i miss you 2012 avengers. i miss you the avengers tower. i miss you irondad and spiderson. i miss you meme lord shuri and peter. i miss you loki lingering in the tower for no other reason than that he's the main love interest. i miss you poptart-eating thor. i miss you grumpy bucky barnes. i miss you old man, chronically offline steve rogers. i miss you clint in the vents. i miss you girls night with wanda and natasha. i miss you resurrected, shamelessly flirty pietro. i miss you clueless, socially inept vision. i miss you the rare bruce banner feature. i miss you sassy sam wilson. i miss you cheeky reader who always called fury by his first name. i miss you super nanny phil coulson. i miss you christmas avengers blurbs in the middle of the fanfiction written by an autistic 14 year old. i miss you 😔😔😔
bucky x personal assistant!reader
personal assistant rules: don’t crush on bucky barnes. definitely don’t misinterpret a flower purchase and spiral into silent heartbreak, and absolutely never ever get stuck alone with him in an elevator.
── tags ✿
18+ content minors dni, smut, oral (f receiving), public (ish) sex?, wall sex (?), okay they fuck in an elevator guys, kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, insecure/self-conscious reader undertones, reader is an overthinker, reader is horny lol, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything
word count: 9.1k
── authors note ✿
hi, hopefully this will keep you all fed while i work on part five to lessons in lovemaking. finally getting around to some of these requests in my inbox. this one is based off this request, but i changed it up so the reader is a PA instead of an avenger. lmk your thoughts thanx for reading <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.
── main masterlist ⋆˚✿˖°
You’d never pegged Natasha as the type who enjoyed flowers.
No, she struck you more as the encrypted-flash-drive-on-a-park-bench type, the kind of woman who appreciated mysteries with teeth. A custom leather jacket, stitched with the same precision she used to dismantle a glock. One of those sleek, low motorcycles. Not daisies. Not peonies. And definitely not whatever soft, pastel nonsense Bucky was currently handing over cash for.
You stood a few feet away, halfway hidden behind a sidewalk sign advertising oat milk lattes and gluten-free muffins, clutching a cardboard drink tray and a bag full of vegan pastries in a death grip. The barista had spelt ‘Bruce’ as ‘Broose’ again, and under any other circumstance, that would've made you laugh, but now it felt like the most irrelevant thing in the world.
You liked Natasha. You respected her. You just didn’t think she had it in her to giggle over roses like the girls in those sappy rom-coms Clint insisted he hated (right before he would watch three in a row, a beer in each hand). But there Bucky was, brushing pollen off a bouquet of pale pink ranunculus, face soft in a way you’d never seen during mission briefings or sparring sessions.
And suddenly, you were building a list in your head of all the things you were sure Natasha Romanoff would rather receive as a romantic gesture: a knife, balanced perfectly for throwing, an expensive bottle of vodka, a vintage chess set with hand-carved pieces, a bottle of expensive ink and a fountain pen with a sharp nib, cookies—messy ones—overloaded with chocolate chips, or simply just black coffee, straight from the pot, no sugar, no cream. Yet, as Bucky handed it over to the redhead, she smiled. Smiled. And suddenly you felt like you were witnessing a scene you were not welcome to.
Truthfully, it stung. Maybe it stung a little more than what was appropriate. You’d been harbouring a quiet crush on the dark-haired, sullen supersoldier from the moment he joined the team. Fresh out of Wakanda, new vibranium arm in tow, and god, he was handsome. Not in the polished, television commercial way Steve was, but in a way that made your pulse skip and your thoughts stall mid-sentence. He had the kind of face you didn’t know how to look at for too long, sharpened jaw, stormy-blue eyes, and a mouth that always looked on the verge of saying something he’d regret.
There was something electric about his stillness. Like if you leaned in close enough, you’d hear the hum of danger beneath his skin. He walked like a man who never quite trusted, drifting through the tower like he expected a fight around every corner. He barely spoke, but when he did, his voice was low and gravel-worn, something that settled right in your gut and made its home there.
He never smiled. Not really. But sometimes—sometimes—you’d catch a flicker of it when Sam teased him, or when Steve nudged him just right, and it was devastating.
And yeah, maybe you had a soft spot for broken things trying to heal.
As the Avengers’ personal assistant, it was your job to keep everyone comfortable, informed, and running like clockwork. You were a one-person organisational machine, constantly juggling the chaos that came with managing a tower full of enhanced individuals with the emotional range of a brick wall to a nuclear reactor. Your days were a blur of colour-coded schedules, back-to-back briefings, and the never-ending group chats.
You coordinated mission debriefs, booked international flights with military clearance, and handled press requests that would make most people cry. You endured complaints when Thor overloaded the power grid again, trying to make toast, and even replaced the mugs he shattered before anyone noticed. You wrangled Clint’s kids when they came to visit, sourced obscure snacks from remote parts of the world because Sam liked those protein bars, not the other ones, and Steve wouldn’t touch anything processed. You replaced a record number of coffee machines, hunted down whatever special detergent could get oil out of Tony’s designer shirts. You knew which brand of muscle balm Banner preferred and how to order it without triggering a random Homeland Security check.
And then there was Bucky.
With him, it was always a little extra, whether he noticed or not. His schedule came first in your Monday morning rounds. You made sure the pantry was stocked with the Eastern European tea he liked but never asked for, and remembered the exact setting he preferred on the tower’s training room temperature controls. You adjusted group plans so he’d be paired with Steve or Sam, just in case the crowds and questions became overwhelming. When he disappeared for a few hours, you didn’t ask questions, but you made sure no one came looking. You even swapped out the scratchy tags in his mission gear with soft ones, because he never complained, but you noticed the way he fidgeted with them.
Every day, you’d beam at him like some hopelessly love-struck idiot when you handed over his usual coffee—black, two brown sugars, just the way he liked it—and in return, he’d offer little more than a grunt. A low, barely-there sound that most people wouldn’t even register as a greeting. But you did. Somehow, that grunt became the highlight of your day.
So yeah, maybe seeing him hand over flowers to Natasha broke something in you. Not just a hairline fracture, but a quiet, splintering break that left your chest aching in places you didn’t know could hurt. Still, you understood. Natasha belonged to his world, effortlessly cool, all smoke, shadows and secrets. Yet she was kind. Not cold or unapproachable, just… carved from something rarer than you. The kind of woman who didn’t need to try to be extraordinary, she just was.
And you? You were the sweet, well-meaning assistant who made people laugh in the kitchen, who fetched dry cleaning and remembered everyone’s birthdays. You were the one who labelled tupperware and chased down Clint’s kids with bandaids. You were an afterthought, the background noise in the buzzing hive which was the Avengers Tower.
So maybe you could justify feeling jealous, but angry? No. Not really. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. And it wasn’t their fault that you’d let yourself hope.
Two weeks later, and you timed it perfectly, like you always did.
Just as the door to Bucky’s apartment clicked open, you rounded the corner—folder in hand, clipboard tucked tight to your side. The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of ventilation and the soft thud of your heels against the carpet. Bucky stepped out, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair tied back, and his hoodie sleeves shoved up just enough to show the gleam of vibranium. Predictable. It was routine, every morning just before six he would meet with Steve in the gym. On Mondays, you’d catch him just as he exited his apartment, unload the details for the week, a freshly printed schedule and all.
“Morning,” you said lightly, handing him the week’s itinerary. His reply was his usual, a grunt. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just Bucky. That gruff, barely-there sound that once felt like a small victory. The kind of grunt that used to warm your chest when he followed it with a question, even if you knew the answer was printed in the folder you’d triple-checked. You always answered anyway. You liked having his attention, even just for a few seconds.
You used to dress the folders up with care, multicoloured sticky notes marking key tasks (blue for meetings, yellow for reminders, red for anything urgent and green for personal events). You’d highlight sections like traffic lights, add stickers you thought might make him smile, sometimes even scribble little crooked cartoons in the margins with cheesy encouragements—seize the day!
The folder looked rather sad today, just a plain manila folder packed with stapled papers. No colours. No stickers. No effort. Just the essentials. You didn’t let your fingers dawdle when he took it. Didn’t smile like you used to. Just handed it over and kept your gaze somewhere past his shoulder.
Bucky took it slowly, eyes flicking down at the cover like he was trying to spot something that wasn’t there. His brow pinched, barely, but enough for you to notice. His fingers lingered on the edge of the folder, like he thought maybe he’d missed a note tucked inside.
You nodded and turned to leave, forcing yourself to shift your mind to your next chore mentally, restocking med supplies in the Quinjet, cross-checking Clint’s revised travel forms, hunting down the coffee machine Tony had threatened to ‘repurpose as target practice’. You’d have to order a replacement before the morning debrief. Double-check everyone’s dietary preferences. Update Steve on the tech room schedule. Get maintenance to repaint the lines in the training room because someone (probably Thor) had scuffed them again.
You stayed busy. It helped. Kind of.
But the guilt still trailed you like a shadow.
It was probably obvious how abruptly you changed. The way your voice had lost its warmth. The way your gaze dodged his like it might burn you. You wondered if he noticed, if he thought you'd simply grown tired of him. Maybe he had. That was better than the truth that you couldn’t stand to be near him, not when every glance felt like pressing fingers to a bruise you’d caused yourself.
You had made your choice, professionalism. The kind of cool, curated detachment you admired in Natasha, only it felt all wrong on you, like an ill-fitting coat. You knew it was for the better, not mixing up work and matters of the heart. You’d already let your little crush spiral too far, thinking maybe—just maybe—if you tried hard enough, you’d earn more than a grunt. That he might see you as something more than the charming assistant with her clipboard and her stupid stickers. But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t. And that was fine. It had to be.
You couldn’t afford to fall apart over a man who had no idea he’d broken your heart.
But it was Bucky’s voice, soft and unsure, that startled you from your thoughts. “Hey.”
You paused mid-step and turned, forcing a tight smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes as your fingers curled against the clipboard. “What’s up?”
He shifted his weight, clearly caught off guard by the fact that you stopped walking at all. He was rather devastating to look at when he grew all shy and unsure, fingers fidgeting against the edge of the folder like he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t quite meet your eye as his weight shifted nervously, like he hadn’t thought before he called out.
“Uh. Nothin’. Just—” He raised the folder slightly, an awkward gesture. “You usually give me the rundown. Y’know… what everyone’s doing. Who’s where. Who I’m stuck with.”
You swallowed. Of course, he’d noticed. Of course, he’d grown used to your chatter about meetings and mission rosters, about who was off-world and who was due back, like it was the weather. The casual, effortless way you used to tell him what movie was playing, who cheated at Monopoly the night before, or which team member had stolen the last protein bar. You’d always done it to help, keep him grounded, and make him feel like part of the team, like he belonged.
But after what you’d seen two weeks ago, you were sure he didn’t need that from you anymore. Natasha would look out for him now. She’d keep him balanced, keep him fed, keep him from slipping through the cracks.
“Nothing interesting’s happening,” you shrugged. “Just the usual.”
He didn’t move. “Well… there’s that dinner. On Friday.”
You gave a curt nod, tone clipped. “Yes.”
“Wanda’s dinner,” he added, as if you hadn’t already acknowledged it.
“Correct.”
He hesitated again, brows drawing together in a faint crease of worry. You could see him floundering, stuck in some internal scramble. It made your chest ache because you knew that look. You’d helped talk him down from that look more times than anyone else in the tower probably realised.
You sighed quietly through your nose, against your better judgment, against every wall you’d tried to build in the past week, you caved. He looked five seconds away from spiralling.
“It’s in there,” you offered gently, nodding toward the folder. “On your schedule.”
“Right. It’s just… for me, you usually…” His voice trailed off, frustration and uncertainty knotting in his brow. “Sorry. You’re probably busy—”
That felt like a punch to the gut.
You shook your head and, before your pride could stop you, your feet were already moving back toward him. His eyes dropped as you reached into your pocket for a pen, scribbling ‘Wanda’s Dinner – Friday’ on a green sticky note. Green for personal events, always. You hesitated, then added a smiley face underneath. You peeled it off and stuck it neatly onto the folder in Bucky’s hands.
His eyes dropped to it, finger brushing over the paper like he didn’t quite understand why it mattered so much. “Thanks.”
You just nodded, already stepping back, spine straight, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your throat.
“She said…” Bucky cleared his throat, clearly not done with the conversation. “Wanda said she’s going to do curry.”
You paused, unsure what to do with the information. Why was he telling you that? Why was he still talking?
“That’s nice,” you said carefully, not sure what to do with this strange, lingering version of him.
“Are you going?” he asked suddenly, and you frowned.
“I wasn’t invited—” You began, already covering from the invasive thoughts, already working to mask the sting. You didn’t want to imagine them next to each other over curry, leaning close, whispering in the way people did when they thought no one else was watching. It would only make the crack in your chest worse.
“You should go,” Bucky said quickly, cutting across your thoughts. “I’ll tell Wanda you’re coming.”
“That’s not necessary. I’ll be busy that night anyway…” You lied through your teeth, heart thumping hard against your breastbone as Bucky’s face crumpled a bit. You cut in before he could argue any further. “You’re going to be late. For the gym. It’s nearly six.”
“Right, shit, yeah. Sorry, I just…” He trailed off again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. I’ll… I’ll see you around.”
You raised an eyebrow at him, unsure if you were more confused or stunned by his sudden jitters.
Before the whole flowers incident, you made it your unofficial mission to ‘accidentally’ bump into Bucky as many times as humanly possible in a day. Now? It was the opposite. Every hallway was a trap to avoid, every room a potential ambush. Navigating the Tower had turned into something between a tactical stealth op and a personal game of hide-and-seek.
Unfortunately, your strategy for quiet withdrawal hadn’t gone unnoticed.
In fact, Bucky had picked up on your sudden cold shoulder almost immediately. The folder debacle had only been the first of many increasingly awkward run-ins.
There was the time you’d practically sprinted away from the elevator when the doors slid open to reveal him standing inside, a brow raised and coffee in hand. Or when you turned a corner too fast and walked straight into him, muttering a rushed apology before disappearing again like you were being hunted. Then there was the silent, painful breakfast you’d shared at the communal kitchen counter, where you busied yourself with peeling an orange for ten minutes straight while he sat beside you, occasionally glancing over like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to begin.
You’d even pretended to be asleep on the common room couch when he walked in one evening, piles of paperwork scattered, laptop still open, only for him to drape a throw blanket over you before quietly leaving again.
And yet, instead of giving you space like you’d expected and hoped for, he seemed to find any excuse to be around you. He trailed after you like some misplaced puppy whenever he wasn’t buried in a mission or holed up in a meeting.
You’d assumed that the moment you stepped back, he’d naturally gravitate toward spending more time with Natasha. It made sense. Why wouldn’t he want to be around her? They were obviously dating, even if they hadn’t made it official yet. Maybe it was one of those quiet, close things kept just between friends, like Steve and Sam. Who were you to come barreling in and expose their secret entanglement? You expected Bucky to be relieved to no longer be on the receiving end of your babbling, your perfectly-timed coffee deliveries, or the not-so-subtle gifts you littered around.
But if anything, Bucky seemed determined to figure you out. Like your sudden shift had become his new pet project, and he was personally committed to cracking the case.
You’d taken the back hallway, the long, winding route that steered well clear of the gym on your way to the shared office. High-traffic areas were too risky now—too many chances to run into him. But clearly, Bucky had caught onto your little detours, because as you turned the corner, there he was, headed straight toward you.
You froze for half a second, pulse quickening. Turning around would be too obvious. Suspicious. He’d know exactly what you were doing, and then your carefully-constructed avoidance strategy would unravel entirely. If he suspected anything now, you were one panicked backpedal away from confirming it.
It was a nightmare. And a daydream.
A part of you, some soft, hopelessly romantic piece, ached at the sight of him, at the quiet way he seemed to look for you, worry always etched into his brow like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. But the rational part of your mind, the part that had dragged you into this self-imposed emotional lockdown, screamed that letting him get closer again would only undo all the fragile healing you’d managed to piece together.
So you steeled yourself.
Shoulders squared. Laptop and paperwork clutched like a lifeline. Eyes locked on an imaginary point just past his shoulder. If you kept walking and moved quickly, calmly, maybe he’d let you go. Perhaps he’d pretend not to notice how your pace picked up and your gaze carefully avoided his.
You nearly made it.
But of course, he noticed.
“Hey, wait—”
His voice was hesitant, just enough pressure to pull you to a stop. Your footsteps faded into the hush of the corridor, your spine straightening instinctively as you turned. Bucky stood a few paces behind, one hand lifted halfway between reaching and retreating, like he’d almost grabbed your arm but lost the nerve.
He looked sheepish. Timid, even. It killed you.
You swallowed. “Yeah?”
He scratched the back of his neck, boots scuffing lightly against the floor. “Did I… forget to grab my coffee this morning? Or… did you not bring it?”
A pause. Too long. You could feel the beat of your pulse behind your sternum as you forced a casual shake of your head.
“No, sorry. That’s on me. Slipped my mind.”
The lie didn’t sit well in your mouth.
It hadn’t slipped your mind, in fact, it was still sitting on the corner of your desk, cooling beside a stack of unfinished paperwork. You’d brewed it, as always. Even used the brown sugar he liked. But then you’d walked away from it, deliberately, like some idiotic breadcrumb trail you hoped he might follow.
God, you were pathetic.
Your stupid fucking brain couldn’t even decide what it wanted anymore. One half of you was charting escape routes through the tower to avoid him, the other was fantasising about him pinning you to the nearest wall. From the way your thighs pressed together now, breath catching as his voice brushed over you, maybe the answer wasn’t distance at all. Perhaps you just wanted to taste him—
He didn’t move. Just stood there, one brow lifted, faint worry creasing the edge of his expression.
“You’re usually down by the gym by nine,” he said, his voice low. “It’s eleven.”
“I’m running a bit behind today.”
“You usually text me if you’re running behind.”
“Well,” you said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, “I didn’t this time.”
He paused, the silence between you laced with something dangerously close to concern. “Is everything alright?”
You forced a small laugh, trying to shake off how his low, worried voice made heat pool in your gut. “Yeah. Why?”
“You seem off.”
There it was. Soft, plain and far too knowing. He said it in that maddeningly sincere way that only he could manage. Like he actually gave a damn. Like this wasn’t unravelling you by the day.
Your shoulders tensed. “Off?”
“Yeah,” he said gently. “Just… I dunno. You’ve been quiet lately.”
He didn’t know. He couldn’t know about the hours you spent spinning in your head like a lunatic, trying to compartmentalise this crush until it shrank into something survivable. About the way you’d stared blankly at Tinder profiles, your phone clutched in your hand, wondering why no one else ever came close, why none of them were him.
Why you couldn’t stop thinking that if you’d just told him—confessed that stupid crush before Natasha did—maybe you wouldn’t be standing here now like some stray mutt, sniffing around for scraps of attention.
Maybe then he’d be yours.
Maybe then you wouldn’t be fantasising about quitting just to put yourself out of your own misery like some lame racehorse.
“I’ve just got a lot on my plate,” you finally mustered, tone strained. “Tony’s soirée. The fittings. Admin crap. Didn’t even have breakfast today.”
His brows furrowed further. “That’s not good.”
“I’ll survive.”
Would you, though?
Would you survive the heat that flared low in your stomach every time he got too close? Would you survive the ache that gnawed behind your ribs every time he glanced over at Natasha like you didn’t exist? Would you survive the constant, desperate craving to be touched by him? To be looked at like she was looked at?
He didn’t speak for a second, and for a moment, you were sure he could smell the reek of desperation on you.
“The oranges in the fridge are gone.”
You blinked. “What?”
“And the tea. The fancy one,” he added. “The one with the dried raspberries in it. You’re the one who always restocks them, aren’t you?”
You looked down, fingers clenching around your folder. “I’ll add it to the list.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, stepping forward a half-inch, enough to make your breath hitch. “I just… I didn’t realise it was you. Doing all of that.”
Of course, he hadn’t because you’d made it invisible. Seamless. That was the kind of care you practised—silent, anticipatory, never asked for, never returned. You had cared for him with a thousand tiny efforts, but he never noticed until you stopped.
You looked up, and the hallway felt suddenly too narrow. His face was open in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. Gentle, confused, like he was trying to work you out and couldn’t quite bear not knowing.
You dropped your gaze. “I said I’ll do it.”
He paused. You could feel him thinking again.
Then, to your disappointment, he slowly nodded. “Okay.”
But he didn’t move. Not right away. He lingered like someone who hadn’t yet decided if leaving was the right call, like he was caught between concern and curiosity.
“I’ll leave you to it, I guess.”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just nodded and turned, walking away quickly before he could see your face fall, before he could catch the naked want in your expression, the way your heart was clawing against your ribs, screaming for you to turn around and ruin everything.
If time travel were an option, you'd gladly launch yourself into a wormhole and strangle your past self for being stupid—no, lovesick—enough to organise this little errand. You deserve it, really. A swift kick to the gut from future-you for being this hopeless.
It had all started a month ago, when you, like a fool, volunteered to collect the tailored suits and dresses for some little soirée Tony Stark had decided to throw. Of course, in true Tony fashion, what was pitched as a ‘casual get-together’ had evolved into a full-blown, black-tie spectacle. The first warning sign? Tony footing the bill for everyone to have custom outfits made to their specifications. Translation…this was going to be a thing.
You’d spent weeks wrangling Avengers into fitting appointments, helping them choose fabrics and cuts, managing last-minute alterations and tracking shipments. It was exhausting but under control…until the catch. The aggravating, absurdly attractive, brooding catch currently sitting across from you in the tailor’s waiting room, his knee bounced like it was transmitting a detailed morse code manifesto on every possible way he planned to ruin your day.
The plan had been simple: grab an Uber, pick up the garments, pressed, stitched, and boxed to perfection and head back to the tower. But then you got the call. The one that told you Bucky Barnes had missed his final fitting, and that his suit needed some last-minute adjustments...
Of course he did.
Of all your perfectly laid plans, it only took one missed appointment to bring it all crashing down. Now here you were, stuck waiting beside the man who occupied far too much of your brain lately, silently praying the tailor would finish quickly so you could escape before your sanity, or your dignity, completely unravelled.
“I really am sorry,” Bucky said for what felt like the fiftieth time.
Between the brooding and the nervous leg tapping, he’d spent the last five minutes watching the side of your face with an expression so guilty it was practically carved into him.
“Like I said, it’s fine.” You replied, though it came out a little too tight, a little too forced, like you were speaking through clenched teeth. Which, maybe you were. Not that it mattered. Not when you could smell his cologne from how damn close he was sitting. God, you wanted to lean over and bury your face in his chest and just inhale—
You straightened abruptly, shoulders stiffening as the tailor entered the room, and mentally reacquainted yourself with the concept of boundaries.
It had been an hour—sixty minutes of waiting while Bucky’s suit got its final adjustments. An hour of you trying to distract yourself with work emails and unanswered texts, pretending the man beside you wasn’t single-handedly causing your emotional stability to nosedive. At least when he’d stepped away to get re-measured, you could breathe without risking spontaneous emotional combustion.
This wasn’t like you. You weren’t usually this wound up. Maybe it was the exhaustion, days of juggling your regular duties with Tony’s ever-growing list of soirée demands. Perhaps it was the heartbreak. Or the missed meals. Or the fact that you genuinely had no idea what day it was anymore.
“Would you like to try it on before we package it up for travel?” the tailor asked, her voice gentle. A measuring tape hung loosely around her neck, her pinned bun fraying slightly at the edges.
Bucky looked at you again, eyes flicking toward yours like he needed permission. You swallowed what was left of your pride and gave him a slight, strained nod.
“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Go on.”
“I’m sorry—again—this is probably eating into your whole afternoon, I know how busy you are—”
“It’s fine. Really. Just go.”
He offered a sheepish smile before disappearing behind the velvet curtain, tugging it closed with a rustle. You pressed your fingers to your temples, let your head drop into your hands, and exhaled through your nose like it might stop your heart from trying to break out of your chest.
Across the counter, the tailor glanced up at you with a sympathetic look as she readied the boxes for the other garments. “Long day?” she asked gently.
You lifted your head, managing a tight smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
“Only going to get longer.”
You were still nursing the tail end of your sigh when the velvet curtain swished open again.
And then your brain stopped working.
Bucky stepped out in full formal attire, sharp navy suit, tailored within an inch of its life. The cut of it hugged his frame perfectly. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, long legs. A deep navy waistcoat peeked out beneath the jacket, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching the light just enough to look expensive without being flashy. His tie was already perfectly knotted, like he’d done this a hundred times, and the sleeves of his shirt revealed just enough of the polished metal edge of his vibranium arm to make your mouth dry.
He cleared his throat softly, tugging at one cuff. “How’s it look?”
You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it again.
Words? No. Words were gone. Your vocabulary had packed up and left the building.
Bucky shifted his weight, clearly mistaking your slack-jawed silence for disapproval. “It’s weird, right? The waistcoat maybe doesn’t work, I told her I wasn’t sure about it—”
“No,” you said quickly—too quickly. “No, it’s… It’s perfect. You look… great. Seriously.”
His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his face. Relief, maybe?
“Yeah?” he said, glancing down at himself, tugging slightly at the jacket hem. “I feel better about it now. The sleeves fit properly this time. Thanks for waiting.”
The tailor beamed from behind the counter, clearly proud of her work. “Wonderful. I’ll box it up immediately once you’re out of it.”
Bucky nodded, but the tailor turned to you with a friendly smile before he could disappear again.
“And for you, would you like to try your gown on as well before I pack it away?”
You blinked, suddenly snapped out of your holy-shit-Bucky-hot-hot-hot haze. “My what?”
She gestured toward the row of garment bags. “Mr. Stark sent over your measurements earlier this month. There’s a gown here for you.”
You frowned. “That must be a mistake. I’m just the assistant. None of those are for me.”
The tailor hesitated. “I don’t think so… He was very clear. Your name was attached to the order.”
Before you could argue, Bucky cut in smoothly, like he’d seen this train coming and stepped in to redirect it.
“Tony probably just wanted you to look the part, too,” he said, voice low and casual. “You’ve done all the work, he probably figured you deserved to enjoy the night a little. Might as well try it on, just in case.”
You glanced at him, but he didn’t look smug or teasing. Just… earnest. Calm. Like he meant it. Which made it all the harder to protest.
“Fine.” You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face. “Just to check it fits.”
The tailor clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. It’s a beautiful gown, I promise.”
You gave Bucky one last side-eye before following her toward the changing rooms, the fabric bag already in her hands.
From behind, you could hear him chuckle under his breath.
“Just wait 'til you see her,” the tailor murmured to herself, and you weren’t sure whether to be flattered or deeply, deeply nervous.
The gown was heavier than you expected. Luxurious fabric slipped off the hanger like water, pooling in your arms as she handed it over with the kind of reverence usually reserved for wedding dresses.
“I’ll give you a minute,” she smiled, disappearing to finish boxing up the suits.
Left alone in the changing room, you peeled out of your clothes, letting the gown slide on over your hips, your waist, up past your ribs. It clung like it had been sewn directly onto your body, the bodice snug, the neckline just daring enough to make you blush.
You twisted to try to reach the zipper at the back, fingers fumbling and straining, but the angle was impossible. You spent the better part of five minutes twisting in the mirror like a lunatic, trying to reach the zipper that refused to budge. Your arms ached. The corset bodice was half-fastened. You were flushed, annoyed, and far too aware of the sliver of bare spine still exposed.
You were about to peek your head out and ask the tailor for help when a low voice cut in behind the curtain.
“Need a hand?”
You flinched, fabric clutched to your chest. “Jesus, Bucky! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”
“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was rougher than usual, like he’d just cleared his throat. “Heard you cursing. Tailor said she’d be a minute out back.”
You hesitated, and your voice came out thin. “Yeah. I—I can’t get it up.”
“Okay,” he replied, oddly determined. “Turn around.”
You cracked the curtain open a pinch. He ducked inside, too broad for the narrow space, his frame practically filling it. He was careful not to look at you directly, at least at first.
You turned slowly, presenting your back. “Just the zipper,” you murmured, barely trusting your own voice.
“Sure,”
A single fingertip, cold metal, dragged up from the base of your spine to the dip between your shoulder blades. It barely touched the skin, but you shuddered from the sensation. Bucky wasn’t even fastening yet, just tracing the line the zipper would follow. The sound you made was too soft to catch.
The zipper came up slowly. Agonisingly. His knuckles brushed your skin every inch of the way, not by accident. No, this was too slow, too precise, to be innocent.
He was savouring it.
His other hand steadied you, palm ghosting just over your hip. His breath fanned warm against your shoulder.
“You’re trembling,” he commented.
You swallowed hard, unable to muster a response.
When he reached the top, his hand didn’t fall away. Instead, he swept your hair off your shoulder completely, fingertips grazing the line of your throat as he let it fall over one side.
He leaned in. Not touching, but close. Mouth just behind your ear. The heat of his breath against your neck.
“Should’ve let me help sooner,” he whispered, voice like a purr. “Would’ve had you dressed in seconds.”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your lips parted slightly, breath caught somewhere halfway as your lungs deflated in shock. And maybe it was the gown. Or the silence. Or the way your thighs pressed together of their own accord, but you didn’t move. You didn’t step away.
You leaned in.
Only a fraction. Just enough.
He noticed.
You could feel it in the slight shift of his stance. The faint sound of him exhaling a chuckle through his nose. The way his hand brushed ever-so-slightly along the small of your back before falling away.
And then he was gone.
He stepped back like nothing had happened. Like the tension wasn’t choking the air between you. You turned toward the mirror in a daze.
The dress shimmered in the soft light. Deep, elegant, form-fitting. The neckline exposed the curve of your breasts, the slit at your thigh scandalous enough to make you self-conscious.
You caught his reflection in the mirror. He was watching you, but not with the restrained professionalism you were used to. It was only the sudden reentrance of the tailor that made him hesitate in whatever words were forming on his tongue. He stepped aside, finally giving you space to exit. And you did—legs shaky, palms sweating—like a deer walking straight back into the forest fire, pretending it wasn’t about to burn.
Your plan to avoid Bucky after the tailor incident had gone off without a hitch, maybe a little too well. You'd buried yourself in helping Tony pull together the final touches for his ‘soirée’ (which, if you were honest, was less soirée and more ‘black tie circus in a penthouse’).
You'd been so laser-focused on your tasks that you'd almost managed not to think about Bucky in that goddamn changing room. His fingers ghosting up your bare spine like a spark setting fire to dry kindling. You’d folded instantly. Your body betrayed you instantly while your brain screamed to keep it together. Pathetic.
The moral implications of whatever that moment had been were filed away for another day. Were you the other woman? Was Natasha going to slit your throat in your sleep? What was Bucky doing, touching you like that—in a public changing room, no less—when he had a bombshell redhead waiting for him back at the Tower?
No time for that now. Not when Tony’s precious ‘soirée’ was already in full swing upstairs and the caterers had somehow forgotten an entire section of the food. You’d scrambled together an emergency order from some overpriced restaurant Tony swore he was ‘basically family’ with, and by some miracle, they came through in the nick of time.
Now you were in damage control mode, hauling three boxes of overpriced canapés up to the penthouse. Your heels bit into your feet with every step, your dress clung too tightly to bend properly without your tits spilling out, and your patience was hanging on by a single goddamn thread.
You pressed the elevator button with your elbow and exhaled as the doors slid open.
Drop off the food. Grab a free drink. Drown your Bucky-related sorrows. Maybe, just maybe, keep the beast between your legs from waking at the mere sight of him.
The doors began to close. You shifted your weight, careful with the boxes balanced in your arms—
Then someone slipped through at the last second.
Him.
Bucky fucking Barnes.
Tall and devastating as usual in his dark navy suit, his tie loosened just enough to suggest mischief, or maybe carelessness. You weren’t sure which one made you feel worse.
Your breath hitched. Instinctively, your gaze dropped to the floor, feigning sudden, all-consuming interest in the stability of your precarious tower of hors d'oeuvres. But teetering stacks of overpriced finger food or not, Bucky didn’t seem inclined to play along with your avoidance act. Not now. Not when the elevator doors had sealed you in together, finally, and you were without escape.
You winced at the sound of his sharp inhale, the question already pressing past his lips before the elevator even jolted into motion.
“Did I do something to piss you off?”
You didn’t look up. Eyes fixed firmly on the floor, you muttered, “What?”
“I just…” His voice was rough. Tired. “It feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”
Shit.
He stepped forward slightly. Not enough to be invasive. Just enough to make your stomach flip.
“You hardly talk to me anymore,” he continued. “Won’t even look at me unless it’s about work. And even then, it’s like you’re somewhere else. Did I do something to offend you? Hurt you? Just tell me what I did so I can fix it.”
The elevator hummed to life beneath your feet, gliding upward smoothly. You shifted your weight, bracing against the cool metal rail, eyes stubbornly fixed on the buttons, anywhere but his maddeningly perfect face.
“You haven’t done anything,” you said quietly, the words tasting sour the second they left your mouth.
“Then why are you doing it now?” he asked, eyes searching yours. “Why won’t you even look at me?”
“Bucky…”
“Please. Just tell me.”
You hesitated. His hand twitched like he meant to reach for your arm, then faltered, falling back to his side. Your grip tightened on the containers, your fingers slick with sweat. “It’s not you,” you murmured. “It’s me… I just…”
He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me the truth.”
And that was what did it. The tremor in his voice. The way his brow creased like he couldn’t stand not knowing. Something broke open inside your chest, raw and unhealed. The dam cracked, split, then gave way completely, and the truth came spilling out before you had the chance to swallow it back down. You were exhausted. Wound tight. Running on fumes and nerves and far too many feelings. You’d tell him, you decided. Then drop off the canapés, quit on the spot, and flee the country if necessary. Stark would write you a killer reference. You’d survive.
“Okay,” you said, breath hitching as a nervous laugh bubbled out, half-bitter, half-resigned. “You want the truth? Fine. You’re going to think I’ve completely lost it.”
He stayed quiet, letting you spiral.
“This is so stupid,” you muttered. “I like you, Bucky. There. I said it. I like you. And it was fine—manageable—until it wasn’t. Until I started imagining things. Thinking maybe… maybe you liked me too.”
His eyebrows lifted, surprised but unreadable.
“I’ve had this massive, embarrassing crush on you since the moment I met you. And I know it’s weird, and probably unprofessional because you’re kinda my boss, but not. Technically, Tony’s my boss, but I basically manage everything around here, and—ugh, I’m rambling.” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I like you. And I’ve been avoiding you because it was getting out of hand. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And it felt wrong. Especially since you’re dating Natasha, which just made everything worse—”
“What?” he interrupted, voice sharp. “I’m not dating Natasha.”
Your eyes snapped open. “That’s what you took from all of that?”
“No, I—wait. You think I’m dating Natasha?”
“Yes!” you burst out, cheeks flaming. “I saw you! At the Sunday market about a month ago with the flowers—”
His brow furrowed. “What flowers?”
“The bouquet you gave her.”
“I didn’t give Natasha flowers.”
You let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “I saw you. It was that dumb little market Tony makes me go to for those overpriced vegan pastries Pepper loves—”
Bucky stared at you, confused. And then, slowly, understanding clicked into place. His face contorted like he’d just remembered he’d left his stove on.
“Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “The flowers. Those weren’t for Natasha. They were for Wanda.”
Your heart stuttered. “What?”
“Vision,” Bucky groaned. “It was their anniversary. He was stuck on the phone trying to get a fancy reservation and begged me to pick them up. Natasha tagged along because she was hunting for jewellery for Maria’s birthday. That’s all it was.”
You blinked at him. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not,” Bucky replied earnestly. “I didn’t know you thought that. I swear, I’m not with Natasha. I never was.”
Your stomach dropped. “Oh god.”
“Hey—”
“No. No-no-no.” You squeezed your eyes shut, wanting to sink straight through the floor. “This is mortifying. I literally thought you were in a secret relationship. I’ve been avoiding you like the plague. I’ve been thinking about moving cities. I googled how hard it is to change your name legally.”
He snorted. “You’re not serious.”
You opened your eyes, and the horror must have been plain on your face because Bucky’s expression melted into something far too amused. “Oh, you are.”
“I might never recover from this,” you mumbled.
“Hey, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”
“I confessed my undying crush and accused you of being in love with someone else in the span of like, sixty seconds.”
His mouth twitched, lips threatening a smile. “You’re kind of adorable when you’re spiralling.”
“I’m going to chuck these hors d'oeuvres at your head.”
As if mocking your attempt at dignity, the elevator gave a slight mechanical whirr, nearly at the top floor. The distant hum of the party pulsed just beyond those sleek doors.
You straightened suddenly, panic creeping into your chest. “Okay, I’m going to deliver these and then I’m leaving. Possibly forever. Please never speak to me again.”
But Bucky, ever faster than you, stepped in.
And before you could react, he pressed the emergency stop button.
The elevator jolted to a halt. The tower of overpriced hors d'oeuvres wobbled dangerously in your arms. “Oh my god,” you gasped, teetering.
Bucky was already moving, steady hands catching the top box before it could topple, plucking the rest from your shaking grasp. He crouched to stack them on the floor carefully, then rose slowly, smirking as you stood frozen, mouth agape in pure horrified disbelief.
“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”
“No more running,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.
You could barely breathe. “You stopped the elevator?”
“Didn’t want to risk the doors opening and you disappearing into the night,” he said, a little too pleased with himself.
“I hate you,” you whispered, eyes wide.
He leaned in, just close enough for you to feel his breath. “No, you don’t.”
You were going to die right here in a metal box. With your dignity in ruins and the man of your dumb, desperate daydreams giving you that look.
And somehow, somehow, you didn’t even want to stop him.
“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t shut down. Please.”
You glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes and immediately wished you hadn’t. They were dark. Hungry. That gaze alone could melt you to the floor.
He stepped closer again. And again. Until his frame caged in you, his arms braced on either side of your head, the heat of his body swallowing you whole.
“I like you too,” he said, low, rough, like it was pulled from deep inside. “Christ, I was so blind. I didn’t see it. It didn’t click until that day at the tailor, until I saw you in this damn dress.”
Your breath hitched.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured. “I’ve been looking for excuses just to be near you. I keep the notes you leave me with the stupid little drawings. I like looking at them. Thinking about you.”
Your heart felt like it might crack your ribs.
“I smelled every shampoo at the store one day,” he confessed, almost sheepish, almost proud. “Hoped I’d find the one you use. Because you smell so fucking good. It’s been driving me crazy.”
“Bucky…”
“I don’t know. You make me feel special. Seen. Like I’m not some monster, like I’m normal. And then one day you were just… gone. I didn’t realise all the little things you did for me that I never noticed.” He groaned, somehow pressing closer. “I missed the sound of your voice… and it made it hurt even more… I lie awake at night, every night, thinking about you and how much I want to kiss you—”
“Bucky.” You interrupted, and he looked back at you with a barely contained hunger. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”
And then his mouth was on yours.
Hot. Messy. Desperate.
You gasped into it, and he swallowed it whole, groaning as he pressed harder, deeper, hands sliding down to your thighs as he grabbed one and hitched it up around his waist. You clung to his shoulders, lips parted as he slotted himself between your legs, guiding you up until your ass was perched on the elevator’s handrail bar.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “Tell me that you want this, tell me that you want me.”
Your head fell back against the wall, lips swollen, breath shaking. His mouth travelled to your jaw, your throat, hands digging into your hips.
It was dizzying. Chaotic. Perfect.
“I want you, Bucky.” You panted.
“Fuck,” Bucky muttered again, but this time it was different, lower. Hungrier.
His hand slid along your thigh, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your dress. You panted as he kissed across your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. His hands settled on your knees, then slowly, deliberately, he spread them apart.
“Bucky—” your voice was barely more than a whisper, a tremble of anticipation and disbelief.
But he didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees.
Right there. In the goddamn elevator.
You almost came on the spot at the sight, lips swollen and slick with saliva, pupils blown, the slight smudge of your lipstick on his chin. His hands slid up the back of your calves, kneading into the flesh like he was savouring the shape of you. Your dress inched upwards, his mouth suddenly pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.
Your breath hitched. Your hands shot to the railing behind you, clutching tight.
“You have no idea,” he said, voice wrecked with want, “how long I’ve thought about this.”
His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with something dangerous. Devotion, desire, something molten and drowning. Then his mouth moved higher.
Another kiss. Inner thigh this time. Then another, and another, slow, lingering, like he was memorising you. He disappeared until the fabric of your skirt, only the back of his head, dark locks messy peaking out from between the slit.
You moaned, soft and involuntary, your hips twitching at the heat of his breath through the thin fabric of your panties. He nuzzled in close, his nose brushing against you, and his hands pressed firmly to your thighs to keep you spread.
“I’ve thought about how you’d taste,” he muttered, lips grazing the soaked lace. “How you’d sound.”
You whimpered.
And then, he peeled your panties to the side.
The groan that tore from him was obscene.
“Jesus,” he hissed, voice muffled. “You’re fucking perfect.”
And then, his mouth was on you.
Hot. Wet. Relentless. You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in it as his tongue licked into you with precision, with hunger, with something close to worship. He devoured you like he was starving. Slow circles, then quick flicks, his mouth dragging across your clit with maddening rhythm. You writhed against the rail, your leg still wrapped around his shoulder, the other trembling against the elevator wall.
“Oh my god—Bucky—fuck—”
Your words slurred together, breath coming in ragged gasps as he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. One of his arms snaked around your thigh, pinning you in place, as if he thought you might try to escape. As if he’d let you.
His tongue slid down, dipping into you, then back up, his mouth latching onto your clit with a filthy, wet sound that made your spine arch. You were unravelling, fast, dizzy, overwhelmed.
He pulled back just enough to pant. “I could stay here all night.”
His mouth was merciless. His grip was unrelenting on your thighs, mouth working you over like a man possessed—
Bzzzzt.
A shrill, sudden buzz sounded from the elevator’s emergency panel, followed by a crackling voice.
“Hello? This is Tower Maintenance. We’re registering an emergency stop on lift three. Is there an issue?”
You froze. Every muscle in your body went rigid, as if someone had cracked open your spine and poured ice water down it. Dread spread like frost through your veins. Your heart thudded painfully in your throat, threatening to climb up and out entirely.
You could barely breathe. Could barely think.
This was it. This was how you died—legs spread, Bucky between them, and Tower Maintenance on the fucking line.
Bucky, in sharp contrast, did not freeze.
He groaned softly with wicked glee, his mouth still very much between your legs. The sound vibrated against the most sinful part of you, and then he doubled down. Mouth and hands working with infuriating, diabolical precision, like he’d just taken the intercom as a challenge.
You clamped a hand over your mouth, the other shaking as you reached blindly for the emergency call button, trying not to sound like you were seconds away from being ruined.
Your voice came out like a panicked squeak. “Hi! Uh—h-hi, yes, sorry! Must’ve been a—a small electrical fault. I’m fine! Everything’s… fine!”
Bucky nipped at your thigh in response.
There was a pause. You could feel the suspicion through the line.
“Ma’am, we’re not showing any electrical inconsistencies in that shaft. Did you press the stop button?”
You shot a wide-eyed glare down at the man currently devouring you.
Another wave of pleasure threatened to knock the air from your lungs. You were barely holding it together, every nerve ending aflame, skin flushed, thighs shaking. The cool metal of the elevator wall against your spine did little to ground you.
You cleared your throat, struggling to piece together something—anything—resembling human speech. “Oh. Oh, that—um, I must’ve bumped it. With my elbow. While holding a tray. It’s, uh—crowded. In here.”
Bucky chose that exact moment to suck hard, and you slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the helpless sound that nearly escaped.
A longer pause. You could practically hear them frowning.
“…Right. Well, we’re releasing the stop now. Please remain calm.”
The line disconnected.
The elevator jolted slightly as it roared back to life.
Bucky gave a dark chuckle. “Crowded, huh?” Then—with zero mercy—he sped up.
“Bucky,” you gasped, head falling back against the wall, “I’m—I’m gonna—”
You shattered.
It hit hard, hot and blinding. You cried out, thighs clamping tight around his head as he groaned against you, mouth not stopping for a second, drawing it out, milking every twitch, every whimper. You barely had time to breathe, let alone moan, your hands flying to steady yourself just as the elevator dinged cheerily and the doors slid open.
Right into the penthouse. Packed full of people, who by some miracle, were utterly oblivious to your predicament.
You staggered slightly as Bucky stood smoothly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, one arm slipping around your waist to steady you while the other casually reached down and grabbed the stack of forgotten canapés off the floor like he hadn’t just—
“Evening,” he greeted a passing staff member, utterly unbothered.
You were glowing crimson, pupils blown, lips parted, trying hard to fix your face. Bucky guided you forward, his hand warm on your back, keeping you between him and the crowd as your legs trembled. You barely managed to set the tray on the nearest table before someone whistled.
“Well, damn,” came Sam’s voice from the drinks bar. He gave you both a once-over, a wicked grin spreading. “Buck, next time you’re gonna eat face in the elevator, maybe wipe the lipstick off your chin first.”
Bucky only smirked and licked his bottom lip slow, on purpose, you were sure of it.
You nearly combusted on the spot.
“Bathroom?” he murmured into your ear, low and gravelly.
You nodded quickly and wordlessly.
He guided you with all the smugness of a man who had no regrets, his hand just a little too low on your back to be innocent.
hi, if you enjoyed please let me know! drop a comment below, reblog or send me something through my inbox! thank you for reading my work :) if you want to stay up to date with any series updates or new one-shots being posted, follow my sideblog @artficlly-archive and turn on notifications.
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › bucky barnes is used to getting any girl he sets his sights on. a smile, a wink, a smooth line, it’s never taken much effort. then he meets you.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › 40s!bucky x female reader
ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › 18+ MDNI strangers to friends to lovers, some fluff, flirty/playboy bucky turned loverboy, innocent reader, kinda uptown girl but not like rich or anything, smoker bucky, mentions of alcohol, brief angst, porn with SOME plot, but also plot what plot, lowk just porn with feelings, smut, p in v, virgin/inexperienced reader, lowk possessive bucky, minor corruption kink? fingering, oral sex ft munch bucky, dirty talking bucky barnes, pussy pronouns, missionary + bow, unprotected sex, creampie, soft aftercare, cigarettes after sex, not beta read we die like men.
ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › 10.7k
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › 40s bucky how i love you so. ps i did nawt want to proofread this so i skimmed it not even gonna lie... #sosorry like once im done writing something i want it OUT of my head asap i dont want to look at it anymore. anyways thank u for reading enjoy xx
The bell above Moretti’s Candy Shop jingles sharp and bright when Bucky shoulders his way inside, carrying the cold autumn air in with him.
“Trouble,” Mrs. Moretti sighs immediately from behind the counter.
Bucky grins, easy as breathing. “You say that like you ain’t happy to see me.”
“I’d be happier seein’ the ten cents you still owe me, Barnes.”
“That was one time.”
“It was three times.”
The shop smells like chocolate and sugar and roasted nuts warming beneath glass lamps. Outside, Brooklyn groans along in its usual rhythm, trolley bells, men hollering across sidewalks, kids sprinting through puddles but in here everything feels softened somehow. Golden. Like the world’s been wrapped in wax paper and tied shut with string.
Bucky leans against the counter, halfway through another smart remark when he notices you.
And just like that, the rest of the room disappears.
You’re standing near the chocolate display case with your gloves folded neatly in your hands, staring through the glass with such genuine wonder it almost knocks the grin off his face.
Not overwhelmed or indecisive, you seem almost enchanted.
Your eyes drift slowly over every row like each candy’s worth considering properly. Caramels. Peppermints. Chocolate turtles. Then your attention catches on the Whoppers display, and stays there.
He almost laughs when he follows your gaze to them.
Cute, he thinks immediately.
Girls usually notice him first. Usually there’s lipstick smiles and fluttering lashes before he’s even crossed the room. He knows what he looks like, knows how his grin lands, knows exactly how long to hold eye contact before women start leaning toward him without realizing it.
But you don’t notice him at all. You’re still staring at the candy like it might hold the secrets of the universe.
Something about that hooks into him immediately as he steps over.
“Those your favorite?”
You blink hard, startled from your thoughts, then turn toward him.
And there it is.
That little pause that every girl gives him, but this one seems different. Not because you recognize him as handsome or because you’re flustered, you just hadn’t realized anyone was speaking to you.
“Oh,” you say softly. “Yes.”
Your voice is gentler than he expected, careful around the edges.
Bucky pushes off the counter and steps closer. “Want a box?”
Your eyes widen instantly. “No, it’s quite alright, I couldn’t possibly.”
“C’mon, doll.” He flashes the smile that usually works without fail. “How could I deny such a sweet girl a sweet treat?”
He expects blushing, maybe a nervous laugh. Instead, you look genuinely conflicted over the idea of him spending money on you.
“Well that’s very kind,” you tell him honestly, “but you really don’t have to.”
Bucky stares at you for half a second, then another.
Well. That’s new.
“Mrs. Moretti,” he calls, unable to stop grinning now, “gimme a box of Whoppers before this sweetheart talks herself outta it.”
Mrs. Moretti snorts loudly but slides the candy across the counter anyway.
“And a cannoli,” Bucky adds quickly.
Your head turns toward him. “Oh, no, truly—”
“Too late.”
He pays before you can protest again, then holds the small paper bag out toward you with exaggerated politeness.
“You really got this for me?” you ask.
“Nah,” he deadpans. “Bought it for the guy behind you.”
You laugh and that sound lands somewhere directly under his ribs. Not loud or practiced. Just soft and surprised, like you hadn’t expected him to be funny.
Bucky suddenly wants to hear it again.
Outside, Brooklyn glows amber beneath the sun. Laundry lines sway overhead between brick buildings. Somewhere down the block, someone’s radio crackles out jazz muffled by static.
You take a careful bite of the cannoli as the two of you step onto the sidewalk, then immediately freeze as cream spills out the other side onto your glove.
“Oh goodness—sorry,” you murmur, horrified. “I made a mess.”
Bucky looks at you.
At the powdered sugar dusting your mouth, the cream threatening to drip onto your sleeve, the embarrassment blooming across your face over something so small.
His brain stops functioning.
“Don’t apologize,” he says immediately, a little too seriously for someone he just met ten minutes ago.
“I just—”
“It’s a cannoli,” he says, clearing his throat. “They’re uh, they're structurally unsound.”
That earns another laugh. And there it is again, that strange feeling settling low in his chest, not lust exactly but something softer than that.
You wipe at your glove carefully, still embarrassed. “I’m making quite the first impression, aren't I.”
“Oh, believe me,” Bucky mutters before he can stop himself, “you are.”
But you don’t seem to catch it. Instead, you just smile politely and continue walking beside him down the sidewalk like this is all perfectly ordinary. Like handsome men buy you candy and pastries every day.
Bucky decides almost immediately that he doesn’t want the conversation to end, so he keeps finding reasons for it not to. He points out the bakery on the corner because “their cheesecake could start a war.” He walks slower whenever you stop to admire storefronts. He offers you his arm when an old woman barrels past with a grocery cart and nearly clips your shoulder.
You take it without hesitation.
“Oh,” you say softly, looping your arm through his. “Thank you.”
Bucky glances down at your hand resting against his sleeve and his heartbeat stumbles oddly.
Usually this part’s easy. Usually flirting feels like muscle memory. Lean closer, smirk a little, call her doll in that lower voice that always works. But you accept every bit of it with such innocent sincerity that it keeps throwing him off balance.
“You always this sweet?” he asks after a while.
You nod thoughtfully. “I do like sugar, yes. But I don't get to eat to very often.”
Bucky chokes on air.
“…Jesus Christ.”
Your brows pull together. “What?”
“Nothin’, doll.”
Because clearly you think he means literal sweetness, and somehow that’s even worse, or better. He can’t tell anymore.
The afternoon stretches unexpectedly around the two of you. You wander through Brooklyn side streets while the sun lowers warm and lazy across the buildings. You stop outside record stores and flower stands and little grocers with apples stacked in wooden crates out front.
And all the while, Bucky keeps trying.
He leans too close while talking and you just look up at him attentively. He calls you doll every other sentence and you smile like you think it’s genuinely affectionate. He flashes smirks sharp enough to cut glass and you return them with polite warmth, entirely unaffected.
“You’re very nice, Mr. Barnes,” you tell him eventually.
Bucky nearly trips over the curb.
“Nice?”
“Well yes.” You glance at him earnestly. “Handsome too, but mostly nice.”
Handsome too. Mostly nice.
Bucky stares at you outright now. Your voice held no teasing lilt, no coyness, you said it like you’re discussing the weather and something inside him short-circuits completely.
Because by now he knows for a fact you have no idea what he’s doing.
“Doll,” he says slowly, “you know I’m layin’ it on thick, right?”
You blink.
“…Laying it on?”
Silence.
Then Bucky laughs so suddenly and loudly a passing couple turns to stare, not in a mocking sense but genuinely delighted. You look confused enough that it only makes him laugh harder.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, shaking his head, “you really don’t know I've been flirting you?”
“I assumed you were being friendly.”
“I am bein’ friendly.”
“That seems normal.”
“Normal?” He stares at you. “I bought you candy fifteen minutes after meetin’ you.”
“Well… yes.”
“And?”
“You seemed very determined about it.”
Bucky rubs a hand down his jaw, trying unsuccessfully to hide another grin.
This should annoy him. It should. But instead he feels strangely fascinated, like he’s spent his whole life learning one language only to discover you speak something entirely different.
“So no fella’s ever taken you out before?” he asks carefully.
“Not really.”
The answer comes without self-pity, just honesty and Bucky’s chest tightens unexpectedly.
“What d’you mean not really?”
You shrug lightly. “I suppose men don’t usually notice me that way.”
Bucky stops walking altogether, making you turn toward him curiously as he just looks at you in complete disbelief. At your soft mouth faintly lined with your lipstick, at your bright eyes, at the way strangers glance at you as they pass without you ever seeming aware of it.
“That oughta be illegal,” he mutters.
You laugh again, warm and startled and sweet enough to ruin him slowly.
Somewhere between the candy shop and the golden Brooklyn sidewalks and the way your hand still rests trustingly against his arm, Bucky realizes something unsettling, he stopped flirting for sport an hour ago. Now he’s doing it because he genuinely likes the way you smile when he speaks. Because he wants to keep hearing your laugh mingle with the evening traffic. Because watching you move through the world feels a little like standing near candlelight, soft and gentle and impossible not to lean toward.
And Bucky Barnes is not known for leaning toward things gently.
Which is how, sometime after you’ve finished your cannoli and the Whoppers box is tucked safely under your arm like it’s something fragile, you both turn a corner and run straight into trouble in the form of Steve Rogers and the rest of the Commandos.
They’re all there—loud, sprawling across the sidewalk like they own it.
“Barnes!” one of them calls immediately. “Where’ve you been?”
Then Steve sees you and something in his expression shifts instantly into knowing.
“Oh,” Steve says slowly. “Oh, that’s where.”
Bucky groans under his breath. “Don’t start.”
Another one of them whistles low. “Barnes buying candy for a girl? End times.”
Bucky, of course, straightens immediately, protective without thinking.
“Leave him alone,” you add gently, glancing between them. “He’s just being kind to me.”
The group goes quiet for half a beat, then someone mutters, “Kind?”
Steve’s mouth twitches like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. Bucky, meanwhile, stops breathing properly, because you said it so simply. Like there was no other explanation, like the idea that he might be doing anything else never even crossed your mind.
He looks at you then and it’s unfair how easy it is to forget everyone else exists when you’re standing that close.
The Commandos keep talking behind him as they walk by, but Bucky doesn’t hear a word of it anymore.
All he hears is the soft cadence of your voice still echoing in his head.
Just being kind to me.
That word lands heavier than anything else today. Kinder than flirtation, kinder than charm, kinder than every practiced thing he’s ever used to get someone to look at him twice. He realizes, with faint shock, that he wants to be that to you. Not some impressive or smooth flirt, just kind.
Eventually Steve clears his throat loudly from behind you. “You walkin’ her home, Barnes, or standin’ there makin’ heart eyes in the middle of the sidewalk?”
“I am absolutely not makin’ heart eyes,” Bucky says automatically.
You glance up at him and his words die immediately.
“…We’re walkin’,” he finishes weakly.
“Good,” Steve says, already grinning. “Try not to break anything on the way.”
Bucky flips him off without looking away from you.
You don’t seem to notice the tension at all. Just adjust your grip on the candy box and smile faintly like this is still just a normal afternoon walk, and somehow that makes everything worse.
The walk to your building takes longer than it should.
Bucky slows down without meaning to and you match him perfectly.
Brooklyn shifts around you in its usual evening rhythm, windows glowing warm, radios humming behind curtains, the smell of dinner drifting out of open doors but between the two of you everything feels strangely contained.
“I had a very nice time today,” you say eventually, glancing up at him.
Bucky swallows. “Yeah?”
“You’re very kind.”
That word again.
It hits him harder this time, right in the center of his chest. He looks away for half a second, jaw tightening slightly like he’s trying to figure out how to respond to something he’s never been called before in a way that mattered.
“Kind,” he repeats quietly, like he's testing whether he deserves it.
You stop in front of your apartment building steps as the streetlamp above flickers softly, casting gold light over your face. For a moment neither of you moves, then Bucky shifts, suddenly more uncertain than he’s been all day.
“Can I ask you somethin’?”
“Of course,” you answer immediately.
He hesitates, this is the part where he usually knows exactly what to say, instead, he feels seventeen different versions of himself arguing at once. He steps closer without thinking, seemingly too close, making your breath catch faintly.
He notices it immediately, the tiny shift in your posture, the nervousness flickering across your face. You’re not used to this part. The closeness, the intention that comes with it.
“Sorry,” he says softer, almost immediately stepping back half an inch like he’s correcting a mistake he didn’t want to make, “I uh—.”
You exhale quietly, watching as Bucky drags a hand through his hair, looking away for a second like he’s regrouping. Then, carefully he speaks up.
“Can I do this properly?”
You blink. “Properly?”
He looks back at you then, all teasing gone for a moment.
“Can I take you out tomorrow night?”
Your eyes widen slightly.
“…Like a date?”
“Yeah,” he says, a little quieter now. “Like a date.”
You look at him for a long moment, then your smile returns—small, but real.
“I think I’d like that very much.”
Something in Bucky’s chest loosens all at once, like a knot he didn’t know he was holding.
“Yeah?” he asks, almost stupidly.
You nod and that’s it, that’s all it takes. Bucky steps back, already grinning like he’s lost all sense of self-preservation.
“Tomorrow,” he says, pointing at you like he’s making a promise he fully intends to keep, “I’m pickin’ you up at seven.”
“I’ll be ready,” you reply softly.
He turns to leave, walking backwards for a second because he can’t quite make himself stop looking at you. Then he finally turns around properly after you give him a soft wave goodbye, and immediately starts grinning wider.
The Commandos are still waiting down the street when he finds them. Steve takes one look at his face and sighs.
“Oh no.”
Bucky doesn’t even try to hide it. He shoves his hands in his pockets, still smiling like an idiot.
“Fellas,” he says lightly, “I’m in serious trouble.”
Bucky doesn’t sleep much that night, at least not properly.
He lies on his back staring at the ceiling, replaying the day in fragments he can’t seem to organize into anything sensible. Your voice, your laugh. The way you looked at candy like it was something magical. And worse than all of it, powdered sugar on your mouth, cannoli cream on your lips and the way you’d apologized for it like it was a crime.
He turns onto his side, groans into his pillow, then sits up like the bed has personally betrayed him.
“Get it together,” he mutters to himself.
But the problem is… he is together.
That’s the issue. He just isn’t used to what it feels like when someone looks at him like he’s safe instead of interesting. So in the morning, Bucky Barnes does the only thing he can think to do, be a man of his word.
He decides to do it properly.
No shortcuts, no charm tricks, no easy grin and leaned-in confidence.
A real date.
Which is how Steve finds him hunched over a small, slightly chaotic pile of wildflowers behind a Brooklyn fence line.
“Are you pickin’ flowers now?” Steve asks flatly.
Bucky doesn’t look up. “Shut up.”
Steve leans against the fence post, arms crossed. “That for the girl?”
“Yes.”
“You know you could just buy ‘em like a normal person.”
“I don’t have money right now for fancy bouquets.”
“That’s not the point.”
Bucky finally straightens, holding the uneven bundle like it might fall apart if he breathes wrong. “It is to me.”
Steve studies him for a long moment, something softer flickering beneath the teasing.
Then he sighs. “You’re in trouble, pal.”
Bucky huffs. “Yeah. I said that already.”
But he doesn’t feel like running from it, not even a little.
By the time evening rolls around, he’s checked his reflection in every shop window he passes twice. He fixes his tie, adjusts his jacket, runs a hand through his hair, then immediately second-guesses it and smooths it back down again. The flowers are wrapped in paper he stole, respectfully stole, from a corner stand. They’re not perfect, a few stems are uneven, one bloom is slightly bent.
He hopes they’re enough.
Outside your building, Bucky pauses as he exhales once. Then knocks.
When the door opens, everything inside him stops. You’re standing there in soft light, hair pinned back neatly, expression shifting the moment you see him. And you light up like it’s involuntary.
Bucky forgets how to breathe for a second.
“Hi,” you say, smiling.
“Hi,” he manages back.
Then he lifts the flowers slightly, suddenly unsure of everything in the universe.
“Those are for me?” you ask, voice soft with surprise.
“Unless your neighbor’s awful pretty,” he says automatically.
You laugh, stepping forward immediately to take them.
“They’re beautiful,” you murmur, already burying your nose in them gently. “Oh… and they smell wonderful.”
Bucky watches you like he’s forgotten how to look anywhere else.
“I, uh,” he starts, then clears his throat. “Yeah. Picked ‘em myself.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
Your smile softens in a way that makes him feel strangely proud.
“I’ll find a jar,” you say quickly. “Wait just a moment.”
You disappear inside, flowers clutched carefully to your chest like they’re something priceless. Bucky stays standing there in the doorway slightly stunned. He hears movement inside, cabinet doors opening, water running, your quiet little hum as you arrange them.
He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until his cheeks start to hurt.
Before you leave, your sister appears briefly in the hallway. Older, sharper-eyed. The kind of woman who looks like she’s already decided what kind of trouble someone is before they speak.
Her gaze lands on Bucky immediately.
“Bucky Barnes?” she asks.
He straightens instinctively. “Yes, ma’am.”
She looks him over once then turns to you.
“Can I talk to you for a second?”
You hesitate. “Of course.”
She pulls you aside just enough that Bucky can’t hear everything, but not enough that he doesn’t feel it. Her voice is lower when she speaks.
“Be careful." She says.
You blink. “What?”
“Boys like him don't settle down. Sure he’s charming and handsome, but he's just a sweet talker.” Her mouth tightens. “He just wants a good time, so don’t go getting your hopes up.”
Bucky can’t hear the exact words, but he sees your expression shift slightly and something in his stomach turns uneasy.
When you return, you’re still smiling—but quieter now, careful in a way you weren’t before.
“Ready?” you ask him.
“Yeah,” he says, though his voice comes out softer than he means it to.
Dinner settles into something Bucky doesn’t recognize at first.
It’s quiet.
Not empty, but softened around the edges like the whole world has decided to behave itself for once. Soft jazz drifts from somewhere near the ceiling, curling through candlelight and clinking silverware. The room hums with conversation that never quite reaches your table.
And for the first time all day, Bucky Barnes isn’t scanning anything. His eyes aren't darting around the room looking for exits or other women, something quick to catch his attention.
Just you.
You, sitting across from him with your hands wrapped around a glass of water like it’s something grounding. You, talking in that gentle, thoughtful way of yours that keeps catching him off guard. He realizes halfway through your story about your aunt’s ridiculous attempt at baking bread that he hasn’t looked away once.
Not once. And maybe worse, he doesn’t want to.
You laugh at your own memory, shaking your head slightly. “It was practically a brick. We had to slice it with a knife meant for meat.”
Bucky smiles without thinking. “Sounds dangerous.”
“It was emotionally damaging.”
That makes him laugh for real.
And then you smile back at him, that small, bright, effortless smile and something in his chest shifts again. Because he likes this, not the performance of him, not the usual rhythm of charm and response and winning someone over. He likes this.
You talking, rambling softly when you get comfortable, pausing like you’re thinking too hard before continuing anyway. And every time you say his name, Bucky, like it’s just another word instead of something that usually comes wrapped in attention and expectation he feels it settle somewhere warm and unfamiliar.
Bucky Barnes, who usually knows exactly what he’s doing with people, finds himself doing something far more dangerous, imagining. Not in a loud way. In quiet flashes between bites of food and sips of coffee, a small bouquet of flowers on a table that isn’t a restaurant, you at a kitchen counter, hair slightly messy, laughing at something he said. A door opening at the end of a long day and you looking up like it matters that he came home.
He shifts slightly in his seat, almost like the thought physically disorients him.
Impossible things.
And yet they come anyway.
After dinner, the night pulls the two of you deeper into Brooklyn’s glow. Neon signs flicker awake, streetlamps paint everything gold and blue. Somewhere down the block, music spills out of a club like a living thing.
“You seen the new picture show over on Fulton?” Bucky asks as you walk.
You shake your head. “No.”
“Then you’re goin’.”
You glance up at him. “Is that an order?”
“Absolutely.”
You laugh softly, like you’re still not used to how easily he says things like that. The theater is older with slightly worn velvet seats, the faint smell of popcorn and wood polish, flickering light that makes everything feel softer than it should. Bucky buys the tickets without hesitation, you try to argue but he ignores you in the best way possible.
Inside, you sit close but not touching. Close enough that he’s aware of you constantly, that every small movement you make registers like it matters.
Halfway through the film, something changes on screen, the lights dim all soft and emotional, the kind of scene that doesn’t need words. He feels you go still beside him and when he glances over, your eyes are glossy in the dim light.
You’re trying to be subtle about it. You are not succeeding.
Bucky doesn’t say anything, just reaches into his pocket slowly and pulls out his handkerchief and without a word, gently offers it toward you.
You turn toward him and for a moment, neither of you moves. Then you take it carefully, fingers brushing his and in the dark, you smile at him softly. Like he did something important without realizing it. Bucky looks back at the screen, but he doesn’t see it anymore, he just feels the moment settle between you like something fragile and real. And he never wants it to end.
The picture ends on a cliffhanger that has the whole theater groaning as the lights flick back on. Outside, the city opens up again. Cool night air, bright lights reflecting off wet pavement. The distant echo of music from clubs and cafés and street corners all blending into one living rhythm.
You walk beside him slowly, a little quieter now that the night has come to its end.
Bucky notices.
He glances down at you. “You alright?”
You nod. “Yes. It was… very nice.”
“Yeah?”
You smile faintly. “You’re very kind.”
That word again.
Kind.
It lands differently now. He doesn’t know why, maybe it’s the way you say it like it still surprises you, like it still feels new. Bucky opens his mouth to respond, but you stop walking. You've tried to fight it all night, tried to push the words far back into your head. But everything feels like a double edged sword, and if you don't do something now, you'll both get cut.
“I just…” you start softly, then hesitate.
He turns toward you fully.
You look down at your hands. “You really don’t have to pretend with me.”
Bucky blinks. “Pretend?”
You glance up, nervous now. “I know boys like you don’t mean anything by this sort of thing.”
Silence. It drops so fast it almost feels physical.
Bucky stares at you and for the first time all day, his expression isn’t teasing or amused or carefully controlled. It’s hurt, deep, immediate and unmistakably hurt.
“Boys like me?” he repeats slowly.
You realize instantly something is wrong.
“I didn’t mean— I just meant—”
He gestures vaguely between the flowers, the dinner, the theater still glowing behind you both.
“You think I do this with every girl?”
Your mouth opens, then closes again. Because you don’t know, you just assumed, because your sister said he’s Bucky Barnes and people talk about him like they know him before he even speaks.
“Sweetheart,” he says quieter now, but sharper in a different way, “I picked those flowers myself.”
You freeze and he exhales through his nose, looking away for a second like he’s trying to steady something in himself.
“I ain’t ever done this before,” he admits. “Not like this.”
That hits harder than anything else tonight, you stare at him now, like you’re recalibrating something you thought you understood.
“But everyone says—” you start.
“Yeah. I know what everyone says.” Bucky cuts in immediately, voice low. "But I only do this unless I mean it."
The street hums around you both, cars pass by, music drifts on the wind, lights flicker in the distance. But between the two of you, everything feels suddenly suspended. The silence doesn’t leave right away, it just changes shape. It stretches between you and Bucky in the middle of the sidewalk, softened only by passing headlights and the distant laugh of strangers who don’t know they’re walking through something fragile.
Bucky doesn’t look away from you.
I don’t do this unless I mean it.
It should’ve sounded smooth and confident. Instead it just sounds… exposed. Because the truth of it sits heavier now that it’s out in the open. He watches your face carefully, like he’s waiting for you to decide something about him, and for the first time all day, he realizes that matters. Not casually, not in the way flirting usually matters, but in a way that sits deep under his ribs and doesn’t move.
Your expression is quiet, thoughtful in that way you get when you’re trying to understand something honestly. He swallows once, then looks away briefly like the night air might help him think straighter, but it doesn’t.
It only makes everything quieter.
“I don’t like that,” he says finally.
You blink. “What?”
He gestures vaguely, frustration threading through his voice now—not at you, but at something older.
“What they say. About me.”
You don’t interrupt, you just listen and that alone is enough to make his chest tighten. Bucky exhales slowly, because this is new for him too. Saying it, not laughing it off, not playing it into something charming.
“People think they’ve got me figured out,” he says. “Think I just—” he huffs a short laugh without humor, “—go around Brooklyn collecting girls like it’s nothin’.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“And maybe I used to let ‘em think that.”
That lands differently in the air between you.
“But I’m tired of it,” he says quietly.
Bucky continues before he can talk himself out of it.
“Tired of it all blurring together,” he admits. “Tired of it not meaning anything.”
His eyes flick over your face again, more careful now, more intentional.
“And I think…” He hesitates, like the next part is the hardest thing he’s said all night. “I think I’m tired of not being taken seriously.”
That one settles heavier. You don’t speak yet. So he keeps going, because stopping now feels impossible.
“Maybe I don’t wanna be that guy anymore.” His voice drops slightly.
That guy. The one people assume things about, the one who never stays, the one who never gets understood correctly because no one bothers to look twice. The words hang there, raw and unpolished.
You shift slightly on your feet and when you finally speak, your voice is soft.
“What kind of guy do you want to be then?”
Bucky stills.
That question shouldn’t hit as hard as it does, but it does, the way you asked him like you really want to know, the way your eyes never leave his as he looks at you. The city lights catch your face in soft gold and shadow, painting the curve of your cheekbones, the faint red of your lips still slightly brighter from the theater lights, the way you stand there holding his honesty like it’s something you’re willing to carry for a moment without dropping it.
And something inside him clicks. Like a door deciding it’s been open long enough to let something new inside. Bucky takes a slow breath, then another and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter than before.
“The guy,” he says, nodding faintly toward you like the answer has been standing in front of him all night, “that gets to do this with you every night for the rest of my life.”
Silence falls again, but this one is different. It isn’t heavy or tense. It feels like something settling into place that neither of you fully understands yet, but neither of you wants to move away from.
Bucky doesn’t smile, not yet. He just watches you carefully, like he’s waiting to see if he’s gone too far. If he’s said too much, if the version of him he’s choosing now is one you can stand to look at. And for the first time since he met you in that candy shop, James Buchanan Barnes isn’t trying to win anything.
He’s just waiting.
For you.
"I think I'd like that."
Two months don’t feel like two months to Bucky Barnes.
They feel like a rhythm he accidentally fell into and never bothered climbing out of. Mornings start with the same thought: What time can I see her? Evenings end with the same realization: Not long enough. And everything in between just becomes space he has to get through.
He shows up at your apartment more often than he means to. Not in a dramatic way, just like he happened to be nearby. Which is a lie, he crosses half of Brooklyn for it.
“Bucky,” you’d say sometimes, opening the door already smiling, “you live nowhere near here.”
He’d shrug like it doesn’t matter. “Was in the neighborhood.”
“You were in the neighborhood three days in a row?”
“Brooklyn’s a big place, doll.”
You’d just laugh and let him in.
And that’s the problem. You always let him in.
Diners become routine. Milkshakes split between two straws that you pretend not to notice he always lets you have the first sip of. Walks that start with him offering his arm and end with your hand still resting there long after it’s necessary. Movie nights where you lean slightly closer each time you get nervous during a scene, and Bucky pretends he doesn’t notice how carefully you do it. Flowers every week. Sometimes wild. Sometimes bought if he could pinch it. Sometimes just picked from somewhere he absolutely shouldn’t have been picking flowers.
You always put them in a jar immediately. Always smile like they matter. And Bucky changes without noticing, he stops looking at other women entirely, not because he’s forcing himself not to.
Because he just… doesn’t see them the same way anymore. Not when you exist in his world now, softening all the edges.
Steve notices first, then the Commandos, then basically anyone who’s ever known him longer than five minutes.
“You’re smiling more,” Steve says once, watching him across a table.
“I always smile.”
“No,” Steve says, “you don’t.”
Bucky just shrugs. Because what’s he supposed to say? That he likes the way you say his name like it’s something you trust? That he’s started thinking about ridiculous things like whether you’d like a porch someday, or a kitchen with too much sunlight, or a life where he doesn’t leave as often as he does?
He doesn’t say any of it, but it’s there anyway.
Tonight, he’s early.
Which is stupid, because he’s always early now. He’s at the bar having a drink and smoke with the Commandos, but he’s not really with them.
He’s angled toward the door, elbow on the counter, sleeves already adjusted three times, hair smoothed back once, then twice, then abandoned entirely because it keeps falling anyway as Steve watches him with growing disbelief.
“You’re worse than a kid waiting for Christmas,” Steve mutters.
Bucky doesn’t look away from the door. “Shut up.”
“You’ve checked that door eight times in five minutes.”
“It might’ve changed since the last time I looked.”
“Bucky.”
“I’m busy.”
The door opens and he straightens instantly. Not you. His shoulders drop a fraction as he sits back down.
The teasing starts almost immediately.
“Two months huh?” one of them says, grinning. “This one’s got it bad.”
“Must be real good if Barnes is still around.”
“You finally settle down?”
Bucky rolls his eyes, but there’s a stupid softness to his mouth that gives him away immediately.
“Knock it off.”
The laughter builds.
“What’s the catch, Barnes?”
“C’mon, what are you gettin’ out of this?”
“Ain’t no way you’re behaving this long without somethin’ in return.”
Bucky exhales, finally turning fully toward them and for once, he doesn’t joke. Not even a little.
“Nothing’s happened between us yet.”
The table goes quiet. A beat. Then howling ensures.
“You’re kiddin’.”
“Celibate Bucky Barnes?”
“I never thought I’d live to see the day.”
Someone nearly chokes on their drink.
Bucky shrugs slightly, like it’s not a big deal, but his voice goes quieter when he adds on.
“I like her.”
That shuts them up for half a second longer.
“I don’t wanna mess it up,” he says, “by goin’ in headfirst.”
And just like that, the teasing explodes again.
“Look at him.”
“He’s gone.”
“Man’s fighting for his life.”
“You hear this? Barnes is soft.”
Bucky laughs under his breath despite himself, shaking his head.
“Yeah, yeah—laugh it up.”
And that’s when it happens, the door opens again, Bucky doesn’t look right away still half-laughing, still mid-protest, then he hears the sound of the room shifting slightly.
Someone going quiet and he turns. You’re standing just inside holding your bag, still in your coat and completely still. Not smiling, not walking toward him. Just listening. For a second, Bucky doesn’t understand then he sees it. Your expression. Something flickering there, uncertainty, confusion, something tightening at the edges of your face like you’ve just heard something you weren’t meant to.
His smile fades immediately.
“Hey,” he starts, already pushing his chair back.
But you don’t come closer. You take one step back instead, then another, quiet and careful.
“Doll—” Bucky stands fully now.
But you’re already turning to leave, the door swings open, and you’re gone. He’s out of the bar so fast it barely feels like a decision. Brooklyn air hits him like a slap, cold, sharp, and real and for a second he just stands there, scanning the sidewalk like the world might give you back if he looks hard enough.
“Doll?” he calls.
Nothing.
“Hi.”
He turns.
You’re a few steps down the sidewalk, hugging your coat tightly around yourself like you’re trying to hold yourself together with it. Streetlight catches your face in soft gold, but it doesn’t soften the expression there.
Not really.
Bucky’s chest tightens immediately.
He crosses the space between you in a few quick steps. “Hey—no, hey, listen to me,” he says, already shaking his head like he can undo whatever just happened inside by sheer force of will. “Don’t listen to those idiots in there. They don’t know when to shut up.”
Your gaze flickers up to him, then away again just as fast.
“It’s alright,” you say softly. “Really.”
But it isn’t alright, not in the way he knows you mean.
Because your arms are wrapped around yourself too tightly. Because your smile is there, but it doesn’t reach anything. Because you look like you’re already somewhere farther away than the sidewalk you’re standing on.
And Bucky notices everything, too much, sometimes.
“Hey,” he says again, quieter now. “You ready to go?”
A pause.
“…Yeah.”
That’s it.
No teasing, no warmth, no easy rhythm. Just agreement, and it scares him more than anything else tonight.
It's all wrong.
That’s the only way Bucky can think to describe it. Brooklyn is still alive around you, windows glowing, distant laughter, the low hum of traffic, but between you and him there’s a silence that feels heavy instead of soft. He walks slower than usual without realizing it. You don’t take his arm, but your hand finds his anyway just barely. Just fingers brushing, then settling.
Bucky holds it like it’s something fragile.
He keeps glancing at you, waiting for you to look back, you don’t. You’re staring down at your joined hands instead, like you’re trying to figure something out in them. And your thoughts, if he could hear them, would be too loud.
Maybe your sister was right.
Maybe this was always going somewhere you don’t belong.
Maybe he’s just being patient because eventually he’ll expect more.
And maybe you’re already disappointing him.
Bucky doesn’t say anything. Because something about your silence tells him words might break whatever thread is holding you upright right now. So he just walks you home, step by step, closer than usual and quieter than ever.
By the time your building comes into view, something in you has tightened so much it feels like it might snap.
You stop walking, Bucky stops immediately with you.
“Buck…” your voice is barely above the street noise.
“Yeah?” He turns toward you fully.
You swallow hard. “Maybe… we shouldn’t do this anymore.”
Everything stops. Bucky freezes completely, like the words physically catch him mid-step.
“What?” he says, but it’s not sharp, more confused than anything.
You look down, finally letting go of his hand so slowly, like it costs you something.
“I don’t think I’m good for you,” you say.
That lands harder than anything else tonight. Bucky stares at you like he’s trying to understand a language he thought he already knew.
“Sweetheart,” he says slowly, “where is this comin’ from?”
You shake your head slightly, still not meeting his eyes.
“You deserve someone who can make you happy,” you say. “Someone better.”
Bucky lets out a short breath like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.
“That’s not—no,” he says immediately, stepping half a step closer before stopping himself. “No, that’s not how this works.”
You finally look up at him and whatever he sees there makes his voice soften instantly. Because you look scared. Not of him but of yourself.
“You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says, like it should be obvious.
You blink, once, then again. And then it spills out of you before you can stop it.
“I can’t make you happy, Buck,” you say, voice cracking slightly. “I can’t give you what you want, I can’t—I can’t… make you feel good.”
Silence hits again, but this time, Bucky understands exactly where it came from. His expression changes all at once, his frustration disappears, his confusion sharpens into something quieter. Something knowing as the pieces fall into place.
The Commandos. The bar. The teasing.
“Oh,” he says softly. “Babydoll…”
The way he says it now is different.
“I want you,” he says gently. “I’m happy with you just like this. None of that matters to me anymore, okay?”
Your breath shakes slightly but you don’t look convinced. Instead, something inside you finally breaks open.
“Well it matters to me!” you burst out, voice suddenly raw. “I want to, I just—I don’t know how. And I'm scared you're going to leave just because I’ve never—”
You stop but it's too late. Bucky goes completely still and everything clicks into place so fast it almost hurts. Why you flinch sometimes when he gets too close. Why you always hesitate before a kiss even when you want them. Why you look like you’re bracing for something you think you’re supposed to be able to give.
Why you’re standing here right now looking ashamed of something you never should’ve had to explain.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “You’re okay.”
Your eyes are glossy now, but you’re still trying to hold it together. Bucky doesn’t move closer doesn’t rush you. Just stays right where he is so you don’t feel cornered.
“Your parents home?” he asks softly.
You blink, thrown slightly by the question.
“What? Oh… no. They went to my sister’s ballet recital. They won’t be back until later.”
Bucky nods once then gives you a small, warm smile and gently threads his fingers through yours.
“C’mon,” he says quietly, squeezing your hand just once, just enough to ground you. “Let’s go talk inside.”
Inside your apartment, everything feels quieter in a different way.
Not the heavy silence from outside but something softer, contained with warmth between you. You close the door behind Bucky like you’re sealing the world out, then immediately seem to remember yourself again, nervous energy flickering back in.
“Okay,” you say quickly, brushing a hand over your sleeve. “Um—this is the living room. Obviously. And that’s the kitchen, and—”
Bucky just watches you, following your voice like it’s something grounding. You move a little faster now, pointing things out like you need the space filled with words so you don’t have to think too hard about anything else.
“This is my mother’s glass cabinet, don’t touch that one, she’ll know, and—oh.”
You stop because Bucky is already in the kitchen holding two small glasses, and the apple brandy bottle.
He glances over his shoulder innocently. “What?”
You blink. “Bucky.”
He raises a brow. “What?”
“That’s my mother’s.”
“I know.”
“You can’t just—”
“I can,” he says simply, already pouring.
You let out a sound of disbelief. “You are unbelievable.”
He slides one glass toward you. “Relax, doll. I’ll replace it.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is tonight.”
You stare at him for a second longer, then sigh, like you’ve decided arguing with him is pointless.
“Fine,” you say. “But you’re explaining this to her if she notices.”
“Deal.”
You hesitate, then take the glass anyway. That alone makes something in his chest ease.
You lead him toward your bedroom after that, slower now, more uncertain at the edges. Not running anymore, just settling. The room is small. Warm and lived in. A book on your bedside table, a folded sweater on the chair, soft lamplight that makes everything feel like it belongs only to you.
Bucky doesn’t sit right away. He just leans against the dresser, watching as you set your glass down carefully like you’re still trying to figure out what this moment is supposed to be.
You take a sip, then another. Waiting until your chest grows warm.
“I'm sorry about earlier,” you say quietly.
Bucky’s expression softens immediately. “What?”
Your fingers tighten slightly around the glass.
“I’ve… never done any of this before.” You glance up at him, cheeks warm now. “I mean—anything like this. Dating. Being… like this with someone.”
Silence stretches gently. Then, more spills out, almost like you need to get it out before you lose courage.
“And you were my first kiss.”
Bucky goes still in a way that isn’t shock, it’s something gentler and more careful. You rush on quickly, as if afraid of what the truth might do in the open air.
“I just thought you should know. In case I’m—awkward. Or—”
“Hey,” he cuts in softly as he pushes off the dresser and steps closer, slow enough that you can stop him if you want to.
You don’t.
“Look at me,” he says gently.
You do and his expression is steady now. No teasing anywhere in it.
"You don't ever have to apologize to me. For anything."
“I like you a lot, Bucky,” you say suddenly, like it’s been sitting in you too long to hold back anymore.
Something in his face shifts immediately, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“I like you too, babydoll,” he says quietly.
Your breath catches.
You swallow. “I can’t promise it’ll be any good but—”
Bucky doesn’t let you finish, he leans in and kisses you. It's not rushed or demanding, just soft and gentle. Like he’s waiting for you the entire time, making sure you’re still there with him, still okay, still choosing this. When he pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you, your eyes are wide.
“Don’t…” he whispers, “don’t say that.”
You pause, slightly stunned by the kiss. “Okay.”
A beat, then, softer:
“Can I kiss you again?”
You hesitate only a second then nod.
This time, when he kisses you, it’s a little less uncertain, still gentle and patient. But warmer now, like something between you is finally starting to trust the moment instead of question it. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push for anything more he just stays close enough that you can decide how much you want.
And eventually, you do loosen up slowly. Like your shoulders finally remember they don’t have to stay tight. You laugh a little under your breath at something he mumbles against your lips, and he smiles against you in response. When you pull back again slightly, breath uneven, he rests his forehead briefly against yours.
“That okay?” he asks softly.
You nod again, then your voice goes quieter.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“I do,” he says gently.
You huff a soft laugh. “That’s not really comforting.”
“It should be,” he replies, a hint of warmth returning. “I’m real good at not rushin’ things.”
And he is, he stays exactly where you need him to, no pressure behind his precense. Eventually, you end up sitting on the edge of your bed together, close enough that your shoulders brush. Your glass is forgotten somewhere on the nightstand and Bucky’s hand finds yours again without thinking.
"I want to try…" you can't make the words out with a deep red blush crossing your face. "And I trust you."
"Good." Bucky hums, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. "We'll go slow."
When you shift slightly closer, he lets you guide the space between you, like learning something new together instead of taking anything from you. When your nose brushes his, you tug lightly at your sleeve, suddenly self-conscious.
“I feel like I should be… more dressed for this,” you admit quietly. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be wearing.”
Bucky looks at you like the question itself doesn’t make sense then he shakes his head slightly.
“Doll,” he says softly, “you could be wearing a potato sack and it wouldn’t matter.”
You blink at him as he leans in just a little, brushing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.
“Just you,” he says quietly. “That’s all I need.”
You nod as he kisses you again. The kiss started slow, almost hesitant, but the moment Bucky’s hand cupped your jaw, tilting your head just so, it deepened into something more. You'd heard of desire in life, how it can warp the thoughts and actions of even the most resilient. But this, this burning ebb and flow deep within you was something else entirely. It had to be. It was as if a switch flipped inside you, your body felt magnetized to his, pushing closer and closer until there wasn't an inch of space between you.
His lips were warm, insistent, and when he pulled back just enough to murmur against your mouth. "Can I touch you?"
You could only nod as his fingers traced a slow path down your thigh, the fabric of your dress bunching under his palm as he slid higher, his thumb brushing bare skin. You shivered, arching into him, your hands clutching at his shirt yearning for more.
Bucky smirked, catching your wrist. "Go ahead," he murmurs, guiding your hand down his chest.
Your thumb slipped beneath his shirt, your breath hitching at the hard planes of muscle beneath your fingertips. He was lean but solid, every ridge of his abdomen making your pulse jump.
His lips were still on yours when his fingers returned, teasing the damp fabric of your panties again. “Already this wet for me?” he mutters, voice rough against your mouth. “God, I can feel how hot you are through these.”
You whimper, arching into his touch. “Please, just—”
“Just what, sweetheart?” His thumb presses harder, circling your clit through the silk. “Tell me what you want.”
You gasp, fingers tightening in his hair. “Touch me properly—God, Bucky—”
“That’s it,” he growls, hooking his fingers under the waistband, dragging them aside. The first slow stroke of his fingers through your slickness drew a choked moan from your throat.
“Fuck, you’re dripping.” He drags his fingers up, pressing them to your lips. “Taste.”
You sucked them into your mouth, eyes locked on his as you licked them clean, and the groan that ripped from his chest was filthy.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, sliding two fingers back inside you, curling them just right. “Love how tight you are, how you squeeze me.” His thumb circles you clit faster. “Gonna cum already? That quick?”
You couldn’t answer, nails biting into his shoulder as pleasure coiled tighter, sharper.
“That’s it,” he urges, voice dark with praise. “Cum on my fingers, let me feel it babydoll.”
Your hips jerk as you shatter, his name a broken moan on your lips. He didn’t stop, fingers still working you through it until you were gasping, oversensitive and trembling.
He didn’t let you catch your breath just yet, licking his fingers clean before hauling you to the edge of the bed. One leg hooked over his shoulder, his mouth hot and relentless between your thighs, tongue lapping at your oversensitive clit.
“One more,” he murmurs, lips brushing your thigh. “Bet you can take it.”
Bucky wraps an arm around you, splaying his wide hand across your stomach, sinking his tongue into the slit of your cunt, curling it before going back to flick your clit. He groans against you, muffled by your skin as his free hand comes up, the pads of his fingers pressing into you.
"So fucking good babydoll," he groans as he feels you rock against his lips and fingers. "Bein' such a good girl for me."
The pressure coils tight inside you, your chest rapidly rising as your words are reduced into nothing but messy mumbles of 'Bucky' and 'Please'. He doubles down on his efforts, closing his lips around your clit as he arches and scissors his fingers inside you, his eyes locked up on you as he watches you crest over your high. Back arching off the bed as your thighs clench on the sides of his head, trapping him right where he wants to be. He brings you down with a gentle kiss to your pulsing clit, easing his fingers out and licking them clean.
"That was so much better... than I ever thought," you pant, still trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm. Bucky hums against your inner thigh, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along your skin. His tongue flicks lightly over your oversensitive clit, just enough to make your hips jerk.
"Mm, you thought about this?" His voice is low, rough with amusement. "My sweet girl thinking dirty thoughts? Thinking about what it’s like to be touched, licked, 'nd fucked?"
You whimper as he teases you again, the words alone sending another shudder through you. His fingers stroke slow circles on your thighs, gentle but possessive.
"Tell me," he murmurs. "Tell me what else you imagined."
You barely have time to answer before his mouth is on you again, licking and sucking just right, his fingers curling inside you with practiced ease. The pleasure builds too fast, too much at once and you're cumming all over again, rolling through you in deep, relentless waves.
When it finally eases, you’re boneless, breathless, but still aching for more. A deep and burning need simmering just under the surface of your skin. "Bucky," you plead, voice raw. "Please."
He kisses his way up your body, slow and deliberate, before finally pulling back just enough to strip off the rest of his clothes. The sight of him, all hard muscle and dark hunger makes your pulse jump.
"Condom?" he murmured, fingers tracing the soft curve of your stomach.
You still, then hum to yourself. "Oh. I don’t have any."
"Shit," he breathes, biting his lip. "Do you think your sister has any hidden, or maybe your—"
"We don’t…" Your voice drops, gentle now. "I mean, if you’re okay with it… we don’t have to."
He goes utterly still above you, his pulse hammering under your fingertips. "You sure, doll? Docs say I'm clean as a whistle," he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek.
"But I don’t wanna rush you into anything."
Your thighs press together instinctively, already aching again, needing more. "I’m sure, Buck. I trust you." You hesitate, then whisper, "And you can… pull out. If you want to."
A slow grin spreads across his face at your shyness, even as the hunger in his eyes burns hotter. "Okay, babydoll."
He kisses you again, deep and slow, one hand cradling your jaw like you’re something precious while the other guides himself between your legs. There’s no rush, just the thick press of him stretching you open inch by inch, his lips never leaving yours until he’s fully sheathed inside.
"Good?" he rasps against your mouth.
You can only nod, nails digging into his shoulders as he starts moving in long, unhurried thrusts that make your back arch off the bed. He licks into your mouth as his hips roll into yours, one hand sliding down to rub tight circles on your clit until you’re gasping, teetering on the edge. Every stroke hitting something deep within you that you didn't even know existed. A quick addiction began inside of you, something you wanted to never end.
Obscene sounds filled the room, the air thick with something sweet and warm and needy. Your hands never left his back, digging half crescents into his skin as you pleaded for more.
Then he stops.
You whimper in protest, but he’s already shifting, pulling out just enough to drag you onto your side. One of your legs hooks over his shoulder as he leans back, changing the angle completely. The first thrust punches a moan from your throat, it's all so much deeper now, his grip tightening on your thigh as he fucks into you with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips.
"Fuck," he grits out. "You take me so damn good."
Your hips rise to meet his thrusts, desperate for more, and the way your body clenches around him nearly makes Bucky lose it. His rhythm falters, a groan ripping from his throat.
"Fuck—you get so tight when I fuck you like this." He leans back just enough to let his gaze drop between you, his cock glistening with your slick as he drives into you again. "Go on, baby, look at it. You see that? Not a virgin anymore. Now you're all mine—you and this sweet pussy."
You're drowning in pleasure, barely coherent, but one word claws its way out of your throat.
"Harder."
Bucky obliges immediately, his thrusts snapping into you, the slap of skin echoing in the room. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise, his breath coming in ragged bursts.
"Mm, wonder how I should give you your first load," he growls, voice thick with lust. "Should I pull out and paint that soft tummy? Or maybe these tits?"
He palms your breast roughly, thumb flicking over your nipple. "Maybe I should put you on your knees and cum all over your pretty face—"
"No!" You tighten your legs around him, pulling him deeper with a frantic whimper. "Please—"
He chuckles darkly, sinking into you fully with a satisfied groan. "What, you want it inside?"
His next thrust is punishing, forcing a broken moan from your lips. "Sweet little pussy’s never been fucked before, and now she wants to be filled too?" His hand slides down to grip your ass, tilting your hips just right. "Greedy little thing."
You can only nod helplessly, your body wound tight around him, clenching and begging as Bucky fucks you toward over edge all over again. Even after he spills inside you, Bucky can't stop, won't stop, his hips grinding slow and filthy, milking every last drop deep into your fluttering cunt. His hands slide under your knees, folding you nearly in half, pressing your thighs toward her chest until you're spread obscenely open.
"Fuck, still so tight," he growls, watching where you're joined—his cock still buried to the hilt, your pussy dripping around him. "Touch yourself. Wanna feel you come again while I'm still inside you."
Your fingers shake as you rub frantic circles over your clit, oversensitive and whimpering, but you don't stop, can't stop. Bucky groans at the way your walls ripple around him, his thrusts turning shallow and possessive, forcing his cum to seep even deeper.
"That's it," he rasps, biting the side of your leg. "Make a mess for me."
You practially sob as you cum again, tears rolling down the sides of your face, cream mixing with his spend, leaking down to your ass as your body is overcome with wave after wave of pleasure. Bucky curses when he feels it, hot pulses of you squeezing him and suddenly he's hard again, slamming into you with a snarl as another orgasm rips through him.
Your legs tremble in his grip. Neither of you can move anymore, just wrecked and sticky and full, but Bucky still rocks into you lazily, refusing to pull out just yet.
"Fuckin' perfect," he mutters against your lips as he gently sets your legs down, your mixed spend leaking from your thighs.
The room soon goes quiet in a soft, yet heavy way. You feel your chest loosen with something new, something warm and gooey.
The lamp is still on. It turns everything gentle around the edges—the rumpled sheets, the scattered clothes on the floor, the faint sheen of warmth still clinging to both of you like the night hasn’t fully let go yet.
Bucky moves first, carefully untangling himself from the sticky warmth of your bodies pressed together. He leans over the side of the bed, rummaging blindly until he finds his pants on the floor, tugging them closer with a quiet huff.
“You stay right there,” he murmurs without looking back at you.
You’re already curled slightly into the sheets, watching him with tired eyes that still look soft around the edges, calm in a way that feels new.
He finds his shirt and brings it over to you, then pauses, thinking.
“Water,” he says to himself like it’s a mission.
He disappears into the small kitchen. You hear cabinets open, the faint clink of a glass, water running. When he comes back, he’s got a glass in one hand and something folded in the other.
He sets the water beside you first.
“Here,” he says gently.
You take it without protest, sipping carefully. Then he unfolds the cloth—damp, warm from the sink.
You blink at him. “What’s that?”
“For you,” he says simply.
And then, softer, “Just… stay still a second.”
He cleans your skin with careful hands, unhurried, like it’s the most normal thing in the world for him to be this gentle after everything. Like there’s no rush anywhere. Like the whole night has slowed down just for this.
You watch him instead of the ceiling now, he notices.
“Stop lookin’ at me like that,” he mutters.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m doin’ something impressive.”
You smile faintly. “You are.”
That makes him pause for half a second, just long enough to look at you properly again. Then he shakes it off, like he doesn’t trust himself to sit in that feeling too long.
“Stay,” he says again, softer, and gets up.
This time he’s gone longer. When he comes back, there’s a cigarette tucked between his fingers and a lighter in his pocket. He pauses at the edge of the bed like he suddenly remembers something.
“…Can I smoke in here?” he asks, already sounding like he knows the answer.
You tilt your head slightly, thinking. “Probably not.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “That a no?”
“A probably no.”
He nods like he respects that, then immediately does it anyway but not in a careless way. He walks to the window, opens it wide, letting in the cool night air. The city noise spills in—distant traffic, laughter somewhere far below.
He leans out slightly, lights the cigarette, and inhales once before exhaling into the open air. You watch him from the bed, curious despite yourself.
“That smells… strong,” you say.
Bucky glances over his shoulder. “Yeah. That’s the point.”
A pause, then you sit up a little. “Can I try?”
That makes him turn fully now.
“Doll,” he says slowly, like he’s deciding whether to be responsible or curious.
You just look at him expectantly.
He exhales through his nose. “Alright. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He crosses back to the bed, hands it over carefully. You take it like it’s something delicate as he watches you.
“Just… small inhale,” he instructs gently. “Not like you’re drinkin’ air.”
You try and immediately cough. Bucky laughs softly, not teasing, just amused and leans in quickly, patting your back once.
“Easy,” he says. “Easy, sweetheart.”
You glare at him between coughs. “That’s awful.”
“Yeah,” he agrees easily. “It is.”
But you still try again, more carefully this time, and he guides you with quiet patience until you manage it without immediately dissolving into another fit of coughing.
“There you go,” he murmurs, almost proud.
You hand it back to him, shaking your head slightly. He takes another drag, then leans back against the windowsill while you curl into the sheets again, watching him instead of the ceiling now.
After a moment, you let out a small laugh to yourself.
Bucky notices immediately. “What?”
You shake your head, still smiling. “Nothing.”
“That’s never true.”
You glance up at him, amused. “I was just thinking… I’ve had brandy, cigarettes, and lost my virginity all in one night.”
Bucky freezes for half a second, then exhales a laugh, low and disbelieving.
“…Yeah?” he says. “Well. How d'ya feel?”
You nod, still smiling like you can’t quite believe it yourself. “I think I’ve been corrupted by Bucky Barnes.”
That gets him fully now, he turns toward you properly, cigarette forgotten for a moment in his hand.
“Oh yeah?” he asks, a little softer now. “What’s the verdict?”
You look at him for a long beat, not a hint of shyness glinted in your eyes.
“I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”
Bucky’s expression softens in a way that has nothing to do with charm and everything to do with something deeper settling into place.
He puts the cigarette out and tosses it out the window, crawling across the bed to you, and leans down just enough to catch your face in his hand.
“You’re trouble,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your lips.
You smile against him. “You were trouble first. I was sweet as can be."
Synopsis: He believed the entire world had forgotten Peter Parker, until the girl he never spoke to in class said his name. [Gif Creds: manny-jacinto].
First Peter Parker fic in celebration of the trailer drop ✨💃
(Edited 3/31: I officially made this into a small little series, so I DEEPLY apologize for the previous mess of formatting 😭🙏)
『••✎••』
His face changed in an instant.
The easy, half-apologetic smile Peter had been wearing—sorry, my bad, let me help—froze, then cracked. His brown eyes widened, pupils blowing out like he’d been hit with a flashbang. The color drained from his already pale cheeks, leaving the faint acne scars and the sheen of nervous sweat stark against his skin. His mouth parted, lips forming a silent what? before any sound could escape.
You blinked up at him, crouched on the grimy New York sidewalk, one hand steadying your precariously tall stack of books, the other hovering over the scattered ones at your feet. The world kept moving—the rumble of the subway beneath the pavement, the wail of a distant siren, the shuffle of pedestrians flowing around the two of you like water around stones. But in the sudden, suffocating vacuum between you and him, all of that noise simply dissolved.
"Sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry," he’d been saying just a second ago, a familiar, breathless rush. He’d bumped into you—a classic traffic jam on the sidewalk—and your world had tipped sideways. Physics took over. Textbooks on organic chemistry and literary theory splayed out across the concrete like a fan.
He remembered you. He was sure of it. You sat two rows ahead and one to the left in Mr. Harrison’s history class. You never spoke, but he knew you were one of the smartest kids in the room, your hand perpetually in the air while he was usually trying to calculate if he had enough web fluid for patrol later that night. He’d seen you in the halls—a quiet, focused presence that never seemed to intersect with the chaotic orbit of himself, MJ, and Ned.
You smiled, a small, polite curve of your lips as you both reached for the same copy of The Great Gatsby. Your fingers had brushed.
"It’s okay, happens all the time." You had said, gathering the last book and tucking it into your stack. Then you looked him in the eye, a brief, friendly glance of acknowledgment, and said the words that had just short-circuited his entire nervous system.
"See you around, Peter."
And just like that, the universe tilted on its axis.
You’d pushed yourself to your feet, adjusting your bag, giving him another polite smile before turning to merge back into the river of people on the sidewalk. The moment was over—a simple, forgettable bump with a vague acquaintance from high school.
Except it wasn’t.
Wait.
His lungs seized. The name echoed in the hollow of his chest, a ghost of a sound, but it was the most real thing he’d heard in an eternity. Peter. Not "hey, kid" or "that guy" or the frustrated sigh of a landlord who never knew his renter’s name. Peter. Said with the casual familiarity of someone who had always known it.
A frantic, desperate energy seized him. He couldn’t let you go. He couldn’t let you walk away and vanish back into the faceless crowd, leaving him to wonder if he’d finally, truly lost it.
"Wait!"
He shot forward, a burst of speed that felt more like a spider’s leap than a human’s jog. He caught your arm just above the elbow. It was a gentle touch, barely any pressure, but you stopped instantly, turning back to him with a look of surprise, your brow furrowed. Your books wobbled in your arms.
His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat in a silent room. He leaned in, not caring that he was blocking the flow of foot traffic, that a businessman had to sidestep him with an annoyed grunt. All that mattered was your face, your confused eyes, and the five letters he needed to hear again.
"Wait," he repeated, his voice raspy, thin. "What… what did you say?"
Your confusion deepened, a small line creasing between your brows. You glanced from his wild-eyed face down to where he was still touching your sleeve, then back up again.
"Uh…" you hesitated, clearly thrown by the intensity of his reaction. "I just said, ‘see you around’?"
"No, before that. The… the last part." He could barely breathe the words out. Please. Please say it again. Let him know he wasn’t hallucinating, that the loneliness hadn’t finally cracked him open.
You blinked, slow and deliberate, as if trying to decipher a foreign language. A flicker of something like concern crossed your features.
"Peter?" you said, his name a soft, questioning thing in the city noise. "Are you okay?"
The world shattered around him.
It wasn’t a question of how. He didn’t care how. Not yet. The sheer, overwhelming fact of it crashed over him like a tidal wave. The weight of a year’s worth of invisibility, of nonexistence, suddenly lifted. Air rushed into lungs that had been starved for so long he’d forgotten what it felt like to breathe. A tremor ran through his entire body—a violent, shuddering release of tension he hadn’t even realized he was holding.
He didn’t answer your question. He couldn’t. All he could do was stare, his grip on your sleeve slackening until his fingers just brushed the fabric of your jacket. He was looking at you, but he wasn’t seeing a college student with a stack of books anymore. He was seeing an anchor. A lighthouse in a fog that had swallowed him whole.
A shaky, disbelieving laugh escaped his lips—a broken sound that held the ghost of a sob. He stared at you as if you’d just handed him the entire universe, piece by precious piece.
You, completely unaware of the magnitude of the moment—of the dam you’d just broken—just stood there. You took in the dazed look, the trembling hands, the way he was looking at you like you were a miracle.
And you just looked… concerned. Worried for the weird guy from your old high school who was currently having some kind of meltdown on a public sidewalk.
"Peter," you said again, a little firmer this time, reaching out a hesitant hand. "Seriously. Are you alright?"
And he was. For the first time in what felt like forever, he was more than alright.
summary: 5.2k. you drunk-dial your ex-situationship
cw: pov switching, thunderbolts era, fluffy caretaking, mild angst, day-drinking, hurt/comfort, mild brat-taming, Bucky has the patience of a saint, mentions of sex/hooking up
an: inspired by “Go Go Juice" by Sabrina Carpenter. this turned out so much mushier than I expected and with no explicit smut, who am i
| masterlist
Somehow, and for reasons that were almost certainly not your fault, your day-off mimosa had turned into three cosmopolitans (if you could call vodka with a whisper of whatever pink mix you had in your pantry a cosmo) and two shots of whiskey. You think they were roughly shot-sized. Close enough, at least.
You tipped the bottle back again, amber liquor sloshing into your mouth, and you grimaced as you swallowed. It wasn't yours. It was Dylan's—gag—, but you weren't about to let perfectly good liquor go to waste. Not when you could put it to use, blunting the sharp edges of your broken heart.
Six months, including a whole holiday season, you'd sunk into that capricious fucker, and he'd dumped you via text en route to the Valentine's Day dinner you'd planned.
You took another swig of whiskey, glaring at the offending device on your coffee table. Full of nothing but fuck boys and fuck heads and fucking limp-dick bitch boys—and him.
The bottle hit the table with a clatter as you set it down. Nope nope noooope. You weren't supposed to think about him, especially not after a few drinks. You'd built a firewall between that year, those memories, and yourself.
Do not pass go. Do not think about B—
You snatched up the bottle again, poured the lukewarm dregs of it into your mouth. Letting the liquor burn away the forbidden thoughts. Fuck, you needed an omelette and a nap.
And therapy, probably.
Omelette first.
You pushed to your feet and the room twisted, your body floaty and a little numb as you picked across your apartment to the kitchen. Reached for the pan, missed, decided on popcorn instead. Grabbed the bottle of strawberry vodka still in your freezer from Galentine's while the kernels popped. Checked the oven clock, 10:44 a.m., and you pretended you hadn't seen it.
Popcorn bowl in hand, you landed safely on the couch once again. The strawberry vodka went down too easily, viscous and syrupy on your tongue.
A memory slipped free, lubricated by the liquor. A date night at his apartment in Upper Manhattan. Billie Holiday playing on the record player in the corner. He cooked for you, despite still relearning how, and spun you around the kitchen like the lead in those black-and-white films he made you watch. For dessert, you'd had strawberries, whipped cream, and his mouth between your legs on the kitchen counter.
The liquor turned bitter on your tongue, but you still drank it.
You didn't remember picking up your phone, but the LED screen was bright in the dark hole of your apartment, thumb scrolling through your contact list.
Shawn? No.
Jake? Married now.
Harry? Hell no.
Dylan? Too soon.
Bucky? Your thumb hovered over his contact. His picture was still the selfie he'd taken of the two of you snuggled up in your bed, your hair half-covering his face, but his grin was palpable as he gazed down at you. It still sent your heartbeat galloping away every time you saw it, but you couldn't bring yourself to change it.
You'd met not long after the Blip, when the world was trying to reorient itself after half the population suddenly returned. You and Bucky had created a safe-haven of sorts, a solid place to land while you both healed.
It had been almost three years since he'd broken things off without warning. All but ghosting you not long after the night with the strawberries. Just days after that photo was taken.
It was never official, you reminded yourself. Just a situationship. A months-long situationship in which you felt more for him than anyone else you'd ever been with combined—but a situationship nonetheless.
The liquor had hold of you now, thick and pounding through your bloodstream, phone screen pulsing, then splitting as your eyes began to cross. Double vision, like the relationship you thought you'd had with him, and the reality of it.
Your thumb was moving before your brain could catch up, and his voice suddenly filled your apartment. Gruff and impersonal, but it still made your heart flutter.
“You’ve reached Bucky Barnes. If it's important, leave a message. If not…don't.”
Beeeeeeep.
—
Bucky’s fist connected with the punching bag, the thwack echoing loudly through the empty gym. He’d lost track of time in the concrete, windowless space, and that's exactly how he liked it. Buoyed by the quiet, the shelter from reality.
Therapy this morning had gone poorly. His therapist wanted to talk about his relationships, his emotional connections that went beyond obligation, and Bucky hadn't been able to provide a satisfactory answer, apparently. Mostly because he refused to talk about you.
Thwack. The energy from the hit reverberated up his metal arm, buzzing across his shoulders and down his spine.
He never let himself think about you, never let himself wonder if he'd made the right decision, never let himself imagine what things would be like if he had stayed. If he had been honest with you.
Thwack.
It didn't matter, anyway. He was certain you'd moved on, had seen the photos of that weasel on your social media pages. And he genuinely hoped you were happy with him, even if you were lightyears out of his league.
Thwack.
That's all Bucky ever wanted—for you to be happy and safe.
It's the reason why he did what he did, even though it felt like taking a lamb out into the yard and shooting it at the time.
Thwack, thwack, thwack—SNAP.
The chain holding the bag snapped, sending the bag flying across the space and slamming into a rack of dumbbells with a deafening crash.
Bucky shook out his fist. That was probably enough exercise for today.
He took a few gulps of water from the bottle and gathered his things. Pulled out his phone to check the time.
1 missed call from DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.
1 new voice message from DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.
He froze, staring down at his phone screen. You hadn't called him since the week after the breakup, when you'd left him a message to tell him you'd left some of his things outside his apartment. Nearly three years ago.
His thumb hovered over the message. It could be nothing, he told himself. Or, you might be in trouble.
“Fuck it," he muttered to himself, and hit play.
“Heeey, Bucky, it’s—hyuk—meee.” God, you sounded drunk. “I, umm, just wanted to see how you were d-doing. Maybe we could—hyuk—hooks up, er, no—hang out sometime?” you trailed off, faux-cheeriness slipping away. He could practically hear the sadness in your voice, and it made his chest ache. “Actually, f-forget I said anything—I’m just, fuck, ignore me. Sorry, I—I hope you're doing good, B.”
The call ended with an abrupt click.
Oh, you poor thing.
Wasted and crying at 11 a.m. on a Tuesday. So very unlike you, which meant something must have gone very wrong.
He showered quickly, racing the voices in his head telling him this was a mistake, and set off in the direction of your apartment before he could talk himself out of it.
You answered the door after about a dozen increasingly frantic knocks. He'd been pulling his phone out to call you when he heard the dead bolt slide into the wood.
It took you a second to adjust to the bright light of the hallway, lashes fluttering over red-rimmed eyes. You were still dressed in your pajamas, a tiny tank top, and shorts with delicate scalloped edges. Even in this state, you were more beautiful than the rose-colored lens of his memory.
With some effort, he glued his eyes to your face as you finally processed who was standing in front of you.
“Your hair is longer," you said finally, the words a little gooey, syllables sticking to the roof of your mouth.
God, he'd missed you so much. “It is," he replied, and you said nothing, doe-eyed and blinking. "Not a fan?” he pressed, running his fingers through it to smooth it back, still damp from his hurried shower.
He could practically see the gears turning in your head. You opened your mouth, closed it, then sighed. “Bucky, what’re you doin’ here?"
“You called," he shrugged. Trying to play it cool, like his insides weren't a tangled mess of worry.
You looked exhausted, bleary-eyed, and unsteady on your feet. He wanted to scoop you up and carry you to your bed right then and there. He maybe would have if he thought you wouldn't kick and bite like a feral cat. No one was safe when you were a little bit drunk.
“Sounded like you could use some company," he continued.
“Didn't think that you'd pick up. I’m f-fine," you lied, picking at the chipping paint on the door.
“Can I come in anyway?"
You contemplated this, gaze sweeping over him, and he resisted the urge to puff up his chest.
“Don't you have like, hero shit to do?"
“Nah, it's quiet today," he lied. The Thunderbolts were actually scattered across the city right that moment, gathering intel. But they could handle it. Right now, the only person he was concerned about saving was you, even if it was just from a nasty hangover.
He saw the moment you relented flicker across your eyes, and you turned your back on him, disappearing into the cave of your apartment. He followed closely behind, closing and locking the door behind him.
It was unusually dark in there, the only light coming from the edges of the curtains and the glowing TV. You were watching some 90’s sitcom he vaguely recognized, and returned to your nest on the couch, drawing the blanket around your body.
The apartment was mostly how he remembered it, with some new art and a larger bookcase. It was definitely messier, though, with empty cups and bowls on the coffee table, dishes piled up in the sink, and a small mountain of laundry in your reading chair by the window.
“You're judging me," you accused, that drunken lilt tripping over the g’s.
“I am not." And he wasn’t, though he could tell you were a little embarrassed, even when thoroughly intoxicated. "I'm the last person to be dispensing judgment.”
“Please, your place was always immaculate." You rolled your eyes and reached for a bottle of something pink on the coffee table.
“Yeah, because I knew you were going to be there." He snatched it out of your hand before you could neck it.
“Hey—excuse you," you bit, trying to grab at it.
He held it high, suppressing a smile while he read the label. “Frisky Vodka?" he raised an eyebrow. “Salacious Strawberry—" he took a few steps towards the kitchen as you jumped to your feet, lunging at him, clumsy and slow from the alcohol.
“Bucky! Stop it—"
“—serve alongside a summer salad, vanilla cake, or at the beach with a handsome lifeguard—”
“Can you not—"
“140 proof!" he gasped, pausing by the sink. “Doll, this will strip paint."
“I swear to fuck—" You threw yourself at him, grabby hands batting at his chest and shoulders. You always were a spirited little thing.
He adored you so much it made his ribs ache.
Bucky tsked. “Language." He tipped the bottle over and poured it into the sink.
“Who the hell do you think you are barging in here—"
“You let me in," he countered, washing the liquor down the sink. The smell alone made his teeth ache. "You called me, sweetheart. You knew how this was going to go. I’m not one of the little party boys in your phone.”
You sucked your teeth, glaring daggers at him. You knew he was right. If you wanted a random hook-up or meaningless attention, you would have called any of the other drooling dogs on your phone. The thought alone made his stomach twist, his vision fill with blood. But instead, you'd called him.
There was a reason, whether or not you'd even admitted it to yourself.
“So, are you going to let me take care of you, or are you going to keep being a brat?"
“I hate you.”
“You can hate me while walking. Go take a shower, and I'll make you something real to eat.” Yes, he'd noticed the half-eaten bowl of popcorn. You’d need a lot more than that to soak up the strawberry-flavored lighter fluid you were drinking.
“You can't tell me what to do in my own apartment!"
“I believe I just did." He started collecting things to make brunch, surprising even himself with how well he remembered the layout of your kitchen.
Your eyes narrowed, arms crossed over your stomach. “You're different."
He paused his rummaging through your alarmingly empty refrigerator. “Good different?" he asked, glancing at you over his shoulder.
“I haven't decided."
“Well, I always do my best thinkin’ in the shower. So get to it." He retrieved the carton of eggs at the very back, and by the time he straightened up, you'd stalked down the hallway. A door slammed shut a moment later.
Twenty minutes later, he plated a cheesy omelette and some tater tots—they were basically hashbrowns, right? Along with a few orange slices and the largest bottle he could find, filled with ice water. He’d also taken the liberty of starting a load of dishes and cleaning out the old food from your fridge.
He'd been about to run the trash when you came padding down the hall, dressed in a new set of pajamas, your hair tied up in a towel. The smell of your body wash caught him across the chin like a sucker punch, and he had to grip the edge of the counter so he didn't fall to the ground and start panting.
He was here to take care of you, nothing else.
You looked decidedly less hostile as you sat on one of the stools, even offering him a timid, melty smile when you took in the cleaner kitchen and steaming food. “Thanks, B," you mumbled while you tried to stab a tater tot. You missed, trying twice more before giving up and grabbing it with your fingers, popping it into your mouth.
Bucky didn't trust himself to speak around the heart-sized lump in his throat, so he nodded and nudged the water towards you.
“I promise I'm not an alcoholic," you said, and he snorted a laugh. “It's just been…" You trailed off, pushing eggs around your plate.
Bucky leaned on his elbows across from you, getting down to your eye level. “You don't have to explain anythin’ to me. Not ever," he said, and you nodded, swallowing hard. “Eat up."
But before he could turn back to the dishes, you spoke up again, all in a slurring rush. “He ghosted me on Valentine's Day. Used the reservation I made to take another girl. I should have known he just wanted to fuck me, he was always so weird and flakey and god—it was so fucking stupid. I just never thought he'd do something that shitty, y’know?"
Bucky contemplated this, untangling your scrambled words. “You dumped him?"
You nodded, unable to meet his eyes.
“You want me to kill him?"
The corner of your mouth tilted up a tiny bit.
“I've got the clearance. I can make it look like an accident—”
“No, no," you giggled, shaking your head. "No murder.”
“That's what the clearance is for. It's not technically murder," he corrected, unable to stop himself from smiling back at you.
“No assassinations, then." You pronounced the word with about a dozen extra s’s, and he felt like he might keel over if his heart didn't return to a normal rhythm soon.
“Fine, no assassinations," he said. "I’m sorry he treated you like that. You aren't stupid, and it wasn't your fault. You don't deserve to be left hanging.”
Your smile faltered, gaze dropping back down to your plate. “And yet, it keeps happening,“ you muttered.
He realized his mistake, then. “Doll—"
“I know, Bucky, I know," you cut him off, waving your fork in the air. “You’ve got more important shit to do, like saving the world from purple aliens and, like, Russians or something. It's fine. We don't have to talk about it."
It felt like you stabbed the fork between his ribs, twisting the tines through the fragile skin of his lungs.
“Just—just forget it. It's fine. Thank you for breakfast.” You pushed the plate away, jumped to your feet too fast. Your balance failed, legs moving too slowly to catch you, but luckily, Bucky was quicker, and he caught you around the middle before you cracked your head on the counter.
“Easy now, I gotcha’." He shifted you back onto your feet, grip tight around your body to ensure you didn't fall again. You were trembling and hot to the touch, hands clammy against his arms. Your hair towel had fallen off, cold strands tumbling over your shoulders. You seemed very pale all of a sudden. " Let me get you into bed, yeah? C’mere, honey—”
“No—" you tried to protest, but he was already scooping you beneath your knees, lifting you carefully into a bridal hold. Trying his very best not to jostle or move you too quickly.
“You look like death warmed over, doll. Pipe down and let me help you." He started moving towards your bedroom, the path so familiar he could chart it with his eyes closed.
You swatted weakly at his chest, but didn't protest, head lolling against his shoulder. You were so limp in his arms, so trusting, and he was deeply grateful you'd had the foresight to call him, and not one of those other dipshits who might have taken advantage of you. It healed something in him to know how much you trusted him, even after everything he'd done. Maybe he really wasn't the monster he saw in the mirror.
“Just wanted to fuck you," you mumbled into the hollow of his throat, lips brushing his skin.
He barely stifled a laugh at your bluntness. “Did you?" he asked, stepping over a pile of clothes and into your bedroom. “That's why you called, huh?"
You nodded. “But you're being mean." Your voice was barely above a whisper, fading as you drifted closer to sleep.
“I know, doll," he hummed, unable to resist placing a kiss on the furrow between your brows. You wouldn't remember it anyway; he was being selfish. “And you can curse me out all you like tomorrow."
“Bet your ass I will…”
“Oh, I'm counting on it." But his words hung empty in the air. By the time he got to your bedside, you were fast asleep, tiny snores tickling the hair around his throat. Careful not to wake you, he tucked you beneath the covers, arranged your hair so it wouldn't soak your pillowcase.
He retrieved a wastebasket, your water, and a few Advil, setting them all within arm's reach on your nightstand. Then he plugged in your phone, turned on all your little ambient lamps around your room to make it cozy, and put your comfort show back on, volume all the way down.
Satisfied that you were settled and safe, he debated whether he should stay. What if you woke up and needed him? What if you really were ill?
He decided to stay just a little longer, to finish cleaning up the kitchen and take the trash. That's the last thing anyone wants to do when they're hungover.
But when that was done, he decided to tidy up the living room, just a little bit. Throw away the old flowers and dust the shelves, straighten your desk, and put any stray items where they belong.
But then he might as well fold the pile of laundry. It was taking over your favorite chair after all, and you'd probably want to sit there later. So he folded your laundry, pretending not see the more delicate items in the pile that made his blood pressure rise, or the old t-shirt he'd been missing, the fabric significantly more worn than the last time he saw it.
And then the chair was bare, so he put a blanket over it and a favorite stuffed animal. Sure, it just so happened to be a bear he'd won you on Coney Island, but that wasn't the point.
And if you were going to enjoy your reading chair, you'd need a few snacks. Plus, your fridge was mostly condiments and beverages, so you needed groceries, too. He ordered some on Instacart, only needing mild assistance from Yelena, and waited around for the delivery to put them away.
By then, it was nearly six o’clock, so he might as well prep you some dinner.
It occurred to him that he was being a little bit insane, maybe a lot a bit, but he missed you so much, and just wanted to make sure you were okay. He had to know if you were okay.
And being back in your apartment, surrounded by your favorite colors and little trinkets and hobbies, it felt like coming home. A home he hadn't been to in a long, long time. It was like double vision, seeing the place he'd once loved, knowing it didn't really belong to him anymore.
With every hour that passed, the gravity of his mistake grew heavier, harder to ignore. He should never have let you go, should never have thought you'd be better off without him. That was your choice to make, not his, and all he'd done was hurt you both by making it instead.
He’d been a coward, and now he wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to make it right. Not when you were clearly still hurting, still angry with him.
But, he thought with rare optimism while he dumped the pasta into the boiling water, maybe this could be a first step.
—
You woke up to a familiar laugh track and a kick-drum pounding behind your eyelids. Spotting the water on the table, you guzzled it, along with the painkillers sitting beside it—wait, you didn't remember setting that glass there, or the pills, or the wastebasket. And you definitely didn't turn on all of your ambient lights, or... was your hair wet?
Okay, you did remember taking a shower, and eating the best omelette you'd had since—
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
Bucky had made the omelette for you. Bucky had been here, in your mess of an apartment. Made you take a shower, eat, and dumped out your booze.
Then, the smell of frying garlic reached your nose, and your stomach gave a fierce growl.
Someone was cooking in your apartment.
Moving slowly to not irritate your head any further, you pulled on a hoodie and exited the dark safety of your bedroom.
You couldn't believe what awaited you.
Apartment? Spotless. Laundry? Folded. Lights? Dimmed. Candles? Lit. Bucky? Dressed in a too-tight t-shirt, chopping zucchini at your kitchen island.
“Thought the garlic might summon you," he said, his voice a low baritone alongside the thunkthunkthunk of the knife that soothed the ache between your eyes. "Hungry?”
“Did you…” You looked around, struggling to comprehend what you were seeing. Bucky had cleaned your entire apartment while you slept and was making you dinner, acting like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like he didn't stomp on your heart and blow you off three years ago with no explanation. “Why did you do all of this?”
He finished chopping and scraped the vegetables into the pan. “You called me," he said, as if that explained anything.
“Yeah, for a hook up, not—" you gestured around the apartment, "—not for you to babysit me.”
“Don't act like a baby then." He turned back around, setting the cutting board on the counter. Those blue eyes were like fucking arrows, piercing straight through the soft parts of you.
“I am not—" you caught yourself. "You didn't have to do this.”
“Obviously." He braced his hands on the counter, his metal arm whirring faintly at the pressure. Fuck, how had he gotten even more buff than before? And you felt personally attacked by his newly long hair. You'd pestered him to grow it back out for months.
“So why did you?"
“How about a ‘thank you’?" He was deflecting.
You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. Too hungover to filter yourself anymore. “Are you ever going to be honest with me?"
The question shattered like glass on the floor between you.
His jaw flexed, gaze lowering to the counter.
You waited for his response, the vegetables undoubtedly burning behind him. Your head was still pounding, stomach gone sour, and your tongue felt like it had a sock wrapped around it.
“Just go, Bucky. You've done enough. “ You turned on your heel to hide in the dark of your room, when he finally spoke.
“I’m sorry."
“What?" You turned back towards him.
“I’m sorry," he repeated, lifting his head to look at you. The hurt in his gaze was unmistakable. A bone-deep pain you'd only witnessed when he talked about losing the one person that meant everything to him. "It was a mistake, I made a mistake, and I—” his metal hand combed through his hair, scrubbed over his face. “I just wanted to help you, to do something for you. I know it doesn't change or erase what I did, but—fuck, I’ve missed you so much, and even just being in your home, around you was so...” he fell silent, letting his confession hang in the air between you.
Maybe you were still a little drunk—okay, definitely still a little drunk—but that look in his eyes was all the confession you ever needed. And deep down, you knew that you called him because you needed someone to take care of you, someone to love you, and Bucky was the only person you trusted to do so without taking more than they gave.
You hadn't called for a hook-up; you called because you missed him. Because you needed him. And he'd come because he missed you, too. He stayed because he needed you too.
With hurried steps, you crossed the apartment. Your arms found their way around his waist, tucking your head under his chin. Immediately, his arms encircled you, holding you tightly against his chest, his nose buried into your hair. The connection between you thrummed to life, sparks jumping every place your skin brushed his. The years fell away like autumn leaves, leaving just the two of you, and the love you both had tried so hard to bury.
“Thank you, B," you murmured.
“Anytime, doll," he hummed, the words resonating in the drum of his chest.
The two of you stayed quiet for a few minutes, unwilling to relinquish the fragile moment, but an acrid smell started to make your nostrils itch.
“Your veggies are burning.”
“Fuck ‘em," he said. “You just want the pasta anyway."
You giggled, nuzzling even closer, the smell of his skin turning your thoughts to static. “Yeah, I do."
His metal hand skimmed up your spine, sliding into the hair at the nape of your neck. The coolness of his touch made you shiver, and he started gently pressing into the knots in your neck, loosening the tension that was like a vice around your skull.
“How's your head?" He asked.
You let your head fall into his palm, unraveling under his touch as your pain melted away. A moan slipped out when he dug into an especially tender spot, and you felt his breath hitch.
“Poor thing," he cooed. “You really did a number on yourself, didn't you?"
“I was stupid," you muttered, petulant.
His fingers tightened in your hair, craning your head back. “You were reckless, not stupid. Stupid would have been calling one of those other losers on your phone."
“Wouldn't have all those losers in my phone if you—”
“I know, I know,“ he pouted, loosening his hold. “Don't have to rub my nose in it."
“James Buchanan Barnes, are you jealous?" You teased, tugging at his pursed lower lip with your thumb.
He nipped at your fingers, his flesh hand wrapping your wrist to immobilize you.
“Maybe I'll call one of them right now, since you seem more interested in being my personal butler than hooking up—"
He pressed his mouth to your captive wrist, a hot, hungry kiss that shot up your arm and through your body, making your toes curl in your slippers. “Hooking up doesn't even begin to cover what I want to do to you," he gruffed, trailing his lips down your forearm while his metal hand fell to your lower back, pressing your body closer to his.
“So what are you waiting for?" you asked, a little breathless.
His lips moved to your throat, feather-soft against your hammering pulse, up towards the shell of your ear. “First, you're going to eat and hydrate. Then we're going to watch a movie, something mushy and romantic, and you're going to fall asleep in my lap,” his voice was slow and sinful, stoking the fire in your belly to an inferno.
You clung to him, head bobbing. Yes, yes, yes.
But he wasn't finished. “And when you wake up in the morning, bright-eyed and clear-headed, I'll seek my penance between those perfect thighs.” He leaned back to look into your eyes. “Sound good?"
You nodded, jaw a little slack. It was like he tipped your head over and all your thoughts came pouring out of your ears. “S-sounds great."
He pecked your lips, which was practically a crime against humanity after winding you up so much. “Now, go sit your butt on the couch. I got frozen pizzas as a backup."
You perked up at that, pout falling away. “Did you get my—"
“Your favorite? Of course I did. Go on and pick your movie." He turned you loose with a pat on the butt, and you scampered off to the living room.
Description: There’s nothing better than making out with Johnny, until he’s exactly where you want him: breathless, flushed and distracted just enough for you to make some silly questions.
Tags/warnings: heavy make out, biting Johnny, that maroon shirt <3, making him melt, Johnny being dramatic, silly questions. No movie spoilers.
Note: Adding a new version to the worm question trend🔥Had to make this one for my boy because you know he’s a dramatic king lol. Enjoy 🫶🏼 divider by @saradika-graphics
john’s version | bucky’s version | archive | masterlist
On the rare nights Sue actually convinced Reed to go out for dinner, and Ben was probably trying to get a conversation with that lovely redhead he was crushing on, it was bliss having the whole Baxter Building to yourselves.
It was no secret you spent most of your time there in Johnny's bedroom, straddling his lap while drowning him in messy kisses, with some old record playing just loud enough to muffle the exaggerated gasps he made on purpose when you kissed his neck.
Not loud enough to muffle your giggles or your totally non exaggerated gasps, though, so his family always heard, and you'd want to hide the next morning when Ben and Sue gave you a knowing smirk.
Since you got together, and even before that, it's always been hard to keep your hands off each other. Johnny makes it particularly hard. Especially when he wears that shirt he knows you want to rip off his body as soon as you see him in it.
That goddamn maroon t-shirt.
He totally walks into a room wearing it knowing you're already thinking at least five ways to make him groan.
Funny enough, he hadn't even been the one who picked it out, it was Sue who gifted it to him a few years back. God bless his sister and her extremely good taste. Back then, it didn't fit him quite like it does today. But lord, you were grateful to the stars for how these days his toned biceps and firm chest seemed to scream against the fabric.
And how they also seemed to scream for you to get a taste. A bite. Just a little nibble to know how his muscles feel on your mouth.
And tonight? you might just listen to your intrusive thoughts. Especially since you were home alone for at least a couple of hours.
For once, being able to kiss Johnny breathlessly in the living room, not worrying about being embarrassed in front of Sue the next day after moaning her brother's name ... was perfect.
And my god, there was nothing like making out with Johnny Storm.
He'd even made the effort to set the mood. The lights are dimmed low, a slow romantic record plays softly in the background, not to conceal this time, but to enjoy. He'd even sent Herbert to count all the tools in Reed's lab so you two don't end up "traumatizing the innocent droid". And two untouched glasses of wine sat forgotten on the coffee table, because Johnny's lips tasted infinitely better.
You're lying on top of him on the couch, his back pressed to the seat's cushions. You kiss him as you grind your hips slightly, just enough to cause some friction, earning a groan for him. You smile against his mouth, nibbling his lower lip so his groan dies in your throat.
The moonlight coming through the large glass windows shines over the disheveled blonde hair you've been pulling, his red, kiss swollen lips, and the dilated pupils taking over the blue of his eyes.
Johnny's heaven. Your personal heaven.
His tight maroon shirt is surprisingly still on, but your hands are under it anyways. Your fingertips trace the heat of his abs, going up over the lines of his ribs, barely grazing his chest just to feel him melt under you. His hands travel all over your thighs, your waist, your ass, anywhere he can reach under the fabric, wishing he could burn all the clothes still covering your body.
Your hands push his shirt up further, enjoying every inch of hot skin. You don't bother pulling it over his head yet, you're too focused on the way his muscles flex under your touch, on the way he grips your hips like he's barely holding on.
"God, you taste so good," he mumbles, voice ragged between kisses.
"Better than wine?" you tease, brushing your lips over his before he can pull you back in.
"Better than anything," he says, catching your mouth again like he can't stand the distance.
In between kisses he looks up at you, with that half lidded gaze he only gets when he's totally at your mercy.
Perfect.
Without a second thought, you lean down and bite his pec through the dark fabric.
"Hey, kinky!" He gasps, laughing, lifting his head from the couch to find you looking up with innocent eyes. "Are you trying to mark your territory?" he teases, raising an eyebrow at you.
"Don't need to mark what's already mine," you mumble, leaning down to bite the other pec, a little harder, keeping your eyes on him the whole time.
Johnny lets out a low whistle, dropping his head back dramatically, one arm drapes over his eyes like he can't bear the pleasure. You laugh at his reaction, now nibbling the forearm shielding his face. He let out a groan.
You know he loves that.
One time you caught him low key checking in the mirror to see if you left any marks, because he wants them there.
Johnny loves women, yes. But Johnny loves being wanted, too.
And you biting him is pure unfiltered want. Every mark is a 'you're mine' flag being planted on him. It's physical praise, and Johnny lives to carry that praise proudly.
"You know I like it when you get all mean," he says, peaking under his arm. "So are you gonna keep torturing me, or–"
Johnny stops mid sentence when he sees the glint in your eyes. He grins like a man who knows he's seconds away from heaven. He swears it's happening, you're about to say something filthy. You open your mouth and he's already thinking he's gonna take you right there and then–
"Would you still love me if I was a worm?" you ask.
Silence.
Three full seconds of stunned silence, then the arm over his eyes drops abruptly, and he pushes up onto his elbows to look at you.
"Babe ... what?"
His expression stuck in pure, utter horny confusion almost made you laugh. You place your hands on his chest to rest your chin on them, looking up at him expectantly.
"Johnny, if I was a worm ... you know, a regular worm in the dirt, would you still love me?" you ask again, like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"Babe–but we were ..." He gestures between the two of you. "... we were this close to a life changing make out, and now you want to talk about worms!?" He whines, eyebrows still furrowed in disbelief.
"Just answer the question, Storm," you tease, biting back a grin, fingers playing with the fabric of his shirt. "It's pretty simple, would you?"
Johnny throws his head back with a groan so dramatic you'd think you just killed all his hopes and dreams with a harmless question you saw on a teen's magazine.
"It's not simple at all, we were having a moment! You were literally just biting my chest two seconds ago," he complains, his voice pitching higher when he lifts his head and sees your unamused expression. "What? I'm literally just a man!"
You do laugh this time, which only deepens his wounded look. The hard bulge pressing under your thighs makes it very clear how invested he was in the moment, but you can torture him a little bit longer ... for research purposes. You shift your hips just enough to make him twitch, while giving him your best serious look.
"Johnny…”
"Babe, I swear to God ... first you turn me on, then you play with my heart, and now you turn yourself into a hypothetical worm that could never kiss, or bite me again," he presses a hand over his heart, right where he wished you would just continue your little nibbling activities instead of ... this.
"So that's a no?" you squint, head tilting.
"I didn't say that! I just–give me a minute, alright? This is emotional!"
"Johnny, come on..." you chuckle, smacking his chest lightly, which makes him laugh too.
He can't believe this is where half an hour of making out has brought him. Not even when he picked his most romantic record. Not even when it was actually him who ended up convincing Reed to take his sister out so you could be alone.
"Alright, alright," he says, running a hand through your hair as his gaze softens, though you catch the playful glint still in his eyes. "Of course I'd still love you. Even if you were a tragic little worm who couldn't kiss me back," he teases, his other hand still placed tragically above his heart.
"Wait, really?" You ask excitedly, and Johnny can't help but grin wider. "Even if I was a disgusting little creature?"
"You wouldn't be disgusting, you'd still be you," he argues, "and you know boys actually like worms, right?"
"Yeah, when they're like five. As a toy!" You laugh, and he chuckles, nodding along. "Not as their girlfriend. What would you even do then?"
He frowns, looking up in playful concentration, tapping a finger against his chin.
"I'd have to ask Reed to turn me into a worm too," he says finally, nodding like it was the only option he'd have left.
"What? Johnny, you wouldn't be the human torch anymore..."
"Sweetheart, I'd totally give up my fire powers for dirt if it meant I got to be near you," he says, tone completely serious, and for some reason you wholeheartedly believe he would.
He totally would.
Now you are the one getting emotional, and he's suddenly very into the topic now, eyes lit up like this is his new life plan.
"Think about it, babe, just you and me. We'd nap under leaves–oh, wait, I wouldn't be able to keep you warm anymore..." His face brightens again. "Oh but I know! I'd roll you up in rose petals when you get cold. We could build a little house with twigs, fall in love under a daisy or something and..."
He just keeps going, building an entire fantasy in his head. And somewhere between his dramatic monologue and ridiculous imagery, it turns... kind of sweet.
"You're insane," you laugh, even as your chest fills with warmth at all his absurdly cute ideas.
"No, I'm in love," he corrects, eyebrows wiggling. "But seriously, worm or not, sweetheart, you're still you. Still out of my league. And I'm still gonna be obsessed with you."
You just bite back a smile trying not to melt, because the way he says it, like it's silly but completely real at the same time, like he's never loved anything more than this completely made up version of you.
"I'd love you. Always," he smiles, brushing his thumb along your cheek. "You're gonna have to think about other ways to get rid of me."
"I don't wanna get rid of you," you gasp, feigning offense, leaning down to place a kiss right in the center of his chest. "And that, baby, was the right answer."
"Oh, thank God," he exhales, dropping his head back to the cushions, making you laugh. "I thought I was gonna have to write you a whole poem."
"You still could, you were very enthusiastic about the idea of us having a honeymoon in the dirt," you tease, making him roll his eyes.
"Babe, don't patronize me ... you kind of ruined the best makeout session I've had all week,"
"It's Monday, Johnny."
"Exactly! We could've had a better one every day."
You laugh as he flops back, defeated, so you lean in and nip at his jaw. He pauses, eyes narrowing immediately, because he knows what happened last time you leaned in like that.
"Would it make you feel better if you got a reward?" you ask teasingly, fingers drumming lightly along his collarbone.
"A... reward?" He smirks immediately, though he pretends to clear his throat and be serious. "Babe, it'd have to be one hell of a reward to heal my heart and … something else.”
"Oh, it's a very good one. Trust me," you assure playfully. “You’d be up in no time, fire boy.”
"Really? Because last time you looked at me like that, I was in heaven and then–boom, worms."
You chuckle.
"Let me make it up to you, Johnny" you mumble before kissing him, and he smiles against your lips. "Can I, angel?" You whisper, tugging at the hem of his shirt.
He nods eagerly, eyes gleaming as he places his hands on your waist to lift you back slightly, so he can take his shirt off. He sends it flying across the room, a huge grin on his face as he brings you back to lay on his bare chest. You laugh at his enthusiasm, but yours is just as quick, your hands instantly tracing the lines of his toned chest.
And now your mouth is back on him.
You hum against his warm skin, lips tracing the curve of his collarbone, "I have to say ... aside from the dramatics ... you handled the question pretty well," you say between kisses.
"Babe," he breathes, tilting his head back as you kiss your way lower. "I should get a medal. Or, you know, more of this ... way more."
"You want more of this?" You kiss the center of his chest. "...or this?" You bite gently at the same spot.
"God, babe." His voice shakes with a laugh. "You can't talk about worms and then do all that. It's emotionally confusing."
You smile against his skin, alternating between kisses and nibbles as you trail your mouth across the heat of his chest, pressing soft, open mouthed kisses over every inch you can reach. You pause over his heart, feeling it race beneath your lips.
"Still beating," you mumble.
"Only for you, sweetheart" he says, melting when you nip at the skin just below his pec.
Your cheeks are warm against his ribs, you kiss even lower, down his stomach, just above the waistband of his sweatpants. His muscles twitch under your lips. You look up at him, your chin resting just below his navel, and that devilish look when you're about to ask him something.
Oh no. Not again.
"Would you still love me if I made out with you like this every day for the rest of your life?"
"Are you kidding?" He props himself on his elbows, grinning. "Kiss me again and I'll marry you tomorrow babe ...or right now!"
You laugh, pressing your lips to his stomach again, slower, deeper, letting your hands slide up his sides. His breath stutters when you bite the V of his hips.
He starts making the most shameless noises, as your teeth graze over his skin, running his hands down your back and whispering, "Yeah... bite me, baby, c'mon..."
He totally lives for it.
"You're gonna kill me one of these days," he pants, shaking his head, already halfway gone to the gates of your heaven.
"Maybe," you smile, lips brushing his V again. "You'd die happy, though."
"Oh sweetheart, the happiest! Death by makeout, with the most beautiful woman in the universe. Tell Sue to put it on my tombstone."
You look at him with a glint in your eyes, not trusting your breathless voice so you just straddle him leaning forward, finally giving him the kiss he's been waiting for. His hand slides up your back instantly, gripping like he's afraid you'll pull away, and he groans into your mouth like it's oxygen.
His hands slide up your back, pulling you tight against him, and you lose yourself in the sound of him, the way he gasps when your hands go lower, the way he exhales like he's finally home.
His hands roam freely again, sliding under your shirt, fingertips tracing patterns and dragging fire along your skin. The kiss deepens, your mouths meeting in that messy pattern you both adore. His tongue finds yours with that perfect mix of hunger and rhythm, and you can feel the smirk against your lips every time you gasp when he squeezes your skin with his hands.
Yeah, there was nothing like making out with Johnny.
"You know what?" he pants, pulling back just enough to catch his breath. "Forget the worm thing."
"Yeah?"
"Next time, just bite me again."
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