nicholas' accessories—the ones that look exactly like handcuffs, function like handcuffs, are basically handcuffs except slightly smaller—are sitting innocently on his dresser while he's in the bathroom. you'd come to return his hoodie (that he'd purposely left in the living room to spite you, the bastard) and gotten distracted.
"see something interesting?"
you jump, spinning around to find nicholas leaning against the doorframe, hair damp from his shower, wearing nothing but grey sweatpants. which is... illegal. that should be illegal.
"i was just— your accessories are—" you gesture vaguely at the dresser. "they're very, uh, restraint-y. very cool."
his smile goes sharp and interested. "restraint-y?"
"you know what i mean," your face is definitely burning now. "they're handcuffs."
"they're fashion," he pushes off the doorframe, crossing to stand beside you, and picks up the cuffs. they dangle from his fingers, deceptively delicate for something so suggestive. "but yeah, they function like handcuffs. got them custom-made."
you snort, "why would you need functional handcuff accessories?"
"why are you thinking so hard about my functional handcuff accessories?" he counters, and the teasing edge in his voice makes your stomach flip.
you should leave. you should absolutely leave. instead, you hear yourself say, "they'd fit my wrists."
the temperature in the room spikes about forty degrees.
nicholas goes very still beside you, then cautiously turns to look at you. "yeah?"
"i mean, probably? they're smaller than regular ones," you're rambling now, nervous energy making words spill out. "not that i would know the exact sizing of regular handcuffs. i've never been handcuffed. but, these look like they'd—"
"baby," his voice cuts through your spiral, low and rough. "are you asking me to handcuff you?"
your brain short-circuits. "i— that's not— i wasn't—"
"because if you are," he continues, setting the cuffs down to face you fully, "you need to say it. can't have any confusion about something like this."
the shift in his demeanour makes your mouth go dry. gone is the playful teasing: this is something more serious, more intense. more nicholas in a way that makes you want to simultaneously flee and get closer.
he kisses you, and it's different from usual. there's a claiming edge to it, a promise of something more. your hands claw at his bare chest, feeling his heart thunder under your palms.
"the guys won't be here for another hour," he murmurs against your mouth, reminding you of how you'd invited his eight friends for lunch that afternoon. "we have time. we have privacy. and i have these—" he reaches past you to grab the cuffs, "—if you want them."
you should think about this more. should process the implications, the vulnerability, and the trust required. but standing here with nicholas looking at you like he wants to devour you whole, you find you don't want to overthink for once.
"okay," you breathe. "i want... i want to try."
his smile is devastating. "good girl. but first," he sets the cuffs aside again, "we're going to talk about this. boundaries, safe words, all of it. because i need you to feel comfortable with me. always."
and that casual prioritisation of your comfort, even when you can see how affected he is, makes you want him even more.
fifteen minutes later, you're on his bed, wrists cuffed to his headboard.
the metal is cool against your skin, fitting perfectly. your shirt is still on—nicholas had been insistent about moving slow, working up to more—but you're hyperaware of how exposed you feel like this.
"colour?" he asks, kneeling beside you on the bed.
"green," you say, testing the give of the cuffs. "very green."
"yeah?" he leans over you, hands braced on either side of your head. "like being restrained for me?"
your face burns, but you nod.
"words, baby."
"mhm," you manage. "i like it."
"good," he kisses you, deep and hungry, taking his time now that you can't touch him back. "because i really, really like seeing you like this."
his mouth focuses on your neck, that spot that makes you gasp. you instinctively try to reach for him, only to be stopped by the cuffs. the restriction sends an unfamiliar jolt through you.
"that's it," nicholas murmurs against your jaw. "can't touch me, huh? can't do anything except take what i give you."
you whimper, hips lifting involuntarily, and he makes an approving sound.
"so responsive," his hand slides under your shirt, palm hot against your ribs. "and all mine like this, aren't you?"
"yes," you gasp as his thumb brushes the underside of your breast. "yes, h-hah, yours."
he maps every sensitive spot with his hands and mouth while you writhe beneath him, unable to do anything but feel. it's overwhelming — the lack of control, the intensity of sensation, and the way he seems determined to learn every single thing that makes you come undone.
"nicho, please—" you don't even know what you're begging for.
"please what?" his hand slides lower, fingers toying with the waistband of your shorts. "tell me what you need."
"need you," you sigh, pulling against the restraints. "n-need, ah, more."
"more?" he traces patterns on your hip, maddeningly gentle. "you're gonna have to be specific, baby." it's torture. sweet, deliberate torture, and he knows it. he knows exactly what he's doing to you, keeping you on edge, and making you ask for everything.
"touch me," you finally cry out. "please just t-touch me properly."
"where?" his hand stills. "show me— oh, wait," his grin is absolutely wicked. "you can't, can you? guess you'll have to use those words instead."
"you're evil."
"you love it," he kisses you again, swallowing your protests. "now be good and tell me where you want my hands."
your breath stutters, “touch me… lower.”
nicholas props himself on one elbow like he has all the time in the world, gaze dragging down your body, lingering everywhere you can’t cover. “lower,” he repeats, voice a soft, dangerous hum. “so needy when you ask nicely.”
you tug helplessly at the cuffs and curse when they don’t budge. it only makes him grin. his lips trail heat over your stomach, your hips, until he’s right where you need him — close enough to make you shake, yet not close enough to relieve anything.
“colour?” he checks in, thumbs brushing your inner thigh.
“green,” you breathe. “green, nicho. just— please—”
“i know,” he sounds almost proud of you for begging; what a jerk. “i’ve got you.”
and then he licks you.
just one long, slow stripe, but it hits like an electric shock. your whole body jerks against the restraints and a choked sound tears out of you.
nicholas groans, low and delighted, “god, you’re already a mess for me.” his hands slither under your thighs, pinning you open, and holding you still.
you whine his name, and he finally gives you what you’re craving. his mouth seals around your clit, sucking hard enough to steal the air from your lungs.
“nngghh, n-nicho... oh—”
your wrists twitch, metal biting your skin, but you can’t stop. can’t ground yourself. can’t do anything but take the way he’s devouring you, patient and greedy all at once.
he hums, the vibration wrecking you, “that’s it. let me hear you.” you’re already on the edge, embarrassingly fast, and he can sense it, smiling against your drooling cunny.
his mouth works you harder, wetter, filthier, and soon—
—his fingers slide in.
you arch so violently the cuffs rattle against the headboard.
“easy,” he soothes as he pushes deeper, curling exactly where you’re weakest. “i’ve got you.”
you twist and turn. or, at least, attempt to. “t-too much, nicho—”
“mmm, not yet,” his thrusts ease, perfectly controlled. he fucks you with his fingers while his mouth slants back over your clit, sucking in time with every curl of his hand.
you sob and nicholas moans like he’s tasting something addictive.
“my pretty girl,” he mumbles, voice dripping with want. “look at you. tied down and still trying to run from it.”
you didn’t even realise you were pulling until he presses your hips to the mattress, trapping you mercilessly. “no, baby,” he sounds almost gentle. “take it, hm? i fucking know you can.”
the orgasm hits too fast to brace for — violent, full-body, and tearing through you so hard your vision blanks and your voice breaks on a sound you’ve never made before.
“fuckkk, that’s it. that’s my girl. let it happen, let me have it.”
you’re still coming when he decides you’re not done. his fingers don’t stop. his mouth doesn’t stop. he pushes right through it, relentless, insatiable, and you squeal.
“n—nicholas—s-shit, mffnghh... i can’t—”
“yes, you can,” he whispers, sucking your clit a little too softly to be kind. your body jerks uncontrollably. your wrists burn. your thighs shake so hard the bed shifts underneath you.
“n-nicho! pleasepleaseplease...”
he lifts his head for you to see how ruined he looks, with his pretty, flushed cheeks, swollen mouth, and pupils blown. “you can handle another one. you’re doing amazing for me, baby.”
his fingers curl, nudging your sweet spot voraciously.
you scream—wordless, broken—and he presses a kiss to your trembling thigh like he’s comforting you while destroying you.
“there it is,” he breathes. “god, you’re perfect. c'mon, give me another.”
so, you do, helplessly and violently, the second orgasm ripping you apart harder than the first, your mind flooding white as your body convulses around his fingers. you squirt, coating his sinful face with your juices and soaking the sheets. it's such a filthy sight and nicholas adores it.
he moans into you, drinking every bit of it like it’s his.
for some inexplainable reason, he keeps going. your eyes widen, handcuffs rattling urgently as you whimper due to the punishingly delicious overstimulation.
“no, no, no. nicho, i came—”
his voice is tender, unbearably sympathetic, “i know, baby. but, fact of the matter is... you’re cuffed.” his pace doesn’t falter and you fear that you've unleashed something devious in your boyfriend as you feel your next orgasm already building.
Synopsis a chaotic beach day turns into a bonfire full of bad karaoke, worse dancing, and you & bucky being dangerously cute. pure unhinged fun.
Word count 8.1k
Tags + Warnings f!reader, alcohol mention / drinking, mild language, reader is a little tipsy, flirty banter galore, so much chaotic energy, mentions of being tied up (in a funny way, not serious!), cringe but make it wholesome, lowkey emotional whiplash via Bucky’s soft side, drunk Tony Stark deserves his own warning tbh, off-screen violence mention, mock-violence / fake threats, light suggestiveness, mention of fresh 2022.
— Cake by the Ocean beach day with the avengers: 0% normal, 100% chaos.
The Avengers at the beach was either a masterstroke of genius… or a catastrophic miscalculation.
The sun was high, the breeze was warm, and the sand was hot enough to burn the soles off Thor’s flip-flops (which were, in fact, just two cut-up Mjölnirs Steve duct-taped together as a “punishment” for skipping beach duty sign-up). Everyone was in vacation mode—half of them should’ve been monitored, the other half were monitoring but gave up after Wanda spiked her floatie drink and levitated herself into a nap.
You were laid out on a pastel towel that had glittery pineapples printed on it, shades perched on your nose, tanning oil glistening on your skin. Beside you were Natasha, Wanda, and Kate sprawled in various degrees of sun-dazed glam, bikinis matching their sass levels. Music thumped from Tony's giant Bluetooth speaker setup, which was definitely not waterproof but “definitely is Iron Man approved,” as he declared while sipping what was definitely not a kid-friendly drink from a pineapple.
"[Name]’ Natasha said lazily, flipping a page in her fashion magazine, “your man’s about to launch Peter into the stratosphere.”
You lifted your sunglasses and peered out over the sand, and hoo boy—
Bucky Barnes was a sight. Saltwater in his hair, sand clinging to his back, sun glinting off that metal arm, and board shorts riding just low enough to make your heart consider doing cartwheels.
Peter was slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, flailing.
"Bucky, Bucky—no! I just ate! This is child endangerment—"
"You think I care, Spider-Boy?!" Bucky barked in mock rage. “You touched my cold brew, you little menace!”
With a war cry that would’ve made Thor proud, Bucky ran full speed into the ocean and launched Peter into the water with zero hesitation.
You were full-on cackling as Kate snapped a shot with her vintage digital camera. “That one’s for the ‘Blackmail 2025’ folder.”
Wanda smirked. “I thought this was supposed to be beach therapy. This is glorious.
“I feel healed,” you added, reaching for your iced drink.
Meanwhile, under a leopard-print umbrella (Nat’s, obviously), the girl gang was in full gossip mode.
Kate, sporting sunglasses bigger than her head, was flicking through her digital camera, making running commentary.
“Okay, okay—this one of [Name] mid-scream while Bucky sprints toward the ocean? Art. I might make it your lock screen.”
“Send it to me,” Wanda said instantly. “Also, [Name]. Spill. That man feeds you strawberries, kisses you like he’s in a period drama, and looks like he could bench-press the jet. Are you okay? Emotionally? Hydrated?”
You laughed, hiding your face in your hands. “I don’t know what to do with him! He’s like… annoyingly romantic without trying.”
Nat nodded knowingly. “That’s how you know it’s real. Bucky doesn’t do things unless they mean something.”
Kate gasped. “He gave you his last bite of his breakfast this morning. I saw it. That was a symbolic gesture.”
“He literally carried me into the ocean as soon as we got here.”
“Symbolic and dramatic,” Wanda agreed. “Perfect match.”
Then—Steve walked by.
Soaked, abs shining like the sun itself, golden light haloing around him as if he were the lost Hemsworth brother.
He tipped his head toward your circle with a gentlemanly nod, lips quirking.
“Ladies.”
Every one of you blinked.
“...Did he just—” Kate began.
“—walk by like the cover of a firefighter calendar?” Wanda finished.
“Why was that so smooth?” you whispered.
Nat didn’t even look up. “It’s the serum. It gives them swagger.”
—
You were lying on your towel, sprawled like a lizard soaking up the heat, when a shadow fell over you.
“Flip,” Bucky said, a little gruff.
You raised your brows. “Excuse me?”
He held up a bottle of sunscreen with a single shrug, then crouched down beside you. “Gotta keep that pretty skin safe.”
You smirked but rolled over, propping your head on your arms.
And then—
Oh.
Slow hands. Gentle pressure. He started at your shoulders, thumbs working in careful circles, rubbing the sunscreen in like you were fragile or sacred or his. His touch dragged down your spine with a patience that made your breath catch. His metal hand stayed steady, cool, while the other lingered a bit too long at the dip of your lower back.
You shifted slightly, biting your lip.
“Concentrating,” he muttered, voice rough. “Don’t move. Can’t miss a spot.”
“Sure,” you whispered, heart pounding.
And then—smack.
A quick little ass tap, shameless.
“Bucky!” you gasped.
He just smiled, leaned down next to your ear, and said, “I’m making sure everything’s covered, doll.”
—
It started as a joke—you sitting behind Bucky, legs on either side of his hips, twisting a small section of his hair while he helped Peter fix a busted floatie.
“Stop moving,” you said, tongue between your teeth as you focused.
“I don’t even know what you’re doing,” he grumbled.
“You’re getting a braid, soldier. Suck it up.”
Peter giggled. “You’re gonna be so cute.”
Bucky: “I will put you in the sand.”
But he let you finish. You tied it off with a tiny elastic Kate had in her bag.
Later, when Sam noticed, he snorted. “Barnes, you got a lil’ friendship braid.”
Bucky immediately went, “She attacked me. I didn’t know.”
“You let her,” Nat called from behind her sunglasses.
He huffed—but didn’t take it out.
Not for the rest of the day.
Not even during volleyball.
And when you kissed it later, gently, he muttered, “Might need another tomorrow.”
—
The sun was high, the waves lapping lazily, and suddenly—because Tony Stark doesn’t do casual—a giant, inflatable obstacle course had magically appeared on the shore. Bright colors, ridiculous twists and slides, even a little slip-and-slide that looked like it belonged on a water park commercial.
“Why?” you asked Tony, raising an eyebrow as he strode past with a grin.
“Because beach day is a competition,” he declared. “And I win.”
Peter’s eyes lit up instantly. “Challenge accepted!”
You glanced at Bucky, who gave you a slow smile, fingers tightening around your hand.
“You ready?” he asked.
“Always.”
Peter took off like a rocket, determined to destroy the course. But two minutes in, he hit a slippery patch, flailed wildly, and wiped out spectacularly—face first into the water.
“PETER!” Tony shouted from the juice bar. “Keep it together, kid!”
Bucky grinned, helping you start the course. He was steady and sure, careful as he guided you over the wobbly parts, his hands warm and firm on your waist.
Midway through, he suddenly stopped near the edge, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Hold on,” he said, and before you could protest, he pulled you toward the water, plunging you both in with a splash that soaked you from head to toe.
You sputtered, laughing as he leaned down and kissed you—wet hair, salty skin, and all.
“Worth it,” he murmured against your lips.
Meanwhile, on the sand, Wanda was conjuring floating glowing orbs—soft, warm spheres of light that bobbed gently above the ground.
“Try to juggle them,” she challenged, tossing one to Nat, then one to Clint, then another to Sam.
What started as a graceful display quickly turned chaotic as the orbs floated unpredictably, bobbing out of reach or colliding midair.
Clint tried to catch two at once and ended up tumbling backward, knocking over Sam who shrieked louder than Peter ever had.
Wanda just smiled mischievously. “Maybe next time, fewer orbs.”
Suddenly, a piercing shriek echoed from the other side of the beach.
“A CRAB!” Sam shouted, scrambling backwards.
Turns out a crab had found its way into someone’s beach bag, its claws clicking menacingly.
Clint, ever the animal whisperer, immediately got down on the sand and tried to coax the crab like it was a tiny puppy.
Bucky’s expression hardened, and he moved quickly to pull you behind him.
“Nope. Not today,” he said, eyes sharp as the crab advanced.
You laughed, resting your head against his shoulder, feeling safe and amused as Clint debated naming the crab “Sir Pinchy.”
—
Later, Tony was parked under the umbrella like a beachside DJ, spinning between '80s rock, summer pop, and aggressively inappropriate Pitbull songs. Kate was passing out juice boxes to Peter and the younger crew like a chaotic lifeguard mom. Clint was inexplicably playing volleyball while blindfolded. ("Training.")
"Alright, nerds!" Sam shouted, bouncing the volleyball in his hands. "Court's open! Battle of the century. Let’s go!"
Teams were chosen with chaotic precision:
—You and Nat: Code Red Dream Team.
—Steve and Clint: Super Soldiers and… Steve’s emotional support Hawkeye?
—Peter and Tony: The Smartasses.
—Sam and Bucky: The Trash-Talk Titans.
Kate and Wanda stood at either end with whistles, caps, and printed referee cards. (Where did they get those? You didn’t know. You didn’t ask.)
Kate had on her biggest bucket hat, clipboard in hand like an Olympic coach. Wanda stood beside her, arms crossed, eyes glowing red for “ref dramatics.”
Kate blew a whistle she definitely stole from a lifeguard stand.
“Game one! First serve—[Name] and Nat. Try not to get sand in your egos!”
You stepped up, squinting in the sun. Nat stretched beside you, looking entirely unbothered.
“This is for our honor,” you whispered.
“And our thighs,” Nat replied. “We’re going to look amazing spiking this ball.”
You served. Clean. Perfect. The ball zipped straight into Tony’s chest.
“Ow! Ow, okay, someone deflate her,” he wheezed.
“I like her inflated,” Bucky muttered from across the court.
“EXCUSE ME?” Sam hollered, eyes wide.
Wanda didn’t even blink. “Penalty for being horny during the serve.”
Bucky: “What?! That’s not—”
Kate blew the whistle again. “Shut up and rotate!”
Cue a montage of mayhem:
—Clint accidentally spikes the ball into Steve’s face and yells “friendly fire!”
—Tony tries to use repulsors to hover for a save. Wanda floats him two feet backward out of bounds. “No tech, Stark.”
—Peter dives for every ball like it’s the end of the world and somehow takes out three umbrellas and a cooler.
—Nat is scarily good and no one’s shocked.
—You score a point on Sam with a fake-out set and Bucky whoops so loud you nearly trip over yourself laughing.
“You’re going down, Barnes,” you called, flipping your ponytail as you took your position.
Bucky winked from across the net, already spinning the ball in his hand. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re not ready for this heat.”
The match that followed could only be described as Olympic-level drama.
Steve dove for a save that turned into a sand-eating faceplant.
Peter accidentally webbed the ball into the snack table.
Tony screamed “I AM IRON SPIKE” and hit the ball into low Earth orbit.
Sam and Bucky somehow did a coordinated dive that was both completely unnecessary and utterly majestic.
Wanda kept giving out yellow cards. Kate took it so seriously she was threatening to call Fury mid-match.
You? You spiked that ball so hard on Clint he tripped into a cooler.
“You’ve got arms of mass destruction!” he yelled from the ground.
Then, the moment of cinematic chaos:
You’re off court, catching your breath, and Bucky’s mid-play. He’s shirtless (rude), sweaty (ruder), and concentrating so hard he doesn't notice he's being watched. But then he hears it—your voice.
“Let’s go, Barnes!” you shout from the sidelines, cupping your hands around your mouth. “Use those arms!”
He glances back mid-run, smirking—
And immediately eats it face-first into the sand because Sam passed the ball without warning.
Tony shrieks. Peter yells “man down!” and Clint wheezes from laughter.
From the sand, Bucky groans, turning over slowly. “You did that on purpose.”
You jog over, hovering above him with your hands on your hips, trying not to laugh. “I was literally cheering for you.”
He grabs your ankle.
“Bucky—!”
And just like that, he hauls you down onto the sand, flipping you until you’re under him, his metal arm braced beside your head.
“Now we’re both out,” he says smugly, eyes sparkling.
“You’re gonna get sand in my—”
He kisses you.
“Penalty!” Kate calls, blowing her whistle wildly. “You can’t kiss during a timeout!”
“Wanda, enforce it!” Sam shouts.
But Wanda just shrugs. “They’re cute. Let them live.”
—
The ocean had calmed, volleyball lines now half-faded, and the team gathered under a massive sunshade Tony had somehow rigged with repulsor-powered cooling fans. (Because, “sweating is a war crime.”)
Lunch was a full spread: sandwiches, fruit platters, chips, a suspicious amount of guac, and desserts Wanda had magicked into existence with a flick of her wrist and zero FDA oversight. Everyone sat scattered on beach towels and folding chairs, lazily reaching for snacks, plates balanced on knees, drinks in sand-embedded cupholders.
You were perched between Bucky’s legs, your back resting against his chest as he sat up behind you, legs on either side of yours, his vibranium hand holding a plate while his other casually plucked a strawberry and lifted it to your lips.
“You first,” he murmured, low and soft, that small smile he always gave just for you on his lips.
You gave him a look. “What, you’re not gonna eat unless I do?”
He shrugged. “Can’t let you waste away before dinner. That would be irresponsible.”
“Is this your love language?” you teased, biting the strawberry.
Bucky leaned closer, his scruff brushing your jaw as he kissed your temple. “It’s classified.”
Across from you, Sam let out a loud, exaggerated groan. “Aww, would you look at this domestic mess. Sergeant Barnes out here like he’s in a beachside rom-com.”
Peter snorted through a mouthful of sandwich. “He’s literally feeding her. Feeding. Like—did I miss a Hallmark movie casting call?”
Nat smirked around her drink. “Let them be in love, boys. It’s cute. And if you tease him too hard, he will launch you both back into the ocean.”
Bucky didn’t even blink. “Try me.”
“Not you, Nat,” he added quickly. “You’re safe. They, however?” He pointed at Sam and Peter, expression flat. “Flight risk.”
Lunch had settled into a lazy lull. People were stretched out in the sand, limbs heavy and sun-drunk. Tony had dozed off with his sunglasses tilted sideways. Sam and Clint were arguing about who had the better volleyball serve (still). Nat and Wanda were deeply focused on making an elaborate sand sculpture of the Quinjet. Kate was editing photos and muttering about “perfect Instagram lighting.”
And you? You were still tucked between Bucky’s legs under the umbrella, full and smiling, when he leaned forward, arm brushing yours.
“You got room for dessert?” he murmured, already holding out a mini chocolate cupcake like it was a sacred offering.
“I thought you were the one who said I was gonna waste away earlier,” you said, grinning as you took it.
“Still true. You burn calories faster when you laugh. And you’ve been laughing all day.”
“Because you keep threatening to throw Peter into the ocean.”
“And I will.”
You laughed again—and Bucky looked like he might melt into the towel from how hard he was staring at you.
You bit into the cupcake, humming at how rich and gooey it was. He watched you with a tilted head, that classic Bucky Barnes soft-smile that meant danger, you’re about to be ruined by how tender he can be.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing,” he said too innocently. Then, he leaned in and kissed you, slow and warm and tasting like chocolate and heat. His hand curled gently around your jaw, thumb grazing your cheek. When he pulled away, just barely, he smirked.
“Had to taste the sweetness.”
You blinked, breath catching.
“Was that a line?”
He kissed you again. “Worked, didn’t it?”
Then he handed you an ice pop, which you opened while muttering something about him being lucky he’s cute. He wiped a smear of melted red juice from your bottom lip with his thumb—then, yep, kissed you again.
“You’re just using dessert as an excuse,” you teased, melting more than the popsicle.
“I don’t need an excuse,” he whispered, voice low and full of that sleepy-summer love.
And then Peter yelled across the beach, “DO YOU TWO EVER STOP?” before promptly being tackled into the water by Sam and Clint mid-shriek.
You and Bucky just grinned and kept sharing the ice pop.
You were about halfway through the ice pop—cherry, sticky-sweet, cold enough to make your lips tingle—when Bucky leaned in again, eyes on your mouth like you were the most fascinating thing on the beach.
“You’re not even pretending to wait between kisses anymore,” you murmured, glancing up at him.
“Why would I?” he replied, unapologetic. “You taste like summer.”
That would’ve been swoonworthy enough, but then he kissed you with the popsicle still in your hand, one hand on your thigh, the other braced behind you on the towel, drawing you in until you could barely remember how to breathe.
You were too distracted to notice the rest of the girls watching from under Nat’s umbrella like they were at a reality show finale.
Kate raised her sunglasses, eyes wide. “That man is out here giving Nicholas Sparks with a six-pack.”
Wanda took a long sip of her juice box. “I swear, if Bucky picks her up bridal-style again I’m going to cry. I want what they have.”
Nat snorted. “No you don’t. You want to watch what they have and live vicariously while judging them silently.”
“That too,” Wanda said. “I’m multifaceted.”
Then, like he heard the commentary, Bucky glanced up over your head and gave the girls a small smirk—one of those classic Bucky looks that said I know what I’m doing and I’m going to keep doing it.
You looked back and caught them staring.
“Do you mind?” you called, laughing. “This is a private moment!”
Wanda waved you off. “If you want privacy, don’t look that in love in public!”
Kate snapped another photo. “Sorry, this is too cinematic. That lighting? The cherry popsicle kiss?? I'm tagging this beachside thirst trap, soldier edition.”
You dropped your head into Bucky’s shoulder with a groan while he just chuckled, clearly loving the attention.
—
As you tried to recover from the emotional damage of public display affection shaming, Steve strolled by again, glistening wet from the water, towel slung over his shoulder like a Greek god returning from battle.
“Ladies,” he said, nodding as he passed.
“AGAIN?” Kate screeched. “He does this on purpose.”
“He walks like Poseidon and talks like a Victorian suitor,” Wanda muttered, stunned.
Nat, totally unfazed, raised her drink. “We let him.”
Later, you were flat on your towel again, skin sun-warmed and belly full, when Bucky leaned down and kissed you—quick, barely there, except it wasn’t quick. His lips lingered, like he had more to say but didn’t need words for it.
“Mm,” you murmured, fingers brushing the side of his face. “What was that for?”
He shrugged. “You had sunscreen on your lips. Had to help.”
“You’re so full of it.”
“You love it.”
You absolutely did.
Eventually, everyone was sprawled back out on the beach, exhaustion finally taming the chaos. Music still played. Tony napped face-first in a towel. Kate was clicking away, camera in hand, sneakily capturing every goofy grin and sun-kissed candid.
You were gossiping with Nat and Wanda, reliving the game and rating everyone's beach fits (Peter’s tank top got a 4, but only because he’d had ketchup on it since arrival), when the atmosphere shifted.
"Hydration check," a deep voice said.
You turned—and there was Bucky, walking straight toward you, shirt off, water glistening on his torso, looking like a freaking Baywatch promo. You swore slow-mo kicked in. Nat actually dropped her drink. Wanda fanned herself.
“You look dehydrated,” he said, too casual. “Gotta fix that.”
“Bucky—don’t—”
You didn’t even get to finish your sentence.
He scooped you up, bridal style, and took off sprinting toward the ocean.
“BUCKY BARNES YOU PUT ME DOWN RIGHT NOW!” you shrieked, kicking and laughing and slapping his shoulder.
“No can do, sweetheart! You’ll thank me later!”
The water was cold. Your scream echoed. He didn’t even hesitate.
The splash could’ve been seen from space.
You emerged sputtering, makeup half gone, swimsuit slightly off-kilter, laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe. Bucky was grinning like the smug menace he was, brushing wet hair off your face as you glared at him, chest still heaving.
“I hate you,” you said, still smiling.
He leaned in. “No you don’t.”
“…Fine,” you huffed. “But you owe me a back massage later.”
“You got it, doll.”
—
Back at your towel, Bucky shifted to lie back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other lazily hooked around your waist. His fingers traced small circles over the curve of your hip, casual and affectionate.
“You good, doll?” he asked, eyes squinting against the sun.
You laid your head on his chest. “Too good. It’s suspicious. Something chaotic’s about to happen.”
Right on cue—
Peter: "SAM NO—WAIT—"
Splash.
Tony (somewhere from the juice bar, sipping a mojito): “I said don’t try to piggyback the Falcon while he’s flying, Underoos! That’s physics!”
And like clockwork, Clint: “Volleyball rematch in ten! I’m not letting Cap and the archer win again with their golden boy synergy!”
Kate stood, already holding a clipboard. “Wanda and I are reffing. There will be no mercy and no backsies.”
Wanda flicked her fingers, her sunglasses glowing red. “If anyone argues a call, I will float you.”
Bucky groaned. “Great. We’re doing this again.”
You stood, brushing sand off your legs and giving him a teasing smirk. “Come on, Baywatch. Time to lose gracefully.”
He grabbed your hand and tugged you toward him for one last kiss.
“I don’t plan on losing anything,” he whispered. “Especially not you.”
You rolled your eyes, heart pounding. “Cheesy.”
“Sweet,” he corrected. “Like that kiss.”
You were so not ready for how much you loved this man.
The girls had claimed a perfect stretch of sand for sand angels, arms and legs flailing in unison, laughter ringing as they crafted perfect impressions.
The boys tried to join in, but it quickly devolved. Bucky flopped down beside you and made a half-hearted angel, sand sticking to his skin.
Then Clint, always the instigator, launched a sandball that kicked off a full sand fight.
Bucky was a sniper, sneaking up behind you and hitting you with a perfect, cool ball of sand. You shrieked and retaliated, sending a small flurry right back at him.
Nearby, Tony had set up “sand traps” with sensors, and Steve was the first victim—walking straight into one and getting showered in sand. Someone caught it on their phone, and the video quickly went viral.
Everyone was laughing, messy and sunburned, caught in perfect chaos—just like family.
—
You were asleep. Peacefully. On Bucky’s chest. His arms were wrapped around you like sea-worn stone—protective, unmoving, devoted. He’d tilted his head back on the umbrella pole, closed his eyes, and let himself drift with your breath syncing against him.
“Yo, Barnes,” Sam whispered nearby, tossing a towel. It hit Bucky’s arm. He didn’t budge.
“You gonna move?” Steve asked.
“Nope,” Bucky mumbled. “She’s sleeping.”
“She’s drooling on your chest.”
“Still cute.”
15 minutes later:
Peter, armed with a plastic bucket of ocean water, cackled across the beach like a feral gremlin. His target? Sam. His crime? Aim.
He hurled the water.
It missed Sam.
Hit. You. Dead center.
Your gasp was shriek-level loud.
Bucky sat up like a SEAL on alert. You were soaked. Spluttering. Betrayed. Peter’s smile dropped.
“I’m—OH NO—” he started running.
Too late.
Bucky launched from the towel like a vengeful beach deity, grabbed Peter mid-sprint, and slung him over his shoulder like a sandbag.
“NOOO—MR. STARK!!” Peter screamed. “MR. STARK HELP ME—”
But Tony was singing ‘Telephone’ at full volume, doing dramatic Lady Gaga choreography with a juice box microphone. “Sorry I cannot hear you, I’m kinda busy!”
Bucky ran full speed to the shore.
Peter: “I’M TOO YOUNG TO DIE IN THE OCEAN—”
Splash.
You were off snapping pics with Kate and Wanda when Nat wandered past Bucky, who was crouched alone in the sand.
She paused, narrowed her eyes.
There it was—your name, scratched in messy letters, right next to a crooked heart. Bucky used the edge of his dog tag to etch it in carefully, like he was carving something permanent into the world.
He wiped his hand over it the second he noticed her.
“Mmhm,” Nat said, arms crossed.
“Wasn’t me,” Bucky replied.
“Right. Just some other lovestruck ex-assassin with bad handwriting?”
He didn’t answer.
But when you returned and saw the slightly smudged heart, you smiled.
Didn’t say anything.
Just kissed his cheek.
He blushed like a sunburn.
As the day drew on, you and Bucky stole more moments: laying side by side with his hand resting on your hip, walking along the surf where he picked up a seashell and slipped it into your bag like a secret gift, slow kisses under the umbrella that made Sam dramatically retch from ten feet away.
“Y’all got three feet of PDA before I call HR!” he shouted.
Bucky pulled you closer.
“File the paperwork,” he muttered against your neck.
—
Kate and Sam had appointed themselves the unofficial lifeguards of the beach, perched high on a couple of wooden chairs with whistles around their necks and oversized sunglasses hiding their grins.
“Alright, Beach Patrol, eyes sharp,” Kate called, blowing her whistle once.
Sam smirked, scanning the water like a pro… until he caught sight of Kate tossing sand at him. The whistle was forgotten. Suddenly, they were chasing each other in a sand sprint, laughter echoing across the shore.
Meanwhile, Peter was cautiously wading near the rocks, focusing hard on his footing. Just as he shifted weight, the slick algae caught his foot and he started to fall backward.
Bucky, standing nearby with you in his arms (literally, you’d been climbing onto his back earlier), immediately stepped forward and caught Peter’s arm before he toppled.
“Whoa there, kid,” Bucky said, steadying him.
Peter blinked up at him, wide-eyed. “Thanks, Bucky!”
Bucky struck a mock-heroic pose—one foot propped on a rock, chest puffed, looking like he was ready for a movie poster.
Tony, lounging nearby with a drink, raised an eyebrow and called out, “Save the day and work the runway, huh?”
Clint burst out laughing, and even Peter joined in, teasing, “Look at you, Mr. Hero Pose!”
Bucky just rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at his lips as you leaned into him, whispering, “You’re my hero.”
—
The tide pools were a treasure trove of color and life, shimmering beneath the soft light. You and Bucky wandered among the rocks, carefully stepping to avoid slippery seaweed.
You crouched down, holding out a tiny iridescent shell, “Look at this one.”
Bucky smiled softly, pulling a small shell from a crevice and handing it to you. “Here. For you.”
You tucked it behind your ear, giggling.
He watched you with a shy smile that crept up slowly. Every time you found a “perfect” shell, he seemed to glow a little brighter, like he was proud to be your partner in this simple, beautiful moment.
At one point, you turned around, and Bucky was tracing circles in the sand with his finger, writing your initials surrounded by shells.
You caught his eye, heart fluttering, and whispered, “You’re full of surprises.”
He just shrugged, cheeks pink. “Only for you."
—
By sundown, the team was gathered around a beach bonfire, roasting marshmallows and reminiscing about past missions and today's “survival stories.” Peter tried to make a S’mores tower that collapsed instantly. Tony declared he was building an Iron-Man-themed snack bar for next year. Steve offered to grill next time if someone (Sam) stopped bringing vegan sausages.
As the stars blinked to life overhead, you leaned into Bucky’s side, head on his shoulder.
“I think today might’ve been perfect,” you said quietly.
Bucky looked down at you, expression soft. “You make it perfect.”
And later that night, your phone buzzed:
📸 Kate Bishop Subject: “You’re the Main Character 😌” 67 new photos
There were candids of you laughing, Bucky stealing a kiss on your cheek, you mid-scream as he carried you to the water, a selfie of you both sun-drenched and smile-worn.
And one last photo—just you, standing in the sunset, wind in your hair, golden hour catching your smile like magic.
—You laughing with the girls
—Bucky kissing the top of your head
—Your intertwined hands silhouetted against the sunset
—A perfectly framed snap of you mid-laugh, wind in your hair, eyes sparkling
—You and Bucky mid-kiss with a melting popsicle between you
—Bucky looking at you like he hung the sun himself
—You, wet hair, sunglasses on, absolutely glowing
—The moment Steve said “ladies” and every girl blushed in unison
—A group shot of everyone mid-volleyball chaos, sand flying, Peter in the air somehow, Sam yelling
—And a single candid of Bucky wiping cherry juice from your lips with his thumb
—That moment he fed you the perfect s’more
—You and Bucky sharing a hoodie by the bonfire, his arms wrapped around you, your head tucked under his chin. The fire glow behind you looks straight out of a Nicholas Sparks adaptation.
—That moment he fed you the perfect s’more
— you mid-laugh, chocolate on your lip, and Bucky smirking as he wiped it with his thumb. Too much. Too soft—You two dancing under the stars, your back against his chest, his cheek resting on your head. Kate labeled it “soft-core emotional damage” in her album.
—Bucky looking at you like you're the only person alive during lunch. You didn’t even know he looked at you like that.
At the bottom, a message:
“You two are disgustingly cute. Can’t wait for the wedding. 💍❤️”
You stared at the photos, heart full, face warm, and whispered to yourself with a smile—
“Yeah. Definitely perfect.”
—
The sun had tucked itself below the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of lavender and peach, and now the only glow came from the crackling bonfire and a string of fairy lights Tony had aggressively zip-tied to some driftwood “for ambience.”
People were sprawled in loose circles around the flames, wrapped in towels, hoodies, or each other. You were tucked between Bucky's legs, your back resting against his chest, his arms loose around your waist. It was warm, but his presence made everything feel warmer.
"Alright, who's got the marshmallows—?" Clint called, already holding one dangerously close to the flames.
"You haven't even put it on the stick, man," Sam deadpanned.
You reached for a stick and started roasting your own, methodically spinning it for that golden crust.
Peter sat way too close to the chocolate stash, stacking two bars and an entire marshmallow mountain between his graham crackers. "This is gonna be a masterpiece."
"That's a war crime," Kate muttered, watching as half the chocolate slid out and melted on his lap.
Tony whipped out a crème brûlée torch like he was unveiling the sword of Excalibur. “Gourmet time, people.”
Sam stared. “You’re not on Top Chef, bro.”
Meanwhile, Clint was already holding up a charred marshmallow that looked like it had survived a house fire. "Perfect."
"You're banned from fire," Nat said, snatching the stick from him and handing it to Wanda.
You, focused and patient, pulled your marshmallow out of the flame—perfectly golden, gooey inside. You turned, triumphant, and Bucky was already holding up a graham cracker in one hand, chocolate waiting.
“C’mon,” he murmured, blue eyes catching the firelight, a smug little smile tugging at his lips. “Let me help.”
You sandwiched the marshmallow carefully, fingers brushing, and just as you were about to bite, Bucky tilted the s’more up and fed it to you himself, slow, deliberate. Chocolate smeared slightly at the corner of your mouth.
Before you could even reach for a napkin, he leaned in and licked it clean—quick and smug, soft and smugger.
The world blurred around you—Kate shrieking about her sandal getting caught in the log pile, Peter yelling “FIRE SAFETY” at Tony, Sam swearing Clint set his towel on fire—and still, it was just you and Bucky, wrapped in this flickering, perfect moment.
—
Wanda clapped her hands once. “Alright. Confessions circle. You know the rules. Be messy or be boring.”
Peter immediately launched into the story about webbing himself to a lamppost during patrol and getting stuck there for two hours until MJ found him with a churro and pity.
Everyone howled.
Clint’s involved a failed disguise involving a raccoon and a trench coat, which somehow ended with him being tackled by mall security. "The raccoon was wearing sunglasses," he defended. “I committed.”
Then, it was Bucky’s turn.
He looked into the fire for a second, then, quietly: “Used to sneak out of barracks during training. Brooklyn summer nights. I’d take my girl—whoever I was with at the time—down to the docks and teach her how to dance. Didn’t always have music. Just… steps and stars.”
You didn’t say a word. You were too busy falling in love with him again, with every syllable, every ghost of a memory. He glanced at you halfway through, and even though he was speaking to everyone, the rest of the story felt like it was for you.
Then it was your turn.
You shifted, suddenly bashful. “Okay—so… this was before Bucky and I were together. I was on this mission, right? Supposed to intercept a target in this corporate tower. But while I was waiting, one of the employees stumbled on me. Poor guy was terrified, but I didn’t want to kill him—he wasn’t the target.”
Everyone leaned in.
“So I tied him up—nicely, okay?—and just kinda… started ranting about Bucky. Like full-on ‘what if I ruin the friendship’ and ‘what if he doesn’t mean it when he brushes my hand and then holds it for too long?’ levels of meltdown. I asked the poor guy for advice. While tied up.”
There was dead silence.
You added, sheepish: “We talked for like an hour. Turns out he hated his boss, who was the target, so I let him go. We’re still mutuals on Letterboxd.”
Peter nearly choked on a marshmallow. “GIRL WHAT—”
Bucky was quiet for a beat, then laughed—low and soft and a little smug. “Should’ve known you were already obsessed.”
You elbowed him, but leaned into him seconds later, and he wrapped his arms tighter around you like you were made of something precious. Sacred.
The night deepened, wind picking up off the waves. You shivered once, and before the second could hit, Bucky was already peeling off his hoodie.
“Here,” he murmured, slipping it over your shoulders. “Can’t have you freezing.”
You smiled as you tucked yourself into the hoodie—it smelled like him, and the sleeves nearly swallowed your hands.
Then, without hesitation, he wrapped himself around you again from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder.
“Just in case the hoodie’s not enough.”
You finished your wild story, face flushed, eyes wide as the group stared at you like you had just announced you were actually a raccoon in disguise. A very emotional raccoon.
There was a solid five seconds of stunned silence, broken only by the sound of Wanda sucking in a breath through her teeth and whispering, “Oh that’s insane.”
“I—okay. I was vulnerable!” you protested. “And he gave good advice! He said I should be brave!”
Bucky was silently shaking with laughter behind you, chin resting on your shoulder. “So while on a classified mission, you trauma-dumped on a civilian you restrained about me?”
“I tied him up nicely!”
“Oh, well that makes it better,” Sam deadpanned.
Kate leaned forward, clutching her drink. “Wait, what did he say exactly?”
“Yeah,” Tony chimed in, smirking with the gleam of a man who would make this his personality for the rest of the week. “Let’s get a quote or two from your accidental therapist hostage. For posterity.”
You groaned. “He said… I was obviously in love and trying to act chill. He said I was projecting anxiety as aggression, and I told him to shut up but, like, politely.”
“I’M GONNA CRY,” Peter wheezed, nearly choking on his soda.
Nat pointed at you, tears in her eyes from laughing. “You threatened a man and then emotionally collapsed about your crush.”
“He said Bucky probably knew, and I said no he didn’t, and then I spiraled about the way Bucky always opened doors for me and kept touching the small of my back, and—”
“Wait wait wait,” Tony cut in, holding up a hand like he was moderating a courtroom. “THE SMALL OF THE BACK?! How dare you gloss over that detail! That’s prime romance real estate!”
“I was GOING THROUGH IT, OKAY?!”
Bucky, calm and smug and cozy around you, was grinning now. He kissed your temple lightly. “Wish I knew about this sooner. Would’ve made a move that day.”
You turned and stared at him. “WHAT?”
He shrugged, totally unbothered. “Told Steve about my crush on you a week before that mission. Said I was gonna wait till after to tell you, since you were stressed.”
“YOU WHAT.”
Steve raised his hands. “In my defense, I did say he should just tell you.”
Wanda flopped sideways into Kate, kicking her feet. “Oh my god this is better than any romcom. Someone write this down.”
“You let me sob over you to a tied-up man when you were already in love with me?!”
Tony’s jaw dropped. “Oh my god. You’re both emotionally unhinged. I love it. I’m giving a toast.”
He raised his drink. “To our very own tragic espionage romance and the hostage who became a couples therapist.”
Peter raised his can. “To Jared from HR or whoever that guy was.”
“His name was Lucas! And he did not ask for this!”
“I want him at your wedding,” Nat said, utterly serious.
Bucky was laughing into your shoulder now, holding you tighter. “Please tell me you still have his number.”
You nodded, face in your hands.
Tony immediately pulled out his phone. “We’re tracking him down. I want the full transcripts.”
It’s late into the bonfire now. You’re still wrapped in Bucky’s hoodie, half in his lap, surrounded by friends who are NOT letting your story go. The marshmallows have stopped burning. Peter is on his fourth s’more. Everyone is in that late-night just unhinged enough to do something dumb mood.
And then Tony, still holding a drink and scrolling through your phone, finds it.
Tony: “Yo. [Name]. Is this the guy? Lucas: Hotdog Stand Guy from Mission??”
You blink.
“Wait you actually still had him saved?”
You (defensive): “I mean… he was cool!”
Kate: “You’re telling me you saved the number of your emotional hostage pen pal and just—never told us?”
Peter: “Please call him. Please. I need this.”
You hesitate. The group is chanting now. Bucky's arm is snug around your waist, his mouth at your ear.
Bucky (low, teasing): “C’mon, doll. Let’s meet your relationship coach.”
You sigh. Grab the phone. Put it on speaker.
It rings once. Twice. Then—
Lucas (answering, immediately):
“Please tell me you didnt butt dial me while youre making out”
You let out a gasp yelling saying it was once, your face flustered bucky let out a low chuckle.
Lucas (with a tone of sass):
"Girl no. Twice."
Lucas (unbothered):
“ANYWAYS I BEEN SAYING—Y’ALL HAD CHEMISTRY! WHO’S LAUGHING NOW?! Not me. I KNEW IT.”
You (mortified): “Hi Lucas.”
Lucas: “Ayo is he there? Is Winter Soldier there? Put him on. I GOT WORDS.”
You hold the phone up toward Bucky, who takes it with a bemused expression.
Bucky: “Hey.”
Lucas (serious now): “I’m proud of you, my man. You were giving soft, confused golden retriever energy and you turned that into commitment. Respect.”
Bucky (grinning): “I—thank you?”
Lucas: “You feeding her s’mores? You braiding her hair like she used to dream about in front of me while I was zip-tied?”
Bucky: “…yes?”
Lucas (clapping): “YES SIRRR. That’s growth. That’s romance. I better be best man.”
Tony (yelling): “Lucas, you’re invited to the compound anytime.”
Lucas: “Bet. I’m free Tuesday.”
Wanda: “Lucas. What was it like listening to [Name] spiral?”
Lucas: “Spiritual. I felt like I was watching a Netflix docuseries in real time. She made ME believe in love again.”
You are screaming into your hands now as everyone laughs around you, tears in their eyes.
Lucas (softly now): “I’m proud of you, [Name]. Look at you. Got the super-soldier, got the hoodie, got a whole group of chaotic-ass friends. Dream life.”
You (giggling): “Thanks, Lucas.”
Lucas (loud again): “ALRIGHT Y’ALL. I’M OUT. BE SAFE. WRAP IT BEFORE YOU ZAP IT.”
Call ends.
Dead silence.
Then:
Tony:
“I’m putting that man on payroll.”
—
The party seemed to only be getting started, from endless karaoke and dance battles everyone was having the time of their lives. The music shifts to Cool for the Summer — that catchy, electric beat filling the space. Everyone’s hyped up after the dance battles, and suddenly, Peter pipes up, “Hey, you two gotta do it. The iconic Fresh scene. You know, the one with Steve and Noa?”
You and Bucky exchange a quick glance and a grin — that’s your secret move, a little throwback to a dance only the two of you know inside and out.
Bucky smirks, “Guess it’s showtime.”
Peter’s watching from the side, totally shocked. “Wait — you guys watched Fresh? Like, seriously?”
You grin and nod as the first smooth step hits.
Bucky, in full Steve mode, says softly, “Let’s dance.”
You reply, matching the exact tone, “Let’s dance.”
Peter almost falls over laughing but claps loudly, totally impressed.
The two of you spin, sliding into the classic step-touch with finger snaps — every move crisp and synced like a perfect mirror.
At the part where Noa shimmies and does that hip roll, you toss your hair and Bucky follows suit with his own smooth roll, both of you cracking into laughter but not breaking the rhythm.
Peter’s eyes widen, “Okay, I’m officially obsessed. You two have practice for this?”
You shake your head with a laugh, “Nah, just a little binge one night. We’ve been saving it.”
Tony shouts, “Now THAT’S how you do it! Kate, come on, we gotta step it up!”
Kate screams, “Bring it, Barnes!” as she drags Tony into the next round, both of them laughing and trying to keep up.
Peter’s grinning ear to ear, “You guys just turned the whole beach into a dance floor — I’m never gonna top that.”
You lean into Bucky, heart racing from the adrenaline and the way everyone’s loving your secret little moment.
Bucky smiles low, whispering, “Told you — some things never go out of style.”
Peter’s clapping, “Yo, this is the best beach party ever!”
You lean into Bucky, feeling that electric buzz of the crowd, the warmth of his hand steady on your waist, the music pulsing like a heartbeat.
And just like that, the whole beach is a dance floor, alive with laughter, music, and the kind of moments that turn into memories.
Tony puffs out his chest, hands on hips, glancing at Kate with mock confidence.
“Alright, kiddo, time to school these two on some real moves.”
Kate smirks, bouncing on her heels.
“Oh yeah? You sure you’re ready for this? Last time you danced, you pulled a muscle… or was that your dignity?”
Tony waves her off dramatically.
“Please. I’ve been rehearsing in front of the mirror. I’ve got moves so smooth, they make silk jealous.”
They start their attempt — Tony tries the slick sideways slide but immediately trips over his own feet, sprawling onto the sand.
Kate bursts out laughing, clutching her stomach.
“Smooth like silk? More like a silk sheet caught in a windstorm!”
Tony grins from the ground, not missing a beat.
“Hey, it’s a modern interpretation. Very avant-garde.”
Kate shakes her head, trying not to laugh as she attempts the finger snap but accidentally flicks sand into Tony’s face.
Tony sputters, wiping his eyes.
“Okay, okay — you try, Miss Perfect.”
Kate hits the beat, snapping and sliding, but halfway through her hip roll she stumbles and ends up nearly face-planting.
Tony chuckles, offering her a hand.
“Told you — we’re not quite Steve and Noa, but hey, at least we’re having fun, right?”
Kate takes his hand, laughing.
“Yeah, fun with a side of embarrassment. Maybe we should just stick to cheering from the sidelines.”
Tony winks.
“Speak for yourself — next karaoke round, I’m claiming the mic!”
Kate groans, “Oh no… please, no.”
suddenly the whole group is hyped, eager to recreate the iconic dance you and Bucky just performed flawlessly.
Tony cracks his knuckles, ready to lead the charge.
“Alright team, time to show off those moves!”
Peter grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“Bet none of you can match what [Name] and Bucky just pulled.”
Sam and Clint exchange glances, smirking as they step forward, trying the finger snaps and hip rolls but ending up laughing as their moves turn into an awkward shuffle.
Kate twirls, nearly losing her balance but catching herself with a dramatic flourish.
“Okay, okay, who taught you two that smooth stuff?”
Everyone turns to you and Bucky — who’ve retreated from the center, just swaying quietly together. His back presses gently against yours, his head resting softly atop yours, arms wrapped loosely but protectively around your waist.
Peter nudges Tony, whispering,
“Man, they don’t even need to dance, just look at them.”
Tony watches you both, a slow smile spreading on his face.
“Yeah, that’s the real show right there.”
Natasha raises an eyebrow, smirking.
“Silent power move.”
You lean into Bucky, feeling the steady beat of his heartbeat matching the music. No flashy steps, no wild moves — just the warmth of being exactly where you’re supposed to be.
And somehow, that’s the most magnetic dance of all.
As the beat of Cool for the Summer fades into an equally hyper energetic song —something along the lines of Cake By The Ocean if someone got cheeky with the playlist — the party shifts into that perfect golden-hour haze, even though the fire's still crackling and the stars are high overhead.
Sam is dramatically dancing with a stick like it’s his true soulmate, muttering, “She never talks back. Perfect woman.”
Tony’s in the middle of teaching Clint and Wanda some kind of absurd made-up waltz-slash-robot hybrid, and they’re all laughing so hard they nearly fall over.
“Tell me this isn’t art!” Tony declares, twirling Kate once and accidentally tripping over a log.
“Peter,” Kate slurs playfully shes drunk off the caprisuns, pointing a chip at him, “you gotta admit we nailed that duet. Like, Grammy-winning, no—EGOT-worthy.”
Peter, who’s only tipsy on adrenaline and soda, holds up an empty marshmallow stick like a mic. “I’d like to thank the Academy… and Katy Perry… and my vocal cords.”
Meanwhile, you and Bucky have drifted just a little farther from the circle, swaying softly under the blanket of stars. You're tipsy — that light, bubbly kind that makes everything feel warmer, softer, floatier. His arms wrap around you, steady and grounding. Your head rests back against his chest as his chin hooks gently over your shoulder, breathing calm and quiet against your temple.
The music is barely there now. Just ambient hums, flickering flame, distant laughter. Your fingers curl lazily into his.
“Did you ever dance like this in the streets of Brooklyn?” you ask, voice soft and dreamy, like you’re afraid the question might float away with the smoke.
You feel the subtle rumble of his laugh against your back.
“I did,” he says, after a beat. “Plenty of times.”
You glance up toward him. “Was it like this?”
He’s quiet for a moment, and then leans closer, pressing his cheek against yours.
“No,” he murmurs. “This… is so much better.”
You smile, heart fluttering, grounding yourself against the quiet rhythm of him.
He brushes a kiss against your temple. “Brooklyn didn’t have you.”
And maybe no one hears it but you — and maybe that makes it all the more perfect.
Behind you, Sam’s yelling, “Ayo! Someone stop Steve from trying to two-step with the cooler!”
Peter’s giving Tony a piggyback ride in a full karaoke encore.
Kate is holding Wanda’s face and dramatically declaring her love for fries.
And you? You’re still dancing.
Still swaying with Bucky, just you and him and the stars.Beach Day: 10/10.
Would absolutely be chaos again.
(You've got mail!) THIS was so insanely stupid but it seemed like the perfect kind of beach day/episode..i had a feeling they would not be normal because what is normal anyways! BUT YESS summa is here and its fast approaching! better see all yall out having fun at pools beaches lakesides ETC ETC. HOT GIRL SUMMA WHERE WE LISTEN TO 2016 MUSIC WATCH MCU AND WE OUTSIDEEE!!!
