean bandages.

“Thank you.” She closes her eyes and he wonders after a minute if she’s gone to sleep, but then opens them and looks at him intensely.

“You should rest,” Bucky says, and she hums in response.

“Probably. Thank you for saving me. If you hadn’t shown up…” He shakes his head and scoots forward in his seat, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“Someone would have found you if I hadn’t.”

Y/N shakes her head back at him, frowning. He can see the panic forming, an after-thought clouded by the pain medication. “My cello…”

“I’ve got it. It’s in my room.”

“Your room?” She scrunches up her nose at him. “Why?”

He can’t help but chuckle at her. Bucky knows it’s the anesthesia and the drugs, but her expression is far from the ordinary.

“I can’t access your room, Y/N.”

“Oh.”

The recovery room lapses into silence, except for the monitors beside him, but then Y/N says, “I’m sorry I won’t be able to play for a while.”

“You don’t need to apologize. This isn’t your fault.”

“I know. I’m still sorry.”

He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to make her feel better, so he stays silent. She watches him from the bed, her eyes closing further and further between each blink until finally, she just keeps them closed.

Bucky sighs and sits back in the chair. He pulls his hand away when he realizes it’s still touching her shoulder. The sliding doors open behind him.

“She needs to rest,” Helen says. It’s not a statement; it’s an order, and Bucky’s heard enough of those to know which ones are worth following. He stands and nods politely at her, then leaves without another word.

Two weeks later, FRIDAY alerts Bucky to Y/N’s presence at his door. He opens it to find her standing there, her tablet held against her chest with her good wrist.

“Bucky,” she greets, though she’s not smiling.

The fact that she’s still calling him by his first name still makes his breath catch in his throat. “Everything okay?”

“Can you help me with something?”

He nods and steps aside, making space for her in the doorway. She steps inside his apartment, silently taking it in before she takes a seat on one end of his couch. She pulls her arm away from her chest and allows the tablet to clumsily fall to her lap.

“I’m making a playlist,” she explains, “of all the music I normally play.”

“I’m not sure how I can help with that,” Bucky replies, closing the door. He stands near the wall until she glances at the empty end of the couch and gestures with her bandaged hand.

“FRIDAY is great, but sometimes things need a human touch, you know?”

He can’t argue with that, so he nods and sits opposite her. He’s very aware that they’re alone in his apartment for the first time.

How is she so casual about this?

She’s talking to her tablet and he realizes that he’s zoned out on her. Embarrassed, he gets up from the couch and takes the few steps to his bedside, where he’d set down his morning cup of coffee. It’s room temperature now, but the bitter taste is sharp in his mouth and makes him focus on the present.

“See? I really just need help putting them in order,” she’s saying. “FRIDAY put them all on the playlist, but no matter how I phrase it, I can’t get her to put them in the order I want.”

“You’ll have to show me how to do it.”

Y/N looks up at him, as if she’s surprised he’s responded to her. “Really? You’ll help?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

I’d do anything for you.

Seemingly at a loss for words, she shrugs and glances back down at the tablet, then at him again. Then, she says, “It’s easy. Come sit with me and I’ll show you.”

The invitation is simple, and he’s helpless. He sits beside her, closer this time, and takes the tablet from her lap. She explains how to move the tracks around on the playlist—he understands after only a few seconds that she needs help because she physically can’t move them around without the use of her fingers—and he obediently moves them around. Sometimes she stops to ask his opinion on where to place something on the playlist. She hums the main melody when she can, or she’ll have him play part of the track until he recognizes the tune. Much to his surprise, Bucky recognizes all of them.

“I think that’s good,” Y/N finally says, and he locks the screen. It goes dark in his lap. “Thank you. I feel like anyone else would’ve thought this was stupid and tedious, but I like them in a certain order, you know?”

Bucky nods. “I do.” He hesitates, then asks, “Did Helen tell you when you’ll be able to play again?”

She shakes her head and the light in her eyes dims. “No. It’ll be a couple months at least, I’m sure.”

“Oh.”

What am I supposed to say to that?

“I’m sorry,” he tries again.

Y/N forces a closed-lipped smile. It’s half-hearted and she looks down at her lap, where her bandaged hands are resting.

“It’s strange, you know?” she asks after a moment, still not looking at him. He doesn’t respond, hoping she’ll clarify. “Not playing, I mean.”

“You usually play every day.”

“I have for years. The only time I didn’t was right after the—” She falls silent again, and he knows what she means.

The Blip.

“You didn’t disappear.”

“No. But I wished I had.”

“Where were you?”

She inhales deeply, sitting up taller. Nobody likes reliving painful memories, Bucky knows this from experience, but he couldn’t help but ask.

“Playing. I was the principal cellist at the New York Philharmonic. We were in the middle of a concerto, and I was playing the solo when my stand partner just… dissolved. Sometimes I can still feel her ashes on my hands.” Y/N’s voice trembles, but she continues, “There was screaming. My friends and co-workers were disappearing all around me, and even our conductor… He was there one moment and gone the next. I could hear the audience screaming, instruments hitting the floor…”

Bucky wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in close as she begins to cry. He hates himself for dredging up such a painful memory for her.

Idiot, he thinks, as he soothes her with soft noises and murmurs of reassurance. Why didn’t you stop her?

After several minutes, she sits up and he pulls his arm back. Y/N reaches for a box of tissues on the small table beside the couch, but when she’s unable to pull one out without the box sliding out of reach, Bucky stands to get it for her. He holds onto the box and stands off to the side in case she needs another.

“I’m sorry,” Y/N finally says, pinching the tissue with the fingers on her right hand. “I’m a mess.”

“I’m the one that brought it up, I should be the one apologizing to you.”

She shakes her head and looks up at him, her eyes puffy and red from crying. “You have nothing to apologize for, Bucky.”

He nods and sits back down beside her. They sit in silence for several moments before he asks, “Why did you become an analyst? A lot of orchestras kept going.”

Y/N sighs and leans back against the couch. He turns so he can see her better. Her fingers fidget with a hole in her jeans. The tissue she’d used has fallen onto the floor beside her feet.

“It was too hard to be on the stage after what happened, and I didn’t feel… useful.” She lets out a rueful laugh. “It feels awful to say that aloud. I’m a big proponent that music is one of the few things in life that doesn’t need a “use”. It does so much for people, even stuff that we don’t realize.”

“So you went back to school?”

She looks over at him, curious. “I have two degrees. You didn’t know that?”

Bucky shakes his head. “I’ve never read your file.”

“Oh.” Y/N pauses. “I haven’t read yours either, for what it’s worth.”

He’s filled with a sudden gratitude for that and his shoulders drop a little. He hadn’t even realized they’d been tense.

“Anyway, I found any entry level position and then got promoted a few times. I didn’t play for over a year, and then when I finally decided I could handle it, it became more of an escape than anything. I tried to audition for a few things on the side, but every time I felt any kind of pressure to perform, I’d totally break down. It was awful. There was one time that I had a flashback as I was playing. When I finally calmed down, one of the panelists told me that I’d only played two notes before I started hyperventilating. She said I played the whole piece in its entirety before I passed out.”

“I’m sorry.”

Y/N shrugs and glances at him. “It is what it is. I stopped auditioning after that, and it honestly didn’t feel like my life was lacking anything. I was still playing, just in a different capacity. And when Fury hired me and I got to move here, I had more time to play. I wasn’t commuting an hour to my job every day, which was nice. Fury made sure I had access to whatever sheet music I want, and Tony’s continued that.” She smiles a little.

Bucky hesitates for a moment before asking, “Why did you stop calling me Sergeant Barnes?” He’s been wondering for so long that it feels like he might never figure it out if he doesn’t ask.

Why did you say it like that? Idiot, she’s going to think that you don’t want her to call you that!

Her smile falters at the sudden change in conversation. “What?”

“You started calling me Bucky after the attack. You didn’t before.”

“Do you not want me to call you that?” She stands, frowning at him.

Frantically, Bucky stands and scrambles to fix things. It feels like his stomach is eating itself from the inside out. “No, it’s fine.” It’s more than fine. “You just used to be so formal.” I hated it. “And now you’re more…”

“Informal,” she concludes. He nods and she glances at his half-made bed. He’d been in the middle of making it when she came to the door. “Well… you called me sweetheart.”

“I did?” Bucky frowns, his eyebrows furrowing as he wracks his brain for a memory of the phrase. “When?”

“When you were digging me out of my office.”

“I don’t… remember that. I’m sorry,” he offers. He’s always been so careful not to cross any boundaries. Her formality had always been a boundary he’s assumed was purposeful on her part. He’d respected it at every turn, but if he was the one to cross it first, without her permission…

She shakes her head with a small, surprisingly shy smile. “Don’t be. I don’t mind.”

Bucky’s heart skips a beat. His stomach pauses mid-twist. “You don’t?”

“No.” She pauses. “I’ve wanted to call you Bucky for a long time. It felt strange calling you Sergeant Barnes when everyone else just called you by your nickname. Especially since…” Y/N trails off, then reaches down to gather up her tablet. “I should get going. Thanks for your help with the playlist.”

“Since what?”

“Never mind.” She goes to step around him and Bucky panics. He reaches out and grabs her arm, just above her elbow. Y/N pauses and looks up at him. Her jerks his hand away as if it’s been scalded, despite the fact that it’s his vibranium one.

“I’m sorry.”

“I play for you,” says Y/N, plainly. She pauses, then corrects, “I used to play for you.”

“What?” The floor might as well have dropped out from beneath his feet. He can’t quite catches breath. “When?”

“Every night, when you weren’t out on missions. I have since the compound was rebuilt, for months now.”

Y/N steps back over to the couch and bends down so she can gently drop the tablet onto the cushion. She straightens up and looks at him. In the hallway, Bucky hears two of the maintenance personnel walk past, talking to each other softly. He doesn’t place the language, which is a first for him. He’s so used to listening in on other’s conversations, scrambling for every piece of intel he can get about his surroundings, but suddenly, all he can think about is her. It’s the same feeling he’d had when he found her pinned to the floor by the desk, but with less terror involved. His mind is singularly focused on her.

She plays louder for you, you know. Sam’s words from the morning of the attack ring in Bucky’s ears.

“Why?” His voice feels stuck in his throat and he swallows. “Why would you do that?”

Moving closer to him, Y/N reaches up with her right hand. The neon cast has been signed by the rest of the team. Someone’s even drawn a cello near the top, albeit a poor attempt at one. She hovers near his arm before gently placing her hand there. He doesn’t pull away, though he knows she’s moving slow enough so that he has plenty of time to.

She’s smiling. “Because you appreciate it, Bucky. From what I can tell, you love it, for some of the same reasons that I do. When I play…” Y/N inhales deeply and then shakes her head. “It’s peaceful. It helps me calm down when I’m stressed. It reminds me that there’s beautiful things in the world. After some of the missions we’ve done—”

“—it’s hard to remember that not everything’s bad,” Bucky finishes.

“Exactly.” She shifts her hand, moving it up his arm and onto his shoulder. Her cast is bulky and the hardened fiberglass is rough even through his shirt.

“I like you a lot,” she murmurs. “I’ve been scared to tell you until now. Hell, I’m still scared. I think… I think that every time I played for you, I was trying to tell you, but I just didn’t know how to put it into words.”

“I like you too,” he says. The tightness in his chest loosens at the confession. “Will you still play for me when you’re able? Now that I know it’s you and not just a recording?”

She nods, her face breaking into a full, bright smile. “I’ll play for you especially now that you know."

Months later, Bucky finds himself outside Y/N’s door. He fidgets for a second with the flowers in his hands, wondering if he should’ve even brought them in the first place. He takes a step back with the intent to head back to his apartment and leave them there before coming back, but he freezes when the door opens and Y/N meets his eyes.

She’s changed since dinner. Instead of her normal work clothes—black pants and an Avengers-branded shirt—she’s wearing sweatpants and a shirt with the letters “NEC” emblazoned on the front.

Y/N smiles at him, and then her eyes fall to the flowers in his hands and she smiles wider. “Are those for me?” she asks.

“Yeah. I don’t”—Bucky clears his throat—“I don’t know if it’s still the tradition to bring flowers to someone’s performance…”

She reaches out and takes them. She brushes her fingers over the petals and Bucky watches in silence. The scars from the pins in her fingers have healed, though he knows that her hands and her wrist ache when the weather changes, just like his shoulder.

“They’re beautiful. Thank you. But this isn’t a performance, not really. It’s just for you.”

His heart thumps in his chest when she steps out of the way to allow him into her apartment. He’s been here a few times, but not at night. His nightly routine has never included her, not until now.

Her apartment didn’t look much different in the evening than it did during the day. The sun hasn’t set yet, but her blinds are closed, letting in only a little bit of light. The overhead lighting is dimmer as well, and Bucky notices that in the corner where her cello normally sits on its stand, a light has been clipped onto the music stand and the cello is laying on its side beside the chair.

Though he also has a studio, hers is larger, presumably because she’d moved into the compound first. Her bed takes up most of one side, and plants mark every foot or so across the long windowsill. A large one with dinner plate-sized leaves stands guard in the far corner of the room, opposite her cello. The TV on the wall facing the bed is playing something on mute and she grabs the remote from the dresser as she passes by. Y/N turns off the show and tosses the remote onto the bed.

“These really are beautiful,” she says as she grabs a water glass from her bedside table. It’s only half full of water, but she carefully fits the ends of the bouquet into the glass and leans it precariously against the wall. “Where did you even get them? You’ve been here all day.”

“Do you want me to get you a vase? Pepper probably has one somewhere…”

She shakes her head, smiling as she walks back to him. “No. I want you to sit so I can play for you.”

Y/N holds out a hand and Bucky meets her halfway. She grabs his vibranium hand and then leads him to the end of the bed, where he obediently sits. Still smiling, she sits in the chair behind her music stand and picks up the cello.

His breath catches in his throat as he watches her adjust her posture. The bow hovers above the strings for just a moment before she moves it smoothly from one side of her body to the other. The sound is much louder than when he’s listened to her play through the walls and tears well up his eyes immediately.

“What do you want to hear?” she asks, looking up at him.

Bucky can’t tear his eyes away from her cello. He shakes his head, swallowing thickly. “Whatever— Whatever you want to play. I want to hear it all, darling.”

Her smile softens before she closes her eyes and touches the bow to the string. She plays piece after piece, song after song, until Bucky has tears running down his cheeks. He wipes them away so he can watch her clearly.

Y/N sways as she plays, moving with the music in a way that makes him never want to look away from her. She smiles too, and when it turns sad, she frowns a little, her eyebrows furrowing as she attunes her whole body to the music.

The room is barely lit by the time she finishes. He knows it’s late. The rest of the team will have gone to bed already, making him and Y/N the only two still awake. The sky outside Y/N’s windows are dark.

“Bucky?” She sets her bow down and meets his eyes. Her expression flickers when she sees the dried tear tracks on his face. “Are you alright?”

He nods. “Yeah. I’m alright.”

She carefully shifts the cello back onto its side beside the chair, then comes over to sit beside him on the bed. She slips her hand into his. “Whatcha thinking about?”

He looks down at where their joined hands sit between them on the mattress. “I don’t know what to say. It’s even more beautiful now that I know it’s you. Now that I can see you playing. You’re amazing, sweetheart.”

“Thank you,” she says, and he can tell even without looking up right away that she’s a little flustered by the compliment.

“I mean it.” Bucky looks up at her, then takes his free hand and reaches over to curl a finger underneath her chin. He holds her gaze for a moment. “You played beautifully, baby.”

She ducks her head, smiling wide. It’s pure joy, radiating out of her, and it makes Bucky’s chest feel tight.

No longer able to stop himself, he guides her face back to his. When he leans in and kisses her, and she practically melts into him. The mattress dips when she moves toward him, making her slide even further until their hips touch and he’s forced to let go of her hand.

“Stay the night,” she murmurs. She brushes her fingers over his face, trailing them from his temple to his jaw, and he shivers. Her breath is warm and he closes his eyes, just breathing her in.

“I shouldn’t.”

What if I have a nightmare?

The words are unspoken, he’s sure of it, but then she says, “I’ll play for you again if you wake up, if you can’t fall asleep. I’ll play all night for you if I have to, James Buchanan Barnes, I just want you to stay.”

He shudders under the weight of her words. He wraps his arms around her, pulling her into his lap and holding her close, and he buries his face against her shoulder.

“Y/N…”

"Stay.”

“Okay.” He kisses the place where her shirt ends and her skin begins. She brings a hand up to caress his spine in long, smooth motions.

“I’ll stay,” he tells her, and he says it like a promise, one that he intends to keep.

Thank you for reading! If you liked this, please consider reblogging my work so that others can enjoy it too.

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[pinksplace]

Stand up guy

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: With your date no where in sight you’re preparing yourself for another night alone, ready to file the whole thing under your growing evidence regarding the death of romance enter Bucky Barnes, friend, obscenely hot neighbor, and *checks notes* savior?

Warning: fade to black smut, making out, Bucky is cute, reader is lowkey avoidant attachment, waiter is canonically Joaquin, both of them are yearners TRUST ME

PSA (Pink Service Announcement): This fic is apart of the wonderful @salty-tang’s My Dear Darling Reader exchange! A beautiful event hosted by a beautiful person!!! You are so good to us and I cannot thank you enough for organizing and putting so much care into this event. This is based on prompt #7: Saved from a no show date

Dt: @quantumbarnes my dear sweet Veni I could not have been more excited when I found out I got to write for you! You are a ray of sunshine and everytime I interact or see you on my dash it brings me so much joy! You and your works are so beyond beautiful. Thank you for being patient with me while I tried to do you justice 🩷

Veni in my heart of hearts I’ve written you 10k of porn with plot, with so much yearning it makes my heart ache. In actuality the month of February snuck up behind me and hit me over the head with a club. Forgive me my love

Word count: 2.5k

What a waste of a pretty dress.

That's the thought you keep circling back to.

It'd been sitting in the back of your closet for almost two months, and impulse purchase that you had been waiting for the chance to wear.

Foolishly, you thought it was tonight.

Now, as the clock ticks almost an hour past the time your date was supposed to arrive, you're not so sure.

You don't know what's worse, the fact that you won't be able to wear it again, or that you're seriously considering asking the waiter for another bread basket. 

"At least it can't get worse." You mumble to yourself, grabbing your butter knife and snatching the last roll. 

You'll order another drink, get buzzed enough to numb the sting of rejection before you force yourself to go back to your apartment. Maybe you can kill another hour, spare yourself from the interrogation of your well-meaning roommate. She'll feel guilty enough knowing that she's the one who convinced you to go out with this guy anyway. 

Then a bone shakingly familiar voice speaks from behind you.

"Hey stranger." 

Bucky. 

Bucky your hot, dream haunting, neighbor.

Fuck it can get worse.

You don't get the chance to turn around and greet him, Bucky instead walking around and taking the empty seat across from you.

"Bucky!" You feign excitement, forcing yourself to perk up. "What are you doing here?" 

Bucky shrugs, looking around the restaurant as if he's unimpressed. "Was hungry." 

Of course, a million restaurants in this city and he comes here. A casual twist of fate's knife. 

Bucky's talking but you don't hear him, meeting someone he says. Been a while, explained with a casual wave of his hand. 

You catch none of it.

Noticing your silence, Bucky finally looks at you, properly. 

His expression falters, just for a moment. 

"Oh shit you're-" he trails off, gesturing to the dress and the fancy table setting. 

You're on a date.

Loud incorrect buzzer.

Maybe you could play it off. Say you're early, or he went to the bathroom. Anything to save face. You could slip out before he gets a chance to double back, disappear into the crowd of lovers on the sidewalk and avoid the embarrassment.

Of course, fate is not that kind.

"Finally!" Your waiter appears, seemingly out of thin air. He flashes Bucky a relieved smile, "Can I get you anything to drink? I can't believe you actually showed we were about to give up the table." 

Mortification, white hot and inescapable climbs up your face. 

You stammer, tripping over your own words as rush to explain that no this isn't him, and yes you are still waiting and if they have a gun in the back could they please bring it out so you can kill yourself- 

"Can I get a water and-" Bucky nods to your empty wine glass, "A bottle of what she was drinking." 

The waiter leaves, parting with a firm nod and a pleased expression. As he walks away you can see him turn back to you, mouthing an exaggerated Oh my god! And pointing at Bucky's back.

"Bucky," you swallow around the shock and embarrassment in your throat. "You don't have to do this really." 

He doesn't acknowledge it. Doesn't look up, doesn't make eye contact, doesn't pass go or collect two hundred dollars. Instead he opens his menu and starts to browse.

"Any idea what's good here?" He asks, flipping through the thick pages. 

You recover faster this time, your mouth only opens and closes twice before you finally speak.

"They're known for their steak." You answer. 

The words blur in front of you, anything you might've read while waiting for your date gone from your mind. Your sensibilities pulled loose and numbed with wine and insecurity.

"Guess I'm having steak."

Dinner is… something.

Not the food, no the food is delicious, the food is out of this world.

But so is the company. 

It's not that you didn't expect it from Bucky. He's a good neighbor, a good friend. He fixes your leaky pipes with a twist of his hand and changes the batteries in your smoke alarms because you can't reach them. He gives you that awkward, almost a smile when you pass in the hallway, and asks how your day is going every time you ride the elevator together. 

Even then, it's like pulling teeth, stilted and borderline painful at times.

Tonight it's none of those things. 

Tonight it all flows like water between you. 

Stories, yours and his, a second bottle of wine and a shared dessert.

Bucky doesn't bring it up until the latter is set down in front of you, two spoons on one plate. 

"So," He starts, stabbing a fork-full of cake with more force than necessary. "Who was the guy?"

You sigh, matching his force, the plate clattering with the sound. 

"Blind date." You say morosely, "Honestly didn't even want to come."

Bucky hums. "So why did you?"

You shrug, another forkful gets swallowed before you answer.

"I've been single for forever." You emphasize the last word, "I kept thinking it would just happen, y'know? That love would just appear, and when it was right it would feel right." 

Bucky nods, taking another bite. This time it catches on his lip, a drop of chocolate syrup dotting the corner of his mouth. You only think about licking it for a moment before Bucky's own tongue darts out. Pink and sinful it drags the chocolate over his bottom lip before finally wiping it away.

In a moment of sheer brilliance, you mind speaks from the gutter.

"That wasn't working so I figured I'd try this, thought maybe I'd at least get laid."

That lands like a fart in church, Bucky sputtering on his last few drops of wine. 

"What about you? I never asked who you were supposed to be meeting?" You change the subject, dragging another bite into your mouth, anything to stop you form talking.

Bucky recovers more gracefully than you did. 

"It was just a few friends," He clears his throat, "Honestly I'm having a much better time with you."

Your cheeks get warm, and you pray he doesn't see the smile that plays at the corner of your lips. 

"Besides they would have tried to get me laid. God forbid." He adds.

The laugh it punches out of you is embarrassing, loud enough to turn heads at the surrounding tables. It's more shocking than it is funny, the look he gives you after more fond than smug.

"Wanna get out of here?" You're not sure if it's bravery that asks, or self-consciousness at the eyes of the other patrons. 

"Way ahead of you." Bucky promises. 

Way ahead of you' apparently meant Bucky had already paid the check while you'd gone to the bathroom, insisting the entire walk home that it was his treat

Really Bucky at least let me pay for half!

My mother would turn over in her grave.

You bicker, banter, brush hands the entire time. A goofy smile painted on your face, and you'd had the mind to noticed, you would have seen a matching one on him. 

The elevator takes it's time getting to your floor. You both drag your heels once the doors open. 

Even once you get to your apartment, you hesitate, turning your key in the lock but refusing to undo the latch. 

A tiny voice inside you screams, begs you to drag it out, to make it last. Silently cursing your roommate for being inside, probably sitting on the couch waiting for a debrief. 

Stealing one last moment you turn back to him, pressing your back to the door as you tilt your chin to meet his towering gaze. 

He's easily a foot closer than usual, his typical polite distance shrunken to something more intimate.

When had he gotten so close?

"You're a good man Bucky." You tell him, smile pulling at your lips as you force yourself to swallow around your nerves

"I don't know about that." Bucky argues, metal hand rubbing the back of his neck with embarrassment. 

You scoff, "C'mon how many other guys would have spent their night trying to make their neighbor feel better?" 

You want to make it obvious, let him know he's off the hook. You're not stupid. The way he's looking at you tonight? There's a softness in him you've never seen before, it's pity.

Isn't it?

Bucky struggles, for the first time since he sat down with you, he looks like he doesn't know how to say what he's thinking. 

"God, Doll you still don't get it?" He finally whispers, sounding almost hurt. "That was me being selfish."

The air between you goes tight, what moments ago had felt safe, warm, easy, is now charged with something unspoken. 

It hangs heavy, suffocating you in possibility. 

You eyes fall, down to his hands fisted at his sides, the way his shoulders curl in on them selves, the gentle curve in his neck as he leans down into you. 

His lips, parted and pink. His cheeks, flushed and freckled. His eyes, wrecked and wide. 

He's rigid, body braced for the blow of rejection. 

The ball is in your court, fate in your hands, two paths. 

The fear, the kind that always bubbles up whenever the chance at love actually presents itself. It curls under your skin, twists in your stomach and makes you panic. 

Your doorknob is in your hand, one twist and you could disappear inside, but you can't seem to make yourself do it.

You made your choice the second he sat down. You made your choice two weeks ago when you room mate described your supposed-to-be-date as tall, dark and Bucky-ish. 

A few months from now he'll curl a hand around your wrist and tell you he made his six months ago when you moved in and brought sunshine with you.

You let go of the doorknob and find something new to hold onto. 

Bucky's hair is softer than you expected, gentle tufts of dark curls that already feel familiar under your hands. 

You grasp it, soft at first, testing. Then harder when you use it to pull his lips down to yours. 

Bucky follows you without protest, nearly tripping over himself as he rushes forward to meet your kiss. 

Big hands find your hips, curling into them like he's afraid you'll disappear. You do in a way, into the door frame, into his chest, swallowed whole by all things Bucky. 

His lips are chapped, rough and bruising as he takes your invitation and runs with it. 

His chest bumps into yours, once, then twice, than a third time until you're pressed to the door again. 

"Don't wanna stop." He murmurs, not even bothering to pull his lips away from yours.

"So don't." You tell him. One hand trails from his hair, down his neck and over his shoulders until you can clutch his bicep. It's strong, flexing beneath your touch and unflinching as your nails dig into it. 

Bucky groans, ragged and throaty as he kisses you again, still trying to talk through it. "Fuck-" He pants, dragging his teeth over your bottom lip. "Won't let you leave if I do."

Despite his words, whatever war he's fighting inside him, his body tells a different story. Hands reach down your back, palming your ass through your dress before grasping the backs of your thighs. There's no instruction to jump, he just stands to his full height and takes you with him. 

Your legs scramble around his waist, ankles locking behind his back as you try in vain to bring him even closer. 

"Then keep me." You insist. "Please Bucky, keep me."

The door to Bucky's apartment swings open with enough force to rattle its hinges. 

He kicks it shut, as if ripping his hands from your body would be too difficult and you have to agree.

It's a mess, teeth clashing, tongues tangled, frantic grasp at any skin you can touch. 

Your feet don't touch the ground until his bedroom. Your heels are somewhere by his door, toed off with little patience

Bucky puts you down as gentle as can be, slowly detaching himself from you until he can lean back and take in everything. 

He towers over you, imposing and 

You falter under his gaze, just for a moment as he rakes his eyes over every inch.

"With a dress like this-" He sucks in a shallow breath, "-Sweetheart I was never going on that date."

Like magnets his touch returns. The backs of his hands trace your curves, brushing over your breasts, and down to your ribs. He lays his palms flat over them, running his thumbs just below the line of your breasts.

"Date?" You gasp, pressing your hands over top of his. 

He shakes his head, letting out a low whistle. "Cancelled the second I saw you sitting there." 

He finds the zipper on the side of your dress, pulling it down slowly as he speaks.

"Before you came over?" You ask, voice softer than you expected.

Bucky nods, sliding his hand below the fabric, resting it over your back and using it to pull you into him.

"Before I got past the hostess stand." 

The dress comes off in a flurry, fabric gently lifted over your head only to tossed half-haphazardly on the floor. 

The lace set had been chosen with optimism in mind. Nothing too showy, but enough to make you feel pretty even if no one got to appreciate it.

Boy are you glad someone does.

Bucky walks you back to the edge of the bed, but just when you think he's going to push you down, he kneels instead.

He pulls the waist band of your panties between two fingers, thumbing where it rests over your hip.

"I can't believe you were gonna waste this on some guy who didn't have the balls to show up." He sounds borderline angry, jealousy rearing its head just enough to make you shiver. 

"Wish I wore something else?" You tease, fingers falling back into his hair, taking your time to card through it.

"Not what I said." Bucky insists. His face presses against you through the fabric, nose pushing in just enough to elicit a squeal. 

"Bucky!"

"It's just a good thing that I'm here." He presses on, placing a kiss just below your navel, then a second one an inch lower, progressively traveling down until he landed at the elastic of your panties. "This pretty pussy deserves some one whose gonna worship her."

Something sure settles in your stomach, a weight in that covers your entire soul in the feeling of knowing that for the first time ever. This is right.

Event Masterlist

Personal Masterlist

Thank you so much for reading, and again to salty for hosting!

Veni I hope you enjoyed this little slice hero Bucky, he makes my heart swell almost as much as your Steve fic did.

[juniebjonesin]

˗ˋˏ 18+ MDNI - please read all tags before continuing to a fic ˎˊ-

✪ solitary love → fluff, smut & angst bucky x single mom!reader ⤷ when bucky finds himself falling for his waitress at the diner he learns that there's more to her than shining smiles and sunny side up eggs.

✪ learning curve DDDNE → fluff & smut little brother!bucky x older sister!reader ⤷ coming home from college was never the same once you realized how much your little brother has grown up since you've been gone.

✪ love versus loyalty → fluff, smut & angst knight!bucky x princess!reader ⤷ james will always be there to protect you, even if it has to be from himself.

✪ hero for hire → fluff & smut bucky x female reader ⤷ you move to brooklyn with nothing but an overpriced lease, a camera you can’t let go of, and dreams too stubborn to stay asleep.

✪ dive into you → fluff & smut beefy!bucky x gf!reader ⤷ bucky doesn’t like to be social, but tell him there’s a party with his angel and he’s there.

✪ all dolled up with nowhere to go → fluff & smut bucky x gf!reader ⤷ bucky loves to see his pretty girl all done up.

✪ fading away → fluff & angst bucky x female reader ⤷ youve always gone unnoticed, faded into the background. until bucky sees you.

✪ want to ki__ you (answers may vary) → fluff, smut & angst avenger!bucky x female reader ⤷ bucky goes looking for a rogue operative but finds something else entirely.

✪ smoking kills → smut bucky x female reader ⤷ meeting bucky at a bar sparks a fire in you.

✪ happy harvesting → fluff grumpy!bucky x sunshine!reader ⤷ taking bucky to cut down your own tree doesn't go as planned.

✪ almost yours → angst avenger!bucky x avenger!reader ⤷ bucky isnt yours and thats fine, you can learn to walk with a shattered heart.

✪ oops? → angst & fluff bucky x female reader ⤷ what slips out in the dark cant be taken back.

✪ a rose a day → fluff thunderbolts!bucky x assisstant!reader ⤷ what starts as a mystery rose turns into a bouquet of love.

✪ with it or on it → angst gladiator!bucky x princess!reader ⤷ in a world ruled by blood, crowns, and spectacle, a gladiator and a princess choose each other anyway.

✪ cant break whats broken → angst bucky x avenger!reader ⤷ when the sunshine finally fades, bucky sees the truth.

✪ you all along → fluff & smut bfb!bucky x female reader ⤷ a summer of anonymous letters shapes into something much more.

✪ inferno love → fluff & angst fwb!bucky x female reader ⤷ your love for bucky burns, but fire can consume everything in its wake.

✪ sticky confessions → fluff roommate!bucky x female reader ⤷ bucky moves into your spare room expecting four walls and a place to sleep, instead he finds something that feels a lot like home.

✪ the winter huntsman → fluff, smut & angst alpha!hunter!bucky x omega!princess!reader ⤷ a hunted omega princess and the queen’s enslaved huntsman are forced across a brutal kingdom—only to discover their bond is powerful enough to break magic, topple a throne, and remake the world.

✪ sweet as can be → fluff & smut 40s!bucky x female reader ⤷ you, a sweet and innocent girl catches the eye of cocky, flirty bucky, who’s used to getting any girl he wants.

✪ mowin → smut ⤷ doing buckys chores for him leads you to helping out in a different kind of way.

✪ modern day convienences → smut ⤷ bucky gets to adjust to the wonders of the new world.

✪ ass or tits → smut ⤷ we pose the age old question to bucky.

✪ anklet → smut ⤷ you don't wear a lot of jewelry, but bucky gets to see the most important one.

✪ wet dream wake up → smut ⤷ bucky wakes you up just the way you want him to.

✪ eye contact → smut ⤷ bucky doesnt like when you look away.

✪ gone too long → fluff ⤷ you miss bucky when hes gone.

✪ handlebars not required → fluff & smut ⤷ bucky wants to shave his mustache and you remind why you love it.

✪ birthday boy → fluff & smut ⤷ you make buckys birthday extra special.

✪ jackass → fluff ⤷ bucky makes your heart begrudginly flutter.

[bartxnhood]

ANY VARIATION OF READER X THUNDERBOLTS BUCKY AND THE TEAM BEING TF U HAVE A GF THANK YOU AND ILY

girlfriend? | bucky barnes

| thunderbolts!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: john walker and minor thunderbolts spoilers!!!!!

a/n: YAY!!! IM SO EXCITED TO WRITE FOR BUCKY AND MARVEL AGAIN!!! i also decided that this would probably take place after the events of the movie, and i took inspiration from clint hiding his family but, with reader! so, i hope i did your vision justice!!

Copyright © 2025 bartxnhood. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format.

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧

the smoke was dense and thick, making it almost impossible to see within five feet. the smell of sulfur and concrete filled the nostrils of the ‘new avengers’.

new york has seen yet another attack, this time by another outer space alien thingy that bucky couldn’t remember.

there’s a dreadful silence between the group, all stuck in their own minds, trying to figure out just what went wrong. how they got defeated so quickly.

he stood with his hands on his hips, trying to regain his breath after being slammed into a plethora of floors from one of the skyscrapers.

ava hunched over holding her midsection while also trying to catch her breath. yelena, leaning against a fallen slab of a building while clenching her arm. walker, somewhere else, blowing off steam as his shield was snapped in half, and alexei going on some sort of rant.

“it’s fine, this is fine” the broody older man speaks, his thick accent grating against buckys ears. “everybody get up!” the red guardian claps, trying to pump up the group. “we are the thunderbolts!!!”

yelena rolls her eyes, keeping a hand pressed on her arm, “dad, stop”. she looks at the man with sharp eyes. they say optimism is good to have on a team, but alexei had too much. it often got annoying.

turning a corner, walker, stuffing something in his suit pocket, looks to the others. “we’ve been compromised.”

ava stands, crossing her arms. “what?” she looks between bucky and yelena, who have the same look on their face. it isn’t dread, it isn’t worry, it’s something much worse.

alexei mutters some swear words in russian under his breath. and for a moment, no one knows what to do. they aren’t a team, they have no backup, and bucky knows that sam won’t help him.

yet again, he’s alone.

“well, what now?” ava asks, her attention trained on the white widow. “ah!” alexei holds up his fingers, then snaps, carrying a proud look on his face. “a safe house!”

everyone pauses, stealing glances at each other with a blank expression. clearly growing tired of the red guardians persona. “oh, you’ve got to be kidding me..” ava exasperates, before taking a few steps away from the group.

bucky contemplates for a moment, hes staring off at the gray rubble beneath his black boots. he only had a handful of options, one of those being sam. as he was not on the best terms with sam, he figured his last option would suffice. you.

“i know a place.”

the sun was just rising, its misty rays barely peeking through the thick fog. the air was cool and damp, the ground beneath covered with an early morning dew. a cabin tucked away amidst the trees stood silent and still, as if waiting to welcome the day.

the trees surrounding the cabin were barely visible through the dense fog, their leaves shimmering with dewdrops like tiny jewels on their green surfaces. the air was silent, save for the soft sound of the nearby river.

stepping off the quinjet, bucky stopped at the edge of the ramp, looking at his home he shared with you. he felt happy to be back home, but a part of him dreaded the following events.

bucky knew he was risking everything by bringing the others to his home, to you. someone who bucky made sure to keep hidden from everyone. he didn’t do it because he was ashamed or didn’t love you, but he did it because he loved you so much. it was better to keep you off file and off record, for your safety.

if anything happened to you, bucky would’ve surely lost his mind.

“why the hell are we at a cabin, bucky?” walker quips, following the other super soldier. “we can’t go on vacation now.”

“shut up, walker,” bucky snaps, shooting a glaring look over his shoulder as he waits for the rest of the others to fall in behind him. “what are we doing here? we clearly need a safe house,” yelena chimes in, ava and alexei adding something under their breaths.

bucky can already feel himself getting agitated with the anti-heroes. it’s hard enough working with people that collectively cannot get along, it was doomed from the veining. “it’s safe, just trust me.”

crossing the threshold of the dark oak cabin, the scent of fresh laundry mixed with mahogany, vanilla, and cashmere filled his nostrils, and in an instant, the tension in his shoulders dropped.

home. the living room was cleaned, and a few blankets on the leather sofa. you must've napped. a few records scattered around the record table, one still on the turntable, but the record had stopped playing long ago.

“baby? i’m home!” he calls out, not seeing any sign of your presence as he steps into the living room. it’s quiet, almost too quiet. bucky steps further in. “baby doll?”

the team steps in hesitantly, their hands hovering over whatever they have to defend themselves with. sharing puzzled glances with each other as bucky calls out to you.

you emerge from the stairway with a laundry basket on your hip. a quiet gasp gets caught in your throat as your eyes look past your boyfriend and see his co-workers. “what the..” you mutter, your eyes finally landing on bucky. “bucky?”

“we had nowhere else to go,” he explains, the wear and tear of fighting visible on his body. his eyes hold even more exhaustion than he let on.

you drop the laundry basket on the sofa and approach him, he hopes his arms and pulls you in, pressing a kiss on the top of your head.

yelena interrupts, “Im sorry..” the blonde holds out her hands, nose crunching with confusion. “what the hell is happening here?”

“yeah..what the hell is this?” walker stands behind yelena, his arms crossed now.

“guys, meet my girlfriend, y/n,” he introduced, holding you by his side. his thumb rubbing up and down your shoulders.

“hi..” you smile, holding up your hand to wave awkwardly. your freehand wrapping around buckys midsection.

the team is left speechless, all mouths are open, but no words are formed.

“girlfriend?!” yelena is flabbergasted, her eyes almost popping out of her head.

“oh! this is wonderful!! alexei is pushing past the other three, walking towards you with a big, dopey smile. “young love!” he cheered, clapping loudly.

you laugh awkwardly, again, because what do you do when the avengers are standing in your house?

“buck?” you look up at him, he had a less than amused look on his face.

“we just need some place to lay low, get patched up. i didn’t know what else to do.”

“ah, okay,” you pat his chest playfully, an amused laugh coming from you. “i can help with that.”

“girlfriend…” walker whispers as you begin leading the group downstairs to a makeshift med bay.

“shut it, walker!” buckys voice booms from a few feet ahead.

[tuiccim]

We're Gonna Burn

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Word Count: 3K

Warnings: Smut, Sex Pollen, Non/DubCon (because sex pollen), enemies to lovers.

Summary: When an exposure to a strange powder makes you feel as if you're burning to death, your only relief is in the person you hate the most.

A/N: Special thanks to my beta reader @whisperlullaby

We're Gonna Burn Masterlist

“What the hell was that, Barnes?” You practically yell as you push open the front door of the safe house you’d been directed to. 

“I don’t know! I’ve never seen anything like it. God, the smell!” He shakes his head.

“It’s burned into my nostrils. All I can smell is that sweet flower smell. You’ve never seen that pink powder?” You throw your things to the floor, looking around the small, remote house. 

“No, I’d tell you if I did, damnit! Why do you keep asking?” Bucky growls. 

“You’re not the most forthcoming person! Shit, I think you’ve spoken more in the last two minutes than in the three months I’ve known you! Jesus, fuck, I’ve gotta get rid of this smell. I’m so fucking hot,” your voice gets smaller as you speak. You can’t think straight but head towards the bathroom, unzipping your tac suit and pulling it from your arms as you go. You slam the door and lock it. You turn the cold water on full blast and nearly fall over in your haste to get your suit off. The frigid spray helps for a few moments and you revel in it, but soon another type of heat begins to take over. Your clit throbs and when you place your hand between your legs, your wetness coats your fingers. The shower stops bringing relief and instead, the water coursing down your body seems to only make you hornier. You give in to the need that takes hold and circle your clit. It feels amazing and it takes only a couple of minutes for your orgasm to break over you. You  bite your lip to hold in the moans, not wanting the asshat on the other side of the door to hear you. 

Your body has a moment of relief but then the heat builds again, even quicker this time. You dip your fingers inside of you in a desperate attempt to stop it. The second orgasm you managed to pull did little to help your body and your fingers keep working furiously to bring another in hope of relief. Your moans are spilling from your lips without a care now. You just need to get this to stop. You’re disturbed when the door rattles and a fist bangs loudly. 

“Open the door! I need to get in there,” Bucky bellows. 

You wanted to scream at him to go away but you could barely form words. You hated the stupid supersoldier from the moment you met him. He questioned your every turn. Whether it was about your skill, experience, or motives. He never lets you get through a single conversation without making you feel like a lesser part of the team. 

“Goddamnit, let me in!” He yells more loudly. 

Nothing your hand was doing was helping any longer. You couldn’t think straight and, before you can make a move or form a thought, the door splinters open from a kick. A very naked Bucky comes through the door and your eyes widen as you see his cock standing at attention. He steps into the spray of the cold shower and growls. His hand works his cock furiously while his other rests on the tiles. His head falls forward as he lets the cold water fall down his back. You stand behind him, your hand still between your legs. 

“Fuck, what’s happening to us?” you whimper as you lean your feverish forehead onto his back. The cool water does nothing to help but where your skin touches his tingles with relief. Abandoning all pride, you press your entire body to his and the fever seems to cool wherever you touch but your clit throbs even harder. Your cunt weeps, begging for attention.You rub yourself against him, your nipples pebbling at the contact with his back. 

With a growl, Bucky turns around and you quickly back up to press your back against the wall of the shower. He stares at you, breathing hard. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble in your haze, “I don’t know what’s happening. I’m so hot and-” 

You gasp as Bucky bends down, grabs your legs, and drags you up the tiles. You squeal and reach for any handhold as he puts your legs over his shoulders and attacks your clit with his tongue. 

“Oh, fuck!” You scream as one hand lands on the ceiling to help you balance and the other buries in his hair. His tongue swirls over your clit expertly. His hands squeeze your ass as he gorges himself on you. It doesn’t take long for you to buck your hips as you come all over his face. As he sets you down, you squeeze your thighs together but your body simply screams that it wants more. You stare at each other, breathing heavily. “It’s not working. Nothing helps,” you whimper, tears forming. It’s obvious by watching him that this is affecting him almost as much as you. His supersoldier serum must be helping him but he was burning just the same. 

Bucky sighs as he steps closer to you. He presses his forehead to yours with his eyes closed and whispers, “I think there’s only one thing that’s going to help.”

You put your arms around his neck, “Just do it!” You wrap a leg around his to encourage him and he lifts you up. He presses your back into the wall as he lines himself up with your entrance. He paused there for a second as if he was fighting himself. “Please, Barnes, please! I need it!” You can’t believe you’re begging the man you hate to fuck you but your body was demanding it and if he didn’t you were sure you would burn to death. If you had been thinking straight, you would probably prefer to burn but, at this moment, you wanted nothing more than to be filled. 

“Goddamnit,” he whispers as he presses in. Your body bows with pleasure. 

“Yes! Yes!” Your voice reverberates off the tile walls as you shout with relief. He begins to pump and your body trembles with each motion of his cock. He grabs your ass as he pounds into you and you know he’s as lost in the meeting of your bodies as you are. Your cunt flutters around him, pulling him in, begging for him to come inside of you. Your rational mind has gone completely silent and you are filled with only carnal lust. Every motion of his hips takes you higher and it’s all you want. “Don’t stop,” you grip his shoulders harder. 

“Fuck,” Bucky grunts. He couldn’t stop if he wanted to and, truth was, this was the best thing he’d felt in a long time.

“Oh, God, oh, God, I’m- yes!” You release a long, high-pitched moan as you come. Your pussy grips his cock as his hips stutter. He comes with a long moan that makes you clench around him more firmly. You stay there for a few moments, catching your breath, and blessedly your body finally starts to cool. You release your legs from around his waist and he gently sets you down. You can’t look at him and instead maneuver yourself back under the cold spray. You rinse off quickly and step out of the shower. Wrapping yourself in a towel, you exit the bathroom to find your pack and some clothes. While you rifle through your pack, you feel your temperature creeping up again and then you double over from the intense wave that rolls over you. “No, no, not again,” you whisper to yourself. You look over to the broken bathroom door where Bucky still is and consider your options. Sex had given you the relief you needed but it was short lived. Your mind runs amuck with questions. What the hell was that powder? What was it doing to you? How long would this last? How many times would it take to stop this heat from trying to burn you alive? Was sex really the only relief you would find? Another pang hit and knocked the breath from your body. You were gasping in pain when an arm picked you up around your middle. 

He was still wet from the shower and hadn’t bothered to dry off. The pains had hit him and he went to the only place he knew he could find relief. He carried you to the small bed in the house and set you down on your hands and knees. He grips your hips tightly and pauses for a moment as another rush of heat spreads over him, “I need-”

“Just do it,” your words come out in a rush, pressing back into him. 

He enters you without preamble. Pulling you back to meet each motion of his hips, his moans give evidence of the pleasure and relief that the connection brings. You reach under you to play with your clit, trying to bring your orgasm on more quickly. Each of Bucky’s swift thrusts has you crying out with pleasure and he moves your hand away to bring you to orgasm himself. He wanted to feel you clench around him as you had before. 

“Oh, fuck, just like that,” you whine, “Just like that, don’t- don’t stop, oh, fuck.”

Bucky moans as he feels your cunt flutter around his cock with your orgasm. The sounds you release are a hit straight to his cock and he comes hard, thrusting with each spurt into you. Breathing heavily, you both collapse on the bed. You lay on your side facing away from him while taking stock of your body. The relief you felt with your orgasm was short lived as heat began to build again after only a few minutes. 

You feel like crying as your body radiates waves of heat. You turn over to face Bucky. He is lying on his back, his metal arm slung over his eyes, and his right hand fisting his hard cock. You make your decision quickly. Pulling his hand away, you straddle him and guide his cock inside of you. You move your hips slowly, hoping that perhaps if you stretched out the sex, it would keep the pain at bay longer. His hands grip your thighs as you rock slowly, his head is thrown back with eyes tightly closed. You looked at him for a moment and still couldn't believe that of all the teammates this could happen with, it had to be this asshole. When you first met him, you thought he was hot as fuck but as his personality (or lack there of) reared it’s ugly head you found him less and less attractive. Your anger at the situation grew as you rode him and you found yourself leaning forward, chasing your orgasm to just get this over with. 

“Oh, fuck,” Bucky bucks up into you, causing you to cry out. He repeats the motion over and over again until your body spasms around him. He comes with a grunt as he watches your face contort with pleasure. You collapse on his chest without looking at him. You wondered if keeping your bodies connected would keep the heat from returning. 

“Are you okay?” Bucky asks softly. 

You sigh weakly as you felt the now familiar warmth beginning to spread, “I was hoping…” You let out a frustrated grunt, “I was hoping if we stayed touching it would be enough. But it’s starting again.”

“Yeah, me, too,” Bucky acknowledges his own heat building. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“You don’t know that. You can’t know that,” you grouse.

“I think… I think this might be a pheromone or something Hydra created to force procreation. I heard of the experiments but they abandoned it when it didn’t produce the results they wanted.”

“Which was?” You ask as your hips make slow circles. You can feel his cock quickly hardening inside of you. 

“Naturally born supersoldiers,” Bucky strains out the words. 

“So, we’re gonna have sex until we die or what?”

“Usually wore off in a few hours but until then…” he trails off as he gots lost in the sensations. 

“Fuck,” you groan, partially out of frustration, partially from the pleasure his thick cock was producing. 

“Basically,” Bucky says and you surprise yourself by laughing at the droll comment. You are even more surprised a second later when Bucky rolls you under him. He buries his face in your neck as he pulls your leg up higher and thrusts. You throw your head back as the pleasure begins to build again. 

“Harder,” you whimper. 

Bucky complies immediately and you whimper with each stroke. Grabbing onto him, you get lost in the feeling of his cock pounding into you sharply. You were glad that he at least was decent at this. Or was it that whatever the damn contaminant was made everything feel amazing? You were getting close with the steady way he fucked you and words started to pour out of your mouth. You were usually quite vocal in bed but hadn’t wanted to give Bucky the satisfaction. Now, you couldn’t stop yourself. 

“Oh, god, it’s so good. Don’t stop, right there. It’s so fucking good. Oh, fuck, fuck, I’m gonna- fuck!” You let out a loud moan as you come hard and Bucky’s hips work even faster as he nears his own end. When he comes on a broken cry, your body revels in the feeling of him emptying himself in you.

The rational side of your brain sounded far away but was still screaming at the situation. In a moment of it managing to take hold, you push Bucky off of you and roll away from him. Breathing heavily, you pray that this is over. Surely, this was enough to satisfy anything. You will yourself to stay cool, to not allow the heat to return, to hold onto any shred of sanity you can find, but despite it all, the heat built again. You felt like screaming but you knew that nothing you did would help. You turn back to Bucky and say frustratedly, “Ready for another round?” You can’t meet his eyes but you knew neither of you could handle the pain and heat. You needed each other. 

Bucky turns to you, “Hey.” He waits, wanting you to look him in the eyes but you just stare at his chest. “Hey.”

“What?” You say waspishly, still refusing to meet his gaze.

“Never mind,” he says as he grabs you and pulls your back against his chest. His cock nudges you from behind and you maneuver your hips to allow him entry. His thrusts are quick and sharp but his fingers on your clit are pure magic. He’s learned your body quickly but instead of leading you straight to orgasm this time, he works you to the precipice and then backs off repeatedly. You understood what he was trying to do. He was trying to prolong the sex in hopes of not having to come inside you any more than he already had but it was as if your body only got angrier with each denial. 

“It’s not working! Just let me come!” You finally cry out, your frustration having reached its breaking point.

“Say it,” Bucky growls.

You wrack your muddled brain trying to grasp what he wants and latch on to the only word you can find, “Please!”

“No, say my name.”

You would normally reel angrily at a command from him but the effects this powder had on you makes you compliant from need. You stutter as your tongue tries to cooperate, “B- Barnes.”

“No,” he says darkly, “Say it.”

“Bucky,” you grind the word out through your teeth. You had never once called him that. It had always been some variant of his last name. You felt even more vulnerable now.

Bucky doesn’t utter a word but he moves his hips faster and his fingers do their job. When you finally come, your whole body spasms and you scream. The sound was foreign to your ears but the orgasm just kept going. You fluttered around Bucky’s cock, milking him of cum. You stay in that position for the next two rounds of sex. Then you got on top again to give Bucky a break but this time you faced away from him. You couldn’t look at him. When you had rode him to two orgasms and yourself to utter exhaustion, he turned you on your stomach to fuck you again. You lost count of the number of times you had sex. More orgasms than you’d ever had in your life were accomplished and you didn’t have any clue how many times he came. You fucked until you both passed out. 

Waking up fourteen hours later, you felt as if you had the worst hangover you’d ever experienced. You glance at the spot Bucky had been in but he was gone. On the table by the bed was a couple of bottles of water, a protein bar, and a bottle of pain reliever. You raised your eyebrow at the items but just shrugged as you tore into all of them. You notice your pack is by the bed and you get up to put clothes on. The first thing you notice is the soreness between your legs but really your whole body hurts. You listen for a moment but don’t hear anything in the house. Peeking out the door, you see the empty living room and slip into the bathroom. You shower quickly, trying not to remember what happened in the small space just yesterday. 

You jump when a knock sounds while you are dressing. You call out, “Yes?”

“Exfil will be here in five minutes,” Bucky says through the broken door. 

“I’ll be right out,” you say. Your stomach is in knots. You can’t imagine facing him after everything. Would he act like nothing happened or gloat like the asshole he is? You wonder if you will ever be able to look him in the face again. You look at yourself, surprised that you still look the same as you did yesterday because you know you’ll never be the same again. But you didn’t have time to dwell on that. Now, you had a jet to catch.

Part 2

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