Content: mostly fluff, mentions of baby-makin’ & pregnancy
Synopsis: Bucky makes a snowman with his gals and learns about his Christmas present early.
A/N: part of Buckmas 2025 with @/buckybarnes82 // my entry for @buckybarnesbingo for the square “Marriage” // part of the Bucky Barnes, Girl Dad miniseries 💕 | 2025 BB Bingo Masterlist
Fat, fluffy snowflakes drift from the cloudy sky creating a fresh blanket of white on the already snow-laden ground.
"Okay, we have to make a snowman!" Beatrix exclaims, throwing her hands in the air dramatically as the credits for Frosty the Snowman roll on the TV.
Winnie's eyes widen in pure glee. "Daddy! Mommy! Can we? Can we?"
You look from your girls to Bucky and smile. Ella is now toddling around her sisters, more sure of her footing every day. The past year went by in a flash. "I think we can all bundle up and make a snowman," you agree.
"But first we all have to pick up our snack trays and help clean up in the kitchen," Bucky adds, encouraging the girls to stack their trays in his hands. They stack with enthusiasm before Bea whips open the coat closet and starts throwing hats, gloves, scarves, and any other warm, fuzzy items at Winnie who bursts into a fit of giggles. They are in their coats and winter accessories in a flash. Bucky dresses Ella in a tiny snowsuit with a unicorn horn on top. You smile, taking in your zany crew before snapping a picture.
"Let's go build a snowman, papa," you whisper to Bucky as he knots a scarf around your neck. He kisses your cheek and follows Winnie and Bea outside while you carry Ella.
The fresh snow is soft atop the layer of older, harder snow, and the girls stomp around like dinosaurs listening to the crunch and laughing.
"Daddy, I want to give our snowman a carrot nose! Do we have any?" Winnie asks, looking up at Bucky with wide eyes. He chuckles and nods. "We do have a few left over from the chicken noodle soup I made. I'll go get one."
You watch him jog back into the house and set Ella carefully on her feet in her tiny snow boots. She cries and reaches for you again, so you scoop her up and kiss his little nose. "Not a fan of the snow, huh, little one?" She just hiccups and nuzzles into the crook of your neck. Bucky stops at the front door with a carrot in his hand, taking in the scene before him: Bea and Winnie rolling a slowly accumulating ball of snow and you resting your cheek atop Ella's unicorn-horned head. He never imagined that he'd get this life—something soft, yet vibrant and chaotic in the most magical way. He's outnumbered in the best way and wouldn't change it for the world. In fact, he hopes that he'll become more outnumbered as the years go on. He walks out, waving the carrot in the air above his head. "One nose coming up!" He launches it, and Bea jumps in the air, catching it with ease. "That's my girl!" He cheers.
Your cheeks warm as you watch the interaction, knowing that you'd give him a whole football team if he asked. Winnie and Bea set back to work, starting on the mid-section of the snowman. "What are you looking at, Mrs. Barnes?" He teases, brushing a strand of hair out of your face.
"An amazing dad," you reply honestly. "My favorite husband," you quip.
"Your favorite husband, huh?" He nudges you gently with his shoulder. "I better be your only husband ever."
"That's the plan, old man," you reply, nudging him back.
He winks and walks to the snowman, assessing it dramatically. "I think he needs a head, guys."
"Dad," Bea says sassily. "We're working on it!" Bucky holds his hands up in surrender. "Okay, okay, my apologies."
He makes his way back to you, ever the gentle observer, watching his girls problem solve and be resourceful. They add two sticks as arms and a couple pine cones they scavenged for eyes which they add after attaching his head. The snowman is a little lopsided, but perfect in Bucky's eyes.
Ella reaches for Bucky with a soft "Dada" and you pass her to him. Her little mittened hand pats his cheek and he grins before looking at you softly. "I love you."
You glance at him. "Me or Ell-Bells?"
"Well, all of you, but you, babe," he says, leaning into you. You kiss him softly for a few seconds before you're interrupted with an exaggerated "Ewwww!" from Beatrix.
"Go find your snowman a belly button or something," Bucky mutters, rolling his eyes playfully before focusing back on you. "Would you believe I want more of these gremlins?"
You swallow and your eyes flit down your body for a split second, but Bucky catches it immediately. He shifts Ella to his other arm and looks at you questioningly.
"I was kind of counting on you wanting more," you whisper.
"Yeah?" He whispers, his eyes glossing over with tears.
You nod, biting your lip. "Plus, are you really that surprised? I mean, Buck, you never pull—"
"We found a belly button!" Winnie interrupts you, holding up a tiny pink button. It must have fallen from one of their sweaters at some point over the last few months.
"It's pink," Bucky says, smiling as Bea and Winnie run to their snowman and attach his new belly button. "I wonder if that's a sign," he whispers to you.
"We do have a track record," you tease.
"How long have you known? Why didn't you tell me right away?" He asks gently, rubbing your arm.
"Just this morning," you say. "I haven't gotten you alone all day."
He laughs softly. "Are you happy?"
"Bucky, are you kidding me?" You start. "I love you and our family so much. I want as many as you want. Are you happy?"
"Of course. I want as many as you'll let me make," he teases, kissing you again.
"You guys are gross," Bea shouts, faking a retch into the snow.
"We're in love," Bucky quips back, kissing you harder. "Get used to it, kid."
Bea and Winnie finish their snowman and you snap a few photos of them posing next to it before Bucky pulls out his phone and takes a few candid photos of his wife. He leans back, one arm holding Ella, one focusing the phone camera on you to get the perfect angle.
"C'mon girls, Daddy is going to make hot chocolate!" He exclaims, walking back into the house. You help the girls out of their snow attire as Bucky heats up the hot cocoa on the stove. He catches your eye and winks at you. "I was going to add some Bailey's to ours, but I guess not anymore."
"Good reason?" You ask.
"The best reason," he replies with a soft smile.
The End
Bucky Christmas Fics
A/N: They really are going to make a whole football team.
Pairing: Handyman!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, Dark!Handyman!Bucky Barnes
Summary: A handyman helps you fix your cabinet and makes a lasting impression.
Word Count: Over 2.2k (Over 1.1k for soft!Bucky and over 1.1k for dark!Bucky)
Soft Warnings: Attraction, sweetness, tension, POV shift, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)
Dark Warnings: Attraction, tension, stalking, stealing, mention of breaking and entering, POV shift, Bucky Barnes (still a warning, okay?)
A/N: Okay, lovelies! Inspired by a nonnie, welcome to "Good With His Hands" and a new style for me. I'm doing a "parallel" of similar scenes with different nuances and intentions, one with a soft and sweet Bucky and the other being darker. I hope you like it! Stan-tastic Association, this is for you! ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Dividers by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Soft!Bucky
One of your cabinet doors came off a hinge. You had no idea how since you opened it like normal, and you also had no idea how to fix it.
A friend recommended someone named Bucky to take a look. She mentioned him once before in passing. Something about him being a living wet dream of a man disguised as a handyman, and even her husband said he was good looking.
“He’s one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. Super reliable. Tell him I sent you,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows. “Plus he’s hot, and you’re single, so maybe you can act out one of those pornos.”
Your face went hot. Was she trying to set you up or at least get you laid?
Regardless, you reached out and set up an appointment. She wouldn't steer you wrong.
You were in for a shock when Bucky showed up right on time. You didn’t expect the “living wet dream” thing to be true, but your heart stopped the second you saw him.
The man made his tight white t-shirt look like a sin and his gentle smile looked like a piece of heaven. His toolbelt sat low on his hips like it lived there. He had a beard that would likely feel soft against your skin, eyes that matched the sky above you, and a muscular frame that you wanted on top of you like a weighted blanket.
“I'm Bucky,” he said softly, holding up his toolbox and wiping his boots on the welcome mat. “You needed help with your cabinet?”
“Yeah.” Why did you sound so breathy? “Come on in, Bucky.”
His smile softened more when he went in, careful not to crowd you, and removed his boots. He was very considerate.
“This way.” You led him to the kitchen, heat rolling up your neck since you felt his gaze on you. But you were probably imagining it.
He looked around your kitchen, taking in the small touches that you put in to help make it yours. “You have a nice home,” he said sincerely and you felt proud.
You gave him space when he crouched in front of the cabinet, carefully inspecting it to see what the issue was. “Looks like it just slipped out of place,” he said, giving you a wink. “Easy fix.”
The wink had you ducking your head and smiling. “Sorry I had to call you out here for that,” you said. It was such a small thing.
“Hey, hey. Please, don’t apologize.” He reached for a tool with an easy smile. “I’m happy to help.”
Bucky asked about you while he worked, like how long you lived there and if you liked the neighborhood. He seemed genuinely interested, which was nice.
“Not… seeing anyone?” he asked, wincing as soon as the words left his mouth. “Sorry I asked. That was-”
“No, it’s okay,” you assured him. He didn’t need to apologize. “I’m not seeing anyone.”
He let out a sigh of relief before you offered him a glass of water, which he accepted with a soft smile. “Thanks,” he whispered, closing his eyes as he drank it down.
Your heart raced when he handed you back the glass and licked the remaining droplets from his lips. You reminded yourself not to ogle him.
“I’m sorry, but would you mind if I used your bathroom?” he asked, an almost shy smile on his face. It disarmed you.
“Not at all. It’s just down the hall on the right,” you said, rinsing out his glass when he left. The gentle scent of his cologne lingered in the air.
He came back quickly and went right back to work. You weren’t aware that he memorized the soap in your bathroom since he liked the smell.
Once he finished fixing the cabinet, he didn’t rush to stand up. He tested the door carefully, making sure it would work properly for you. “Good as new.”
“Thank you so much,” you said, watching as he slowly grabbed his toolbox and rose to his feet. He looked like he didn’t want to leave.
“It was my pleasure.” He gestured with his free hand when you went to get your wallet. “Anything else I can help with?” he asked casually, but there was hope in his eyes.
“Not at the moment, but I appreciate it.” You wished you had an excuse to keep him there, but everything else was working.
Bucky couldn’t hide his disappointment when you paid him, and it was kind of flattering. “Well, if anything else gives you trouble, let me know.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Doesn’t even have to be big or important.”
You smiled since you had a feeling he wasn’t talking about home repairs. “Thanks,” you said, following him to the door.
You tried really hard not to stare at his backside when he put his boots back on, but damn. You almost hoped something would break so you’d have a reason to reach out.
He hesitated when he opened the door. “It was really nice meeting you,” he said, his voice warm and sincere. “I hope I see you again.”
“Me, too, Bucky.” You bit your lip when he smiled and turned away. You didn’t shut the door until you saw him get in his truck.
You shot your friend a message. “Okay, he really is a walking wet dream. And he did a great job. Thanks!”
You giggled and hugged your phone to your chest. That man wasn’t leaving your mind anytime soon.
Bucky couldn’t keep the smile off his face as he relaxed in his seat. Something had shifted inside him when you opened your front door and it spread through him like a steady current that he didn’t want to fight.
He wasn’t the kind of man to believe in love at first sight, but maybe he had been wrong. His heart couldn’t help but race faster as he let that wash over him.
You were so beautiful and kind. He couldn’t believe you were single, but he was glad for that since it gave him hope.
He knew he’d be good to you if you gave him a chance. Sure, he didn’t have a glamorous job, but that didn’t mean he didn't know how to treat a woman.
He’d have to message your friend and thank her for the recommendation. He wasn’t sure if you two would’ve ever met if not for her, but he liked to think that fate or something would’ve stepped in somehow and brought you together.
Taking his phone from his pocket, he searched for that soap and thought about just how quickly he’d see you again.
“I hope I see you soon,” he whispered. He really did.
Dark!Bucky
One of your cabinet doors came off a hinge, and you had no idea how. You didn’t know at the time that he did.
A friend recommended someone named Bucky to take a look. He mentioned him once in passing. Something about serving together in the army and how Bucky saved him.
“He’s great at that stuff. He’ll take care of you. You won’t regret it,” he promised, smiling sheepishly. “And not to make it awkward since I don’t even really know how it came up, but he saw a photo of us weeks ago and I may have said that you’re single.”
You frowned a little. He wasn’t trying to set you up, was he?
In any case, you reached out and set up an appointment. What did you have to lose?
You were in for a shock when Bucky showed up five minutes early. Your friend may have forgotten to mention how devastatingly handsome he was, or maybe he withheld that on purpose.
The white t-shirt stretched across his broad chest and shoulders like it was painted on and his smile didn’t reach his eyes, but it was beautiful nonetheless. His toolbelt hung heavy on his hips like it was part of him. He had a beard that you imagined would leave behind a delicious burn, eyes that reminded you of a beautiful storm, and a muscular frame that could crush you if you let him.
“I'm Bucky,” he said gruffly, holding up his toolbox and letting his gaze briefly drift past you into your home. “I’m here to help with your cabinet.”
“Yeah.” Why did your voice sound so small? “Come on in, Bucky.”
His eyes flickered to your lips before he went in, almost brushing against you, and removed his boots. It was kind of him to do that.
“This way.” You led him to the kitchen, your breath catching since he was practically on top of you. But you were probably imagining it.
He looked around your kitchen with an observant eye, and you didn’t realize he had already seen it and had catalogued where everything was. “You have a nice place,” he said quietly and you had to agree with that.
You gave him space when he crouched in front of the cabinet, the one he messed with a few days before when you were out of the house. “Looks like it slipped,” he said casually, turning his attention to you with a penetrating stare. “Shouldn’t take me long to fix.”
His stare had you ducking your head, the intensity of it making your head spin. “Sorry I had to call you out here for that,” you said. It was such a small thing.
“Don’t apologize.” He grasped a tool without glancing at it. “I like that I’m needed.”
Bucky was mostly quiet while he worked, but his eyes went to you when he asked just how long you lived there. He seemed curious without being nosy, which was nice.
“Not seeing anyone?” he asked, but he looked at you like he knew the answer. “Sorry if that’s too forward.”
“No, it’s fine,” you assured him. It was a simple question. “I’m not seeing anyone.”
He nodded, satisfied, before you offered him a glass of water, which he accepted with a slow smile. “Thanks,” he whispered, his eyes on you as he drank it down.
Your heart pounded when he handed you back the glass and deliberately ran his tongue along his lips. You told yourself not to stare.
“You mind if I used your bathroom?” he asked, the corner of his lip tugging like he was trying not to smile. It was endearing.
“Not at all. It’s just down the hall on…” you trailed off since he had already walked out. You shrugged and rinsed out his glass, the gentle scent of his cologne lingering in the small space.
He came back after a couple of minutes and went back to work without a word. You didn’t know he stole a pair of panties from your laundry basket.
Once he finished fixing the cabinet, he didn’t move right away. His fingertips brushed the door before testing it, which seemed to be working just fine. “Should be good now.”
“Thank you so much,” you said, watching as he grabbed toolbox with no sense of urgency and rose to his feet. He looked like he wanted a reason to stay.
“Sure thing.” His eyes did a slow sweep of the space when you went to get your wallet. “You don’t need help with anything else?” he asked, almost daring you to find something wrong so he could stick around.
“Nothing I can think of. I appreciate you checking.” You didn’t want to take up his time when he probably had others waiting.
Bucky didn’t seem disappointed when you paid him, and that reaction somehow made you feel disappointed. “Anything else breaks, you call me.” He stepped close enough to pick a piece of lint from your sleeve. “I’ll be here.”
You let out a breath and nodded, unsure if he was just talking about home repairs or something deeper. “Thanks,” you said, following him to the door.
You tried not to stare at his backside when he put his boots back on, but wow. You’d have to keep in mind if something else broke.
He paused when he opened the door. “Nice meeting you,” he said, his voice low and almost intimate. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon.”
“It was nice meeting you, too, Bucky.” You exhaled when he nodded and turned away. You didn’t shut the door until you saw him get in his truck.
You shot your friend a message. “Bucky is a little intense, but he did a great job. Thanks.”
You smiled to yourself and set your phone down. That man’s presence lingered and it wasn’t going away anytime soon.
Bucky smirked and leaned back in his seat. Something consumed him when he saw your photo weeks ago and it spread through him like sweet poison.
He wouldn’t call himself a stalker, even if he did watch you and break into your home. He couldn’t help that he wanted you.
You were more perfect up close. You being single made things easier, but he would’ve removed that obstacle if necessary.
He’d be good to you when you gave him a chance. His job made him good with his hands and he’d take care of you in every single way.
He’d already thanked his friend for putting in a good word for him. Not that he needed the help since he would’ve found a way to get to you, but a recommendation helped him look safe and trustworthy.
Reaching into his pocket, his hand closed around your panties, and he wondered when you’d notice that something was now broken in your bathroom.
“I’ll see you soon,” he whispered. He’d make sure of it.
So, what do we think? What else do we want to see? Are you team soft or dark? Or both?
a/n: will anyone believe me if I say I capped myself at 2k for this???????? no proofreading bc I wrote this in between putting people in casts and splints and I'm tired and I have to do it all again for 12 hours tomorrow.
Pairing: Congressman Barnes x PR Manager!Reader
Warnings: SMUT!!! there's unprotected p in v, cream pie, fingering, fingers in mouth, a ripped Aritzia skirt (RIP), office sex, yearning?
Word count: 6.5k
Summary: You're the newly hired PR manager for Congressman James Buchanan Barnes, and you need to make sure New Yorkers keep voting correctly.
bucky 4 change masterlist
It started as every other day. 4am matcha latte. Yoga right after. A steming hot shower, a good blowdry to your hair, and some makeup, and you were sitting on the grey burgundy couch outside of his office with your legs crossed at the ankle promptly at 7:57am for an 8am meeting.
The office was buzzing with the low hum of early morning caffeine and political dread when you walked in. Some people looking at important documents, others just working through useless bureaucracy to make politicians look busy.
His secretary, sweet 64 year old Lizbeth, called your name and you followed her powdery rose perfume clad self into the open door of his office.
Him and his tall, muscular build got up from where he sat behind the desk, shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to prove you weren't dead inside, and soon he was standing in front of you, arm extended to shake your hand.
"James Barnes." He shook your hand with a smile. “You’re the new PR advisor?”
You smiled back at him with equal measure. "I'm your new PR manager." That earned a small twitch of his mouth. Not quite a smirk, but something close. You could see it already—he thought he could handle you. “We need to talk about your social media presence."
"I don't… have it." He looked at you like it was obvious, and to his credit, it was. He rounded his desk and sat down, "Please." He motioned for you to sit down on the chair across from him.
"I know. You’re a technically forty-something war hero withfacial hair and a jawline that could get teenagers to vote. If you’re not using social media, you’re robbing your base and the internet thirst machine.”
He blinked. “The what?”
You reached into your bag, pulled out your iPad, and slid it across his desk. The screen was already queued up to a compilation video someone made on TikTok titled Congressman Barnes being unintentionally hot for 2 minutes straight.
He stared at it. “This is real?”
“1.2 million views in three days.” You clicked your tongue.
“You’re fucking with me. What the hell is this?”
“Your constituency,” you say, coolly. “They’re starving. And you’re sitting on a goldmine, well, I am. Metaphorically. Also you just said ‘fuck’ in front of your PR strategist. Twice.”
He looked up at you, brow raised. “Are you offended?”
“God, no. But now that we got that out of the way. This campaign’s a fucking mess. And I’m here to fix it.”
This time, he did smirk. Something simmering just beneath the surface, in the way his gaze lingered a second too long. In the way his fingers tapped once, then twice, on the edge of his desk.
"Okay. What do I need to do?"
“Step one,” you say, opening your folder and flashing him a smile that makes his stomach flip in a way it hadn't since 1942, “is that you do exactly what I say.” You pause. Tilt your head. “And step two is that you start wearing tighter suits.”
By 4:30pm on the same day you’ve already reorganized half his calendar, fired one junior staffer, and rewritten three of his talking points by the time he walks back into his office. "Is it weird that I feel like I'm about to be interrogated?"
"No, because I'm about to interogate you."
Lights on. Mic clipped. You took your seat across from him, clipboard in hand. “Alright,” you say, voice crisp. “Hot mic, camera rolling, you’ve got sixty seconds. Voter in Queens asks what your top three priorities are. Go.”
You grilled him about his answers over and over again, until what came out of his mouth on a whim in a moment of pressure was the perfect amount of rehearsed honesty.
He laughed once under his breath. “You always this hard on your clients?”
"Only the elderly ones." You smirked and typed a couple notes, missing the blush that freckled his face.
It took you three days to completely revamp his campaign. All that was left standing from his previous days before his entire campaign was run straight out of your head was Lizbeth and her desk.
At the tailor's later that week, he's trying numerous amounts of colors, fabrics, and fits for the new leg of his campaign. A revamp of wardrobe. You need suits that fit you and don't look like they're from a random clothes chest from 1934. Was what you said to him.
“I don’t want to be another empty suit with a good smile,” and something in your chest lurches. Just a little.
"That's why we're sending all your suits to be taken in a little. So the suits are borderline obscenely filled." You looked up from your — his — color coded planner and sent Lizbeth a text about a meeting that would be difficult to reschedule, so you'd deal with it.
You were met by him pulling the curtain open and showing you the deep navy, single-breasted, peak lapel suit, snug through the shoulders and chest. He buttoned the shirt at the collar—no tie yet—and the way he rolled his wrists as he adjusted the cuffs was unfair.
"That one. That’s the one.”
He looks at you, then the mirror. “Why? What’s different?”
“The fit,” you say. “It’s clean. Intentional." You shift the planner and phone out of your lap and stand up, walking over to stand in front of him close enough he could really take in the fact that you were wearing 5 inch heels and he still towered over you. With plenty of room.
Your hands went up to the collar of the crisp shirt, adjusting it and then undoing the top two buttons. "Brings out your eyes too." It only got you a chuckle in response, his eyes never leaving yours, even though you avoided his gaze.
It was almost too quiet. He raised a brow. “That’s the look we’re going for?”
“You’re running for office, not sainthood.”
The tailor fussed with the hem. Bucky’s eyes were still on you. “And you’re the expert on that?” he asks, low.
“I’m the expert on you,” you murmur without looking up. “It’s literally my job.”
You stand in silence for another beat or two, and you go back to sitting on the couch once the tailor clears his throat. Bucky going back to the dressing room to try a beige-cream colored set.
You walk to his side of the desk and drop a stack of printed talking points beside his hand. “Review those before your segment with CBS tomorrow. They’ll want something polished but personal. I highlighted the lines you can say without sounding like a robot.”
You leaned on the desk, almost sitting on it but not quite,, just enough to make your skirt ride up when you crossed your legs. Not that they were bare, the sheer stockings you had on helped heep the outfit Congress worthy, and also deplorably inappropriate if you ask Bucky's hippocampus.
It had been three months since your first day, and each day he seemed to find something worthy to file away to the back of his mind, only to be retreived in the case of an unbearable hard on.
Which, thanks to you, had been pretty frequent.
You didn’t notice the way his pen froze halfway through a signature—well, not openly. You didn’t acknowledge the way his eyes flicked briefly to your legs and then resolutely back to the paper in front of him, jaw tight.
Or maybe you did. Because you leaned in slightly, perfectly manicured fingers tapping once beside his coffee cup, a gesture that brought your perfume that much closer to his senses. That clean, sweet scent he’d come to associate with damage control, late nights, and the exact moment his professionalism started fraying at the edges.
He cleared his throat. “These all got your approval?”
Your smile was all innocent. “Of course. Unless you want to go rogue and talk about your love for standardized testing and tax loopholes again.”
“Mm,” he hummed, not looking at you. “That went well.”
“I still have emails about it.”
He looked up at that, and for a second—just a second—his expression flickered into something wicked.
“Anything interesting?” he asked, tone smooth. “Fan mail? Death threats? Thirst comments?”
You gave him a teasing smile. "Look at you, catching up on the slang." You met his gaze without flinching. “Mostly people saying your PR manager should get a raise.”
“Oh?” he said, sitting back in his chair a little too casually, thighs spreading just a fraction wider beneath the desk. “Well, you’ll have to take that up with the Congressman. Heard he's a real hard ass with that sort of stuff.”
“I am,” you replied coolly, with a tilt of your head. “And I’d like to argue that your rise in approval ratings coincides directly with your improved tailoring and your willingness to be bossed around by a woman a foot and some change shorter than you.”
He let out a low chuckle, fingers curling slightly around the pen still resting on his papers. “If I recall correctly, you said I liked being told what to do.”
You smiled. “And?”
He leaned forward, elbows braced on the desk now, voice dropping just enough to make your spine straighten. “And maybe I do.”
There it was again—that thing in his tone that made your skin prickle with heat and your brain scatter like the click of your heels on Capitol marble.
You swallowed. Straightened your planner. “Good. Then you’ll review the talking points, wear the Tom Ford, and not flirt with the CBS anchor.”
“She flirts with me.”
“And you let her.” You pointed.
He smirked. “Jealous?”
You stood then, slowly, making sure your skirt didn’t slip too low again just to annoy him. "Just don't make my hard work be in vain."
You had four alarms set. Your color-coded planner was blocked in ten-minute increments. You were on track for a flawless CBS segment at 9:45 AM. And he was still in bed at 7:58, like some trust fund Golden Retriever who had never been yelled at by a producer with an earpiece.
You set the coffees down on the kitchen island with a loud clack and stormed down the hall.
You creaked the door open, and there he was. Shirtless.Hair a disaster. Sheets tangled around one leg. Eyes barely cracked open as the morning sun filtered in behind you.
“Mm,” he groaned, voice all gravel and velvet. “Why are you in my apartment?”
You held up the suit like it was a weapon. “Because you’re scheduled to be on national television in less than two hours and you overslept.”
His brow furrowed like the concept of time was still theoretical. You flipped on the bedroom lights. “Up. Now. You need to shower. Move.”
He groaned again but swung his legs over the side of the bed, body stretching in a way that should be illegal. Broad chest, scarred shoulder, boxers hanging dangerously low. A flex of abs as he stood and scratched the back of his neck, stumbling toward the bathroom like an exhausted soldier crawling into the trenches.
"Of course the one day you oversleep is one of the biggest ones for your campaign, TV-wise." You mumbled under your breath.
You tried not to look. You really did.
But Jesus. He was built like a 1940s fever dream and you’d be a liar if you said you didn’t take a brief moment to admire the curve of his back as he disappeared into the steam.
You cleared your throat. Focused.
You set the suit on the hook outside the bathroom and paced through his apartment while he showered, texting Lizbeth and CBS’s segment producer and checking his pre-approved talking points one more time.
By the time he walked out, new boxers hugging low around his hips, hair dripping, and looking every bit like a Greek tragedy with a congressional badge, you nearly dropped your phone. He started dressing like you don’t happen to be standing ten feet away actively fighting for your composure. You glance—once—and then turn so fast you nearly drop his damn planner.
He notices, of course. “You okay over there?” he asks, smug.
“Perfectly fine,” you manage, thrusting the tie toward him without making eye contact. “Power red was too aggressive. Navy’s better.”
He’s buttoning the shirt now, collar still undone, watching you through the mirror like he knows. You step forward, close the distance between you and tug the tie into place yourself. Your fingers brush his throat. His breath catches—and yours does too, just for a beat too long.
“You’re mic’d in thirty,” you murmur, focusing on the knot. “Don’t forget the lines I highlighted. Say them like you mean them.”
He’s quiet. Watching you. “I always mean it when you write it.”
You ignore the flip in your stomach. Step back. Compose yourself. "Car's waiting."
The black SUV is quiet. Just the soft shuffle of notes in your lap and the occasional rustle of his suit as he adjusts in the seat beside you.
It’s rare—this quiet. No buzzing phones, no barking campaign aides, no back-to-back meetings or Capitol chaos. Just the two of you, the city sliding past the tinted windows, and the low pulse of pre-interview nerves that you feel more from him than yourself.
You glance up and catch it—his left hand fidgeting slightly with the hem of his cuff. His knee bouncing once. His jaw set tighter than usual.
“You’re nervous,” you say quietly, almost amused. “You’ve given floor speeches about gun control with less tension.”
He huffs a breath, eyes still on the window. “Yeah, well… CBS has a bigger audience than C-SPAN. And you’re not glaring at me from the floor during this one.”
You smile, despite yourself. “I glare because it makes you focus.”
“I know,” he says, softer now. “That’s the problem.”
You shift toward him. “You’ll be fine,” you murmur, reaching over before you even think twice. Your fingers smooth along his lapel, adjusting the line of the fabric near his shoulder. Then you glance at his hair—of course it’s stubborn. You reach again, gently smoothing down a stray wave at his temple, brushing your knuckles against his cheekbone in the process.
He just watches you like he’s trying to memorize you. Like the whole city could vanish outside the car and he wouldn’t notice. There’s a quiet awe in it. Something unspoken and molten beneath the surface, something so raw it catches you off guard.
“You take such good care of me.”
Your throat tightens. “It’s my job.” And god if you don't want to take it back and say that it's more than that. It's that spending your Thursday nights barefoot in his office running points with nothing but dumplings in your stomach isn't your favorite part of the week. It's that when you don't have a text from him with a stupid question on a Saturday morning before your kickboxing class, you're a little disappointed.
He smiles—soft, a little crooked. “I know."
You sit back before you can say anything you shouldn’t. Before you can reach for his hand or smooth the collar again just to touch him. The planner is back in your lap. Your eyes are back on the city.
By 9:43 AM, he’s camera-ready—flawless in the navy suit, sharp jaw clean-shaven, talking points memorized. His voice is smooth, his smile just sincere enough to go viral, and you’re standing off-camera with your arms crossed, pretending your pulse isn’t still racing.
You try not to react. You’re the PR manager. You’re here to observe, manage optics, control spin. Not melt like a popsicle in July because your client looks like a Calvin Klein wet dream in a navy suit you personally picked, with a voice like the best old fashioned in the five boroughs and eyes that only ever seem to look at you.
The anchor asks a question about community reinvestment.
Bucky answers it flawlessly.
You didn’t write that exact phrasing—he’s improvising—but his tone is warm and real, and his shoulders stay relaxed. He even cracks a smile when the anchor jokes about how rare it is to have a Congressman “under forty, with charm, a military record, and a jawline that could cut glass.”
Bucky just chuckles. Then looks at you. Dead-on. Like you’re his anchor point.
And says, smoothly, “I have a great team. Especially my PR manager. She keeps me in line.”
The anchor raises a brow. “Sounds like she’s got her hands full.”
“Oh, you have no idea.” he replied, low and smiling in that way only you know means something else entirely.
The day goes by like a flash. A string of meetings, press calls, policy reviews, and constituent damage control that started at dawn and hadn’t let up since.
You blinked and it was 3:45pm, and you were standing by Bucky in a cabinet meeting. Staring at your iPad, jotting down notes from the meeting, good talking points you'd thought of so you wouldn't forget later, trying to pay attention to the twelve people in the room blabbing about clean water and rent control policies.
Not knowing the entire time, Bucky's head wasn't in the meeting. In fact, if it wasn’t physically attached to his body by that thick, sin-worthy neck, it would’ve rolled right off his shoulders, under the table, and right between your legs.
And frankly? That’s exactly where he wanted it.
It was almost mean, really. You had the same black skirt from a couple of days prior, the one that gave him all sorts of nasty, depraved thoughts about what was kept between your thighs. Oasis. Ecstasy, if you ask him.
The one that had haunted him two nights ago when he’d jerked off in the shower, cursing your name because he came embarrassingly fast just thinking about the way the back of it hugged your ass when you bent slightly over his desk to grab your bag before leaving, wishing you were bent over the dark mahogany for other purposes.
He had one hand in his pocket, not because it was casual, but because he was hard. Embarrassingly so. Right there in a room with twelve other people. Twelve people talking about housing vouchers and public utilities, and all he could think about was how your mouth looked this morning while sipping that iced matcha latte.
You glanced over once, briefly, to ask if he wanted to weigh in on the zoning clause. He managed a grunt and a nod. You didn’t even seem to notice his pupils were blown.
And maybe it was for the best—because if you did, he’d have to admit he’d been mentally tongue-deep in the idea of you squeezing your thighs shut while you scolded him about platform messaging. Again.
“…as long as the funds are reallocated under the clause in section three—” In one ear, out the other.
Absolutely nothing was sticking in Bucky’s head. The room might as well have been filled with static. Numbers. Acronyms. Someone saying the word "pilot program" for the fourth time. He blinked, jaw tight, nodding absently at a graph someone passed around.
Sitting in the middle of this boring-ass cabinet meeting, trying to focus on someone explaining municipal wastewater infrastructure, all he could think about was bending you over the desk in front of him. Right there.
Of hiking that cruel little black skirt up over your ass, tugging your pantyhose down just enough, and putting his mouth exactly where he knew you’d taste like power and honey and something ruinous.
In his mind, you were breathless—trying to stay composed, gripping the edge of the table, your notes forgotten, your toes curling inside those pointed heels. He knew you wouldn't be patient, and he wouldn't have the heart to deny you anything, let alone his mouth.
“—so we’d just need your signature by end of day,” someone said at the front of the room, and he was brought back to reality by the same pointed shoes nidging his calf to elicit a response from him.
The limo ride back is dimly lit, city lights slinking past the tinted windows in gold and blue streaks as the day winds down into something warmer, lazier.
You’re curled slightly toward him on the plush leather seat, legs tucked under you as you scroll through the comments on his Instagram—specifically, the snippet you posted of the CBS moment that has social media in a chokehold.
You snort. “Oh my god,” you mumble through a grin. “Someone said they want to be arrested by you in that suit.”
Bucky hums lowly beside you, tie loosened, top button undone, one arm thrown across the back of the seat like he’s not fully aware how casual and hot he looks doing it. Or maybe he is. Maybe that’s the problem.
“Arrested, huh?” He raises an eyebrow, voice a little hoarse from the hours of talking. “Should I be concerned? Is that how low public trust has dropped?”
You glance up at him. “No, trust me—these comments are not about policy. Unless ‘publicly rearranging my insides’ is part of your campaign platform now.” Your eyes perk up, and you turn to scribble something down on your planner. "Oh! Idea!"
He laughs—really laughs—and lets his head fall back against the seat. “Jesus.”
You scroll a bit more, still grinning. “I mean, not to inflate your ego further, but someone just called you ‘Congress Zaddy.’ With three fire emojis.”
He glances sideways at you, lips curled. “You okay over there?”
“Huh?”
“You’re glowing. Laughing. I didn’t know getting thirst comments on my behalf was your love language.”
You roll your eyes, cheeks warm. “Relax.”
But he doesn’t let it go. He watches you a beat longer, eyes a little softer now, a little slower. Then, with a smirk that makes your stomach flip, he adds “You know, next time, you can just tell me you like the way the suit fits. Don’t need to crowdsource it.”
You blink. "Since when do you know what crowdsourcing even is?"
He’s teasing. You know he’s teasing.
But the way he says it—low, almost indulgent, like he already knows exactly what that suit does to you and he’s been waiting for you to admit it—makes it hit lower than your spine and higher than your heart.
You recover fast, eyes narrowing as you sit up and slip keys out of your bag.
“Goodnight, Congressman,” you say, with a wry smile, just as the car pulls to a stop in front of your building.
He lifts his brows like he’s not done, not even close, but just nods. “Sleep tight, boss.”
It was well past midnight when the call came in.
You were half-asleep on the couch in his office, legs folded under you, Bucky’s jacket around your shoulders because the central heating in the building shut off hours ago. He was pacing behind his desk, still in that damn navy suit that fit too well, tie long discarded and top buttons undone. You blinked blearily at him when his phone rang—watched his eyes flicker, voice go quiet. And then:
“…You’re kidding.” A beat of silence. A grin. And a breathless, “Holy shit.” And then he was looking at you like you were the reason the world kept turning. “They folded,” he said, voice breaking on a laugh. “They’re backing the amendment. We’ve got the votes.”
You jolted upright, barely processing what he said before you were on your feet, grinning, eyes wide. “Wait—wait, really?!”
He crossed the room and grabbed you. Lifted you off your feet in a single motion, arms around your waist as you squealed and threw yours around his neck. He spun you once before setting you down gently, palms warm on your sides, that big, disbelieving grin still on his face.
You were breathless. “Do you know what this means?”
“Yeah,” he murmured, not moving, eyes fixed on your mouth. “Means you’re a fucking genius.”
His mouth crashes into yours, desperate and unrestrained, lips parting yours instantly. His nose bumps yours, his breath mixes with yours, and the taste—God, the taste of him—is whiskey and heat and every pent-up moment you’ve shared in dim hallways and elevators and late-night strategy sessions.
His hands are on both sides of your face, making it impossible to move away even if you wanted to.
Your hands grip his shirt, bunching the fabric at his collar as you gasp softly into his mouth.
He groans—quiet, low, involuntary—and it goes straight through you. His thumbs stroke your jaw, tilting your face just enough that he can kiss you deeper, harder, like he’s trying to solidify you into memory by tact alone.
It's messy and it's perfect and he kisses you like he's ready for it to be the last time he sees you, right before you slap him across the face, march out of his office and have a courier deliver a sexual assault lawsuit straight onto the desk he dreamed of bending you over.
And when he finally rips himself away with a strangled inhale, his forehead stays pressed against yours. “Oh my God—” he whispered. “I’m—shit, I’m so sorry. I didn’t— I shouldn’t have—fuck, I didn’t mean to just—”
You didn’t let him finish. You grabbed his face with both hands and yanked him back in. Open-mouthed. Hungry. Your teeth catch his bottom lip, his hands fly straight to your waist, dragging you against him like he’s been starving for this—for you—and can finally eat.
He stumbles forward, or maybe you pull him back, and the edge of his desk catches the back of your thighs. You barely notice. You’re too busy swallowing the sound he makes when your tongue slides against his.
"This is so unprofessional." You murmured against his lips, without any real intention of stopping. He exhales something helpless—almost a curse—and then he’s kissing you again, deeper than before, hands dipping low to grip your thighs and perch you up to sit on the desk — dark cool mahogany under your skin — standing flush against you between your knees.
His tongue sweeps into your mouth, slow at first, then needier when you sigh into him. His hand splays against your back, dragging your body up into his, and you feel how much he wants you—all of you—pressed against your hip.
You break the kiss just long enough to gasp a breath, but he follows, mouth tracing your jaw, your cheek, your neck where your carotid is pulsing his name in a morse code only he understood.
Your hands dropped from where they were tugging his tie loose to his belt, clinking the leather and gold hardware away from where you wanted to be sitting pretty on. As you unzipped his pants and let your hand find him under the confines of his boxers, Bucky groaned into your neck and nipped — hard — as you stroke the heavy, hot length of him.
His hips jolted forward with a strangled sound, something low and deep that escapes against your neck like he's ashamed of being so available at your mercy. His forehead pressed into your shoulder as you stroke him—slow, twisting just enough at the tip to make him groan quietly into your skin.
He was panting against your neck, every breath warmer than the last, and your hand hasn’t stopped moving. His cock is heavy in your palm, thick and pulsing with each stroke, and the way he ruts forward—controlled, precise—makes your knees tighten around his hips.
"Fuck," he mutters into your skin, hand sliding up your inner thigh beneath your skirt, bunching the fabric at your waist until the cool air hits your panties, as do his fingers, feeling the wet spot on the soft lace. “You’re soaked.”
You nodded, breathless. "Been soaked since you almost missed CBS."
He looked dazed for a moment, pulling away to look at your face for any signs you were fucking with him before actually fucking him. "That was months ago."
"Mmmhmm." While biting your lip was all you let out as your free hand pulled him to kiss you again — rougher now, teeth and tongue and months of unsaid things—and you barely register the shuffle of paper and pens falling to the floor as he sweeps your planner and notes off the desk behind you.
He makes quick work of your blouse, the silk falling behind you and turning to nothing around your wrists, sheer skill undoing the clasp of your white lace balconette bra. You brushed both fabrics away from you arms, finding yourself completely topless and helpless to the assault of his beard on your supple skin.
He hooked a finger on the sopping wet center of your panties while he kissed down your chest, and pulled the sticky lace away from you like it was offending him, and once it was just hanging off of the tip of your black heels, his calloused flesh fingers found the wetness he spent months thinking about.
Your leg wrapped around his hip while he teased your slit, spreading your wetness until you whined against him, and gave him a gentle squeeze just in case he didn't hear you.
“I think about this every fucking time I walk into this office,” he muttered against your skin, nipping at it, breath ragged. “Every time you argue with me in front of staff. Every time you call me ‘Congressman’ like you don’t know how close I am to bending you over this goddamn desk.”
His fingers dipped into you like he was curling them to scoop cake batter like a mischevious kid who caught the mixing bowl unattended. Your cunt clenched around his digits like you never wanted to let him go — and to be honest, you didn't.
You gasped into his mouth, letting yourself bite his chin and nip at his jaw. "Please, Bucky."
"Mmmm, is that my name, sweetheart?" Some other time you'd scold him for being so smug. Maybe during a time where he misused a slang, or dressed up too out of time.
Not when he stuck another finger inside of you to the hilt, and rubbed the rough surface of his palm against your clit. "Please, Congressman Barnes — fuck— I—"
The amount of noise coming from your mouth was humiliating enough without the obscenely loud squelch of his fingers pumping in and out of your pussy, fast enough to get you to the edge but slow enough to just keep you there.
“What do you need, sweetheart?”
You bite down on his chin again, try to grind down against his hand, unable to think straight, unable to pretend anymore. “You. I need— just— please—”
He curses softly under his breath, the kind of sound you’ve only ever heard when he’s frustrated at budget cuts or broken bills—but this isn’t frustration. This is hunger. This is agony. This was months of tension snapping like overstretched wire.
“You say please like that,” he whispers, “and I’ll give you anything.” He pushed your legs further apart, to the degree the crepe fabric of your skirt couldn't stretch to, so it gave away and ripped down the side seam about an inch.
He kissed you quiet, laying you down on the dark wood, cool against the hot skin of your back, and left a trail of kisses and nips down your neck and chest, the closer he got to where it would be covered, the harder the bit and sucked.
Bucky stood up again and took his cock out of his pants — finally — and it was everything you imagined it would be. Beautifully thick, long enough to hit every spot possible inside of you, leaking, and needy.
He fists himself a couple of times, dragging the blunt head of him over your slit and coating himself in your wetness before leaning over you. He didn't kiss you when he pushed in, instead he held himself just above you, hovering, swallowing the moan you let out right into his mouth.
Your foot urged him closer, even though he was trying with all his might to savor it. He could savor all the other times, you thought. Right now you needed him so deep inside of you, you thought you were gonna break in half.
And by the grace of everything that is holy, he did.
Bucky held both of your legs apart, straightening his spine to pump his cock in and out of your begging cunt. He didn't know where to look, his eyes danced between the pure esctasy on your face and the depraved image of your pussy swallowing him over and over again.
“All those nights we stayed late…” he murmured, eyes dropping to where you were spread open for him, voice raw and low. “All those times you bent over this desk and had no fucking clue I was two seconds away from bending you over it for real.”
You whined and he swore he'd make you let out that sound a thousand more times before the year was done. The drag of him, the pressure, the stretch—it was too much and still not enough.
Another broken sound spills from you, louder this time, and his jaw tightens, something primal and possessive flaring across his face.
“Okay,” he murmurs, “okay, I got you.”
He takes his hand from your hip and brings two fingers to your mouth — the same fingers he’d had inside you earlier, the ones that had you gasping and begging and shaking for him. They hover just over your lips, glistening, and your breath stutters.
He leans close, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “Open.”
The second your lips part, he slides them past your tongue, giving you something to cling to, something to bite down on, something to muffle the sounds he knows you can’t hold back. His fingers rest heavy on your tongue, and his eyes flutter for a moment — ruined by the sight of you sucking them in without hesitation.
“That’s it…” he groans, hips stuttering once. “That’s my girl.”
You suck harder, desperate, and he swears under his breath, the sound half‑praise, half‑plea. Your hand slips up his chest and bunches in his shirt again as he drops his forehead to yours, breath shaking.
“Good,” he whispers, voice barely holding together. “Be good for me — stay quiet — just like that.”
Your moan vibrates around his fingers, and his eyes roll shut, breath leaving him in one long, broken exhale.
“Look at you,” he whispered, almost reverent now. “Fucking heaven. So tight. So wet. You’re everything I ever wanted and so much filthier than I deserve.”
You clenched around him, and he groaned.
“Next time,” he mutters against your lips, “I’ll take my time. I’ll get on my knees for you. I’ll eat that perfect little pussy until you’re crying and thanking me.” Another thrust.
You’re clenching around him now, back arching up to meet each thrust, and he feels it — he feels it — your whole body begging to let go.
“Gonna come for me?” he whispers, dragging his fingers down your body to find your clit, slick with need. He circles it expertly, groaning when you twitch beneath him. “You’re so close. I can feel it.”
His voice drops even lower, wrecked and filthy.
“Come on, sweetheart. Be good. Let me feel you. Let me feel this tight little cunt strangle my cock.”
Your hands are in his hair before you even realize it, yanking him down into a kiss so filthy, so unrestrained, that he nearly loses it right there.
“You gonna soak my cock like the good fucking girl you are?”
And when you do — when your whole body tenses and he feels you squeeze around him like a vice — he groans so loud it echoes, fucking you through it with deep, desperate strokes. You don’t even register the words that leave your mouth, some combination of yes and Bucky and please, but he does. He hears every single one and kisses them off your lips like a treasures only he gets to keep.
“Come inside me, Bucky.” His breath hitches. You smile, slow and wicked, voice thick with heat. “I want it. Want to feel you filling me up. Want to walk out of here knowing I’m leaking you all the way down my thighs.”
“Fuck,” he hisses, forehead pressing against yours, eyes squeezing shut. He growls low in his chest, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he thrusts once, twice, and then buries himself as deep as you’ll let him, spilling into you with a long, hoarse moan against your neck. “Fuck—fuck, fuck,” he gasps, every muscle in his body trembling as he pulses inside you, rutting into your wet heat like he never wants to stop.
You hold him there, both hands tangled in his hair, whispering praise into his skin. You stay wrapped around him, skin still slick, breaths still uneven, your skirt torn up your thigh, and his shirt clinging to his back where your nails raked him raw.
“You okay?” he murmured.
“Yeah. I just… forgot what day it was. Year. Name. That sort of thing.” You chuckled, sending vibrations to where he was softening inside of you.
“I, uh…” He clears his throat, suddenly sheepish, like he didn’t just rail you into his desk and promise to give you anything when you begged. “I was gonna wait, but…” He scratches the back of his neck, still flushed, hair askew. “There’s the Speaker’s Gala next Friday. Press’ll be there. Colleagues. Donors.”
"I'm aware. I make your calendar." You raise a brow. “Bucky Barnes trying to impress the suits?”
He grins. “I don’t give a shit about the suits. I want you there.” Your breath catches. He continues, softer this time. “Not as my staffer. Not as the person who saved my campaign’s ass. Just… as you. With me. If you want.”
You blink at him, your heart lurching in the way it has a thousand times these past few months— only now, there's nothing keeping it from showing on your face.
“Are you asking me on a date, Congressman?”
He tilts his head, that crooked smile back on his face. “I just had sex with you on government property. I think we’re past subtext.”
You snort, smacking his chest lightly. “Fine. I’ll go.”
“And?”
a/n: dribbles are open for this! and social media posts????????
The flirty banter between reader and bucky was sooo well written and had me giggling and smiling from the OFF.
"I know. You’re a technically forty-something war hero withfacial hair and a jawline that could get teenagers to vote. If you’re not using social media, you’re robbing your base and the internet thirst machine.”
So true 😌 girlie knows exactly what she’s talking about this is why we’re here 🙂↕️🙂↕️
AND THE SMUT DONT EVEN GET ME STARTED ON THE SMUT WHAT THE FUCK
He takes his hand from your hip and brings two fingers to your mouth — the same fingers he’d had inside you earlier, the ones that had you gasping and begging and shaking for him. They hover just over your lips, glistening, and your breath stutters.
This had me gagged (clearly literally and figuratively lol) 🤤
Seriously this was sooo hot thank you so much for sharing this utter delight!!
Summary: You have wonderful news to share with Bucky and Alpine helps you.
Word Count: Almost 2.3k
Warnings: Established relationship, fluff, crying, pregnancy, mention of HYDRA, implied sex, POV shift (you, Bucky, and Alpine), Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)
A/N: Some sweetness to start off the week! @soelstress, thank you for the suggestion of the sign and letting me run with this.❤️ Beta read by the amazing @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
The bedroom was close to silent when you woke, snow softly falling outside. It was the kind of winter morning that coaxed you to stay under the covers just a little longer and bask in the warmth of the man holding you. Turning your head, you smiled tenderly at the sight of Bucky sleeping, his mouth parted slightly and his hair loose around his face. His breaths were steady and gentle. It was beautiful to see him peaceful like this.
No missions. No nightmares. Just the sanctuary of your bedroom and home.
You brought a hand to his cheek, your wedding ring shining in the low light. He moaned low and pushed his cheek closer to your palm, seeking you out in his sleep. Some days, you still couldn’t believe that he was your husband and wanted to spend his life with you. It was a dream come true.
And your dream was only getting brighter.
“Love you, Bucky,” you breathed, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Both of us.”
His hand drifted seemingly on instinct to your stomach when you shifted and you held your breath. Did he know? Or did he at least suspect?
Bucky always said that you were beautiful, but he asked recently if you switched up something in your skincare routine. He noted that you had an extra glow. You played that off as lighting and a new vitamin, which wasn’t a lie since you started taking a prenatal.
He hovered more than usual, too, his brows furrowed whenever you mentioned feeling fatigued. He cancelled a few things so you could get more rest. You also caught him staring when certain smells made your nose wrinkle, and he quietly tossed the items out before you could ask.
Your husband always took care of you.
But did he know?
Either way, he’d find out soon enough since today was the day.
You somehow managed to slip free from his hold, which wasn’t an easy feat, and got out of bed. You didn’t want to wake him just yet. He deserved to dream sweet dreams for a bit longer.
“Hey, Alpine,” you whispered when you spotted her curled up near the front of the bed, a perfect ball of white fur. She blinked at you before she stood and stretched. She knew you needed her.
You tiptoed out of the room, the cat following with grace and purpose. A flutter of nerves filled your chest before it shifted to excitement. You couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across your face, the secret you carried ready to be shared.
The tiny chalkboard sat where you left it the night before. You’d lost count of how many times you wrote the message, erased it, and wrote it again, wanting it to be perfect. Picking it up with a shaky hand, you reread the message until the letters blurred together.
Mom & Dad are getting me a HUMAN!
Your stomach dipped and your hand flew to it.
Your baby.
You suspected you were pregnant when you missed your period, but you’d never forget the shock, happiness, and love that filled you when you saw the positive test. It had been real then, but it was sinking in just how real it was now, right on the edge of sharing the news with your husband. You and Bucky were already a family with each other and Alpine, but it was growing.
“Do you think I’d be a good dad?” he asked, his voice so small it put a crack in your heart.
“I know you’ll be a good dad if and when that day comes,” you answered, relief and love softening his eyes.
“When,” he said determinedly, his hand warm against your stomach. “When we have a baby.”
You smiled softly at the memory. You thought about how to share the joyous news until it made sense that Alpine should be the one to do so. She helped save Bucky in many ways before you came along and she accepted you as his partner without question. She would be a wonderful big sister to your baby.
“You ready?” you asked. She meowed and sat up straight, and you smiled as you placed the chalkboard around her neck. “Let’s go get your dad.”
Your eyes instantly filled with tears. Dad. He was already one to the beautiful creature in front of you, and soon to the baby you made together. You took a steadying breath, willing yourself not to dissolve into a blubbering mess.
Damn hormones. Thank God Bucky didn’t see you cry over that paper towel commercial the other day. How would you have explained that?
Alpine bumped her head gently against yours before she turned and strutted down the hall. You wiped your eyes and followed, your heart pounding in your chest when you stopped in the doorway. Bucky groaned when Alpine planted herself on his chest, and you held your breath as his eyes opened.
This was it.
“Al, what the hell?” he muttered, the sign swinging dangerously close to his face. You almost laughed before he sat up, careful not to knock his little partner-in-crime back. A flood of emotions crossed his face as he read the sign again. And again.
You exhaled because you had to. Was he happy? Was it his dream come true?
“Sweetheart…”
Bucky checked the sign again to make sure the words didn’t change to FEED ME or You forgot my treats again, Old Man. But they didn’t. He wasn’t dreaming. And he suddenly couldn’t breathe.
“Mom & dad are getting me a human,” he read out loud, his voice cracking.
You stepped into the room, your eyes brimming with unshed tears. There was so much love radiating from you. More than he ever thought he deserved.
“Is this…” He swallowed hard and got to his feet. He crossed the room in a few strides, grounding himself as he cupped your cheeks and searched your eyes for the answer he already knew. “Are you…”
“Yeah, Bucky. I’m pregnant.” You let out a watery laugh. “We’re having a baby.”
His heart cracked wide open.
He pulled you into his arms, holding you like you’d slip through his fingers if he let go. His lips found your forehead, your temple, your cheek. He felt your smile before he kissed your lips, and he couldn’t stop smiling either. The world had given him a special kind of happiness when you came into his life, and the world was blessing him once again.
A baby.
You were pregnant with his baby.
It all made sense now.
The glow he couldn’t quite place. The fatigue that hit you out of nowhere. The random smells that bothered you. And he didn’t mention it in case he was too hopeful, but his enhanced senses picked up that your smell was slightly different.
God, you were pregnant.
Of course, you were.
“I knew it deep down,” he whispered, kissing your lips again just because he could. “I knew something was different.”
It was everything he wanted and more.
You laughed softly again, a tear sliding from your eye. “You did?”
“Yeah.” His thumb swept across your cheek to catch it. “You were glowing, tired, and…” He cleared his throat when his voice broke again. “I just didn’t want to say it and it not be true.”
That would’ve devastated him.
HYDRA chipped away at Bucky’s humanity until there was almost nothing else left. He recovered, but he hadn’t dared to hope. Alpine helped him heal more, and then you came along and gave hope back to him. He loved again with his whole heart. And he quietly prayed that one day your family might expand because he wanted to be a dad to your child. Even if it never happened, loving you and Alpine would always be enough.
But you had just given him something precious.
You had given him more hope for tomorrow.
He exhaled and laughed, a sound torn between disbelief and awe. His hand drifted down and hovered over your stomach, almost afraid that he hadn’t earned the right to touch. “May I?” he asked.
You covered his hand with yours and guided it.
The moment it settled there, something inside him shifted permanently. It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t something dangled in front of him just to be ripped away. It was real.
“I’m gonna be a dad,” he said barely above a whisper. “We’re gonna have a baby.”
Your smile made his heart swell.
He dropped to his knees and pressed the gentlest of kisses to your stomach. His baby was there. “I meant it when I said when and not if. I just…” He looked up at you, tears pricking his eyes. “I didn’t think I’d get this lucky.”
He wrapped his arms around you, his head pressing against your belly. For a moment, he thought he’d sob. He’d go to every single appointment and turn down any mission that would keep him away from you. He’d buy baby books and read every single one. And there was the spare room that he’d have to change into a nursery.
Alpine jumped off the bed with a meow, the sign still dangling around her neck. She batted his thigh with her paw, demanding some attention. She deserved it.
“You little sneak.” He picked her up and briefly pressed his face into her fur. “You knew before I did, didn’t you?”
She meowed smugly.
“You did great, Al,” he promised. “Really great.”
He chuckled and looked up at you. His wife, the love of his life, and the mother of his child. His chest ached with something beyond love and devotion, something he couldn’t name but felt with his entire being.
“This is the greatest gift you’ve ever given me, apart from saying ‘yes’ on our wedding day,” he said softly, setting the cat down and removing the sign with gentle care.
“It’s the greatest gift to me, too,” you said, making his heart full all over again.
“Al,” he said, a teasing smirk on his face. “Thank you again for your help, but you may want to give your mom and me a minute or two.”
Your eyes widened. “Bucky, what are you-”
He chuckled when he picked you up and carried you back to bed, something primal blending in with the love he felt. He wasn’t planning on letting you leave it for the rest of the day. Not when he had you to worship. Not when they had so much to celebrate.
“I love you,” he said, meant for both you and your baby.
“We love you, too, Bucky.” You gazed up at him and he fell in love with you all over again. “We love you, too.”
Alpine’s tail slowly swayed as her mom and dad finally settled back into bed. She left when the laughter and joy faded into soft breaths and noises not meant for her. She was certain it was that every act that changed everything.
She padded into the kitchen just as the timer went off, releasing food into her bowl. It was sufficient, but she fully expected a treat later for doing such a good job delivering the message. After that, she’d take a much deserved nap.
Oh, her dad and mom. They loved each other so much. Truly.
Her dad’s heart still thumped faster whenever her mom walked into a room. And her mom helped dad’s nightmares fade and made him smile again. They were a perfect match.
But, honestly, it took them long enough to figure out the good news.
She had known for weeks, long before the test and the chalkboard. Her mom’s scent changed, and so had her energy. Something on the television made her cry for no reason the other day. And her dad hovered more. He always did that when he loved something deeply.
Humans could be terribly oblivious creatures. But dad and mom were her humans. She wouldn’t change that for the world.
And soon, there would be another human in their home. A little brother or sister. Someone smaller. Louder. One who would grab her fur and cry at inconvenient hours.
She would allow it because this was her family.
She would supervise. She would guard the door during naps. And she would help her dad watch over and protect her mom until her sibling arrived and after.
Later, once the noise in the bedroom died down, she made her way back. Dad held mom close, their breathing slow and even now, his hand resting protectively on her stomach. They cried happy tears. She could tell.
She jumped on the mattress and curled up beside them, the air light and happy. She would demand her treat soon, but this was good for now. This was right.
And she was going to be an excellent big sister.
Bucky’s thumb traced a heart on your belly, your chest tight. You were going to cry all over again if you weren’t careful. “If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up,” he whispered.
“It isn’t a dream. It’s our life,” you whispered back, letting him pull you closer. “And it’s our miracle.”
He kissed your temple. “You’re the miracle,” he said, your heart skipping a beat.
Alpine purred in agreement.
Snow continued to fall outside, blanketing the world in beauty and quiet. Inside, surrounded by warmth and love, you, Bucky, and Alpine eventually drifted off to sleep. Your husband’s hand stayed on your stomach, protective and loving even while he rested. Your cat kept an open ear, also a guardian for your family. You’d make plans for the future tomorrow.
Today, you’d rest, let yourselves have this moment of love and peace and celebrate your growing family.
Oh, the happiness and tooth-rotting fluff we deserve. How protective will Alpine be as a big sister? And how will they announce it to the team? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
Summary: Javi always gives it to you just how you want.
Author’s note: no reason for his other than him…pwp. He’s delish and that’s that🫠😮💨thank you so much for reading! Much love always🩷🩷🩷thank you @firefly-graphics for the divider! 🥰 ps: the title is from a Type O Negative album😏
Warnings: softness, smut, p in v, the ooey gooey yumminess of just being so close and into it
His control falters with every thrust. The feel of you tight and wet around him driving him closer to the edge, his kisses swallowing every moan that slips past your parted lips. Your hips tilt eagerly, and he drags his hand along your thigh to hike your leg up, setting it on his shoulder to open you more for him.
“Oh god, Javi,” you whimper against his sweat slicked skin.
“That’s it Angel,” he murmurs, pinning you to the mattress with his body, every glide inside you making him groan into your neck. “You feel fucking perfect.”
He sets a punishing pace of long, hard strokes, the slow roll of his hips hitting that perfect spot deep inside you.
“Harder,” you whisper as you rake your fingers through his hair.
He obliges, slamming into you with enough force to knock the headboard into the wall. Your body is pushed farther into the mattress, every inch of your bodies pressed together so that you can feel the hammering of his heart against yours.
He slows his movements, the drag of his cock torturous as he gently releases your leg from his shoulder and bends it at the knee, once again settling his wait on top of you as he sinks in at a new angle, deeper than before.
Long, luxurious strokes follow each roll of his hips, his fingers threading through yours when he pins your hand above your head. Your free hand smooths down his back, nails scratching into his heated skin.
He growls your name, a note of desperation, of trembling restraint waivers in his voice, kisses become deeper, more demanding before he leans back on his knees, grasping your thighs and finding an even deeper angle.
“Don’t stop Javi. Please…”
You’re so full, so stretched, and you want every inch of him. Need it. His thumb presses against your clit, that last sensation taking hold of your whole body and you climb higher, your orgasm surging through you from head to toe.
His name on your lips as you come apart is all it takes and he loses control, his release spilling into you as he shudders above you.
He leans down to kiss you, long and deep, your sweaty bodies pressed together, every dip and curve fitted to perfection. When he slides out of you a soft gasp breaks from your lips, mourning the loss him already and he bites back his own wonton sound as he watches his release leak from between your legs, your inner thighs glistening.
His cock twitches against your stomach at the sight and you make a noise between disbelief and desire, his light chuckle pulling your gaze to his.
“Again?” you murmur as your fingers comb gently through his hair to grasp the back of his neck.
He leans in, letting you feel the growing hardness between his legs. “I want you Angel, always.”
Author’s Note: This is for day 26 of The Sexy September Scribbles Challenge and the prompt: “so wet, you must’ve been waiting for this.” Thank you to @soelstress and @societyfolklore for hosting and thank you all so much for reading! Much love always🩷🩷🩷 divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy🥰
Warnings: oral (f rec), Javi can’t get enough and no one is complaining
Sexy September Scribbles Masterlist
His hand slides between your thighs and your legs fall open for him, completely and utterly exposed. He traces your clit, pulling a gasp from your parted lips as you roll your hips, moving with him before his mouth closes over your nipple.
With a moan you take him in your hand, feeling the silky hardness of him, swiping your thumb over the moisture at his tip, causing him to buck beneath your touch with a curse.
You smile against his lips and stroke him again, relishing in the way his head tips back with a groan. When he slides two fingers inside you, your legs open wider for him, his hand pumping in and out, his thumb circling your clit and his mouth painting kisses down your neck and across your collarbone.
“So wet for me angel, you must’ve been waiting for this.”
Your pleasured sounds are your only reply as he moves lower, down your stomach, his mustache grazing your delicate skin. When he removes his fingers you make a noise of protest only for it to die on a gasp when he replaces them with his tongue.
With his hands on your thighs he holds you open, sucking your clit, sliding his tongue inside you, until you’re riding his face with absolute abandon.
“Javi,” you cry out, your fingers raking through his hair to pull him closer.
A low, rumbling sound of need comes from him as he works you with the perfect rhythm, his mustache grazing your sensitive skin and adding another overwhelming sensation to everything you’re feeling.
The pressure building within you is almost unbearable and as if sensing it, he slides two fingers back inside you, sucking on your clit as your legs shake. Your orgasm explodes, your thighs clamping around his head until you’re limp and spent.
“You’re addictive,” he murmurs, lips wet and warm as they travel back up your body. “I could taste you every day for the rest of my life and it would never be enough.”
Warning- Bucky is a warning, fluff, boobs appreciation.
Bucky Barnes had exactly three sacred things in life, you, his coffee, and his meditation time.
And his meditation time, as he always insisted with the straightest face imaginable, required your boobs.
Not your presence, which is important for him.
Not your voice, which he can listen to nonstop.
Not your scent, though it drives him crazy.
Not your soft hand holding his, he loves when you touch him, especially when you massage him.
Well, it was your boobs.
Always.
Which is why, on a slow, lazy afternoon, Bucky was stretched across the couch with his face buried between your breasts like a man who had found salvation, after wandering the desert for forty years.
His arms were wrapped around your waist, keeping you anchored on beneath him, and every few seconds he nuzzled deeper as if trying to merge into your skin. His stubble scraped deliciously against the softness of your cleavage, his lips ghosting little kisses, little nibbles, little sucking pulls that made you shiver.
“Doll…” he murmured, voice muffled, “don’t stop…”
You continued carding your fingers through his hair, slow strokes that made his lashes flutter. He hummed like a cat against you, squeezing your hips as he inhaled your scent, kissing lazily along the swell of your breasts.
Warm. Heavy. Content.
Bucky Barnes was in heaven.
And nothing. absolutely nothing, was allowed to disturb this sacred ritual.
Which is why the universe decided to cause chaos.
Your phone buzzed on the table, Bucky ignored it and obviously sucking a mark, was his silent way of warning you to ignore it too.
Then his phone rang.
Bucky growled, the sound vibrated against your skin.
Then it rang again.
And he froze, “someone wants to die!” he muttered darkly into your cleavage.
You giggled softly, “Bubba, just check who it is.”
“No.” He squeezed your thighs possessively. “Meditating.”
The phone rang again.
Bucky lifted his head one inch, eyes narrowing murderously at the offending device across the room, which was on the coffee table, then dropped his face right back into your boobs with a frustrated huff.
Then it rang AGAIN.
“Oh for fuck sake!” He grabbed the phone blindly, slapped it on speaker, tossed it on the cushion next to him, and immediately buried himself back between your breasts.
“Buck?” Steve’s voice came through, cheerful, innocent and oblivious.
You bit your lip.
Bucky, however, had reached a level of annoyance few could survive.
His voice came out muffled, low, vibrating against your skin, because he refused to lift his head, “What.”
Steve paused. “you sound weird. Everything okay?”
Bucky groaned into your breasts, “I am meditating, Rogers.”
You slapped a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing.
Steve, sweet innocent Steve, asked, “Meditating on what?”
Bucky lifted his head, just enough to stare murder at the phone, then slowly, deliberately, nestled himself back against your cleavage and spoke with the most menacing calm, “On. My. Wife’s. Tits.”
You choked on air.
Steve made a sound so strangled it could have been a dying bird. “WHAT???”
“You heard me,” Bucky snapped, kissing one breast, letting his lips drag while he continued speaking. “You interrupted my peace. My quiet. My spiritual center.”
“Bucky!!!”
“I had my face,” he continued, licking a path over your skin, “like this…” as if he could see, then he gave another kiss, wet and slow “right here, minding my business. And you decided to call me!”
Steve was wheezing or probably getting an attack, “You could’ve… just ignored it!”
“I DID ignore it. But it KEPT ringing. And now my concentration is RUINED.”
You felt him pout into your cleavage.
Steve sounded like he wanted to evaporate, definitely having an attack, “I didn’t know you were meditating like that!”
“I meditate like this EVERY DAY at this time,” Bucky said, affronted. “I’ve told you not to call me between two and three.”
“You never said why!”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Steve.” Bucky lifted his head, glaring. “Did you need a calendar invite entitled ‘Bucky’s Daily Boob Time’ with a description and pictures?”
You squeaked Bucky!”
He smirked and went right back to kissing you.
“Why can’t you meditate like a normal person?”
“This is normal.”
Steve had gone silent. Possibly catatonic or the attack took him.
“Rogers?” Bucky asked, “You dead?”
“I… I’m still here…” Steve croaked.
“Good. Because I’m not done.!” Bucky squeezed your breast for emphasis while glaring at the phone. “Listen carefully. If you EVER interrupt my meditation again, I swear on everything I love, I will come to your apartment, drag you outside, and staple your phone to the top of the Avengers Tower!”
You snorted, “Bubba…”
“I’m sorry Doll, but am I being unreasonable?” he asked dramatically, head still buried in your cleavage. “Am I not allowed to protect the sanctity of our holy ritual? Am I not allowed to worship in peace?”
Steve whimpered, “Bucky, please stop talking.”
“No. You’re gonna hear all of it since you ruined my session.” He kissed the curve of your breast again, slow and sinful. “Do you know what I was doing before you called?”
Steve screamed, “NO, AND I DON’T WANT TO…”
“I was right between her tits!”
“BUCKY!!!”
“Hands roaming everywhere, mouth all over her…”
“OH MY GOD!”
“And you destroyed the vibe.”
“END THE CALL, END THE CALL!!!”
You reached for the phone, laughing uncontrollably, but Bucky grabbed your wrist.
“Don’t you dare…” he said darkly. “He needs to learn.”
Steve was begging for mercy, “Please. PLEASE. I get it. I’ll never…never again…just stop!”
Bucky smirked wickedly, leaned in, and sucked your nipple hard.
You gasped.
Steve shrieked and hung up as fast as possible.
Silence.
You stared at Bucky, he stared back, smug, proud, horny, and absolutely unapologetic.
“Bubba…” You tried to hold in a laugh. “You traumatized Steve.”
“Good.” He pulled you closer, hands sliding up your back. “He interrupted my meditation. There must be consequences.”
You kissed his forehead. “You’re unbelievable.”
He nestled right back into your cleavage like it was his custom-made pillow. “I believe in maintaining spiritual balance, Doll.”
“And that balance involves?”
“Your boobs!” he said instantly. “Always your boobs.”
You chuckled, stroking his hair. “So your mind is at peace now?”
He tipped his head back, blue eyes gleaming with sinful affection. “Not yet.”
Before you could ask what he meant, he fixed your position on the couch, lowering himself between your thighs, face nuzzling your chest again, but now with intent.
“Bucky…” you breathed.
“Shh…” he whispered, lips trailing down your sternum. “Meditation continues.”
You laughed breathlessly, “You’re impossible.”
He grinned against your skin, “I’m your problem. Forever.”
“I happily accept.”
And Bucky Barnes resumed worshipping you, thoroughly, slowly, passionately, determined to reclaim every second Steve had stolen from him.
a/n: day 10 of the sexy september scribbles challenge!! felt like writing some hot, sweaty, filthy sex with Ari, so here we go—hope you enjoy!!
prompt: "Squeeze me, baby, squeeze my cock."
sexy september scribbles masterlist
The sheets were damp with sweat, and the air in the room felt thick and heavy with sex—but Ari Levinson was far from done with you.
You lay boneless on the bed, your head propped up on a pillow so you could watch Ari fucking you in long, deep thrusts.
Every ridge of his shaft dragged deliciously against the sensitive inner walls of your pussy, and you whimpered. It was almost too much.
“You want another load, don’t you, baby?” Ari cooed, sweetly mocking as he pressed one of his big hands down on your lower belly.
It made the stretch of his cock feel more exquisite—and it reminded you of the way your belly bulged from how much cum he’d already pumped inside you. It was indecent.
“Ari, please,” you sobbed, writhing helplessly on the damp sheets, your stomach sloshing with cum.
But what you were begging for, you didn’t know. You didn’t want him to stop; you didn’t know if you could survive more.
“You can do it, baby, you can give me another,” Ari rumbled, changing the angle so his cock battered brutally against that perfect spot inside you. “Cum on this cock again.”
It was too much.
You felt something rising in your body and could only scream when the dam burst. Wetness gushed from your pussy, drenching Ari’s cock down to his balls, soaking the bed further with sex.
“Fuck yes, squirt for me—make a mess all over this cock,” Ari growled, fucking you harder, the wet, squelching sounds obscene. “Squeeze me, baby, squeeze my cock.”
Another scream tore from your lips, and Ari let loose a feral roar, burying his cock in your cunt and filling you with even more of his cum.
Warnings: Unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), dirty talk, surprise guest, voyeurism, exhibitionism, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: Happy September! Day 1 of the Sexy September Scribbles Challenge. Prompt: Slower. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
You and Bucky having an extended weekend meant taking advantage of the extra time together. What began with tenderness and care shifted to a frenzied kind of fucking. The brutal sound of skin on skin echoed in the room along with your cries. Every inch of his thick cock stretched and filled you, and you knew you’d feel him for days to come.
“So fucking pretty when you take my cock,” Bucky grunted, lifting your hips so he could drive in deeper. “Gonna make you scream my name. Let everyone know who owns you.”
The obscene squelch from your pussy told him how much you loved that idea. “Bucky!”
“Slower.”
You both paused and snapped your heads toward Steve, his sketchbook in his hand. He looked completely composed as he sat in the chair, the tent in his pants being the only giveaway that he liked what he saw. Neither of you minded when he watched since he thought you two were inspirational.
“Giving me orders, punk?” Bucky rasped.
The blonde smirked. “Just think she’ll make more of a mess on your cock if you slow down, jerk. That’s all,” he replied, resuming his sketching. “And I want to make sure I get her breasts right.”
You gasped when Bucky began to thrust again, his movements languid and torturously slow. “He has a point. You do gush when I draw it out,” he said, gripping your jaw when you whined impatiently and tried to buck beneath him. “Be good, or I’ll tie you up.”
“Don't threaten me with a good-”
“And I’ll edge you all night,” he threatened, your eyes wide.
“Ouch,” Steve muttered sympathetically.
“Fine,” you sighed, brushing your thumb over his lips. “But I’m riding your face next.”
Bucky and Steve would enjoy it.
And you’d go slow.
Yes, this may have been inspired by this. Might have to do a small series. I don't know if I'll be able to do the entire month, but this was fun! Love and thanks for reading. ❤️
Summary: You're upset with Clark for almost leaking his identity to the world but even when you're angry with him he's hard to resist.
Author's Note: For day 9 of the Sexy September Scribbles Challenge and the prompt: I just need you to say yes. Thank you to @soelstress and @societyfolklore for hosting and thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰
Warnings: slight angst for a second but Clark is irresistible, especially in the shower, implied shower sex
Sexy September Scribbles Masterlist
“You’re angry with me.”
It’s not a question. Just a simple statement of the truth that he whispers as he’s met with your razor-sharp glare.
He shrugs, knowing the gesture will make your even angrier then he looks down at his torn and dirty clothes and tugs hard at his shirt, ripping the buttons free. His eyes stay focused on the task as he moves to the zipper of his pants, working them open with the feel of your gaze like a brand on his exposed skin, hearing your breathing turn shallow as he slides the material down his thighs.
Once he’s naked he turns to you, letting you see every inch of him.
“You’re welcome to join me,” he purrs before stepping in to the shower. “If staring isn’t doing it for you.”
“Not happening,” you snap, wrenched out of your trance.
“That’s not you’re usual answer,” he simpers as he runs his hand down his sculpted chest to take his hard cock between his fingers.
“Enough,” you grit out, still staring.
“You know it’s not enough kitten. “I can never have enough when it comes to you.”
With purposeful steps you move closer, a harsh retort already forming on your lips, but then his eyes soften and you hear him whisper, “I’m sorry.”
It stops you in your tracks and when he reaches out a hand, the water running down his face, making his hair stick to his forehead, his eyelashes thicker, and his expression more boyish your resolve crumbles.
“Clark,” you breathe out, still hesitating.
His fingers curl, the tips touching yours as you reach for him and without warning he yanks you under the stream of hot water. You let out a squeal before he presses you against his hard body.
“I just need you to say yes,” he whispers, his lips hovering just a breath away from yours.
I Think I’ve Seen This Film Before | Bucky Barnes x Reader
I am back to writing after moving cities, starting a new job, going through a death in the family, and breaking up with my ex! Please enjoy the angst.
Word count: 20.4k
Warnings: anxiety, talk of cheating, vomit
The persistent buzzing was wearing on your last nerve.
“Buck!” you called, “your phone is ringing- again!”
Bucky’s phone sat on the opposite side of the kitchen island, vibrating into oblivion, just as it had been for the past few minutes. Part of you wanted to answer the damn thing and put a stop to whatever telemarketer spam was plaguing your boyfriend’s phone. And if it weren’t for the cookie dough covering your hands, maybe you would’ve.
And so, you called to him again.
“I think it’s probably pretty important!” You let out a sigh, “Cause they won’t stop fucking calling.”
Bucky chuckled from down the hall. Damn his enhanced senses. Not even words mumbled under your breath could escape his hearing.
“Just let it go to voicemail,” he hollered, content to ignore his ringing phone.
Bucky never had much affection for his phone. He felt it was more of a bother than an advancement. That it didn’t fit comfortably into his life. He never wanted to be this accessible. This available to other people. Until he met you.
Overnight, his opinion changed. Texting, he decided, was his favorite thing about the modern world. No longer did he have to wait for a response to the love letters he drafted. No longer did he have to hang around the mailbox hoping for an envelope stained with your lipstick. He could simply fire off an adoring text, and your replies were almost instantaneous.
But it was uncommon for his phone to blow up like this when the two of you were together. When you were apart, it buzzed every few minutes with your responses to his loving messages. But when the two of you were both home, nestled in the apartment you shared, Bucky abandoned his phone. In his eyes, everything and everyone else could wait.
He often ditched the thing upon returning home, leaving it on the counter or the coffee table. He didn’t squirrel it away into his pocket or keep it on his bedside table. No, he disconnected from it completely. Happily. He only ever wanted to be present with you. To be completely free from distraction when you were around.
But whoever was calling didn’t get the memo. They called once, twice, five times in a row.
You’d called out to Bucky every time, letting him know that a very persistent individual was eager to get ahold of him. But he didn’t seem to care. He was too busy folding and putting away your laundry in the bedroom. Too content in this perfect picture of domestic bliss.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said as he finally swept through the kitchen, empty laundry basket in hand. “I’ll worry about it tomorrow.”
“It seems like something,” you told him. “What if it’s Sam or Joaquin? What if something’s wrong?”
Bucky thought it over for a moment. His distaste for his phone was strong, but his concern for his friends was infinitely more powerful. And while he didn’t want to be the kind of boyfriend who spent all of his time occupied by his screen, he opted to give the missed calls a glance. Just in case.
A familiar number- a number he hadn’t seen in ages- was splashed across his notifications. It wasn’t saved in his contacts anymore, but he’d recognize it anywhere. Before he had a chance to wonder why it was plaguing him, his phone began vibrating once again. That same number, one he saw as an ancient relic of a past life, illuminated his screen for a sixth time.
He stared at his buzzing phone. He didn’t want to answer. Had no interest in speaking to this person. But just as he tried to place his phone back on the counter, something gnawed at him. Nagged at him. Told him there had to be a good reason for these calls.
He eyed you for a short moment and answered the call.
“Um… hello?”
There was no way this was Sam or Torres, that much you knew. But who else would call Bucky six times in a row? Who else would bother him on a Saturday? Whose call would he answer while at home with you? Nat was more of a texter, and Yelena had broken her phone in an “incident” only a few days prior. You found yourself at a loss for answers.
“Yeah, I know,” Bucky said into the phone, almost irritated. “Did you need something, or-”
He listened for a long time, throwing in the occasional “yeah” or “okay”. Whoever was on the other end, he didn’t seem thrilled to be speaking to them. But he was hearing them out. Giving them a chance. He even reached for a piece of scratch paper and a pen and jotted down a few notes here and there. You and your cookie dough sat in suspense.
“Um, alright. I’m going to…” His eyes found yours, “Let me think it over and I’ll get back to you.”
And just like that, the mysterious call was over.
Bucky slipped his phone into his pocket. It wasn’t like him.
“Well?” you stared at him, expectant. “Who was that?”
Bucky let out a sigh. His head fell an inch or two. He smoothed the crease between his brows with the pad of his thumb. He stayed this way for a long, quiet moment. Until finally, he, asked:
“Do you remember me telling you about Tara?”
Tara. Tara.
“Yeah.”
How could you forget?
He’d told you about his ex-girlfriend Tara a few times. She’d been a fellow special agent with SWORD; that’s how they met. The way Bucky described it, their breakup was amicable and quiet, no dramatics. He said it was for the better. That they simply grew apart.
Sam told a different story.
After nearly three years together, Tara left. She got a job offer on the other side of the world. She didn’t know how long she’d be gone, didn’t know if she’d ever come back. And while Bucky wanted to stay in Brooklyn, wanted to stay in the only real home he’d ever known, he promised her he’d follow. That he’d go with her, if that’s what she wanted.
But she didn’t ask him to tag along.
Instead, she ended things. She boarded a jet and began an entirely new life, a life that didn’t include Bucky.
And it destroyed him.
He wanted, more than anything, for her to be happy. Wanted her to pursue the opportunity. But her departure ate through him like acid. It hollowed him out, turning him into a shell of himself. He had loved her so much. So deeply. So endlessly. They talked about the future they’d share. About getting married. He’d considered their relationship a sure thing. A guarantee.
And then she was gone.
Sam helped him pick up the pieces. But it took time. A long time. Sam said he barely recognized his friend at times; he was more of a husk than a person.
An intense feeling of unease settled into your stomach. Why had Tara called? Was she finally back in town? Did she want a second chance with Bucky? Would he leave you for her? Were you just his placeholder until she returned?
“Well, she’s back in the city,” Bucky told you.
Your heart dropped. A pang of anxiety struck you like lightning, but you refused to show it.
“Oh yeah?” you asked casually. Maybe too casually.
“Yeah. And she wants my help.”
It took you off guard.
“With what?”
Bucky sat down on one of the barstools that lived under the kitchen island. He scratched at his stubble. “Her new organization thinks they found another underground sect of Hydra.”
“Oh.” You stomach twisted. “Shit.”
Bucky nodded. “They want me to come work with them for a while. Help them handle it. Cause I’m,” he let out a small, cynical laugh, “Cause I’m the expert, or whatever.”
A small part of you, the selfish part, was relieved. Tara had called about a work matter, nothing more. There was nothing romantic to it. But a much larger part of you fell stricken with worry.
Anytime something Hydra related came up in Bucky’s work, it knocked him off kilter. His nightmares returned. His anxiety worsened. It pushed him to the precipice, forcing him to cling to his newfound peace by his fingernails. It killed you to see him that way. Killed you to know that he was hurting.
But he refused to back down when it came to Hydra. Refused to shy away from the harsh reality that Hydra was still lurking. Still skulking in the shadows. And no matter how it affected him, he was dedicated to toppling every last Hydra holdout. For the good of the world. For himself.
“So, what do you think?” He stared at you expectantly.
You stared right back.
“Um, what do I think?”
You weren’t quite sure what he was asking. Or why. This decision was entirely up to him. It was his mental health on the line. His trauma being unearthed all over again. But you offered him your opinion regardless.
“Well, I think it’s… it’s going to be hard on you,” you said. “Every time you deal with Hydra, it has consequences. But I know you want to take them down- rightfully so.” You shrugged, “So you should do whatever feels right to you. If it gets to be too much, you can always take a step back. And I’ll be here for you the whole time. So-”
Bucky’s smile put a stop to your words.
You couldn’t help but laugh a little, “What?”
“I meant, what do you think about me working with Tara?” He asked. “Don’t get me wrong, your answer was great- perfect, actually. And I definitely needed to hear that,” he smiled at you again, totally smitten. “But I need to know if you’re comfortable with this. And be honest with me, okay? Because if this makes you feel weird, I won’t do it.”
“Oh, um…” you shrugged.
The truth was complicated. And though you would rather Bucky not work with the previous love of his life, what option did you have? How could you possibly ask him not to take this job? He felt a responsibility to eliminate Hydra, to tear them apart the way they did him. And you weren’t going to get in his way.
In the grand scheme of things, Bucky working with his ex didn’t matter. If partnering up with Tara meant cutting off yet another head of the snake, it was more than justified.
You swallowed to your immature, childish, petty feelings about the situation, and put on a smile.
“I mean, it’s a work thing. It’s not like she called you up and asked you to marry her,” you forced a laugh. “We’re all mature adults here. If you want to do it, then you should. I know how much it means to you that Hydra is wiped off the map. And I’m not going to stop you just because the two of you used to be-”
The words ‘in love’ got stuck in your throat.
“Used to be together,” you said. “Plus, I trust you. I’m not worried about you straying.”
You were, in fact, very worried about him straying. About him spending time with Tara. About him remembering just how much he loved her. About dormant feelings suddenly awakening. In a previous life, she was ‘the one’ for him. The love of his life. And you feared that she’d returned to reclaim her title.
But before the dread could set in, he rose from his seat and made the way around the counter. He wrapped his arms around your waist and settled his chin in the crook of your neck.
You feared he’d notice your thundering pulse. Your unsteady breathing.
“You definitely don’t have to worry about me straying,” he said, his breath fanning your skin. “Thank you for always being so understanding. I love you.”
You leaned back against him, eliminating what tiny space remained between your bodies. And for a split second, you felt at ease.
But the voice in the back of your head, the one that you’d wrongfully silenced in the past, told you this was a mistake. That this was the beginning of the end. It told you that you’d seen this film before and that the ending would by agonizing. It screamed at you, warning you that you were, once again, repeating a well-known pattern.
But you muzzled it, just like you had before.
Because, while the situation did have a haunting air of familiarity to it, Bucky was different. He was loving. He was trustworthy.
Wasn’t he?
Yes. Of course.
You chastised yourself for even wondering. For doubting. It wasn’t fair to saddle Bucky with the weight of your failed relationships. To be suspicious of him when he gave you no reason.
You wriggled until he loosened his grip, allowing you to turn around.
“And I love you,” you let your lips melt against his. “So, when do you start?”
It wasn’t so bad at first.
His days started early, much earlier than yours. He slipped out the door and into the dark morning before you woke each day, leaving you in an empty bed. Waking without him next to you, with his side of the bed empty and cold, stung.
Gone were the early morning chats over coffee. Gone were the shared showers before work. But you didn’t allow yourself too much time to mourn these lost moments with Bucky. They would return one day, you knew they would. Once his work with Tara’s organization was over, things would return to normal. You just had to be patient.
And while your shared morning routine was a temporarily put on hold, your usual evening schedule was alive and well.
The two of you cooked and ate dinner together every night, just as you always did. You shared a glass or two of wine. Did the dishes. And when the kitchen was clean, you’d curl up against Bucky’s side for a little tv time.
There was one notable difference, however. One noticeable change to your evenings, to your home as a whole.
Bucky’s phone never left his side. He always had it with him, either tucked into his pocket or cradled safely in his hand. It sat on his nightstand at bedtime, only inches away. It buzzed with emails, texts. And he refused to let them go unanswered, even for a few minutes.
Surely, he wasn’t doing it because he wanted to. Right? It was all business, all professional. It had to be. He was the expert, the authority on Hydra. He had to be reachable, that was all.
But his newfound habit didn’t pair well with his borderline constant comments about Tara.
“Tara said the funniest thing today.”
“Tara had a great idea.”
“Do you like this coffee? Tara introduced me to it.”
Tara.
Her name pinballed around inside your head, buzzing like a swarm of angry bees. It was loud, almost deafening. A deep, animal instinct screamed at you, warning you: something wasn’t right. He talked about her far too often and far too highly for this to be an innocent professional relationship. Surely, there was something amiss. Something going on between them behind closed doors.
There had, at one time, been so much love there. Was it really possible that that love died out?
The suspicions piled higher and higher as the days passed. Every time Bucky reached for his phone, a knot twisted in your stomach. Surely, Tara was sending him flirtatious texts. She had to be. You found yourself dying to dig through his phone. To investigate each and every message she sent. But you restrained yourself, never daring to break the trust you and Bucky had so carefully built.
After a short while, you found yourself hating Tara. Cursing her. Raging against her inside your own head. The stories you came up with, the horrible pictures you painted- they twisted her into a villain. An evil siren sent to sink her claws into the love of your life and steal him away.
It almost frightened you how easy it was for you to hate her. To hate someone you didn’t know.
And she hadn’t even done anything wrong.
But you couldn’t help it; you were jealous. Jealous of all the time she spent with Bucky. Jealous of how often he spoke with her. Jealous that, even when he was at home, she was still on his mind.
And you hated the feeling. Hated the immature thoughts that stirred inside your head. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t overcome the weight of the green-eyed monster on your back.
Two weeks into Bucky’s new gig, you stood at the kitchen counter, waiting for him. He was late. On a normal night, he returned home between six and six-thirty, but the clock neared seven and there was no sign of him. He didn’t answer your calls, didn’t respond to your texts. It wasn’t like him.
You started on dinner without him, though you couldn’t remember the last time you cooked a meal alone. The two of you always worked together, evenly sharing the labor of making dinner. It was part of your routine, one of your shared patterns. And ever since your morning routine was snatched out from under you, you grew to cherish the time spent making dinner with Bucky.
Suddenly, you felt startlingly alone.
You woke up alone. Got ready for work alone. Returned home to an empty apartment. And with Bucky otherwise occupied, you made dinner alone, too.
As eight o’clock rolled around, you once again fiddled with the tin foil covering the meal you’d so carefully prepared. After doing your best to keep it warm on the stove, a distinctive burning smell forced you to pull it from the burner. You supposed lukewarm and covered in foil was better than charred into oblivion.
As you tore another piece of foil from the roll and wrapped it tightly around the dish, your phone buzzed, and Bucky’s picture lit up your screen. All at once, you found your tight muscles relaxing.
A deep, calming sigh left your chest. Some silent, subconscious part of you had feared that something happened to him. That Hydra silenced him once and for all. That he couldn’t answer your calls because he was lying dead somewhere. It was a reality too horrible to even acknowledge. And so, you’d pushed it to the darkest corner of your mind and opted focused on dinner. But that didn’t stop your hands from shaking.
The tremors calmed a bit as you answered his call.
“Buck?”
“Hey, sweetheart,” he sounded out of breath. Hurried. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer- I’m so sorry I’m late. I got pulled into a last-minute meeting and it ran long.”
“That’s okay, it happens,” you told him. “Dinner’s ready. Will you be home soon?”
“Twenty minutes, I promise,” he told you. “Did you eat already?”
The question almost offended you. “Of course not, baby. I’ve been waiting for you.”
He let out a disappointed sigh, “Doll, you didn’t have to-”
“I wanted to. I’d much rather eat with you, even if it means waiting a while.”
He was quiet for a moment; you could almost see the sad smile spreading across his face. “You’re too good to me- you’re the best. I’ll be home soon, okay?”
And he was.
The two of you ate your room temperature dinner together and discussed your respective workdays. Bucky, of course, namedropped Tara more times than you could count. And by all accounts, she was incredible. It made you wonder when Bucky would realize that you couldn’t compare. That you couldn’t compete with her. On paper, she was his perfect match. She was his other half. Tara was whip smart and worldly. Hilarious. Gutsy. And absolutely deadly.
How could you compete against someone like that?
Sleep evaded you each night as you as you compared yourself to his lost love, to the one that got away. Over and over again, you listed your attributes against Tara’s, examining how you might stack up to her. You played out every possible scenario in your head. Not one of them ended with Bucky choosing you. And you couldn’t blame him.
His weekends were soon consumed by work. No longer did he spend his Saturdays and Sundays with you, browsing the farmers market and enjoying brunch. No longer did the two of you have movie marathons or bake fresh cookies. Instead, he spent his weekends at headquarters or locked in your home office. The two of you didn’t go on dates or spend time with friends. No, Bucky spent all of his time with Tara.
A month later, Bucky studied you over another late dinner.
“Are you feeling alright?” he asked.
He put down his fork and pressed the back of his hand to your forehead, your cheeks, searching for a fever.
“Um, yeah. I think so…” you eyed the hand pressed against your cheek. “Why?”
“Are you sure? You seem tired, baby.” He looked at you closely, examining the most minute details of your face. His gaze dropped to your plate, and he frowned at your virtually untouched meal. “Are you not hungry? Maybe you’re getting sick.”
A small sigh pushed through your lips.
It wasn’t at all what you needed to hear. Ever since Bucky started working with Tara, you feared he’d fall back under the spell of her otherworldly beauty, of her wit and charm, and leave you in the dust. The thought kept you up, driving you slowly insane each night. And knowing that you looked tried, that Bucky thought you looked sickly, drove another pang of anxiety into your chest.
“I just haven’t been sleeping well lately,” you told him. “It’s been- work has been really crazy.”
It was such an easy lie. You reached for it two days prior when Bucky asked why you’d bitten all the skin off your bottom lip. And it came in handy three days before that, when he asked why your nails were bitten down to the quick, why your cuticles were raw and bloodied.
“Oh, that’s right. Of course. I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He removed his hand from your cheek and placed it instead on your forearm. “Do you know when things will go back to normal?”
You simply shook your head.
And that was the last night you ate dinner together.
The following night, you found yourself back in the kitchen, cooking dinner alone once again. You’d never realized just how much you hated cooking until you had to do it by yourself. With Bucky around, you looked forward to making dinner every night. Looked forward to dancing in the kitchen and watching him chop vegetables with his expert knife skills. But without him, it became your most dreaded chore.
You glanced longingly at the clock and found a renewed sense of hope. It was nearly eight, which meant Bucky would be barreling through the front door and wrapping you in his arms in no time. You poured two glasses of wine and placed them on the table, allowing yourself a smile. He would be home soon.
At least, that’s what you thought.
Around nine-forty, your phone buzzed. Bucky’s name appeared in block letters across your screen. And before you could even say hello, he was speaking.
“Baby, hey. I don’t- I’m so sorry. I’m leaving right now, okay? I promise. I’m on my way.”
It took everything in you to keep your disappointment from seeping into your words. This wasn’t his fault- you knew it wasn’t. And it wasn’t fair of you to be upset with him. To make him feel worse. But you missed him. Desperately.
Never before had any of Bucky’s meetings lasted this long or run this late. You knew in your gut there was something going on. Something secretive and sinister. Something that would rip you to shreds.
The manufactured casual tone you adopted didn’t sound convincing to you, but you hoped he’d buy it. “It’s- don’t worry about it, Buck. Okay? It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not, doll. I didn’t- I was gonna be home normal time. But I couldn’t step away from this briefing.” His words came out in a flurry, “I’m so sorry, I should have at least called. This is- it’s not okay. I feel awful.”
“Don’t feel awful, baby. It happens.” You wondered if this ‘briefing’ included everyone from the team. Or if Bucky and Tara had been the only ones in attendance. “Um, dinner is in the fridge, okay? I made-”
“Please tell me you ate without me,” he nearly begged.
“Oh, um. Yeah. Yes. I did- I ate already.”
With crossed fingers, you hoped Bucky would believe your lie.
With Bucky MIA, you hadn’t even considered eating. Nothing sounded remotely appetizing. In fact, your stomach had tied itself into a thousand intricate, painful knots. The nausea crept in soon after, and the idea of eating dinner flew entirely out the window.
But it was easier to lie, to tell him you’d eaten. It would save him a little guilt. And if you could convince him that you’d already had your share, he wouldn’t ask about your lack of appetite.
But you adopted your best happy-go-lucky tone and pretended that you weren’t losing your mind.
“Sorry, Buck, I wasn’t planning on eating without you, but it got pretty late and-”
“No, no. I’m glad you ate. I’m sure you were starving,” he said. “I’ll be home soon, okay? I can’t wait to see you.”
He rushed through the front door twenty minutes later, apologies falling from his lips one after another. He scooped you into his arms and dotted kisses all over your face between “I’m sorrys”. And you assured him that all was well. But you had to wonder if his affections were genuine. If his apologies applied only to his late arrival, or if he’d committed some other transgression he’d yet to confess.
But you sat at the table with him anyway as he reheated the dinner you’d made by yourself. You listened to him tell you all about Tara’s brilliant work in the briefing. And you wondered how much longer you’d get to keep him.
Dinner became non-existent for you, as did most other meals. You did your best to stomach small, infrequent snacks here and there. But the anxiety of Bucky’s possible infidelity made it almost impossible to keep food down.
You still cooked, though. Regardless of the intense nausea, the biting stomach pains, you still managed to put together decent meals for him. You’d tuck the food neatly into Tupperware and stack it in the fridge, knowing damn well he’d never be home in time to eat it warm.
It was as if, after his first excessively late arrival, a seal had been broken. Never again did he return home at a reasonable time. He came through the door ever-later as the days dragged on. Nine-fifty. Ten-thirteen. Ten-thirty-five. Eleven. You did your best to stay awake, at least. To be there to greet him when he got home. But as his homecomings grew later and later, you found yourself dozing off before he’d even texted to let you know he was on his way home.
Some nights, he didn’t come home at all. You’d wake in the morning to find his side of the bed untouched. His boots missing from the front hall. On those mornings, it became obvious just how disconnected you were. On those mornings, you realized that the two of you were just ships passing in the nights. On those mornings, you wretched in the shower before work.
Every obvious warning sign was there. Every red flag. Every neon fucking sign pointed to the fact that Bucky was having an affair. And it threatened to eat you alive.
You’d never been so miserable. So heartbroken. Pain radiated through your chest and pulsed through your veins. Every cell in your body throbbed with agony. You wanted someone to put you out of your misery. To wipe you from the face of the earth and save you from Bucky’s confession and eventual departure. But no such mercy came.
Part of you wished you’d spoken up. Wished that you’d told Bucky not to take the job.
If you’d just voiced your concerns, maybe he never would’ve strayed. Maybe things would still be normal. And god, did you miss normalcy. You missed the patterns. The routines. The “boring” domestic life you once shared with Bucky. You missed talking to him. Spending time with him. Being close with him. The distance between you seemed to grow every single day. And you feared you’d never bridge that gap.
But you didn’t have to.
Bucky returned home one Sunday night in unusually high spirits. He found you in the bathroom, getting ready for bed, and lifted you into his strong arms.
“Baby…” He buried his face in your neck and smiled against your skin. “I’m so excited for next weekend.”
You were so lost in his touch that the words didn’t register for a quite a while. It had been so long since he was this affectionate, this close. Tears threatened to pool in the corner of your eyes as you relished in the sensation of his arms knitted around your back. His breath on your skin. And for a moment, you allowed yourself to consider the possibility that things might be okay.
Suddenly, you realized what he’d said.
“Next weekend?” You pulled away just a hair, allowing yourself a glimpse at his face. “What’s next weekend?”
“’What’s next weekend?’” He let an exaggerated, over-dramatic gasp fill his lungs, “I can’t believe you forgot! We’re going to the cabin, sweetheart! Next weekend, remember? It’s the weekend of the nineteenth! Keep up, doll.” He shot you a wink.
The cabin?
Sure, the two of you had planned to escape upstate to your aunt’s cozy little cabin. But that was agreed upon months ago. Long before this job. Long before Tara. You’d assumed that with Bucky’s long hours and lack of weekends, that that plan was defunct. But apparently, you were wrong.
“Wait, we’re still going?” you asked, incredulous.
“Of course,” Bucky said. “I told them I can’t work next weekend, no ifs, ands, or buts.” He snaked his hands from your spine to your sides and allowed them to slowly inch up your body. When they finally cupped your face, he pressed his lips to yours in a long, deep kiss full of longing. “I’m long overdue for some interrupted him with my best girl.”
Your heart fluttered.
“I know I’ve been really busy. And tired. And distracted. And- I’ve been a fucking absentee boyfriend,” he sighed. The self-hatred in his voice was almost palpable. “I didn’t think this job would be so… intense. I’ve barely been home. And I know this whole thing has gotta be tough on you.”
Tears sprang forth once again. You did your best to blink them away, but they persisted, and a few rolled down your cheeks against your will.
You sighed, “I just miss you.” The words had a fractured quality about them.
“Oh, sweetheart…” The heartbreak in his voice forced more tears to your surface. He pulled you into his body, wrapping you in the tightest hug he could safely manage. “I miss you too. So much. I promise nexxt weekend is going to be just for us. And when I’m done with this job, we’ll go away together for a long time, okay? No phones,” he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “No distractions,” he left a second kiss to your nose. “Just you and me,” he leaned down and dropped a third and final kiss against your lips.
It was a simple promise, nothing extravagant. But it was exactly what you’d been dying to hear. You’d been so convinced that Bucky would end things any day now, so sure that your time with him would soon be over. But hearing him make promises for your shared future helped ease the agony you’d been shouldering. And just like that, the storm clouds in your soul parted, revealing your first taste of sunshine in weeks.
Bucky was still yours. And he still wanted you to be his.
In the days leading up to your weekend away, you found yourself floating through life. Everything seemed easier, brighter, warmer. The constant nausea let up and the anxiety quieted. You ate a real meal for the first time in an indeterminable number of weeks. Sure, Bucky was still glued to his phone at home and staying late at the office. But you could see a light at the end of the tunnel.
After the absolute misery you’d experienced, hope felt so foreign. So other. But you welcomed it with open arms.
All you had to do was survive until Friday. Bucky talked his team into granting him an early departure from the office, allowing the two of you to escape the city by noon. You’d drive upstate with the windows down, blaring some top 40’s hits from decades past. And together, you’d settle in for some much-needed reconnection.
On Thursday night, Bucky returned home around ten. And regardless of his long day, he was more exultant than ever. He practically vibrated with excitement as he shoveled his dinner into his mouth and rushed to the bedroom to finish packing. It was the most energetic you’d seen him in quite some time.
“Okay, I double and triple checked my bag,” he told you. “I’m ready.”
“I’ve been packed since Tuesday,” you bragged. “And I got us…” you rifled through your duffle and unearthed a knotted grocery bag. “S’mores supplies.”
Bucky was floored. “You fucking think of everything!”
When the two of you settled in for bed that night, it almost felt like the good old days. Like the days before your doubts and suspicions and private agony. Before Bucky’s obsession with his phone. Before his late nights and his stories about Tara.
You slept like a rock that night, taking comfort in the fact the next day, you’d have Bucky all to yourself for an entire weekend.
He woke early the next morning, as he always did, and did his best not to disturb you. But you were too excited to sleep any longer. As he slowly and carefully rose from the bed, your eyes flew open.
“Happy cabin day,” you whispered into the dark.
Bucky’s startled gasp sent you into a fit of laughter.
“You scared the hell out of- were you just laying there in the dark waiting for me to wake up?”
“Yeah, kinda.”
“Well… happy cabin day, you creep,” he laughed, still catching his breath. “Leaving at noon sharp?”
“Noon sharp,” you said back.
He dressed for his half day of work and allowed you to accompany him to the front door.
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he left a kiss against your forehead, “And we’re out the door right at twelve.”
“Right at twelve,” you nodded. “See you soon, Buck.”
But you didn’t.
Eleven rolled around without any sign of Bucky. Eleven-thirty and eleven-forty passed. And as the clock closed in on twelve, you wondered why you’d gotten your hopes up. Why you allowed yourself to get invested in this trip. Why you believed that things would actually work out.
But still, you held out hope. You sat perched on the arm of the couch. Waiting. Your duffel and Bucky’s sat at your feet. Waiting.
Your texts went unanswered. Your calls went straight to voicemail.
‘Maybe he’s just running a bit late,’ you thought. ‘Maybe he’ll be home by twelve-thirty. Or one.’
But he wasn’t.
Nor was he home by two. Or three.
The familiar nausea crept back in. The anxiety returned.
At four, you tossed your packed duffel into your closet and stripped out of your roadtrip clothes. You donned a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt and sank into the couch under the weight of your disappointment. All the hope, all the optimism you’d felt in this last week evaporated. And in their place settled a pointed shame.
You couldn’t believe you’d been so stupid, so naïve. You should’ve known better. Should’ve managed your expectations. This was your own fault, really. If you’d been smart enough to read between the lines, you wouldn’t be so heartbroken.
Around five, your stomach gave a hollow, gurgling growl. You’d been too excited to eat that morning as you rushed around completing last minute tasks before leaving for your weekend away. And after the realization that Bucky had gone back on his word, you were too sullen to even think about food, made nauseous by your anxiety.
But the nausea subsided for a moment, leaving an unbridled hunger in its wake. For a long moment, you considered putting together a simple dinner. There were groceries in the fridge, and you certainly had plenty of time to cook and eat, seeing as Bucky sabotaged your plans. But you didn’t have it in you.
Every night that you cooked dinner alone required a herculean effort. You had to push yourself, had to give yourself a rallying speech. And every night, it worked. Every night, you somehow found it in you to drag yourself to the kitchen and assemble a decent meal- albeit, a meal you wouldn’t eat. But with your hopes for a romantic weekend away dashed, the pep-talk didn’t work. Encouragement didn’t work. Nothing on the planet could force you to make even the simplest dinner. The kitchen seemed too far; you couldn’t fathom walking all the way to the cupboard for a snack.
But your bedroom? That was close by. That was doable.
With a pitiful groan, you heaved yourself up off the couch and lugged your body into the next room. You fetched your duffle out of the closet and fished your hand around inside until you unearthed the bag of s’mores supplies. With your bounty tucked under your arm, you made the journey back into the living room and settled onto the couch once again.
A few marshmallows and a graham cracker or two would have to suffice; it was all you could manage.
At six, your phone rang. Without even looking at the screen, you knew it was Bucky. Knew he’d be guilty and repentant and upset. Knew he’d promise to make it up to you. Knew he had a perfectly good reason for blowing off your trip.
The petty part of you wondered if he’d simply had trouble tearing himself from Tara’s side.
On the final ring, you answered his call.
And you were right, he was guilty. And repentant. And upset.
“Baby, I’m- you have no idea how sorry I am. I wanted to call sooner, we were just- I was so busy. We’re working on a new lead and-” he huffed, “It’s not an excuse, I know it’s not an excuse. I made you a promise and I’m so sorry I let you down again.”
A few tears welled in your eyes, your nose burned.
“It’s fine,” you said. “Happens.”
“I’m on my way home right now, I’ll be there as quickly as I can and as soon as I get there, we’ll leave for the cabin. We can-”
“We’re gonna hit too much traffic,” you told him, your voice flat. “That was one of the reasons we decided to leave at noon. We didn’t want to get stuck, remember?”
“Right. Well…” He went quiet for a moment as he searched for the right thing to say- for anything to say. “T wanted me to extend her apologies.”
‘T’? He was giving her nicknames now?
“She didn’t mean to keep me so long,” he said.
Your pitiful dinner churned in your stomach, fighting desperately to crawl back up your esophagus.
Tara. Kept him. It seemed to you that Bucky was somehow reading your mind and acting on your greatest fears.
“Hey, have you eaten yet?” He asked, filling the silence, “I can pick up something for dinner, anything you want.”
The marshmallows and graham crackers looked at you with pity.
“That’s okay, I already- I’m not hungry,” you sighed. You didn’t mean to sound so dejected, but you didn’t have the energy to hide it. “I’ll just see you when you get home.”
You hung up and let your phone slide in between the couch cushions. Never before had you felt so much like an island.
Bucky tore through the door twenty minutes later, his face shiny with sweat. You knew he’d desperately rushed home, hoping it would somehow fix the situation or at least mitigate some of your disappointment. It didn’t.
“Sweetheart…” he flew to the couch and sat by your side, “I am so, so sorry. I- I didn’t mean to be late.”
He eyed you for a moment, waiting for you to speak. But you didn’t. You remained still, leaning back against the couch cushions. There were no tears, no rageful words. You were quiet. Resigned.
He averted his gaze, too guilty to even look at you.
“I didn’t want to stay,” he swore. “But T needed me. She practically begged me.”
T needed him. Not the team. Tara.
It should’ve upset you, but it didn’t. You were past the point of being upset.
“Six hours late is…” You shook your head. “How does that even happen?”
Bucky ran a hand down the side of his face, “I don’t know. I’m the authority on this stuff and Tara said it was really important, so I- it doesn’t matter. I told her I needed to leave at noon, and I didn’t. I fucked up, not her.”
You nodded. You didn’t want to fight with him. And even if you did, you were too tired.
“I hope you know I’m not actively trying to make you miserable. I don’t want to be gone all the time.” He ran a hand through his hair, “I hate this. I hate that we never get to do anything together, and I hate that I can never spend any real time with you, and I hate that you look so…” He fell silent for a long moment as he drank you in.
His close observance made you want to shrink away. You knew he was taking inventory of your hollow, heartbroken stare. Your tired eyes. These days, you barely recognized yourself in the mirror. The face looking back at you wasn’t yours- it couldn’t be. It was too empty. Too deflated. More like a fragile husk than a person.
“I… I don’t remember the last time I saw you really smile,” the realization swept over him as he spoke. “Or… heard you laugh,” a deep crease formed between his brows. “I miss it. I miss you.”
You nodded, feeling suddenly guilty. The cynical, sour part of your brain had gotten to you, convincing you that Bucky was relishing in your destruction. That he was taking joy in draining you, gutting you.
But as you watched the tears gather slowly in his eyes, you realized just how wrong you’d been.
“I didn’t think it would be like this,” he swore. “I knew I’d be busy, but I…” He shook his head, “I didn’t know I’d be leaving you alone all the time. And breaking promises. And it’s-” With the back of his left hand, he all too aggressively swiped a rogue tear from his cheek; you were certain the sharp bite of the metal stung as it dug into his skin. “Hurting you like this is- it’s my biggest regret. And that includes everything I did for Hydra. I promised you we’d always be on the same team, and I’m…”
He pulled his phone out of his pocket; your chest tightened. Was he really pausing to check a text from Tara? Now?
“I’m calling the Tara,” he said, “I’m quitting.”
You unearthed yourself from the couch cushions, yanked upright by Bucky’s words. “What?”
“I can’t do it anymore. If I keep working on this, I’m gonna lose you,” he said, his voice wavering, desperate. “And I can’t risk that.”
Suddenly, a distinct and pointed feeling of guilt engulfed you. Here Bucky was, prepared to abandon his efforts to topple Hydra- for you. He was willing to allow that hideous, evil organization to rise again- for you. He was ready to default on the promise he made to himself- for you.
How could you have doubted him? How could you have been so suspicious? He’d done nothing wrong, aside from coming home late. But that wasn’t an indictment of his character or an accurate depiction of who he was as a partner. He was kind. He was trustworthy. He was loving.
His fingers flew over his screen, dialing Tara’s number; you didn’t love that he had it memorized. But before he could finish, you rested a hand atop his, stopping him.
He stared at you, “What are you-”
“I can’t let you quit.”
“But-”
“If you don’t see this through, you’ll regret it. It’ll eat away at you for the rest of your life.”
He tried to protest, to prove you wrong, but you silenced him.
“I know you, Buck. I know how you feel about Hydra. And even though I’m… yeah, I’m miserable right now, but it’s fine. It’s short-term. I’ll survive.” You outstretched your free hand and settled it on his forearm. “You need to do this for you. If you quit, you’ll hate yourself. And if, heaven forbid, Hydra makes some big resurgence, you’ll always blame yourself. You’ll always wonder if you could’ve stopped it, here and now.”
He considered your words for a long, quiet moment; you watched a war rage beneath his surface. You knew you were right. Knew that you’d read his mind. Knew that if he sat idly by and allowed Hydra to claw its way back to power, it would kill him. People would get hurt; people would die. And it would be his fault, at least partially. But he couldn’t help the desperate longing in his gaze, the fraught ache as he stared at you.
You could practically see him being torn in two by the nearly impossible choice.
“You’re…” he gave a small shake of his head, “You’re right. But this whole situation is- it’s eating you alive. You just said that you’re miserable. I can’t-” He looked down at his phone once again, “I can’t let you to be miserable. I can’t do that to you.”
You shrugged, hoping to assuage some of his guilt. “So, it’s not ideal.” The laughed you tacked onto the end didn’t convince him; it didn’t even convince you.
A long silence filled the room. A deep frown settled Bucky’s into Bucky’s mouth as he hemmed and hawed over his options. You knew he’d choose to stay on. Hoped he’d quit. Feared he’d tell you he was leaving you for Tara.
Finally, he spoke.
“I can’t… I can’t walk away from the job,” he sighed, “It goes against everything in me.”
You gave him a polite nod; his decision wasn’t a surprise.
“But that doesn’t mean that I’m okay with- with the way that things have been going for us,” he said. “I’ve been so preoccupied that I haven’t really been- what does my therapist call it?” He thought it over for a moment. “I haven’t been ‘emotionally present’. I haven’t been physically present much, either.”
You shrugged, “You’ve been under a lot of stress. I understand-”
“Yeah, but you’ve been in this by yourself,” he huffed, angry at himself. “And it’s not fair. I turned this into something one-sided.”
Alarm bells blared in your head at the word “one-sided”. What the hell did he mean by that? Was this him telling you that your feelings were no longer requited? Was he apologizing for hurting you, only so he could tell you he was leaving you?
“I’m gonna tell Tara I have to scale back my hours, or something.”
The alarms quieted a few decibels.
“If there’s anything I can do to make this whole thing easier on you, all you have to do is tell me. I’ll do it. Whatever it is.” He bit down on the inside of his cheek, “Cause I can’t keep doing this to you. I can’t keep apologizing and hoping that it’ll fix all the late nights and broken promises.” He shrugged, “But even though I know it won’t fix anything… I’m sorry. I mean it.”
Another long stretch of quiet occurred as you looked him over. His shoulders were hunched in defeat, devastation. His jaw was tense, his brow furrowed. He held one of your hands in his warm palm, and rested his metallic hand on top, as though cradling something delicate. Something precious. He looked genuinely miserable. Genuinely despondent. And your heart ached for him.
He was a good person. He took this job to protect the world, to protect you. Who were you to crucify him for coming home late a few times? Who were you to be suspicious of his intentions when all he wanted was to mend things with you? It wasn’t fair to accuse him of infidelity. To assume that he was stepping out on you behind your back. Your insecurity, you decided, was not his fault nor his problem.
And so, you vowed to stop jumping to conclusions. To stop assuming the worst of him. To stop writing fiction about what was going on between Bucky and ‘T’.
However, you did want to ask him one question.
“I really appreciate the apology- the apologies,” you corrected yourself. “And I know you’re not doing anything malicious. You’re just trying to do your best.”
He nodded.
“You’re not in an easy position here. I want a lot from you; your job wants a lot from you. You’re being stretched really thin right now. And I know you’re stressed out about how this is affecting me.”
Bucky nodded again, more emphatically this time.
“There is- there’s one thing you could do that might make things easier on me,” you told him.
Bucky scooted a bit closer, “anything.”
“And I need you to be one hundred percent honest with me.”
“Cross my heart.”
You hesitated, second-guessing your question. But if you were to stay sane for the remainder of this job, you needed a straight answer. There wasn’t a mature, adult way to ask. Each way you phrased it sounded pettier and more childish than the last.
And so, you simply dropped the question in his lap.
“Is there anything going on between you and Tara? Romantically or-” you winced, “Sexually?”
He stared at you, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly agape.
Was he simply surprised to hear such a preposterous question? Or was he shocked that you figured out about his torrid affair?
“What?” he finally said. “Between Tara and- no!” He shook his head, an incredulous look on his face. “I would never do that.”
The weight that had been sitting on your chest ever since Tara’s first phone call suddenly felt lighter. It didn’t vanish completely, but it lessened. You’d been aching to hear those words come out of his mouth. And now that they finally had.
“I’m not that kind of guy, sweetheart. I don’t do that sort of thing,” he swore. “Did you think that I was-”
You forced a laugh and shrugged. “No, no. Of course not. I didn’t actually think you’d-” the word got stuck in your throat. You had to force it out, “-cheat on me,” you lied. “But with the long hours and the late nights and all the texts and phone calls you guys share…”
“It is not like that, I promise,” he said, denying the accusation with his entire being. “Tara is great, and yeah, we spend a lot of time together. But I love you. You are the only person for me.”
He went on. And on. And on. For a solid two minutes, at least. He vowed that he wasn’t sleeping with Tara, swearing on every holy book in existence that he didn’t have feelings for her. He promised that he was in love with you, that he wanted you, that you were the love of his life. Only you.
And it should’ve made you feel better. But as Bucky continued his unrelenting, gushing promises about his love for you, he unknowingly planted more seeds of doubt. He strong denouncements and fierce denial of any romantic or sexual wrongdoing brought one phrase to mind:
“Thou dost protest too much.”
You knew then, without a doubt, that you were losing your mind.
But you couldn’t stop the vicious cycle; the ghosts of relationships past refused to allow it. And so, over the course of the next few minutes, you found yourself endlessly oscillating between ‘he’s laying it on thick to hide the fact that he’s cheating and ‘he loves me so much, it’s so awful of me to think he’s hiding something.’
You thanked the universe that mind reading was not amongst Bucky’s enhanced abilities. If he’d been able to hear all of your thoughts, if he knew how quickly your pendulum swung from one end of the spectrum to the next, he’d think you were crazy.
“All this to say,” he paused, and locked eyes with you in a moment of deep, genuine connection. “I love you. And only you. I don’t want anyone else.”
And though a sliver of suspicion remained, you accepted his words at face value.
“I love you too, Buck.”
He pulled you in for slow, long kiss. The two of you melted together, desperately affixing your bodies together in an attempt to make up for lost time.
“What do you think?” Bucky said when the two of you finally parted, “You still want to go up to the cabin tomorrow?”
You had no reason not to. You gave Bucky the affirmative and a wide smile stretched across his face. The previous night’s excitement returned and together, you made a plan for the following morning.
But when the following morning came, you woke to an empty bed. Again.
When your alarm went off at seven, you bolted upright. Today was the day that things between you and Bucky were finally going to get back on track. But when you turned to his side of the bed, he was nowhere to be found. His pillow was cold.
“Buck?” you called, your voice bouncing off the walls of the deserted apartment. “Are you here?”
No answer.
“Of fucking course.”
With a deeply disappointed sigh, you flopped back down and decided to sleep until noon. How could he do this to you- again? How could he ditch you? How could he promise to be more present, only to turn around and disappear? A tornado of anger swirled inside your chest, interrupted only by tidal waves of hurt. Of grief.
But just as the first tear slid its way down your cheek, the front door opened.
Cautious, quiet footsteps crept through the living room, down the short hallway, and into the bedroom. Bucky’s head slowly peeked around the corner. And once he realized you were awake, he rushed to your bedside with his hands concealed behind his back.
“Good morning, sweet- hey, are you okay?” Concern eclipsed his smile as he eyed the rogue tears clinging to your lashes. “Are you crying?”
You wiped your eyes with your t-shirt and gave a shake of your head, “No, I’m- I just had a really strange dream. It was a sad one.”
Bucky frowned, “I’m sorry, baby. Do you think that a bacon, egg, cheese, and hashbrown breakfast sandwich on an onion bagel would help?”
Your eyes widened, “You went to The Hot Bagel?”
Bucky nodded. From behind his back, he revealed the brown paper bag printed with your favorite bagel shop’s logo.
“Oh my god, this is- how long was the line?” In one swift motion you stole the bag from Bucky’s grasp and tore into it, revealing a miracle wrapped in tinfoil.
“It wasn’t long at all. There were only two people in front of me,” Bucky said, his smile proud.
“Buck…” you narrowed your eyes at him.
His face dropped. He feared that he’d ordered incorrectly. That he’d taken the wrong bag from the counter. “What?”
“If there were only two people in front of you, what time did you get there?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he gave a small shrug.
“But it’s one of the busiest shops in the city and-”
“And I know it’s your favorite. So, I went.” He said it so matter of factly, as though it were a no brainer. “I would’ve been back a little earlier, but the onion bagels weren’t quite ready when I got there. I almost got you an everything instead, but…”
Your expression grew incredulous. He let out a belly laugh.
“But I knew you’d give me that exact look. So, I waited a little longer.”
Together, the two of you inhaled what you deemed the best breakfast sandwich in New York. And once you’d tucked the s’mores supplies back into your bag and gotten ready for the drive, Bucky led you by the hand down to the car.
The drive was exactly what you’d imagined. Windows down. Clear skies. Invigorating music. Bucky danced with you to today’s hits. Eighties ballads. Forties crooners. He provided backup vocals and took the occasional solo. This was how it was supposed to be. This was what your relationship had always been: warm, safe, comfortable.
There was no room here for doubt or suspicion or distrust.
As the cabin rolled into view, you made a conscious decision to remove any inkling of wariness from your mind. Bucky was yours. And you were his. And that was that.
Like a perfect gentleman, he unloaded the car and carried the bags up the porch steps. The cabin sat tucked in amongst a swath of trees that shielded it from the main road. Its interior was decorated with thought, with care, with love. It welcomed you in and instantly, you felt right at home. Rounding out the space was a small yard, complete with a hammock and fire pit.
It seemed that the weekend might be saved after all, until you glanced into Bucky’s bag.
As he was unpacking his toiletries and getting his clothes sorted, the shiny silver corner of his laptop caught your eye. It was tucked under a pair of sweatpants, but you knew in your bones that it was his computer. Upon further inspection, you discovered a hotspot hiding amongst his clothes, as well.
So much for the ‘uninterrupted weekend’ he’d sold you.
But instead of assuming the worst, instead of spiraling, you reasoned with yourself. He’d packed his bag prior to your heart to heart. Prior to your admission of being miserable. Prior to his promise to scale back his hours. It was perfectly logical to think that he’d simply forgotten to remove his computer and his hotspot from his bag. That he had no intention of using them this weekend. That he only packed them in case of an emergency.
And maybe- just maybe- he didn’t intend to work during your getaway.
But work he did, anyway.
Bucky found you lounging in the hammock, protected from the sun by the shadow of a large, old tree.
“Where have you been?” you asked, looking up from your book. “You said you were right behind me.”
He had said it would only take a few minutes for him to “send one last email” before he could “completely unplug.” But that was forty-five minutes ago.
“I know, I’m sorry. One email turned into a phone call, and that turned into a zoom,” he said, exasperated. “But I’m here now. Does that hammock have room enough for two?”
Some childish and petty part of you wanted to call him on his shit. It wanted to throw the words “uninterrupted weekend” back at him and watch as he ate them.
But he looked so tired. Everything about him screamed ‘rundown’. This was the longest you’d ever seen his stubble. His hair was longer, too- longer than he liked it. There was a defeated air about the slope of his shoulders. And every breath seemed more like a sigh. He didn’t get to go out for long runs in the park anymore; this was probably the most time he’d spent in the sun in weeks.
The loving, devoted, compassionate part of you won out against your immature instinct, and you allowed him to share your hammock. He climbed in with a warm smile stretched across his face and tucked his body into your side. It was the perfect way to spend an afternoon- save for his near-constant texting. But you figured that a preoccupied Bucky was better than no Bucky at all.
He never even cracked the book he brought along for the trip. He, instead, allowed it to rest at his side while he responded to Tara’s messages. Every once and a while, you caught a glimpse of his screen, and everything appeared to be on the up and up. There were no emojis. No flirtations. No double entendres. Just business.
And though you wished he’d knock it off and be present with you, you let it to slide. He was just trying to make everyone happy. Trying to stretch himself thinner than thin. And he was clearly miserable, himself; you thought it best not to add insult to injury.
And the weekend was still lovely regardless. It was the most time you’d spent together since he started with Tara’s organization, and you swore you could feel yourself coming back to life. The two of you ate and danced and made s’mores and fell asleep under the stars. And even though it was a truncated version of the trip you’d hoped for, you wouldn’t have traded it for anything.
Things were looking up.
Another respite from Bucky’s hellish schedule came a few weeks after your cabin jaunt. Just as the sense of renewal granted by the getaway started to wear off, Bucky came home from work one Friday night with a nearly cartoonish grin on his face.
He bounded through the front door and threw himself at you, sweeping you into his arms. It was unexpected, almost strange; he never came home with his energy intact like this. But you welcomed it; you missed seeing him this way.
“I have good news,” he said. “Do you wanna guess what it is?”
“Hmm…” you thought it over for a moment, “Are you-”
He didn’t allow you to properly formulate a guess; he was far too excited.
“I’ll give you a hint: guess who has the whole weekend off?” he asked, spinning you around as though on a dance floor.
Your jaw dropped. “Really?”
“Really.”
It was like music to your ears. Like your birthday and New Year’s Eve and Valentine’s Day rolled into one. You could’ve sworn that confetti fell from the ceiling. That fireworks exploded outside your window. It wasn’t just good news. It was great news. The best news you’d ever received.
“We’ve hit a wall with this lead we’re working on,” he told you. “There’s some information we need in order to move forward, but not even our access team has been able to get to it. It’s not in any of the systems they’ve looked through.”
You gave him a strange look, “What’s an access team?”
He rolled his eyes and laughed a little, “They’re hackers. But they told me to stop calling them ‘hackers’ cause apparently that sounds ‘cheesy’.”
You shrugged, “‘Hackers’ kinda does make it sound like you’re in a bad spy movie.”
“They hack! It’s the name that makes the most sense!” he laughed. “Anyway, they think it’s probably being stored on a drive somewhere off-network, that way no one can hac- I mean, access it. And our entire strategy hinges on that information. So, there’s not much we can do right now.”
It struck you that maybe you were supposed to be sensitive to this plight. To the frustrations of his job. Maybe deep down, he was disappointed that Hydra’s fall would have to be delayed. But he didn’t seem all that bummed about it. If anything, he seemed unburdened.
“They called things off for the weekend so everyone can recharge,” he told you. “I think they’re hoping that a free weekend will help people come back with fresh eyes and clear minds.”
“Yeah, it’s almost like allowing your employees to rest helps them be better problem solvers,” you quipped.
“Who could’ve seen that coming?” he laughed. The sound hit you deep in your chest; you realized just how much you missed that laugh. It vibrated against his lips as he pressed them to yours.
The possibilities of how the two of you might spend this rare, free weekend- farmer’s markets, museums, drinking and dancing- evaporated from your mind as he kissed you. And suddenly, they were replaced by hungrier, more salacious options.
But for the time being, you quieted them. This was Bucky’s weekend, his free time.
He never had the time to do what he wanted to do anymore. Ever since he started this job, his time no longer belonged to him. This job owned every day, every minute; he was lucky enough to get a few hours on loan so he could sleep.
“Well, whatever you wanna do this weekend, I’m in,” you told him when you finally parted. “You get to pick since you never have free time anymore.”
He fell silent for a long moment, thinking.
“Anything you want!” you promised him. “We can go on a bike ride or roam around in that fancy bookstore in SoHo or-”
“If it’s alright, I’d rather not.”
“You’d rather not what, Buck?”
He sighed, “Would you mind if we didn’t do… anything? I don’t want you to be bored all weekend, but I just…”
He let out a long sigh and looked around the room. As his gaze swept through the space, you watched him take in the subtle changes here and there: a new throw pillow on the couch, a different set of coasters on the coffee table, a new lamp to replace the one he’d accidentally broken.
This was the apartment you’d hunted for together. The apartment he’d called his “safest place”. His “favorite place”. And yet, he’d barely spent any time within its walls in recent days. He was more like a guest here. A stranger. A foreign transplant.
His eyes filled with the same desperate longing you’d seen before the cabin trip. “I just want to be home, you know? But if you want to go and-”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you told him. “If you want to stay home all weekend, we’ll stay home.”
He eyed you warily, “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” you promised. “I’ll never say no to weekend at home with you.”
A satisfied smile spread across his face.
You weren’t quite sure if he was excited to spend the weekend at home with you, or if he was simply thrilled to lounge on the couch for a few days. Either way, you were happy to have him all to yourself. Happy to keep him out of the clutches of others for a few days.
“Maybe we could get some snacks and have a movie marathon? There are a ton of classics I’ve never seen,” he said. “Jaws, Jurassic Park, Alien. What do you think?”
You quirked a brow at him, “I think it’s criminal that you’ve never seen Jurassic Park.”
“I know,” he groaned. “That’s why I’m trying to rectify it! What do you think?”
You, of course, agreed to his proposal. The two of you made a list of movies and a list of snacks, and you couldn’t resist the excitement building in your chest. This weekend was going to be the mulligan. The do-over. After your cabin weekend was cut short, after it was tarnished by Bucky’s constant correspondence with Tara, the two of you needed a second chance at an uninterrupted weekend. And the opportunity had finally arrived.
The next day, Bucky settled in next to you on the couch. He draped a blanket over your lap, pulled you securely into his side, and pressed play on Jaws. Jurassic Park followed shortly after, and he raved about it as the two of you made and ate lunch. A slew of movies spanning multiple genres left Bucky in awe. It was a strange experience, watching Alien after West Side Story, but you didn’t care. Bucky was home, and that’s all that mattered.
And much to your surprise, he hadn’t mentioned Tara once. Hadn’t texted her. Hadn’t paused the movie to read one of her emails. And for the first time in a long time, things inside your apartment felt less crowded.
But a nagging thought needled at you. What if he was simply being more covert about corresponding with Tara now? What if he had gotten better at covering things up?
No. You wouldn’t allow yourself to think that way anymore.
With a deep breath, you nestled yourself deeper into Bucky’s embrace and vowed to simply enjoy the weekend. You didn’t know when- or if- you’d get another one like this any time soon. And you damn sure weren’t going to waste it by concocting wild speculations.
Once the sun finally set behind the skyscrapers, Bucky pressed play on your last movie of the night: When Harry Met Sally. But just as Harry and Sally bumped into each other in a bookstore, there was a knock at your front door.
Bucky looked at you. You looked at him.
“Were you expecting someone?” he asked.
You shook your head.
“Hmm,” Bucky rose from the couch, “Maybe it’s a neighbor.”
He strode toward the front door and pressed his face against its surface, peering through the peephole. You could’ve sworn you heard a quiet gasp fill his lungs.
“Who is it, Buck?”
He didn’t answer. He removed the chain on the door with a slow intensity. Inched the deadbolt open at a glacial pace. His movements were painstaking, deliberate. Almost sluggish. Whoever it was, Bucky didn’t seem too pleased to see them.
When he finally turned the knob, he pulled the door open only a few inches. A sliver, really. He leaned his head out into the hall and spoke quietly with the mystery visitor.
It was odd, his behavior. He had no reason to be secretive or cagey when speaking to a neighbor. He had no reason to hide his conversation from you. To shield you from this surprise guest.
As quietly as you could, you rose from the couch a crept closer to the door, hoping to catch a word or two.
“Yeah, and I thought I told you never to come to my apartment,” Bucky said, his words hurried.
Something about it made your stomach turn. Why would he feel the need to give someone such a specific stipulation, unless he had something to hide?
And then a woman’s voice filled the air.
Not any woman’s voice.
Tara’s.
“I know, but I need you, Buck.”
A flash of heat scorched your insides. And before you knew what was happening, you’d wrenched the door all the way open.
Tara stood before you in a floor length maroon gown dripping with intricate beading. She towered over you, her perfect body elongated by elegant heels. Her auburn hair was twisted and tucked into a fabulous updo. Diamonds dangled from her ears and encircled her slender neck. And deep red lipstick accentuated her perfect pout.
You thought it possible that she’d stepped out of a magazine or off of a runway.
And suddenly, you wondered what the fuck Bucky was doing with you. What he saw in you. How he could be with you when she existed.
A violent pain tore through your abdomen, nearly stealing your breath. It seemed that something sharp and jagged was ripping through your insides, shredding your guts into confetti. But you forced yourself to remain composed. To appear unbothered.
Bucky shifted his gaze to you and then back to Tara. He looked nervous, as though you’d caught him red-handed.
“Sweetheart, this is Tara,” he gestured to the devastatingly beautiful supermodel standing in the hall. “Tara, this is-”
“It’s nice to meet you,” she said in a rush, her attention barely drifting from Bucky’s face. “But we really don’t have time for pleasantries right now, Buck. This is an emergency.”
“I don’t think I can tonight,” Bucky told her. “I have plans, we’re watching-”
“I know how to get the drive, I know where it is.” Tara shrugged, “Okay, I’m pretty sure I know where it is.”
Bucky didn’t answer, he simply quirked a brow at her, allowing her to continue.
“There’s a huge gala tonight at Thomas Weller’s house,” she said.
Bucky perked up.
“Weller’s house…” he said, thinking it over. “He lives in the-”
“The prohibition era mansion with the hidden room that acted as a speakeasy. Yeah,” Tara nodded, her eyes a bit wild. She seemed truly exhilarated by the circumstances. “He’s the only one Hydra would trust to keep the drive secure, and tonight’s the only chance for us to find it,” she said. “He has to be hiding it in that secret room- I feel it.”
“But we can’t be sure…”
“Barnes, I’m sure.”
Bucky thought on it for a long, quiet moment. “Are you willing to stake Magdalini’s on it?”
Tara’s face lit up as her head fell back in a laugh. A loose auburn curl bounced at the nape of her neck. Her perfectly polished nails brushed against her chest as she caught her breath. You were certain she was the princess from every fairytale you’d read as a child.
“Yes!” she finally said when she composed herself. “I am willing to bet you a doz- TWO dozen cookies from Magdalini’s.”
Bucky took this very seriously. A knowing look eclipsed his face, and he granted Tara an understanding nod. You, on the other hand, were left in the cold. You weren’t sure what had just happened between them, but they knew something you didn’t. They shared something you were not a part of. Whether these cookies were an inside joke or some kind of metric, you weren’t sure. But they were important.
You waited for an explanation, for one of them to afford you an invite to the joke. But no such offer came.
“Do you still have your tux from the SWORD anniversary party? The one where we knocked over the ice sculpture?” Tara asked.
A small smile flickered across Bucky’s face. He cut his glance toward you, dropped his smile, and nodded at Tara.
“Then get dressed,” she told him. “The party starts in twenty minutes and it’s basically across town.”
“Okay, yeah, just-” Bucky began to make a sweeping gesture of invitation but cut it short when his eyes met yours. “Um, I’ll be out in a minute,” he told her, before shutting the door and leaving her in the hall.
With the door shut, the two of you shared a long, loaded look.
“I’m sorry…” he finally said. “I know we were gonna watch movies and-”
“It’s fine, Bu-” you stopped yourself, not wanting to use the same nickname as Tara. “Babe.”
He sighed, “I keep disappointing you.”
You shrugged, “It is what it is. This is part of your job.”
You meant it. You knew he wasn’t doing this on purpose. Knew he wasn’t trying to hurt you. It wasn’t fair to blame him. It wasn’t even fair to blame Tara, though you wanted to. She, too, was just doing her job. Just trying to stop Hydra. And who were you to stop those efforts?
But you couldn’t help the frustration that ground your teeth together. The disappointment. The irritation. It all pooled together into a sinister, inky cocktail that coated your insides. It seemed that, at every turn, Bucky chose Tara. You knew it was childish to feel that way. Knew it was petty and stupid and immature. But you couldn’t stop it.
And Tara’s piercing beauty didn’t help. Her perfect cheekbones and flawless skin made you want to double over. Made you question if you were even the same species.
Bucky dressed in his tuxedo quietly, eyeing you every now and again. You sat on the edge of the bed, waiting to assist with his tie, if need be. Another heavy, endless silence wedged itself between the two of you. The kind of silence that precedes disaster.
“So, what’s the deal with Magda… Madgolee-”
“Magdalini’s?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s this bakery out in New Hampshire,” he told you. “Tara and I were in Concord doing recon for this job, and we kind of randomly stumbled upon the place.”
You waited for something more, but nothing came.
“But what do cookies have to do with you going to this party?” you asked.
“Well, when Tara and I were togeth- when we worked together,” he overcorrected. “If one of us had a feeling about something but no proof, we’d bet the other a dozen cookies from Magdalini’s.” He gave a quiet laugh, “Since it’s all the way in New Hampshire and always sells out before noon, it’s a pain in the ass to get those damn cookies. You have to trek out to Concord early in the morning and wait in a long line and it’s- it’s a whole thing.” He shrugged, “So her telling me that she’d bet two dozen of those cookies on this party tonight means she’s sure. Cause if she’s not, she’s gotta drag her ass all the way out there.”
Bucky smiled as he buttoned his shirt, clearly awash in the memories of that bakery. And the woman he shared it with. And suddenly, you hated those damn cookies.
You hated the inside jokes and shared memories Bucky had with Tara. Hated that he was leaving you. Again. To be with her. Again. Hated that you were so goddamn jealous.
“Just um… let me know if you need help with your tie,” you muttered before fleeing the scene.
You found solace in the quiet, empty living room, and leaned against the back of the couch. Over and over again, you forced yourself to take deep, calming breaths. This wasn’t Bucky’s fault, you told yourself. He had a job to do; and as unfortunate as it was, this was part of it. When the dust cleared, things would go back to normal. Tara would disappear once again and your relationship with Bucky would be returned to its former glory. That was the silver lining, the light at the end of the tunnel. Your heartrate slowed, your frustration evaporated, and you discovered a newfound hope.
Until there was another soft knock at the door.
Just as you turned to face the sound, the door opened just a sliver.
“Hi,” Tara leaned her head in, an apologetic smile on her beautiful face. “Do you mind if I wait inside? Your neighbors are staring,” she chuckled.
Of course, your neighbors were staring; a runway model was loitering in their hallway.
And though you didn’t want her in the space you shared with Bucky, what choice did you have?
You gestured for her to enter, “Sure.”
She stood just inside the door, her elegant ensemble completely out of place in your home. She tucked her designer clutch under her arm and gave your apartment a once over.
“It’s so cozy in here,” she said without a drop of condescension. “I love that painting. Where did you get it?” She gestured to the framed canvas hanging on the opposite wall.
“Oh that’s- I painted it,” you told her, suddenly sheepish.
Not only was she smart and beautiful and skilled- she was nice, too?
“You um, you look really nice,” you told her. “I like your dress.”
It was painfully awkward. You were certain Tara could feel the envy radiating from your every pore. But you had to make an effort. Had to make nice. She was Bucky’s coworker; and regardless of the punishing schedule she’d set for him, she hadn’t technically done anything wrong. That you knew of.
But the way she lit up when Bucky walked out in his tux made you wonder.
Maybe it was unfair, you thought, to condemn her for her reaction- anyone with sight would react the exact same way. Bucky was always attractive but seeing him all dressed up made your knees weak. The custom-fitted tux hugged him in all the right places and accentuated his physique. It took every ounce of your strength not to pounce on him right then and there.
“Is this okay?” he asked, looking down at his ensemble. “I had a little trouble with the tie.”
“I can help with-” “Oh, here, let me-”
Both you and Tara took a step in his direction, arms outstretched, prepared to assist him. Simultaneously, you snapped your head in the other’s direction and locked eyes. Tara flashed you a smile that you categorized as ‘almost apologetic’ and with a sweeping gesture, conceded.
The tension in the room settled atop the three of you, forcing everyone’s eyes down.
After a deep breath and a shake of your head, you took your rightful place in front of Bucky. With nimble fingers, you adjusted the fabric of his tie until it was perfect. He shot you a look, silently apologizing for the incident.
You wanted to brush the whole thing off. To pretend that it didn’t bother you. But it did.
Sure, Tara was nice. But why would she feel entitled to get so up close and personal with Bucky this way? And why would she feel comfortable doing so in front of you? In your home? She was his ex, his coworker. It made no sense for her to be the one to fix his tie, especially when you were right there. Of course, it was just a bow tie; Tara hadn’t volunteered to French kiss him or anything of the sort. But the way she jumped at the chance to enter his personal bubble rubbed you the wrong way.
Maybe, you feared, Bucky allowed her to get close to him at work. Maybe the two of them spent time cozied up in her office when they were supposed to be attending meetings. Maybe she’d gotten so used to being intimate with him that this kind of task had become second nature to her. And maybe she’d been so overwhelmed by the sight of her lover in his tuxedo that she’d forgotten she had an audience.
Maybe he wasn’t staying at work all night, laboring over this job until the early morning hours. Maybe he was sleeping at her apartment, in her bed.
The possibility trapped your lungs in a vice, cutting off your air supply. Bile rose in the back of your throat; it took everything in you to force it down. By some miracle, you remained composed, and adjusted Bucky’s tie.
“There,” you said , “All done.”
Just as Bucky tried to express his gratitude, he stumbled to the side. Tara had yanked him by the hand and began hauling him toward the door. Bucky stumbled behind her for a few paces before locking eyes with you. He slipped his hand from her grasp and doubled back to place a kiss on your cheek.
“I’m really sorry about this,” he said. “I-”
“I won’t have him home too late!” Tara called from the door with a laugh. “Thanks for sharing him with me!”
Before you had the chance to blink, Bucky and Tara disappeared out the door and down the hall.
‘Sharing’ him? Another vicious bout of pain ripped through you. And without an audience, you were free so succumb. You doubled over, allowing the agony to take hold of you. The sharp, searing pain sliced its way from your gut to your throat, flaying you wide open. Only when it quieted to an angry throb were you able to stand upright and hobble to the couch.
After an hour or so, you forced yourself to stop thinking about them. About Bucky and Tara together. About the things that might be transpiring on the other side of town. It wasn’t healthy, wasn’t productive. The pain in your abdomen had finally dulled and you knew that if you continued to ruminate, it would return with a vengeance.
And so, you wiped your tears and dragged your body off the couch. You took a long shower, did your skincare, and slipped into your most comfortable pajamas. All you had to do was delude yourself into believing that Bucky was out with Sam or working with Yelena. It was the perfect fix, albeit temporary.
After your shower you climbed into bed and dove into your favorite silly sitcom. The canned laughter and over the top storylines helped distract you, helped lift your shattered spirits. With one tap of your remote you skipped half a season- expertly avoiding a storyline about the main character cheating on his girlfriend- and resumed your rewatch in a happier spot.
Still, you picked and bit at what was left of your nails. Eyed the clock every few minutes. Checked your phone more than you would’ve liked. You couldn’t help it.
Just before eleven o’clock, you heard the front door open.
“Buck?” you called, hoping it was only him.
“Yeah…” he said. He sounded different. “It’s me.”
His keys clinked against the wall as he hung them on the hook by the door, and you knew he’d be in the bedroom soon. Knew he’d have his tail between his legs. Knew you were in for a long night of discussions and apologies. You turned off the tv and waited, expecting his slumped shoulders to lean against the doorframe any second.
But he never appeared.
Something- instinct, intuition- nudged you out of bed.
Something was wrong.
You cautiously made your way out of the bedroom and into the living room as the pit in your stomach doubled- tripled- in size.
You found Bucky still standing by the front door, motionless. His eyes were downcast; his hands were shoved into his pockets. The bowtie you’d so meticulously fixed for him was draped loosely around his neck. The first few buttons of his shirt were open.
“Hey…” you called.
He barely looked up, and only for a split second. “Hi.”
The distance between you seemed much vaster than it was. He seemed to be miles away, adrift somewhere far and unfamiliar. No one moved, no one spoke. The tension in the air grew heavier by the second, nearly crushing you.
And after a while, you couldn’t take the strained silence.
“Um, how’d it go?” you asked. “Is everything okay?”
Finally, Bucky dragged his gaze from the floor. The misery in his eyes sent a pang of anxiety ripping through your chest.
“Something h-” he gave a small shake of his head, cleared his throat. “Something happened. Between me and Tara.”
His words knocked you off balance. Your nails dug into the couch as you fought to remain upright. The unforgiving pain in your abdomen exploded once again. And a tidal wave of nausea swallowed you whole.
“It was part of our cover, it wasn’t- there wasn’t anything romantic about it,” he swore. The words tumbled out of his mouth in a panicked rush. “We weren’t supposed to be in Weller’s office- a security guard was coming and if they knew we’d taken the drive, Weller would’ve had us killed. So, Tara k-” he choked on the word. “She kissed me. She made it look like we were a couple who’d gotten, I don’t know, carried away or something. Like we were just looking for a private room to…” He didn’t finish his sentence.
Suddenly, his eyes grew wide.
“But we didn’t- we didn’t do that!” he said, almost frantic. “It was just the kissing, nothing else. I swear.”
Finaly, he unrooted his feet and made his way toward you; he stopped just a foot from where you stood.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m so- I didn’t know that was gonna happen,” he said. “I had no idea. She just did it without telling me. I didn’t want to- I didn’t want her to do that.”
His words settled into your body, creating fractures and fissures as they went.
A storm of sympathy rained down on you as you stared at him. He was in utter agony, that was no secret. His hands shook, his face was flushed, his eyes brimmed with tears. He hadn’t wanted that kiss. Hadn’t known about it or expected it. And he was suffering. The love of your life was suffering.
But the ghost of relationships past returned, screaming at you over and over. Gloating.
“I told you so!”
“I told you so!”
“I told you so!”
This was exactly what you’d feared. What you’d dreaded. And regardless of the circumstances, your old wounds were ripped open once again. The flashbacks hit you like a truck; the familiar words tore you to pieces. There was no surviving this; no making it out alive. It seemed that you would bleed out, that you’d be lifeless and cold in a matter of moments.
But the first tear dripped down Bucky’s face, and brought you back to reality.
It took all your might, all your strength, but you forced your impending collapse and demise to wait. Everything would have to wait.
“I’m s- I’m sorry that happened to you,” you said.
His brow furrowed, “What?”
You breathed through the throbbing, unrelenting ache in your chest, and repeated yourself.
“I’m sorry that happened to you, Buck,” you said, matter-of-factly. “She shouldn’t have ki- she shouldn’t have done that. You didn’t want it. Didn’t consent to it. It’s not okay.”
He stared at you, wide eyed. Another tear spilled onto his cheek, but he didn’t seem to notice; he was far too shocked.
“Sweetheart, I don’t care about that- I’m fine,” he shrugged. “I’m worried about you. About hurting you.” He dug his teeth into the inside of his cheek, “About what this might- what it might do to us.”
The words came out quieter, weaker than you’d hoped. “Wasn’t your fault.”
“Baby-”
“I’m sorry, can you-” you cleared your throat, “Can you just give me one second?” You gave him a strained smile and turned slowly back to the bedroom. Bucky faltered awkwardly in the living room as you fled.
You turned too sharply around the corner into your bedroom, knocking the point of your shoulder into the wall. But you barely noticed; it didn’t hurt. It should’ve; you’d run into this corner enough times to know that it should kill. But it didn’t. You barely even noticed it. Some tiny portion of your brain registered the hit and catalogued it for the future, for when you’d discover the bruise and wonder about its origin.
On unsteady feet, you flew into the en suite bathroom and shut the door behind you. You didn’t mean to slam it, but the panic creeping into your bones stole your sense of decorum. It turned you into a jittery, unstable version of yourself. The sound of the door banging into its frame made you jump.
With the lock twisted into place, you leaned against the nearest wall and promptly fell apart.
The was the breakdown of the century, the monster you’d been fighting off with sword and shield. But fighting was useless. It came at you like a natural disaster. Unstoppable. Uncontrollable. Life-threatening. It was your own personal category 5 hurricane. Your uncontained wildfire. Your San Andreas fault.
The tears soaked your shirt in mere moments. Your breathing was ragged, labored. A burning sensation clawed at your throat, your chest, as your lungs begged for oxygen. The weakness in your knees forced you to slide down the wall, searching for the stability of the floor.
But even as you fell to pieces, you forced yourself to stay quiet. To do your damnedest to keep Bucky from hearing. Because no matter what happened at that party, he was still the great love of your life. And you didn’t want to upset him.
But it was too late.
“Baby…” Bucky called from the bedroom, his voice jagged with worry. “Baby, I’m so sorry. Please, can we talk?”
The handle of the bathroom door jiggled as he tried it, but found it locked. He sighed.
His metal knuckles knocked gently against the wood, “Sweetheart, please… open the door.”
You didn’t answer.
“Baby, I’m-” he choked on the panic. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing- there’s nothing going on with me and T-” he didn’t say her name. “I swear to god, I swear on my life. I swear on Steve’s. It’s not like that.”
The logical part of your brain knew he was telling the truth. Nothing about James Buchanan Barnes said ‘cheater’. He was a loyal, decent person who would rather die than hurt you. Never over the course of your relationship had you ever caught him so much as looking at another woman.
But the tortured, traumatized part of your brain was too busy falling down a rabbit hole of flashbacks to listen to reason. All at once, it grew to be too much.
Once again, bile crawled its way up the back of your throat. And though you tried to resist, you didn’t have any fight left in you. Your mouth flooded with saliva, and you threw yourself to the floor in front of the toilet. Pain rocketed through your knees as your crashed against the cold tile.
And finally, after months of staving off the nausea, you let it win. You allowed yourself to be sick. To be weak.
All of the fear and worry and pain exited your body in an almost violent fashion. It had been building up for so long, slowly taking over every cell. And now, it had forced you to the ground. Forced you to your knees. Forced you to lean over the toilet and retch, over and over again.
“Sweetheart?” Bucky called, distressed. There was a heightened sense of alarm in his voice. A pleading desperation. “Are you okay? Can I get you anything?”
Answering wasn’t an option, as you were otherwise occupied.
“I’m gonna get you some water, okay? But I’ll be right back.”
‘See?’ you thought, ‘He does care.’
The thought only brought on another wave of sickness.
The force with which your body lurched forward would most likely leave you sore the next day, but you didn’t care. You didn’t care about anything other than bringing air into your lungs.
Bucky’s voice entered your consciousness every minute or so as he checked on you; he sounded like he might be sick himself. But you weren’t able to ask.
Finally, it was over. The contents of your stomach were long gone, and you’d expelled only bile for the past few minutes. But after a spell of dry heaving, the forceful retching came to an end. You allowed yourself to slump against the nearest wall with relief. A sharp burn ripped through your throat and nose. Your hands shook. Tears clung to your cheeks and lashes. But it was over.
Your head fell into your hands, and you forced yourself to take a few deep, even breaths, though they did little to calm you. Images of Bucky and Tara still pummeled you from every angle. You wondered if you’d find her red lipstick smudged up and down his neck.
In all honesty, you didn’t mean to say it out loud. You didn’t mean for Bucky to hear you. But you’d lost control of yourself long ago, and the words slipped out before you had the chance to stop them.
“I can’t do this again.”
The fire scorching down your throat banished the haunting visions of Bucky and his lost love and dragged you back to reality.
No part of you wanted to face him after the dramatic show you’d put on. After he’d kissed another woman. After everything that could’ve gone wrong did. The anticipation conjured a dark, swirling pit to open in your stomach. Would he end things tonight, after witnessing your instability? Or would he wait till the morning? Would he immediately fly into Tara’s arms? Or would he wait a few days out of respect?
The nausea returned, but you didn’t have anything left to expel. You dragged a few greedy breaths into your lungs and forced yourself to face the facts: the longer you waited- the longer you hid- the worse it would be. And so, you pulled yourself up off the floor and rinsed your mouth in the bathroom sink.
Bucky hovered closely to the bathroom door. He was so close, in fact, that he left you almost no room to exit.
“Are you doing alright, sweetheart?” His eyes were red; his cheeks were stained with tear tracks. “I brought you a glass of water if you’re interested.”
He reached for you tentatively, his hand shaking ever so slightly.
There was a time when you never would’ve avoided his touch. Never would’ve imagined pulling away from his hand. But you did. Maybe you didn’t mean to, maybe it was a reflex. But you did it. You yanked your body out of his path and tucked your arms into your chest, as though protecting yourself from some great danger.
More than anything, you wanted to flee the room, the apartment- maybe the state. But you knew there was no point in running. Instead, you took a few long strides across the room, putting some distance between you and Bucky. It felt safer here. More comfortable.
The look on Bucky’s face nearly made you sick again.
“Sorry,” you said, flames scorching down your throat. “I-”
“No, hey- it’s okay, I get it.” He forced the saddest smile you’d ever seen. “Um, I’ll just- I’ll put this on your nightstand.” He set the glass of water down behind him and turned back to you with anguish carved into his face.
“Baby…” he sighed. “I’m so-”
“You don’t have to apologize again,” you told him . “It’s-”
A wave of dizziness crested over you, sending the world around you into chaos. Black, shiny spots shimmered on the edges of your vision. Desperately, you grabbed onto the corner of the nearby armchair in an attempt to steady yourself. Your nails dug into the upholstery as you breathed through your tremulous grip on the world.
Bucky took a small, cautious step in your direction. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m-” You listed to the side once again. “I’m gonna pass out.”
Bucky’s eyes widened, “What?”
And then you were falling. Falling forward. Black clouds obscured your vision, your ears started ringing. A gust of air fanned your face as you quickly folded toward the floor. A pair of strong arms locked around you suddenly. One encircled your waist; the other, your chest. And then you were out.
Everything was still black and cloudy; the sounds came back first.
The words were fuzzy at first, lacking any real, definable structure. But you could tell it was Bucky saying them. Could tell by his tone, his gentle voice, that he was reassuring you. The garbled, shapeless words grew slowly clearer until you finally made them out.
“I got you,” he said. “You’re okay, baby. I got you.”
A cool sensation glided across your cheek; it sent goosebumps crawling over your skin. It felt so familiar. Why did it feel so familiar? The cold, metal drifted across your skin again, and you recognized Bucky’s vibranium hand.
“You’re alright, I’m here,” he told you. “I’m right here.”
Finally, you rediscovered the ability to open your eyes. It was harder than you remembered, more taxing. But you did it. And Bucky’s face was the first thing you saw- his beautiful, anxious face. He sat next to you on the bed, leaning over you with unparalleled worry.
“Hey,” his brow creased with concern. “How are you feeling?”
It took a moment for you to formulate the words, but eventually, you managed an “I’m fine.”
And technically speaking, you were. You weren’t dizzy or nauseous anymore. You hadn’t been injured when you blacked out- Bucky didn’t allow that to happen. So, physically speaking, ‘fine’ was accurate.
But the embarrassment burned your face; you were certain that your skin must be scorching to the touch. It was all just so dramatic. So over the top. The sobbing, the vomiting, the fainting… It was like something out of a soap opera.
“Are you sure?” he asked. His voice was still thin, still brittle with concern.
You gave a cautious nod, “Yeah. I swear.”
He relaxed the tiniest amount. But if you knew anything about him, you knew he’d remain hypervigilant for the rest of the night, just in case. Hell, he’d probably remain hypervigilant for at least a week, ready to save you if need be.
“Thanks for catching me, Buck.”
“Yeah- of course,” a small smile crept across his face. “Always, baby.”
He ghosted his thumb over your cheek again, “Is this- has this ever happened before?” he asked, “Or is it something new?”
He worried more than anyone you’d ever known. And always about you. You kicked yourself for thinking he would ever stray. For thinking that he didn’t care.
“It hasn’t happened in a long time, but I used to pass out a lot when I was younger. Whenever I was really-” You cut your sentence off at the knees.
He eyed you, “Whenever you were really what?”
There was no sense in saying it. Bucky already felt guilty enough, adding to his shame wasn’t going to help.
“When you were what?” he asked again, more insistent this time. Anxiety practically dripped from his words.
You sighed. “Whenever I was really upset. Or extremely stressed.”
Bucky matched your sigh with one of his own. His was heavier, weighed down by his responsibility for your episode. He gently stroked your face once more, but pulled away before his thumb could sweep the entire length of your cheek bone. He tucked his hands safety at his sides.
“Sorry,” he said. It was almost imperceptible.
“No, I’m-” you began to try and sit upright.
“Okay, hey, let’s just take it slow, alright? I don’t think you should get up yet.”
But you were determined to sit up. If you continued to lie there, Bucky would continue to dote on you. To wring his hands. And it would only increase the evening’s embarrassing dramatics.
Much to Bucky’s dismay, you didn’t listen to his cautionary words. You pushed yourself up to a seated position without difficulty and rested your back against the headboard.
In a flash, Bucky was on his feet. He stood right against the bed, his hands anxiously hovering over you, poised to save you at a moment’s notice. If you began listing toward the edge of the bed, he’d catch you. Again.
But no such incident occurred. You were perfectly steady, perfectly safe. You accepted the glass of water he offered you for the second time and drained it in a matter of seconds.
“Do you want some more?” he asked, already heading for the kitchen, “I’ll go get-”
“No, no, I’m okay,” you said. “I want you to stay here- I wanna talk to you.”
Bucky halted in the doorway, frozen. Dread bloomed in his eyes. He lost his grip on the glass in his hand and barely reacted quickly enough to stop it from shattering.
“Oh. Okay. Yeah…” he said; his words has a wounded quality about them.
He took a few slow steps toward the bed but stayed at a cautious distance. His shoulders tensed, his jaw tightened. He sucked in a sharp breath and coiled his metal hand into a tight fist. He seemed to be waiting for something, expecting something.
But after waiting only a few short moments, he spoke again.
“You don’t- you don’t actually have to say it, if that’s okay. I don’t think I could handle hearing the words,” a broken smile flashed across his face for a split second. “But I understand. I won’t beg you reconsider- I get it. And I’m sorry, for what it’s worth- if it’s worth anything.”
“What?”
He placed the empty glass on your nightstand and headed for the closet.
“I’m just gonna grab a few things. Some clothes and stuff. And then I’ll-” he sighed, “And then I’ll get out of your hair.”
You shook your head, “What are you talking about, Buck? I just said I wanted us to talk-”
“I know, sweetheart.” Something in his words sounded like begging. Like pleading for mercy. “And I know I need to let you say your piece, but I don’t know if I can h-handle it. At least not right now. And I know that’s selfish of me. And I’m sorry. But I’m-”
He was practically falling apart at the seams. Parts of him seemed to be peeling away, stripping him down to his most raw, vulnerable self. His hands shook. His voice wavered. His breathing came in shallow, erratic bursts. His body was determined to self-destruct before you could deliver the final, deadly blow.
You jumped out of bed on unsteady feet, your arms outstretched toward him. If you could reach his side and anchor him to the earth quickly enough, maybe you could stave off the panic attack that loomed on his horizon.
He, of course, protested. He tried to say something, something cautioning you against getting up in such a hurry. Against running across the room. But his voice barely carried any weight.
“Hey, it’s okay. We’re okay.” Your hands cradled his face, “Breathe, baby. I don’t want you to leave. I want you here.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. His hands found your waist. And he dragged deep, even breaths into his lungs. He was so focused, so concentrated on staying above water that you weren’t sure he heard your whispered reassurances. But you voiced them anyway. Just in case he could hear you. In case your words helped him somehow.
It was a long time before he came back to you. But you waited patiently for him. As you always did.
When he finally opened his eyes, he looked you over slowly, drinking you in as though seeing you for the first time. The panic had dissipated from his expression, leaving tentative relief in its wake. It seemed that he was just grateful you were still there. Grateful that you hadn’t cut your losses and left him in the dust.
Finally, he spoke. It was a genuine question. No levity. No humor.
“You still love me?”
It crushed you.
“Of course- of course, I do, Buck.” Your hands slipped from his cheeks, down his chest, and wound around his back. He pulled you tighter, crushing you against his body.
“Even after-”
“Yes,” you said against his chest.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. About tonight- about all of it.” He smoothed his hand up and down your back in an endless loop. “I know this hasn’t been easy on you. I know I hurt you. And it’s just so- I’m done working with her. I promise.”
This conversation felt a bit too familiar. Hadn’t this happened before? Hadn’t he already offered to quit? And hadn’t you stopped him? It seemed that you were trapped in a timeloop of sorts, forced to endlessly relive this version of reality. You were about to, once again, stop him from quitting, but he spoke before you had the chance.
“I know what you’re gonna say, but I can’t do this anymore. I can feel-” he cleared his throat, forcing the emotion down. “I can feel you slipping away. And I can’t keep putting what we have at risk-”
“Buck,” you sighed, “I trust you. Tonight wasn’t your fault. And if you need to keep working with-”
“No.”
And that was it on the subject. He wasn’t open to any arguments or rebuttals.
“I’m not losing you over this,” he insisted. “I know you want to be supportive, but nothing is worth losing you.”
It was quiet- inaudible, really. But you mustered up a “thank you” that only someone with enhanced senses could’ve heard.
The relief brought tears to your eyes. Never before had anyone actually chosen you like this. Never before had anyone dropped everything for you because they wanted to. It was a new feeling for you, and you wondered how you’d survived this long without it.
But the relief only lasted so long.
“What about Hydra? If they’re getting stronger, if they’re coming back, shouldn’t you-”
Bucky shook his head, “The team can take care of it without me. I’ve given them everything I can; they know everything I know. And they have the drive now.” He shrugged, “They don’t need me anymore.”
The two of you remained locked in a tight embrace. A comfortable silence settled around your bodies. And for the first time in months, the suspicious voice in your head was quiet. There were no doubts, no fears. Only comfort. Finally, comfort.
“I’m sorry I reacted like that.” You unearthed your face from Bucky’s chest and did your best to look up at him. “The crying and the vomiting and the passing out, it’s…” you rolled your eyes and let out a huff, “it was a lot.”
He tightened his grip around you.
“No, don’t be sorry. I’ve been- I’ve kind of been torturing you for months. I put you in such a… I put you in a terrible position- the worst position. And I wasn’t even there for you. I kept hurting you and leaving you and- and then tonight with the…” he shook his head. “I can’t imagine what that felt like for you.”
“But I-” You struggled against his inhuman strength until he begrudgingly loosened his grip and allowed you enough room to really look at him- though he refused to let go completely. “I made this all about me,” you said, disgusted. “She-” you had to force yourself to say the words; they tasted like vinegar. “She kissed you against your will. I know what that’s like, it’s not fun. And I made it about me- it was selfish.”
“Sweetheart-”
“What happened tonight wasn’t your fault.” Your words were steadfast. Unflinching. “I should’ve been there for you. I should’ve been supportive. I should’ve-”
He took your face in his hands, “It’s all okay, sweetheart. I’m okay.”
“I’m sorry.” The words came out so defeated, so bathed in shame. “And I’m sorry I ever thought- I’m sorry I ever even considered that you might cheat. I know you’re not the type- of course, you’re not the type.”
“It’s okay. The late nights and the phone calls and all the-”
“It’s not just that,” you sighed, “I mean, that stuff was definitely part of it. But this whole thing just felt so…”
For a split second, you allowed your eyes to close. The memories of betrayal and infidelity clawed at you, hissing and snarling as they tore open a pit in your stomach. You gave a slight shake of your head and opened your eyes, willing the past to dissipate.
“It felt so familiar- too familiar. Like I’ve been here before.”
Bucky’s eyes widened a bit as he put the pieces together. He didn’t know much about your past relationships, just as you intended. He knew only that your exes hadn’t treated you all that well. You never went into great detail about how or why things ended, and Bucky didn’t pry. But a knowing look bloomed across his face as he allowed your words to settle over him.
“You’ve been cheated on,” he said.
You nodded, “Three times.”
A sharp gasp filled Bucky’s lungs; disgust twisted his features into a horrified mask. “Three times?”
Again, you nodded.
“In a row. We were- I was really serious about each of them. We lived together. Talked about building a future together. And then… yeah.”
Bucky was too shocked to move, to blink.
And suddenly, his disturbed stare was too much. His hands were too big and warm against your skin. His grasp was too tight. You freed yourself from his embrace and put some distance between his body and yours. The air around him was just so heavy, so hot. A similar heat scorched your cheeks as the embarrassment of your admission caught up to you; you dragged deep breaths of cool, crisp air into your lungs.
Bucky stayed right where you left him; you weren’t sure if it was out of respect or utter shock.
“Is that…” He paused, probably wondering if he should even ask. You nodded, assuring him that it was okay. “That’s why I heard you say, ‘I can’t do this again’?”
A fresh wave of heat struck your cheeks, and you gave a reluctant nod.
“Yeah.” You rolled your eyes, “I didn’t mean to be so dramatic about it.”
“You weren’t-”
“My instincts have just been screaming at me for months, you know? And I’ve been trying really hard not to listen to them and then tonight happened and- and it was like a chorus of thousands of people screaming ‘I told you so!’” You gave a shake of your head, “It was like all the old wounds were ripped open and I was bleeding out again and it was no one’s fault but mine for not learning from my past mistakes.”
Bucky nodded.
“But it’s- I mean, obviously, this situation is different, cause you didn’t actually do anything wrong. It was just, I don’t know, muscle memory.”
“Makes sense. You’ve been through a lot. Three times is…” He stared at you with heartbreak in his eyes. “Being cheated on isn’t your fault, sweetheart. You said ‘past mistakes’ like you’re to blame, but you’re not. You know that, right?”
Your shrug was cold, detached.
Bucky took a step toward you, “Baby, it’s-”
“I didn’t even tell you the best part,” you said. A cynical smile spread across your face, “Those guys all cheated on me with an ex.”
Bucky’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“Yeah,” you leaned against the nearest wall, crossing your arms over your chest. Suddenly, you felt too exposed. “I know how it sounds, but it’s true. It was- it’s why I was losing my mind the whole time you and Tara were working together. I’m not this possessive, jealous person. I just- I thought the pattern was starting again.”
Bucky made a beeline toward you. He cautiously extended a hand in your direction and rested it against your cheek with a feather-light touch. There was something in his eyes, something sad and compassionate and concerned. The most genuine, heartfelt pity.
“Baby, I’m so sorry.” He wrapped his arms gently around you, “I’m so sorry. No one should have to go through that. And I never would’ve taken this job- I never would’ve worked with her. I had no idea.”
“It’s not your fault. I didn’t want you to know.”
Bucky released you from his arms and took a step back, meeting your eyeline. “Why not?”
For a few seconds, you allowed your head to dip. Your eyes closed. Your jaw tensed. Speaking to Bucky openly and honestly wasn’t hard. He was the last person to judge or mock; he always listened with and open mind and open heart. But some things were hard to admit, even to him. He deserved the truth, though. Didn’t he? He deserved to know why you felt this way. Why you’d grown nervous at the first mention of Tara all those months ago.
“Because it’s embarrassing. Because I feel like…” you raised your head but deftly avoided eye contact. “I feel like I have this weird, very specific curse, or something. Like there’s something about me that pushes people back into the arms of their ex. Like something about being with me is so…” disgust colored your voice, “so awful that- that it kind of gives people a wakeup call, or something. And it helps them realize that the person they left behind is way, way better than anything I could ever offer them.”
He gave you the saddest smile you’d ever seen, “Sweetheart, that’s not true-”
“Maybe if it had only happened once. Or even twice. But what’s that thing they say, ‘once is random, twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern’?” The half-hearted shrug you threw his way was almost too pathetic. “When this kind of things happens to you three times- in a row- it makes you wonder if you’re the problem.”
A heavy silence filled the room. Bucky was still, his eyes trained on you. You fidgeted under his gaze, picking at the last remnants of one of your nails. The voice inside your head wailed. It wondered why Bucky wasn’t refuting your argument. Why he was completely silent. It feared that he agreed with you. That he’d taken your words to heart and finally seen the light, finally realized that there really was something wrong with you. That Tara was the better choice. That he was to be number four.
The urge to slap yourself across the face surged through you. There you were, doubting him once again. Projecting your problems onto him. Suspecting him of things he had never done- would never do. It took all of your strength, but you wrangled those skeptical, distrusting thoughts and shoved them into a dark corner of your mind.
“But um, I know that this is my issue, not yours,” you said. “It’s something I need to work on. Cause it’s not fair of me to- I shouldn’t have put all of my shit on you. I know you’d never-”
“I would never,” Bucky insisted. He closed the space between you and cradled your face gently in his big hands. “I would never do that to you. You’re the only person I will ever want.”
You gave a slight nod. There was something shameful in your words. “I know- I know that. But the logical part of my brain was, I don’t know, hijacked. Or something. All I could think about was…” you sighed, “All I could think about was when you how going to tell me. I wondered if you’d sit me down and say it to my face- or if you’d tell me at all. I thought maybe I’d come home from work one day and all your stuff would be gone.”
His hands left your face. But before you could mourn their absence, his arms were wrapped securely, protectively around your waist. It seemed as though he was trying to save you from the pain of your past, to shield you from the ghosts. It was the same protection you offered him when the nightmares came calling, when the weight of his Hydra days grew too heavy to carry alone.
He let out a contented sigh as your arms wound around his neck and pulled you closer until you were certain that your body and his would meld into one. His heart beat against your chest, his breath ghosted across your skin. And for a long moment, you forgot the fear and agony that had plagued you these last few months. For a long moment, it was perfect.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised, “Ever.”
“I know,” your arms tightened around his neck. “I’m sorry for being so suspicious. And so upset. It’s not that I don’t trust you, I-”
Just then, he pulled away, just enough that his eyes could meet yours.
“I know you trust me. But you had plenty reason to be upset. And suspicious.” He brushed a kiss against your forehead, “You’ve been through a lot. It’s not your fault- your instincts were trying to protect you.”
“But-”
“No. No ‘buts’. Okay?” He was steadfast, almost stern. “You thought you recognized a pattern from your past, and you were scared. But you were just doing your best with the information you had. And that’s enough. You reacted in a way that makes sense, given the context. You don’t have to apologize or browbeat yourself for it. Okay?”
He eyed you for a long while until you gave him an unenthusiastic ‘okay’.
“And you aren’t cursed, by the way,” he asserted. “There is nothing wrong with you. There is nothing about you that is going to send me running back to Tara or any of my other exes. You are…” His intense expression softened, melting into the purest form of adoration. “Everything to me. I could never want anyone more than I want you. Everything that I’ve been through- I would do it again. All of it. Because it led me to you-”
A quiet laugh left your chest.
“I’m dead serious,” he said, his expression grave. “I’d go back and do all of it again- I wouldn’t change a single thing. If it brought me to you, I’d do it in heartbeat.”
There was no more humor in your expression, no more laughter bubbling on your surface, because he meant it. He really would repeat every heinous, awful thing that had ever happened to him- just to get back to you. Without a word, your tucked yourself against Bucky’s chest once again, and allowed his arms to crush you into his body.
He was the good, trustworthy, loving man you always knew him to be. He was gracious. Understanding. Compassionate. Better than you ever dreamed. Better than you thought you deserved. He wasn’t a rerun of your past. No, he was a fresh, blank page. A clean slate. A brand-new story. For the first time, you didn’t have to worry about soul-crushing plot twists. You didn’t have to fear that the story might end prematurely, or that the next page might bring heartbreak.
Your story and his were inextricably wound together, and that’s how they’d remain.
Bucky didn't believe in love at first sight. Then he met you.
Pairing - Bucky Barnes x female reader
Warnings - None
Word Count - 3615
Author's Note - hello gorgeous people, hope you're all doing well. writing this has made my heart so full, and I hope it makes you feel the same. requests are always open and more than encouraged!! currently working on a stunning jake seresin request that's just so lovely. i'm SO open to more jake requests, but also any marvel, top gun maverick, criminal minds, narcos and any others you have in mind!! just send them over, and I'll see what I can do. as always, so much love x
Masterlist. Requests.
“No way. How is that even possible?”
You look at the bewildered man in front of you and can’t help but smile.
“It’ll play anything you want it to. Anything in the world. Just ask it!” you encourage, beaming grin still plastered on your face.
“Alexa,” he says tentatively, “play Marvin Gaye.”
The first notes of Trouble Man begin to sound through your apartment, and his eyes light up. He’s looking at you like you’ve discovered something completely revolutionary.
You laugh – a real, genuine, delighted sound that flows through Bucky like a beam of light, illuminates his bones, makes his heart beat that little bit faster.
Grabbing your notebook, you delicately place a check next to Number 26 – voice-controlled devices. Number 27 is air fryers. Number 28 is Bluetooth. Number 29 is kindles and e-readers. Number 30 is Doordash. You’ve already checked off Spotify, and ATMs, and Google, and online banking, amongst many others. A list of things to better integrate Bucky into the 21st Century. A list of things to make him feel less like a man out of time. A list of things that allow you to spend all the time with him that you can.
A warm hand on your left hip and a cold one on your right pull you back into reality.
“Dance with me.” he murmurs. “Let me teach you something, for once.”
Before you can process his words, he’s gliding across the kitchen with you in his arms. Trouble Man isn’t playing anymore, instead replaced with something slower, richer. Bucky hasn’t taken his eyes off you, not even for a second. He’s watching your every move, every expression, every twitch of your lips. Reading you like a book.
You bring your hands to rest around his neck, and he relaxes into you. He’s leading, swaying you gently, occasionally twirling you like a ballerina in a music box. Perfectly effortless. He’s good at this.
The sun is setting, casting a warm orange hue across the kitchen. The light is reflecting onto your hair, making you glow, giving you a halo. Angelic, he thinks. My guardian angel.
You close the space between your bodies, wrapping your arms around his middle. Resting your head on his chest, he prays you can’t hear how his heart is working overtime. You shut your eyes, and breathe him in. He smells faintly like the Bakery, like sugar and coffee and cinnamon. The place that started it all.
⋆ . ✵ ⋆ . ✵ ⋆ . ✵ ⋆ . ✵
When Bucky first moved into his apartment, he’d noticed the Bakery down the street immediately. The smell of cake and coffee drifted out of the lilac colored door, enticing him in. He resisted the urge, and told himself that he’d go inside tomorrow.
The next day, he stood outside of the red brick building, and read the menu on the noticeboard carefully. Then he reread it. And then read it again. Since when was coffee so complicated? And don’t even get him started on cake. He swore there was only a few types back in the forties. Now, there was at least fifty different kinds on this menu alone. He was overwhelmed. He thought he’d be able to walk into this Bakery, get some coffee, maybe something sweet, and leave content. Instead, he's stood on the sidewalk on the verge of a panic attack. Tomorrow, he thinks to himself. I’ll go in tomorrow.
Tomorrow never comes. Every day, he takes a walk, and purposely passes the building that he longs to go into. But somehow, he can never find the courage. He knows he’ll just look like an idiot if he walks in. He’ll look lost, and out of place, and everyone will laugh and mutter. Look, they’ll jeer, The Winter Soldier can’t even order a coffee.
And so, he spares himself the pain. Lets his feet carry him past, only slowing down slightly when he passes the lilac door. Every day for three months, he takes the same route. Willing himself to go in, to find the courage. It’s just coffee, he tells himself. Get a grip.
Until, one day, you decided to change his life, unknowingly. Or maybe knowingly. He’s still not sure.
He takes his usual path, and just as he gets to the lilac door – you’re there. Stood, waiting, soft smile on your face. Bucky panics, and wills his feet to move faster, to take him away from this inevitably awkward situation. You stop him before he can make a run for it.
“Hi.”
Oh. You’re talking to him. You’re staring into his soul with no judgment, or fear, or trepidation. You’re staring into his soul with gentleness. Kindness. Friendship. He’s terrified.
“Uh – hi.” He rubs the back of his neck. Nervous habit.
“So, uh, I hope this isn’t weird, or anything. But, I’ve been watching you walk past every day for like three months, and, well…” you trail off. Now you look nervous. “Actually, I haven’t really thought this far ahead. I just see you, and I wanted to… invite you in, I guess? Not that you need an invite, of course not, we’re open to everyone, but… you always look like you’re going to come in, and then you never do. And I’ve been telling myself for months that I should properly invite you in, but now I’m realising this is, uh, really weird. And I’m sorry.”
You still have that gentle smile on your face, but it’s more tentative now. A dusting of pink is making its way onto your cheeks, and Bucky thinks it might be his new favourite color.
It’s now that he really starts to take you in. Your hair is blowing slightly in the breeze, and the sleeves of your sweater are pulled down over your wrists, to try and keep the New York chill at bay. You have bright, inquisitive eyes – eyes that contain hope, love, laughter. You make him feel almost peaceful. No one makes him feel like that. Damn.
You’ve stepped closer to him now, to get out of the way of the customers making their way through the door. You smell like sugar, and coffee, and optimism. He wants to breathe you in, let you settle in his lungs. A comfortable warmth spreads through his chest.
He decides to take a gamble and bear his truth to you. He’s not sure why, but he trusts you. He doesn’t trust anyone, these days. But he trusts you.
“Can I be honest with you?”, he asks, looking at you expectantly. You’re almost expecting him to laugh in your face at the absurdity of it all. You nod anyway, signalling for him to continue.
“I’ve been trying to work up the courage to come in. But every time I try, I just, uh-” he stutters, and you can tell that his mind is screaming at him, sounding alarm bells, begging him to stop with all this sudden vulnerability.
“It’s overwhelming, right?” you ask, cutting him off. Saving him. Guardian angel.
You see the relief in his body at your question. His fists unclench, the tension leaves his shoulders. He smiles bashfully. Half grateful, half embarrassed. You get it.
“Yeah,” he chuckles. You giggle, and he’s convinced that the melodious sound will circle around in his mind forever, like the Earth orbiting the Sun.
You fiddle with the strings of your mint green apron, and look at him. You’re gazing at him so earnestly that he’s worried he might spontaneously combust.
“Are you busy tonight?” you ask suddenly, and he feels so dizzy he’s concerned momentarily that he’s going to pass out.
“Uh, no. I’m not,” he replies, managing to force the words out of his mouth.
“We close at 6, so meet me here at 7.”
You still have that sparkle in your eye. He couldn’t say no to you if he tried.
“Why?” he queries. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t absolutely petrified at the turn the conversation has taken.
“I want to show you around. Maybe make you a coffee, introduce you to some of my favourite things. You won’t believe how good my raspberry and white chocolate cookies are. They’re best sellers for a reason,” you beam at him.
Beaming. He wonders how he’s lived his whole life without your light illuminating his universe. Anywhere he goes without you is going to feel so dark, he thinks. How did I ever live like this?
He manages to pull himself together to smile back at you. His first genuine grin in God knows how long. He’s forgotten what joy feels like, and he’s almost drunk on it now.
He agrees to your plan, and you turn on your heel, about to make your way back inside.
“Wait!” he yells, louder than intended. “What’s your name?”
Your lips turn up into a smirk, mischief seeping out of your pores.
“Come back at 7 and find out.” You wink at him, and he has to take a few deep breaths in order to stay conscious. With that, you leave him alone on the sidewalk, where he’s silently thanking the universe for dropping you in his lap. Finally, he thinks. The cosmic punishment is over.
He does come back at 7. In fact, he’s stood outside waiting at 6:45. He can see you mopping the floor, singing as you go. His supersoldier hearing allows him to listen to your voice, even from this far away. He’s never been more grateful for the thing he used to call a curse. He’d be cursed every damn day if it meant he got to listen to you like this.
At 6:58, you appear at the lilac door, beckoning him to follow you inside. He knows that stepping over that threshold is going to change him fundamentally. He can’t wait.
Upon entering, he’s hit with the smell of cinnamon, sugar, coffee, and you. A beautiful mix of all three. Without a second thought, he reaches out with his right hand, and gently brushes some flour from your cheekbone.
“Bucky,” he murmurs.
You can’t tear your eyes away from him. Lips slightly parted, chest heaving, it takes you a minute to register that he spoke.
“What?” you ask, dazed by the handsome stranger with the steel blue eyes.
“My name,” he speaks softly. “It’s Bucky.”
You smile knowingly, and take a deep breath. It’s overwhelming, meeting someone that you know is going to be in your life forever. You’re both feeling the same, neither of you sure just quite what to do.
You grab his left hand, sighing quietly in relief at the feeling the cool metal against your heated skin. Leading him gently, he lets you guide him through the front of the store, until you stop behind the counter. He’s convinced he’d let you lead him anywhere, as long as he gets to feel your skin, soft and warm, on his. Grounding. Comforting. Easy.
“What kind of milk do you like?” you ask, fingers still intertwined with his.
“There’s more than one kind of milk?”
Bucky looks so disorientated, that you want to kiss the confused expression off his face. You chuckle softly, and the sound bounces off the metal in the room, twinkling around him.
“We have cows’ milk, oat milk, almond milk and soy milk.” You take one look at him, and decide to change course. “Let’s start with something less complex, actually. Any allergies I should know about?”
He shakes his head, mischievous grin beginning to form on his handsome face. There he is, you think. He’s with me.
“I’m going to make you a latte. It’s milky, and not too strong or too sweet. I think you’ll like it.”
She thinks I’ll like it, he muses. And he trusts you - whether it be with his life, or just a cup of coffee.
You reluctantly let go of his hand, and begin to flit around, gathering everything you need. Bucky leans back against the counter and watches carefully. He watches the way you bite your lip when you measure out the milk. He watches the way the steam from the coffee machine blows your hair back from your face gently. He watches the way you’re trying to make everything perfect. He can’t remember the last time someone paid attention to him like this. His mind is telling him to sprint in the opposite direction, to excuse himself and never come back. He’s terrified. But he stays. I deserve this, he thinks. I deserve something good.
You pull him from his thoughts by handing him the mug of warm coffee. He takes it from you carefully, and, without breaking eye contact, takes a sip. He smiles, really smiles. That’s all the validation you needed.
“Let me show you where we bake everything,” you say quietly, as if you’re afraid to burst this bubble of warmth and trust you’ve created. You’re scared he’s going to bolt if you give him the chance. So, you don’t. You take his hand once more, and guide him through to the kitchen.
“Have you done much baking in your life, Bucky?”
No, he thinks. But I will. I’ll bake everyday for the rest of my life if it means you’ll love me. If you’ll make me coffee and smile at me like that.
Instead, he answers cautiously.
“Not really. I’d like to, though.” He adds that last part bashfully. You smile back at him earnestly.
“Well then you’re in the right place,” you wink. He has the overwhelming urge to drop to his knees. To pray at your altar. To worship you like an angel sent down just for him. He’s surprised he’s still stood on two feet.
Before he can even register what’s happening, you’re beginning to create a mixture for your infamous cookies. You direct him to stir, while you add meticulously measured ingredients into the bowl.
“Put those arms to good use,” you’d smirked, and a blush had risen up to his cheeks almost instantly.
You click the radio on, and a soft, jazzy melody begins to drift through the room. You’re humming quietly, gliding around the kitchen, and he decides that this is it for him. You’re it for him. He could watch you do this every day and die a happy man.
Cookies baking in the oven, you jump up to sit on one of the counters. Bucky moves to stand in between your legs, still being careful to keep his distance ever so slightly. He knows if he touches you, he won’t ever want to let go.
“This wasn’t as scary as I thought it was going to be,” he confesses.
“What, me?” you tease.
“No. Coffee. And cookies,” he chuckles.
“Are there lots of things that you haven’t done because you find them scary?” you ask genuinely. You want to know him. All of him. Fears, wants, quirks. All of it.
“Yeah, actually. The world is so different now. I don’t really know where to start. It’s all terrifying, honestly,” he laughs. You laugh with him, but you know there’s truth to his words. You want to wrap your arms around him. He may be 6 foot tall and made of solid muscle and vibranium, but you want to protect him.
“Why don’t we do it together?”
A pause. He’s confused again.
“Do what together?”
“All of it. The learning. I’ll help you. Everything is less scary if you do it with someone else.”
It’s now that he’s convinced he’s dreaming. You can’t be real. Why would you be here, offering him everything, after all that he’s done? He has to remind himself. I deserve this. I deserve something good.
You can sense his trepidation, so you keep talking.
“Why don’t we make a list? You write down the things you want to learn about. I’ll write down other things I think you should know. You’ll be an expert on the 21st Century before long, Buck.”
Buck. The nickname sounds like a gift coming from your lips.
“Okay. Yeah. Are you sure you don’t mind?”
The anxiety is coming off him in waves. He’s panicking. You grab a hold of both of his hands, and place one on each of your legs, just above your knees. He steps in closer, and takes a breath. You’re warm, and you’re soft, and you’re love personified. He’s okay.
“Of course I don’t mind. I’m excited!” you assure him. Then, quieter, “It means I get to spend more time with you.”
He aims a beaming, megawatt smile in your direction. He feels as if his nerve endings are alight. You’ve awoken something in him. He’d forgotten what it was like to feel like this. To feel alive.
You reach over and grab your notebook. In it, you simply write his name, followed by a love heart. Then, underneath, you begin to list everything you can think of that you want to teach him. You hand the list to him, and he adds his own requests. Between you, you manage to write 50 different lessons.
“Perfect. We’ll start with number one, and work our way down. Are you busy tomorrow evening?”
He chuckles at your eagerness, but secretly, he can’t wait. He knows he’ll be counting down the hours until he can see you again.
“Nope, I’m not. You are my only priority, sweetheart.”
The term of endearment seeps into your skin, settles in your ribcage. You’re convinced it’ll warm you up from the inside out. If he keeps calling you sweetheart in that Brooklyn drawl of his, you’ll never be cold again.
⋆ . ✵ ⋆ . ✵ ⋆ . ✵ ⋆ . ✵
You’re not sure if you’ve been swaying in your kitchen with Bucky to Marvin Gaye for 2 minutes or 2 hours. You’re comfortably settled into him, as if the space in his arms was made especially for you. Maybe it was.
Bucky’s voice breaks through the solitude.
“You know, I’ve created my own list,” he murmurs against the top of your hair, where he’s resting his head.
You pull back, still in his arms, to look at him carefully.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Read it, and tell me what you think.”
He untangles himself from you and crosses the room, to retrieve his leather-bound notebook. He returns, and places it carefully in your awaiting hands.
You flick open the cover to reveal the first page. You recognise his handwriting instantly. It’s spiralling, and imperfect, but so Bucky. At the top of the page, you spot the title – your name, with a love heart next to it. Exactly the same as you’d done for him when you’d originally created your list together.
Underneath your name, only one thing is written.
I love you.
You look up at him, to see him watching you, holding his breath. Neither of you know what to say. You know what you want to say. You want to tell him that you hope the list never ends, so you always have an excuse to spend time with him. You want to tell him that you watched him walk past the door of the Bakery every day for 3 months because you thought he was the most beautiful person you’d ever seen. You want to tell him that every time he looks at you, you feel as if you’re going to pass out. You want to tell him that you can recognise him anywhere, by touch or smell alone. Instead, you say,
“You do?”
That genuine, million dollar smile is back, etched on his face. He’s glowing, light radiating from his bones.
“Yes. I do. I think I’ve loved you ever since I saw you waiting for me on the doorstep of the Bakery that day.”
You think you might be floating. Levitating above ground, fuelled by love. You laugh.
“That’s the exact moment I fell in love with you.”
He laughs with you, then. You could get drunk off the sound.
“I didn’t think love at first sight was a real thing. I thought I was going crazy,” he confesses.
He’s convinced that the two of you have discovered something, invented it even. Because he doesn’t understand. If love feels like this, so all encompassing, so consuming – how does anyone live? Every moment of every day, Bucky thinks of you. How does anyone go to work? How does anyone ever feel sad, or angry, when love like this exists?
You drop the notebook and cross the room to him. He closes the gap, and throws his arms around you, spinning you in circles, laughing with joy. He sets you back on your feet, and tilts your chin up, so you’re looking into his steel blue eyes. You could drown in the ocean of his irises if he let you.
He leans down, and presses his lips to yours. He’s giving you all of the love, the joy, the laughter – everything good that he has ever felt, because of you – through his kiss. Your knees go weak, and he holds you up by your waist, his strong arms encircling your frame. He tastes like coffee, and sugar, and promises. You’ll never want to taste anything else.
Eventually, you break away for air. You gaze up at him, and he sees sunshine in your eyes. He’s not sure what he did to earn a love like this. You seem to sense his doubts creeping in, because you say, in the most assured voice he’s ever heard –
“No one has ever loved anyone as much as I love you.”
I deserve this, he thinks. I deserve something good.
my favorite thing about bucky barnes is that sebastian stan chose to walk in a way that shows how heavy bucky’s arm is. like you can see that his metal arm is physically weighing his left side down because of how heavy it is
Summary: It's hot and you cool down with a sweet treat. You decide to give Bucky a treat, too.
Word Count: Over 2k
Warnings: Dirty talk, possessive behavior, oral sex (m. receiving, talk of f. receiving), reference to sex, humor, slight feels if you squint, reader is horny and down for Bucky Barnes (he's also a warning, okay?).
A/N: A SINday treat thanks to an ask from @buckyismysafehaven. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
The heat was a bitch and had been for days. You were thankful that you and Bucky had the day off since the very thought of going outside almost made you sweat. You didn’t bother getting dressed, opting to sit around in your underwear near the air conditioner so you could stay cool. Your man tried to stay dressed after a cold shower, which lasted all of two minutes before he stripped off his black t-shirt and pants and muttered about how ungodly warm it was. Your poor super soldier ran hot without trying.
You sympathized. You really did but seeing him in a delicious pair of boxer briefs that left nothing to the imagination had you rubbing your thighs together. And him sitting on the couch with his legs open and head tilted back with his eyes closed, it was reminiscent of how he looked some days when you were on your knees for him. Only the clench in his jaw gave away how frustrated he was. You didn’t blame him for that at all since it was hot as balls.
Speaking of balls, you wanted Bucky’s balls in your mouth. And his cock. Sure, there were other things you could do, like read or clean. The two of you could watch a movie and cuddle if it cooled off a bit. Or you could suck Bucky so good that his eyes would roll back and his soul would briefly leave his body. You were certain your soul once went to some version of Valhalla after marathon sex with him.
Oh, what a fun day that was…
“Thanks for the popsicle,” you said, licking it from the bottom to top. You stocked up when you heard there was going to be a heatwave. It was a nice treat to help you stay cool and it didn't hurt that you could tease him with the visual innuendo if he opened his eyes.
“You're welcome, sweetheart,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I can feel you staring at me.”
Of course, you were. Bucky was a looker, a stunner, an eleven out of ten, sin incarnate, something straight out of a romance novel, a walking and talking wet dream. Some days you looked at him and couldn't form a single thought. It was just noises and gibberish.
“Because you’re hot,” you said, continuing to stare. He was honest to god one of the hottest men you had ever seen and you weren’t sure how you got anything done with him around. “Hotter than the temperature outside.”
The sweet treat melted in your mouth faster when he tilted his head and finally opened his eyes. His pupils dilated when you pushed it as deep as it could go. Your eyes didn’t water since you had more than enough practice taking him into your throat and the treat didn’t compare to his thickness. “I am hot,” he teased in a tone that bordered on cockiness, which you loved. Seeing him confident in his skin, in himself, that meant everything. “And you are so hot I’m about to lose my underwear. I don't know why either of us bother wearing any.”
He had a point. Why did you two bother? Oh, yeah. Life and adulting and all of that other stuff that required clothing.
He smirked when you licked some of the sticky sweetness off your lips and let your gaze travel down his wide torso. “You should,” you encouraged, gesturing between his legs. “And when I’m done sucking on this popsicle, I can suck on your cock.”
His head fell back with a groan. It was fun being upfront with what you wanted. Life was too short not to be. “You want my cock in your mouth? In this heat?” he whispered, palming himself with a quiet hiss.
Super soldiers and their sensitivity.
You hummed and slid off the couch, trying your best to look sexy as you moved toward him while holding the popsicle. Even if you looked ridiculous, he wouldn’t care since your mere presence seemed to turn him on. You were lucky you didn’t get a big head because of that.
Big head. Head. You wanted to give Bucky head. He deserved all the blowjobs in the world after the shit he had been through.
“I sure do. I want your cock no matter how you’ll give it to me. Morning, afternoon, evening, any day of the week that ends in ‘y’, and any month of the year that has at least 28 days,” you told him. It sounded like a joke, but you were deadly serious and he didn't laugh. If Bucky Barnes could fuck you all day every day, you’d happily accept that as your purpose in life and forever volunteer as tribute.
He moaned, the same moan he let out when he recently went down on you. The taste of you drove him wild and he loved diving between your thighs to satisfy his hunger, especially when you sat on his face. None of that hovering shit either. He demanded that you sit on him like a fucking seat. Of course, you obeyed. It was the right thing to do.
And if he died, he’d die doing what he loved… you.
“And right now you want my cock in your mouth?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Not in your pussy, which I know is soaked?”
Bucky always knew the second you got wet. It was impossible to hide arousal from him. “Uh-huh. I want your cock in my mouth. Then I want it in my pussy, and maybe my ass after that.” His head snapped up so quickly you thought he’d hurt himself and you just smiled. It looked innocent, but there was so much sin underneath it. “That’s right, Bucky. I’d let you fuck my tight ass if you asked me nicely.”
You were in the camp that your ass was an “exit only” until Bucky entered your life. What could you say? The man made you want to be a whore, specifically his whore. So, if he wanted to fuck your ass and tease your pussy with a dildo of his size and shape, you’d beg for it and more.
“I’ll ask nicely like a gentleman,” he promised in a husky tone, his legs opening more so you could comfortably kneel between them. The man could be a gentleman, buying you flowers just because, holding open doors, and insisting on paying for dates. And then he'd turn around and fuck you like he was making up for lost time. “For now, how about I just wreck your mouth since you offered?”
You made sure he watched as you licked some more of your treat, his breathing heavier and his thighs trembling. Your thighs trembled, too, and your pussy ached. Sex may not be the best idea since it would heat you up and it was hot enough, but who said you couldn’t take another cold shower? Plus, bad ideas could be fun. “Yes, please. Wreck my mouth the way you need to,” you said, putting the popsicle back in your mouth for a second to keep it cold. “Think about how nice my mouth feels because of this.”
“Makes me wonder how quickly that thing would melt if I put it in your pussy,” he mused, making your eyes go wide. “But that could be messy and I'm not about to risk you getting an infection or worse.”
“I adore you,” you said. As horny as you could both be for each other, safety and consent mattered. “And agreed. No popsicle in my pussy today. Just let me keep licking it so I can cool off your gorgeous cock.”
“Let me have a taste,” he murmured, leaning down and cupping your face with tenderness he didn't believe he possessed some days.
Your mouth was anything but cool when he pressed his lips to yours and slid his tongue past with no resistance. His tongue dueled with yours, heating you up from the inside out. It had you so hot that you whined when he pulled away, and you were happy that he looked as ruined as you. Kisses shouldn't be that powerful, but it was a power you shared together.
“Now let me have a taste,” you whispered, your heart pounding as you kissed down his warm chest and stomach.
He put a hand on the back of your head with a smile, not rushing you when you mouthed along his underwear. You knew he’d feel how cool your lips were through the fabric. “And my cock isn’t gorgeous,” he chuckled, his gaze softening. “But you look gorgeous taking it.”
You pulled back so quickly he whimpered. You made the former Winter Soldier whimper. Oh, that had you smirking and nearly dripping down your thighs. Or was that because he praised you? “Your cock is gorgeous. It’s the most gorgeous cock I’ve ever seen, and it’s gorgeous when it ruins my holes,” you said, helping him tug his underwear down far enough to free him.
You almost whimpered this time as you stared at it. Or was it staring at you? It was so thick and big, and you still didn’t know some days how you took him. You told yourself it was because you were made for him, which was the same thing he said to you. You loved everything he said to you.
“I know, sweetheart. I know. I feel it, too.”
“‘Atta girl. I knew you could take it.”
“Gonna make me blow if you keep doing that.”
“This pussy was made for my cock. You were made for me.”
“You’re mine. All fucking mine.”
“I love it when you fall apart for me.”
“I love you.”
You loved the beautiful menace, too.
He growled when you sucked the tip into your mouth. “Fuck, that feels good.” The precum was sweeter than normal thanks to fruity aftertaste from your frozen treat. You’d have to ask him later if he could try pineapple juice so you could test that theory. “And what do you mean the most gorgeous cock you’ve ever seen? That implies that you’ve seen other cocks,” he said through his teeth.
You almost giggled, but the extra growl he let out stopped you. Neither of you were virgins before each other, but he liked to pretend he was your one and only. You loved his possessive streak, and he was the only one who mattered. Another day you might egg him on so he’d fuck the brat out of you, but you chose this battle wisely with the heat being what it was, swallowing down your words the way you swallowed him down. The icing on the cake was the angelic look in your eyes as you did so.
The same look that always made his hard cock turn to steel.
You pulled off to take one more lick of your popsicle when it began to melt faster. “How about this? Let me help you forget all about the heat while you make me forget that anyone exists outside of you,” you offered, smirking once more. “I’ll get you off before this melts.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And I get to fuck your ass bare, just like your pussy?”
You gasped, and you were lucky you didn’t drop the popsicle. Condoms existed, but Bucky didn’t like anything between you when you had sex and neither did you. Knowing he’d truly claim all of your holes had your head spinning in a way that had nothing to do with the heat.
“As long as it’s in front of a mirror so I can see your face,” you answered.
He seemed to contemplate that, his blue eyes sparkling when he brought your hand to his mouth and licked away the juice that dripped onto your fingers. You clenched around nothing, and he knew it. “Deal,” he sighed with a smile and slid back into your waiting mouth. “Now help me forget the heat, and I’ll make you forget about the rest of the world.”
And that was exactly what the two of you did.
So, yeah. Happy SINday, lovelies. 🥰 Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
Summary: You and Bucky make a big decision and you're overwhelmed with happiness... for everything.
Author's Note: So this is the final chapter for my Finding Home story with Animal rescue!Bucky! I'm sorry it took me so long to get to this but then the Buck's and Noble server Summer Send Off Event gave me a great idea (using the song September, by Earth, Wind and Fire-listen HERE) on how to end it and my sweet friend @newgirlintheneighborhood sent me THIS great post that just made it all come together. Thank you all for the inspo. You can definitely read this as a stand alone but I will give you a few little bits of info just in case:
-Bucky and Sam own an animal resuce called Shelter to Soldier which helps rescue animals find homes with veterans (and everyone else too)
-Reader first saw Bucky when he was walking Alpine on a leash down the streets of the city
-Bucky has his metal arm in this AU since he's a war hero/veteran and he's come a long way both by himself (with Sam's help) and with reader in their relationship
-He rescued the dog Winter (mentioned in this story) and he's a white German Shepard with three legs (he's a war vet too)
-Bucky rescued Alpine from the streets and the cat has been a big help during his rehab
-This part takes place about 2.5 years after reader and Bucky have met
Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics Thank you Daisy! 🥰
Warnings: lots of super soft and sweet fluffs, LotR references, the animals and kisses!
Finding Home Masterlist
The morning light peeks through the thin curtains of your bedroom, warming and illuminating your skin. You slowly open your eyes and see Bucky’s soft profile, his eyelashes fluttering ever so slightly with his even breathing. Winter is at the base of the bed, keeping your feet warm, and Alpine is perched atop the spare pillow on Bucky’s other side.
The moment you shift your feet you hear the thump of Winter’s large white tail and then feel him rise up and do a big downward dog stretch.
“Oh big stretch Winter,” you coo quietly, giggling as you watch him try to tentatively hop over Bucky’s body to get closer.
Alpine lifts his head and blinks at you several times then seems to glare at the dog who is still desperately trying to find a place to settle between your body and Bucky’s.
Bucky starts to move, his long legs tangling even more with yours as he wraps you up and curls you into his bare chest. Winter finally finds a suitable spot next to Bucky, the dog’s big white body pressed into his side and his tail still thumping on the bed.
“Mornin’ doll face,” Bucky mumbles as he nuzzles your neck.
Winter let’s out a small whine and pushes his wet nose into Bucky’s skin while Alpine paws at the top of Bucky’s head.
“And mornin’ to you two fuzzballs,” he adds, peeping one eye open to survey the bed.
The moment he locks eyes with Winter, the dog scoots closer like a worm and starts to nose his shoulder. Alpine promptly joins in by chasing the glittering rays of sunshine that dance along Bucky’s metal arm every time the breeze blows through the curtains.
“It’s a party already,” Bucky chuckles.
He pulls you impossibly closer and hums into your skin, placing a soft kiss under your ear.
“Morning baby,” you whisper, inhaling his scent.
Winter, apparently unhappy with the possibility of you two going back to sleep, starts to lick Bucky’s cheek and cover it with kisses. Bucky’s large hand lands on Winter’s head and he scratches him before lightly giving him a shove.
“Winter, down boy,” he says. “I’m busy.”
Winter doesn’t give up, only shimmying closer and becoming more determined in his quest for kisses. You sit up and take in the scene, smiling widely when Alpine starts to bat at a piece of Bucky’s long hair that’s laid out across the pillow.
Without warning you lean down and press a big kiss to Bucky’s other cheek. The corners of his eyes crinkle with his smile and you continue to pepper his skin with kisses, hitting every spot you can find.
Winter seems to catch on as his tail swishes faster and he keeps up his licks on Bucky’s other cheek. Your lips trail along Bucky’s jaw, then you nibble his ear, then move back down and cover the whole side of his face with more kisses, catching the corner of his mouth before doing it all over again.
“Best. Morning. Ever,” he sighs.
After several more wet kisses from Winter and sweet ones from you, and even a few paw bats from Alpine, Bucky slips free and flips you over onto your back, dislodging everyone in a heap of blankets and pillows.
“Oops,” he says sweetly, but there’s mischief dancing in his eyes. “My turn!”
He pins you down with his body and proceeds to smother you with feather light kisses on every inch of skin he can find. You arch into him, wiggling beneath his body which makes him rumble with pleasure.
His kisses become slower as he moves along your neck and when he reaches your lips he hovers just above them as he stares into your eyes.
He brushes his nose to yours and presses a kiss to your mouth before slowly rocking his hips.
You moan out his name and nibble his lip before pulling away.
“What?” he pouts. “I was just getting started on having you naked.”
You smile against his lips. “I have an idea for a wedding date.”
His pout disappears as happiness takes over his expression.
“I’m listening doll,” he says, but continues to place butterfly kisses along your face.
“So we had talked about Fall and I was thinking September might be nice. Not too cold but hopefully not too hot if we do it toward the end and there’s a special date that would be perfect.”
“Still listening,” he hums as his lips graze your collarbone. “Which date?”
“How about September 22nd.”
He stills, his lips still pressed to your skin. “I know that date,” he muses, finally lifting his head to meet your eyes.
You nod with a giggle.
“It’s Bilbo and Frodo’s birthday!” he says excitedly. “That is perfect!”
“YAY!!!” you squeal, doing a dance under him.
He sits up and pulls you into his lap.
“I can’t wait doll,” he whispers.
“Me either Bucky.”
“We just need to find the perfect spot.”
“Exactly.”
You both sit in comfortable and cuddled silence for a few moments before he breaks it.
“What about in Central Park? I bet there’s a tree we could find that’s big like the party tree in the Shire!”
“You’re such a dork and I love you.”
He beams at that but before he can get you under him again, Winter has nosed his way between you two, impatiently asking for love too.
“Alpine and Winter are coming to the wedding of course,” you add.
“Of course doll,” Bucky says. “Besides, I think they would be like Merry and Pippin and invite themselves anyway.”
You bury your head in his chest and laugh.
“So September 22nd is our day,” you whisper, toying with his dog tag.
“September 22nd,” he echoes.
He’s just about to kiss you when your eyes go wide and you yell out, “OH! And we can play that song at the wedding and on every anniversary…you know the one by uh…um…it goes ‘do you remember…’.”
He studies you, waiting for you to think of more.
“Is this a song from Lord of the Rings?” he asks, looking confused.
“No, no, it’s by…OH MY GOD Bucky, it’s an older song…”
As you start to recall the lyrics you sing them and shake your body to the rhythm.
His face brightens in recognition and he grabs his phone, typing quickly into Google.
“Got it,” he chimes just before ‘September’ by Earth, Wind and Fire, starts to play.
You both start to sing along and Winter begins howling with his pack, much to the dismay of Alpine who seems to want to disappear into the pillow.
“Wait!” Bucky says, pausing the song. “Don’t they say the 21st night of September?”
He clicks on the lyrics and rewinds the song, singing along as he reads. “Yep they do!”
“But that’s not Hobbit day!” you say.
“We’re definitely sticking with the 22nd baby doll. It’s perfect.”
In a fit of excitement you curl into Bucky’s arms and kiss him all over. Winter takes the opportunity to smash himself under Bucky’s arm and even Alpine saunters over to join in the happy cuddle pile.
~September 21st of the next year~
“You need…”
Those are the only words you get out before Bucky’s mouth is on you again, your body pressed into the wall and his hands wandering under your shirt.
“Bucky,” you gasp, gently pushing on his chest. “You need to go. Nat will be here soon and then we’ll never hear the end of it!”
He pulls away slightly but lifts his arms so he can plant both his hands along the wall on either side of your head, caging you in.
“I don’t wanna,” he whines. “This is the last night before you’re officially my wife and I want to make it count.”
“We spent all day making it count,” you giggle, grabbing his shirt and pulling his mouth back to yours.
Your fingertips trace the broad width of his shoulders before delving into the hair that hangs loosely at the nape of his neck.
“Thought I needed to go doll face,” he smirks against your lips in between kisses.
His metal fingers dance along your skin, inching higher until he’s toying with the little boy in the center of your bra.
“I should never have agreed to this girls night,” you pout.
He nibbles on your extended bottom lip before deftly unhooking the clasp of your bra.
“Now who’s whining,” he teases.
“Buck!” you squeak. “Fix that!”
“Well, lemme see here,” he starts with a grin before he lifts your shirt so he can stick his head under it.
Instead of fixing your bra he kisses your skin as he loosens the silky fabric more.
“BUCKY!” you admonish playfully as you try and push his head out. “You’re stretching out my shirt!”
“It’s my shirt,” he says from inside, his voice muffled.
There’s a loud knock on the door followed by Nat’s excited shouting.
“Shit,” you grumble. “Shit, shit.”
Bucky reluctantly pulls his head free but not before he has you pinned to the wall again and he quiets any of your protests with his kiss.
When he pulls away you’re breathless and flustered.
“I’m going out the fire escape,” he says with a wink.
“What?!? You can’t do that!” you whisper shout.
“Better than getting yelled at!” he says as he grabs your hand and rushes into your bedroom and to the window.
He opens it and then turns back to you, pulling you into his arms and kissing you breathless all over again.
“I love you. More than anything. And I can’t wait to marry you.”
“I love you the most Bucky. I can’t wait either.”
With one more kiss he slips out the window and starts to climb down. The banging on the door becomes louder but you can’t tear your eyes away from him.
“Give Alpine and Winter kisses for me!” you shout down to him. “And Sam too!”
You giggle when Bucky gives you a scowl.
“Sam will be lucky if I don’t punch him,” Bucky jokes. “And don’t worry, I’ll make sure the babies are well loved and ready for tomorrow!”
Once he safely reaches the ground he looks back up and blows you a kiss, mouthing ‘I love you,’ before running down the street toward Sam’s apartment.
You watch until he’s out of sight then rush to the door and open it.
“It’s about time!” Nat screeches. “Is he here!?!”
“NO!” you say and throw up your hands in surrender. “It’s just us girls. Not even Alpine and Winter are here!”
She pushes past you and looks around suspiciously.
After a thorough inspection she turns back your way, one eyebrow lifting to her hairline.
“WHAT!?” you ask, going to cross your arms over your chest.
You stop mid gesture, realizing your bra is still unhooked and hanging off you under your shirt.
Nat stares at you and you stare back but it only lasts a few seconds before you both burst into laughter.
Once you’re calm again, Nat asks, “he just left didn’t he?”
“Down the fire escape,” you giggle.
“I knew he was perfect from the moment we saw him walking Alpine across the street,” she states with a warm smile.
Perfect ending. I can't seem to get enough of this little four-some. I love the bedroom scene. That's what's missing in the mornings here in NOLA. Em and I seriously need to adopt some 4 legged kiddies.
Summary: Bucky is smitten with his local barista and the doodles she draws just for him.
Prompts: for @artficlly’s Spin the Trope Event. Art very kindly spun for me and I got Cop AU + Barista
Warnings: it’s just fluff, a bad pun
Word count: 800
A/N: banners by @vase-of-lilies
Masterlist | Ask me anything! | Library
On Mondays, Bucky settles for the bitter brew sloshing in the precincts break room pot. The sad contents of his mug is a stark reminder that his favourite, effortlessly radiant and flirtatious barista doesn’t have a shift on Mondays.
Not that he’s a stalker and has memorised all your movements. But as a cop he’s trained to be perceptive, observant. Capable of noticing patterns like how you always stick your tongue out the corner of your mouth when concentrating on latte art, and how the doodles you draw in sharpie only ever seem to appear on his take away cups.
Never anyone else’s.
As Tuesday rolls in, a warm, fuzzy anticipation buzzes in Bucky’s stomach. He tells himself that it’s simply caffeine withdrawal, a symptom of being a detective, but deep down he knows he’s lying to himself.
The cafe's door chimes as he steps inside. It’s cozy, homey, unlike some of those modern chains that’s all shades of grey and minimalistic interior design. That welcoming feeling is the reason he decided to try this little coffee shop in the first place.
Their gorgeous barista is why he keeps coming back.
You glance up at the sound of the bell at the door and shine a warm smile at him. It’s the smile that makes his coffee taste better than it has any right to and which makes his already butterfly filled stomach do a flip.
“Morning Detective.” You greet, already reaching for a large takeaway cup. He tries not to grin, but fails, being reminded of your quick conversation last week that they should really offer sizes bigger than large, even though that already comes with two shots.
“Just the usual, please.”
Bucky internally curses himself when he pays in silence, and turns to walk over to the pick up spot without uttering anything additional. He should’ve said something more, anything more, a joke, a compliment, even a simple conversation starter. But the silence has stretched for too long and it would be far too awkward to blurt out something now.
Perhaps he should have rehearsed this.
He subtly watches as you work with a proficient flare, effortlessly juggling coffee cups and the stainless steel mug for frothing milk, calling out orders with a bubbly smile. It’s easy to see how much you love interacting with customers and take pride in the drinks you supply each of them.
He knows when you’re preparing his cup, but he waits for your melodic voice to call his name before he steps forward.
“I made this one extra special. Felt like your Tuesday needed some charm.”
Bucky immediately looks down to the cup as if it holds something sacred. Today's drawing is a coffee bean and a police badge holding hands, surrounded by stars. Underneath you’ve written partners in grind.
He studies the doodle as if it will offer him a clever comeback.
“You’re dangerous.” Is all he can come up with in the moment, but when he lifts his gaze to meet yours, there’s a cheeky smile curving on your lips. You raise a brow, looking ready to play along, and you tease back in the breath after Bucky’s mutter.
“Don’t tell me you’re gonna cuff me.”
It’s a challenge which tugs on the edges of his self control. He’s a detective, of course he’s heard handcuff jokes before, but coming from you, it lands differently. None of them ever looked at him like you do, like you know exactly how flustered he is and you’re enjoying every second of watching him try not to show it.
“Not unless you keep making me blush in public.” There’s a heat creeping up the back of his neck, crawling to the tips of his ears and settling into the smile he’s trying to suppress.
You lean toward him on the counter just enough for it to feel intimate, deliberate.
“That will be my goal for tomorrow then.”
The promise of tomorrow, and your lingering gaze on his back as he turns to reluctantly leave the cafe fills his chest with a blooming warmth.
His thumb swipes over the dried marker, chuckling to himself again at the pun, and he can’t help wondering what cheeky doodle, ridiculous pun and flirty conversation you’ll have ready for him tomorrow.
By the time he’s finished the cup, he’s sitting at his desk, groaning over the amount of paperwork that needs to be done. Instead of throwing the cup in the rubbish like a normal person, he stacks the cup on top of the four he kept from his visits last week. Twisting the cup so the drawing faces him while he begins work.
Tomorrow, he tells himself, he’ll stay long enough to ask for something more than coffee.
Dear god, I am SMITTEN!! They fit so well together, it’s crazy, and I love it. This was so endearing, my darling, well done 👏
Instead of throwing the cup in the rubbish like a normal person, he stacks the cup on top of the four he kept from his visits last week. Twisting the cup so the drawing faces him while he begins work.
HE KEEPS THE CUPS!! HE TWISTS THEM SO HE CAN LOOK AT THE DOODLES WHILE HE WORKS 😫 This has me so weak. And you better ask for her name, James Buchanan, or I'm gonna go kick your ass, sir.
Sooo lovely, darling, thank you for this sweetness!!
Thank you so much my love ♥️ I was initially kind of thrown with the prompts cause cop + barista would not have been a combo I would have gravitated towards myself, but I think it turned out kinda cute!
He will definitely be asking for her name next time, and perhaps on a little date if he can build up the courage 🥺
