Inspiring art by @deusv-ult for Deja Vu (this time, with you) written by Gfawkes, edited by Ace_with_a_mace, created for the @stuckyhistoricalfiction bang.
RatedE, Graphic depictions of violence, Historical AU, Film Noir, Murder mystery, AmnesiacBucky, hurt/comfort, angst/happy ending
Summary: It's 1954, and New York is coming off the backside of a war the government doesn't even have the guts to actually call a war. Bucky is recovering from an injury he can't remember: a useless left hand that has mostly shriveled away, nightmares and ever-increasing bouts of deja vu. Good thing he has a trustworthy best friend to keep him from losing his mind.
OK, yeah, Steve is a little more protective than the rest, but he's a great guy. A really, really great guy.
When a red-headed bombshell strolls into Bucky's office, things get a little strange. The dreams and eerie coincidences double, and Steve broods even more than usual. Whatever a dead congressman and the case that surrounds it have to do with these — memories — Bucky has no idea.
Your tags about Steve being jealous about all the girls Bucky ever interacted with were so funny and true. He'd always be so polite to them, the perfect gentleman his ma raised him to be, but deep down he'd hate them all a little bit. And he knows he shouldn't, they're not doing anything wrong. Really what he hates is the fact that they can be with Bucky, go out with him, and Steve can't. So whenever Bucky smiles at a girl, laughs at something she says, gives her a nickname and tries to buy her a stuffed bear, he can't help but fume a little.
I've imagined this scene post catws where Steve and Bucky are sharing stories from before the war with the other Avengers and Steve mentions some girls they met once when they were out. He's describing them as Bucky gives him this funny look. When Steve comments on this, Bucky mentions that he finds it funny that the name of every girl he ever so much as smiled at is right there on Steve's lips. Especially when Bucky remembers barely anything about the girls, he only remembers Steve.
Jealous and clueless Steve is just so funny.
NONNIE YESSS, YOU GET IT!!! Holy shit yeah, I second everything you said!
Jealous and clueless Steve is the ultimate combo imho. He's so caught up in these unspoken feelings bubbling inside, that he misses what's right in front of him.
There Bucky goes with the nicknames again, Steve grumbles internally. He met Dolores five minutes ago and she's already Dot to him.
Steve's still wishing her a lifetime of lipstick on her front teeth several hours later, when Bucky tugs him in with the vee if his arm around Steve's neck and says, easy and warm, "Let's go home, Stevie." The nickname's such a staple in his everyday life, Steve barely even notices it anymore.
Bucky's always taking girls on dates, dancing with them, romancing them - each night a different dame it seems, all of them walking in soft clouds of perfume and rustling skirts made to be twirled on the dance floor.
Steve hates it. He allows himself the luxury of some wallowing, contemplating just how much he hates it while he's standing there next to Bucky. On a date that Bucky cajoled him into. With two girls whose names Bucky will have forgotten tomorrow. While Bucky's all too busy gazing at him over Lizzy's head of neatly coiffed blonde hair.
When Bucky pushes the old couch to the side, later that night, and teases and goads Steve into a round of lindy while the radio's still crackling a nice song for them, Steve snorts and rolls his yes - Really, Buck? - but he takes Bucky's outstretched hand. It doesn't mean what he wishes it could mean, but he can still enjoy it, right? Even if Bucky will never look at him that way.
Gee, but doesn't Bucky just love to put pretty girls and fun summer activities together, Steve muses silently. It's all he can think about, the next time Bucky suggests they take the train to Coney Island, c'mon, they've saved up enough for it, they can have some fun for once, and Steve can give the Cyclone another chance, maybe on an empty stomach this time, yeah?, Bucky will hold his hand if Steve's really that scared, he teases with a playful nudge.
Steve's mind keeps going back to those three whole bucks wasted on a stuffed bear Bucky never even won, last time, and the girls he's always chatting up, and the one young lady manning the kiosk that he sweet-talked for a free soda -- until they get in their seats on the actual roller-coaster, and he's gripping the railing in front of him with so much force he thinks his palm will be glued to the bar for the rest of his life; after that, Steve stops thinking altogether.
It's odd, though, how Bucky's hand ends up pressed right up against his own, their pinky fingers overlapping. It's all Steve can think about for a long, long minute... before he's retching with his head thrust in the nearest trashcan.
There were so many things that just flew right over his head, back then. And as it turns out? While Steve was busy envying those innocent girls for all the things they got to do with Bucky, Bucky had been trying to do those exact same things with him, for him, all along.
Bucky tells him as much that day, when Steve's ranting on and on about all the ladies Bucky supposedly dated or wooed or flirted with, rattling off names and looks and details you wouldn't expect anybody to recall after a week, let alone after decades.
But Steve, he remembers them all. Steve who, with his eidetic memory, could tell you the exact shade of lipstick Katy was wearing, and describe to you in great detail the floral pattern on Rose Ann's blue dress, and the obviously fake but admittedly pretty birthmark Daisy liked to draw just under the corner of her left eye.
Does Bucky really remember none of them? He asks. Not a one?
Bucky smiles this slow, lopsided smile, that one adorably crooked tooth peeking through like a treat designed precisely to trigger Steve's fondness. God, but Steve is so fucking fond of this guy. A whole century's worth of progress in the medical field hasn't produced a single cure for this disease. Tragic, really.
"Guess I wasn't paying enough attention," Bucky says, a sweet hint of a drawl in his words, a recent telltale sign that he feels good, that he feels comfortable. Today's a good day. "But I could tell you what color trunks you were wearing the last time we went to Rockaway Beach," Bucky says - just throws it out there, sneaks it in all easylike, smooth like a spread of cream cheese on a halved bagel. "I could tell you what flavor ice cream you got, 'cause it was dripping all over your hand - vanilla, of course it was fucking vanilla, couldn't have picked chocolate and spared me the torture for once - and then you licked it clean off your knuckles and I couldn't get that picture out of my mind for months."
Today's an exceptionally good day, Steve decides, if the all talking's any clue. Christ, his neck feels like it's on fire.
"You really had no idea?" Bucky asks him, sweet, slightly exasperated, fond - how dare he be fond of Steve, fond (!) of all things, now that's just preposterous -- doesn't he know that there's no coming back from such a plague as fondness? It's a dangerous life-long predicament. It never gets better. If anything, it tends to get worse! Steve should know.
Steve swallows thickly - when did his throat get so dry anyway?
"Never had a single clue, pal."
Bucky grins at him. It's a look Steve's seen before; lethally charming and definitely flirtatious, annoyingly self-satisfied. He used to catch Bucky grin like that all the time, when Bucky would lean over their drinks and whisper inside jokes in Steve's good ear while they waited for dates that never showed in the end--
Motherfucker.
Steve's going to passive-aggressively lick thick creamy vanilla ice cream off his fingers at him for the rest of their lives, if it's the last thing he does.
"Stevie," Bucky hums at him, melodic, like he's tasting the name on his tongue and it's good, it's his favorite, it's the thing that makes you go mmmh with your eyes closed and your lip caught between your teeth. He steps into Steve's space, captures Steve's narrow waist between his warm, warm hands, and Steve's heart sings at the touch. He could cease being Steve Rogers right now and only be the thing held in Bucky's hands for the rest of forever, and he'd never once find reason to complain about his fate.
"Let me take you dancing, sweetheart. For real, this time." The intent in Bucky's eyes warms Steve from head to toe.
"Fine," Steve agrees, and how are his hands running up Bucky's chest now, and is this Bucky's own breath tickling his lips? "But don't you try to get fresh with me when you walk me home after." It's this. It's the softest touch- Bucky's upper lip, the tip of his nose brushing against Steve's cheek, the soft rasp of his five o'clock shadow under Steve's mouth, it's. Before the kiss. Kiss. They should kiss, yes. Kiss me.
Steve's breath shivers. He's pretty sure Bucky's trembling, too. "I don't put out on the first date," Steve mumbles, lips to lips.
Bucky nods his head. Lips to lips. The gentle graze of them together, soft flesh, held breath, parted lips against parted lips. It tickles, honey-sweet.
These new Pedro fans have forgotten their roots. Back in my day we had The Mandalorian, Narcos, a few episodes of Game of Thrones, and a bunch of weird little roles from shows and bad (or otherwise niche—Prospect is one of my favorite movies of all time, I will die before badmouthing it) movies we didn’t care about to write fanfic about. We wrote fanfic about an unnamed character in a wine commercial. A character from a made for TV movie that was a sort of spin off from Burn Notice. A single episode of a cop show where he was inexplicably goth. Another commercial, this time for a mobile puzzle game. Now it’s all Joel Miller all the time. Where is your whimsy? Where is your office vampire? Cowboy super spy? Dammit, more fics about the (cut, iirc) maître d’ from The Adjustment Bureau STAT
A 2,000-Year-Old Pompeii Garden Springs Back to Life
The Pompeii Archaeological Park has recreated an ancient perfume garden—right down to its antique roses.
A garden once flourished in Pompeii. There, alongside a typical row house, olive trees, roses, and vines blossomed, nourished by hand-carved irrigation channels. The entrance to the site bore the Latin inscription “Cras Credo,” translated to “Credit will be offered tomorrow,” a touch of Pompeiian humor. The Vesuvius eruption in 79 C.E. wiped out the grounds—but preserved hints of its purpose.
Now, a new garden is taking root the same spot. The Pompeii Archaeological Park has just unveiled the restored Garden of Hercules (so named for a statue of the mythical hero uncovered at the site), freshly planted with 1,200 violets, 1,000 ruscus plants, and 800 antique roses, as well as vines and cherry and cotton apple trees. The botanical display is intended to mirror how the garden appeared 2,000 years ago, based on the findings of botanist Wilhelmina Jashemski, who identified pollen, spores, and plant fossils in the area in the 1950s.
“In Pompeii, the natural and archaeological landscape are one,” Gabriel Zuchtriegel, the park’s director, said in a statement. “The green of Pompeii, which was once perceived as a management and maintenance problem, an element almost separate from archaeological structures, is now recognized as an essential component of archaeological areas, as well as of the largest agricultural project of the Park.”
Located on Regio VIII, Insula 2 of the archaeological park, the house joining the garden was uncovered in 1953 before the rest of its grounds was excavated in 1971–72, with further studies carried out in the ’80s. Researchers found that the house was rebuilt following a 62 C.E. earthquake, with its owner buying surrounding land to plant the garden.
In the garden, archaeologists discovered holes in the earth that once held the roots of olive trees, impressions left in the soil by vine trellises, and biological traces of roses. Numerous perfume bottles found on the site indicate the garden was once involved in the commercial production of perfume. Flowers would be pressed with olive oil or grape juice, researchers found, before the concoction was bottled and sold.
Also significant was the discovery of an ancient irrigation system, which allowed gardeners to water the plants through a hole in the wall, without having to enter the site. The water would then flow through channels that wound their way around flower beds, or pool in reservoirs created by earthenware pots, or dolia, situated around the grounds.
“If a gardener needed to give extra water to a plant, they could take it from a dolia,” historian Maurizio Bartolini told the London Times.
Bartolini, who worked on the replanted garden, believes that the garden’s owner might have been experimenting with scents at the site, as opposed to running a full-scale operation. The garden, he noted, measures a mere 98 by 98 feet, while creating 5cc of perfume takes some 2,000 roses.
The irrigation system has been recreated for the Garden of Hercules, its troughs meandering across the new beds. A terracotta statue of the Greek legend has also been reproduced, installed in a small nook next to an outdoor dining space.
“This was a productive place,” Zuchtriegel told the Times of the space, “but also really beautiful.”
The recreated garden is part of Pompeii Archaeological Park’s efforts to shed light on daily life in the ancient Roman city before its destruction. Also currently on view at the site is “Being a Woman in Ancient Pompeii,” an exhibition that delves into the lives, roles, and activities of Pompeiian women.
i DO recommend these fics, but this ISN’T actually a rec list
a while ago i did a meta about Bucky Barnes and the Winter Soldier and Hydra and the headcanons I put in The Terror of Knowing, and I mentioned that I wanted to compile a long-ass list of fics that inspired The Hundred Year Playlist and ppl (hi @conlatio and @marveluc) asked about it SO HERE, AT LONG FUCKING LAST, IT IS.
Fanfiction, like every other art form that has ever existed in the history of ever, is all about synthesis: combining pre-existing elements to make something new. It’s the making something new thing that’s exciting. (If you’re not making something new with your found material, that’s called plaigiarism and it’s distinctly uncool.)
When I was in college and grad school, if we used material from other scholars to make a new idea, we made sure to include a bibliography.
Now this is fic, so like. Everyone knows that we’re using found material. We put the fandom in the tags and everything. But there’s a lot of unseen inspiration, because it’s harder to tag all the fics and metas you read that gave you ideas and inspiration along the way.
I’m… making an attempt.
These are some, SOME of the fics that inspired the headcanons and characterizations and whatnot that then got incorporated into THYP. I’ve been reading MCU fic since 2014 (possibly earlier) and I didn’t even start thinking about THYP until 2017, so there’s probably a lot of stuff that went into my subconscious that I’ve forgotten about. I’m @ing the authors and sources when I know them, but if any of yall want me to like, un-@you (is that a thing??) or if any of you know of authors who have tumblrs that I DIDN’T @ but should have, pls let me knoooowwww
A (Probably Incomplete, but at least Attempted) Fanfic Bibliography for The Hundred Year Playlist
by Seriously I Don’t Have More Important Things To Do? Astonishing.
I should be working but instead I am thinking about Steve Rogers' living arrangements
So this concept art for Steve’s apartment.
It’s, like, maybe canon. Let’s get that out of the way. It’s in a canon grey area. I’m not telling anyone to consider it canon. If you’d rather not, cool, ignore this post.
What stands out to me about these images is
the bathtub used as a kitchen table,
the interior windows, &
the way one room leads directly from the other, railroad-flat style, with an inner room that has two doors but no large visible window.
To start: that bathtub.
A bathtub in the kitchen is quintessentially tenement living. Not that people were assuming Steve was living in the Dakota, but, just as a starting point: he wasn’t spending big bucks on rent. He was probably not in a great neighborhood. He seems to have been lower middle class or poor. This can mean anything — you can be poor and still afford to eat and buy clothes, you can be poor and have none of that — there’s a lot of room in “poor,” and not everyone who lived in what we consider a tenement was huddling with others for warmth in the winter, sadly reflecting on their Extreme Poverty, or coughing and starving all the time.
But still. Here he lives in a tenement. Which doesn’t tell us a lot. What kind of tenement?
There were and are different kinds of tenements in NYC. They can be put into three distinct groups: pre-law tenements, old law tenements, and new law tenements. There are some variations, but generally they get summed up like this:
1. Pre-law tenements were built prior to 1879. They were mostly built in Manhattan, and they were usually 3 rooms per apartment, with little light and no ventilation. Only one room would face the street and have a window. The inner rooms would not have windows. In the 1860s, a law was passed mandating windows for each room. So builders inserted windows between the rooms, which, as you can probably guess, accomplished precisely nothing.
2. Old law tenements were built after the first big tenement house law of 1879. They were a little stricter on the windows. After 1879, you had to have exterior windows. But the law didn’t specify where windows had to be, so somebody designed what was called the “dumbbell” tenement. The “dumbbell” tenement looked like this:
Note that the kitchen has two doors, one to another bedroom, one to the hall. It also opens onto a room along the exterior of the building (the living room if you’re living in the front, and a bedroom if you’re living in the back). Also note that the window in the kitchen is tiny because even though it technically faces the exterior, that exterior is just a small airshaft. Which people ended up dumping their garbage in. So. So much for ventilation.
Finally, we get:
3. New law tenements. These were built after 1901, and maybe we can thank Jacob Riis for them, I don’t know. I have a lot of relatives who still live in what were once new law tenements, but they call them “pre-war” because that sounds nicer. They are still, strictly speaking, fairly crappy in terms of design, but they were an improvement. Any room in a tenement built after 1901 had to have at least one window opening directly onto the street or a yard or court. So no more garbage shaft windows. And no more design that rested on inner rooms with no possible air or light source.
Finally, the same 1901 act that created new law tenements upgraded the old law tenements. It required that old law tenement owners at least adapt their buildings a little to provide more ventilation. You know what that means: the addition of useless interior windows.
So why is this all interesting to me in light of this concept art?
Because this art doesn’t just put Steve in a tenement; it puts him in an older tenement. I’d say an old law “dumbbell” tenement is likeliest, probably upgraded to include interior windows after 1901. His kitchen has two doors: one could open onto another bedroom (or two), and the door off to the side could access the hall. He doesn’t appear to have a window in his kitchen, but for all we know he could have a tiny aperture tucked behind the cabinets that accesses some kind of inner shaft — a “window” for purposes of the 1879 law.
Also, there’s a good chance that he doesn’t live alone.
It’s pretty momentous that I’m saying this. I’m the biggest ever hater of Steve and Bucky’s Lovenest. Like. The biggest. When people tell me that it’s irrefutable “canon” that Steve lived with Bucky, I calmly nod and then resort to my hate corner sipping on my haterade throwing a hate ball, rolling in my hate. I won’t go over why I think the TWS film doesn’t mandate that they have to live together. I’ll just put it out there: I don’t enjoy a reading that insists on it. I like Steve and Bucky, I like them together, but a dynamic that insists they absolutely did move in together and that there was no other purpose for the flashback scene but to toss them into the same bed space is… not how I read that movie.
But I have to give it to everyone who was writing that fic: they could share an apartment. Hell, Steve is probably sharing his apartment with someone, or maybe even two someones. Let’s look at that floorplan again, this time marked a little differently:
Whether you think he’s in the front of the building or the back, the bedroom for Steve appears to be what’s marked as the ‘parlor’ (which, hey, he gets fire escape access, good for him). So someone else will probably be in the other room, the room that the door in the kitchen/living room opens onto. Is it Bucky? Arnie Roth? Both of them? Bucky and Bucky’s sister? Two randos Steve met on the subway one day? Maybe the Barnes family lives in the front-facing apartment and Steve moved into the back to be close to them?
I figure any of these options will work if you want to write fic that takes this concept art into account; the point is really that Steve has a whole other room in there, and he’s presumably doing something with it. Maybe it’s an art studio and he does live alone. Maybe it is, in fact, Bucky’s room. I don’t think this stuff forecloses any possibilities; that’s what’s fun about it. Steve’s apartment can still say whatever you want it to say about him.
(For me, it’s interesting to think about him in an apartment that reflects decades and decades of the least amount of legally-mandated benefit to people. Welcome to the U S A. Would you like a garbage shaft building? Your options are a garbage shaft building.)
pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x reader (no spoilers though!)
warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, unprotected sex, one bed trope, dom!bucky, lots of sexual tension, teasing, dirty talk, self-pleasure, rough sex, slight degradation, bucky manhandles you, rough sex (please read the warnings)
summary: you and bucky were trapped in a storm during mission, with one bed and so much tension. (really just lots of filthy sex guys)
word count: 2.8k
author's note: hi! i am obsessed with the one bed trope and i've been trying to write something for thunderbolts!bucky! i am glad i finally finished this up! thank you for reading! again, please read the warnings, I received some comments on my previous work, i understand my fics may not be for everyone, so please take care to read the warnings! love ya guys and stay safe!
It should have been easy, a covert extraction in the Romanian wilderness, just as you and Bucky had planned, weeks ago. Intel in, asset out, and given how you and the brunette had run riskier ops with much less and fewer exits, this was supposed to feel like a walk in the park. But the weather had turned fast, almost as if it had a vendetta, ominous dark clouds had spilled over the carpathian ridge just as the both of you had left the drop point, and within twenty minutes, the sky had cracked open in a violent deluge.
The mountains were drowning as you sprinted through sleet and biting wind which soaked through your gear in seconds, thunder splitting the sky like a scream. “Which way is it?” You managed to ask as the wind howled, “right, we should be nearby” Bucky replies as lightning flashes close, lighting up Bucky’s face in ghost-white bursts as he moves beside you, shoulder-to-shoulder, jaw clenched, steps unrelenting. You followed the fallback coordinates, grateful that Yelena had embedded it in your comms, breath ragged, legs burning with adrenaline. A safehouse, government-owned, forgotten, and you and Bucky’s only shot at shelter.
By the time you stumbled through the warped wooden door, your boots were squelching with every step, water dripping from your clothes in heavy droplets, you shivered, your skin cold to the bone.
Then Bucky turned, and your breath stuttered in your chest, the firelight from the stone hearth barely reached the corners of the single-room cabin, but it was enough for you to see the way his soaked, black, tactical shirt clung to him, transparent in all the right places. You noticed how his hair, now longer since the last time you saw him, wild from the rain, plastered to his forehead in thick waves. His jaw was tight, the stubble sharp and biting, water slid down his throat, over his collarbone, disappearing beneath the cling of drenched fabric.
You hated how your gaze had caught there for too long because when your eyes snapped up again, you found Bucky already watching you. For a moment, something passed between you in that moment, heat, recognition, restraint stretched, razor thin. His stare didn’t falter, it raked over you in silence, dark and heavy, almost as if it had a weight of its own.
You looked away first, he was always like this after missions, all silence and sharp edges, carved from restraint. But it seemed lately, ever since he asked for your expertise in retrieving files and other classified information hidden across Europe, you realised that restraint had been reserved only for you.
You peeled off your soaked jacket and gear piece by piece, trying to focus on the hearth, “well, this is cozy” you muttered, eyeing the single bed tucked in the corner, “hope you like cuddling”.
Bucky didn’t even blink, he crouched low by the fire, striking a match, the flames crackled to life on the third try, his jaw flexed as he stared into the fire almost as if it owned him something.
“Better than freezing out there dollface”. He said finally, voice like gravel dipped in whiskey, you tried to ignore the way the nickname he had for you made you feel, the way your cheeks heated up as you crossed your arms, teeth still chattering, “don’t suppose there’s a hot tub?”.
“No power, its barely insulated, you’ll want to dry off,” Bucky replies, voice clipped, almost controlled, but you could hear it, the tremor in his voice, not from the cold, from something else, something neither of you dared to name.
You stepped behind the divider wall, pretending you didn’t feel his gaze burn a hole in your back, your hands trembling as you peeled off your soaked clothes, bra, panties, socks, everything clinging to you like a second skin. You found an old thermal shirt in the worn down cabinet, grateful to whoever who had decided to chuck it in there because it was probably the most useful thing in the cabin right now. You slipped it on, and it fell mid-thigh when you did.
You stepped out, seeing Bucky sitting by the fire, shirtless now, his tactical shirt placed over a chair, his hair had started to dry in soft waves, and you could see the scars that marred his shoulder, chest and back catching the flicker of flame. The scars he endured over the years, his vibranium arm, gold and black in the low light, sleek, deadly and almost beautiful.
His eyes found you, dark, slow and unblinking, the kind of look only years could shape, Bucky didn’t just see you, he saw everything, every late night conversation, every one of those missions that just caused the tension between you and him to build, so thick you could probably slice through it with a knife, every almost that had ever happened between the both of you, not that you would ever bring it up.
He looked like he wanted to devour you and god knows how much restraint he must have had in him at that moment.
You swallowed, sitting at the edge of the bed, trying to pretend your thighs weren’t already pressing together. “You taking the bed too?” You asked in a bid to break the silence, the thin ice you were treading on starting to crack beneath the weight of your own voice, brittle and breathless. You didn’t dare look at him, not when the heat of his gaze felt like it could burn straight through your spine.
“I’ll take the floor,” Bucky said after a beat, “you need rest”.
“Does it look like I’m sleeping?” you reply.
The silence was thick, smoke-like, you didn’t want to see those cerulean blues, because if you did, you’d remember what happened in Prague just weeks ago. That kiss—a fake out, a cover that had happened when you both were at some stupid alleyway, a whisper of heat at the edge of danger. You had pressed your lips to his jaw like a lie, in a bid to escape the eyes of agents hunting you both down after escaping with a hard drive.
But the look in his eyes afterward? That hadn’t been fake. Neither of you spoke about it, not after, not ever. Not even when Alexei joked about how the both of you seemed awkward, and he joked about everything, despite Yelena’s eyerolls and groans. He always had a quip ready, but after Prague? He and the rest of the team had watched the two of you with careful eyes and said nothing. The silence had been louder than any tease.
Because something had changed.
You had felt it in the heat of Bucky’s breath against your lips, in the way his hand lingered too long on your waist after that kiss. In the way he didn’t look at you for days after, or when he looked at too much or too long, almost as if the man was trying to remember how to keep his distance.
You had spent nights wondering if he felt it too, the shift, sure the tension had always been there, since the day Steve introduced you to him, since the days you spent with him in Wakanda, but this spark was different, it felt electric—like the gravity of something neither of you could name. Or if he was just pretending it hadn’t happened.
But now? It pulsed in the air between you like it has never gone away, just buried, waiting.
You lay back, letting the warmth of the fire lick at your skin, the coarse wool blanket that you had draped over yourself scratching lightly at your thighs, but it wasn’t what made you squirm.
It was him.
Bucky. Stretched out near the fire like a wolf at rest, deceptively relaxed, every inch of him radiating coiled strength. Every line of him was cut from shadow and heat, his muscles taut, almost as if he were sculpted by Adonis himself, glistening faintly from with the remnants of rainwater and sweat. His dog tags glinted faintly in the fire light, rising and falling with slow, even breaths that belied the tension buried just beneath the surface.
He wasn’t looking at you, not really, but you could feel the weight of his presence like a hand around your throat, firm and deliberate. The tension in his body hadn’t left, in the rigid set of his jaw, the way his metal fingers tapped against the floorboard with rhythmic precision.
Like he was trying to keep himself in check.
His eyes flickered toward the fire as if he was trying not to look at you, as if he didn’t want to give himself away. But you catch the way they flick back now and then, the slight twitch in his brow, the shift in his throat when you move. Like he couldn’t help it, like you were a habit he hadn’t meant to form.
He hadn’t touched you, but god, he didn’t need to.
Your thighs pressed tighter together beneath the blanket, you kept replaying the way he had looked at you, how his gaze had dropped to your thigh, your ass, then back up.
You imagined his voice, low, rough, almost dangerous.
A soft, involuntary shiver rolled down your spine. Fuck.
You squeezed your eyes shut, let the image of him bloom, imagined his fingers dancing along your skin, his breath warm against your neck, that vibranium arm spreading your thighs like he owned the right, one hand around your throat, the other slick with your arousal.
You swallowed hard, and your hand was already moving. You slid it beneath the blanket, then under the hem of your shirt, lower, lower, until your fingers brushed our soaked, needy skin. You gasped softly, hips twitching at the contact as your fingertips circled your clit, slow, desperate, and in your mind, it was his hand, his voice.
“So fucking wet for me”.
You bit your lip hard, trying to keep the sounds quiet.
But not quiet enough.
You didn’t hear him move, didn’t hear his boots on old wood, your mind cloudy with the things you wanted him to do to you, until his voice rasped through the dark, like a gun shot.
“You touching what’s mine princess?”
You froze, eyes wide. You didn’t even have time to stammer out an excuse, any excuse. The blanket was ripped away in one swift, brutal motion, and there he was, looming, dominant, those cerulean blues now blown wide with lust. Bucky’s jaw was clenched, fists tight at his sides, chest rising and falling like he had run a fucking marathon.
“You gonna lie to me, sweetheart?” he gritted out, his voice wasn’t angry, it was worse—controlled. “Or are you gonna be a good girl and tell me what the fuck you were doing”. Your breath caught as your thighs instinctively snapped shut, but Bucky was already kneeling between them, spreading you wide with both hands, one rough and warm, the other smooth and unrelenting, vibranium pressing against your skin like a brand.
“I-” you gasped, but he was already dragging the hem of your shirt up, exposing your slick cunt to the cold air and his greedy eyes. “I couldn’t help it” you whispered, “you couldn’t help it” Bucky echoed, mocking. “Poor little thing, soaked and needy while I’m just over there, keeping myself in check like a fucking saint” he cupped your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “I see you princess. Walking out in that shirt like it’s not a god damn invitation, shifting under that blanket like you wanted me to notice”. His hand slid down, over your collarbone, between your breasts, down your stomach, slow and firm, until his fingers brushed the slick heat between your thighs.
“And now look at you,” you whimpered when he dragged a single finger through your folds, slow and devastating, watching the way your hips jerked.
“So fucking wet for me”.
“Bucky-” He cuts you off, “you don’t get to say my name like that, not when you’ve been touching yourself like that. This,” he swiped through your folds again, this time bringing his thumb to your clit and pressing just enough to make you cry out, “belongs to me. Say it”. You whine, pleasure sparking up your spine like lightning.
“It’s yours, Bucky, fuck, it’s yours”. “That’s right” his voice dropped, dangerous and delicious.
“Now, beg”.
“Please” you whispered arching into his hand.
“Please touch me, I need, need more” you whimper.
“You gotta be real specific princess” Bucky’s voice was velvet over knives. “Beg me to wreck you” your face burned, but your body screamed for it louder. “Please, Bucky, wreck me” you breathed. “I want it, want you, need your cock, need you to fuck me until I can’t breathe, p-please” he stood, the sight of him towering over you, muscles taut, eyes ravenous, made your breath catch. He tore his belt off in one swift pull, tactical pants shoved down just enough to free his cock, hard, thick, flushed and leaking.
Your mouth watered, he gripped your chin, forcing your eyes to stay on him. “Keep your eyes open for me dollface, don’t make me repeat myself” you obeyed instantly. He wrapped your thighs around his hips and slammed into you in one smooth, brutal thrust. The sound you made was half-scream, half-moan, shock and pleasure colliding as he filled you completely. The stretch was overwhelming, perfect. Bucky didn’t give you time to adjust—just gripped your hips and started to fuck you, raw and deep, snagging into you with bruising force.
“God, Bucky!”
“You begged for this,” he snarled into your neck, hair falling over your cheek. “You asked me to ruin you,” You could barely think, the way he filled you, relentless, punishing, perfect, had your brain short circuiting. His cock dragged against every sweet spot inside you, ruthless and filthy. You clawed at his back, legs trembling as he slammed into you over and over.
“You wanted my cock that bad?” he hissed, fucking you harder. “Needed to get yourself off thinking about me? Is that what you do sweetheart? Lay in your bed, fingers buried in that needy little cunt, whispering my name like a fucking prayer?”
“Yes, fuck, always think about you-”
“That’s what I thought” Bucky grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanked your head back and bit your throat, sucking a dark bruise into the skin as you writhed beneath him. “You’re mine” he demanded. “Say it”. “I’m yours, I’m yours” you choked out, pleasure running through your veins as you felt that coil in your stomach tighten as Bucky inches you over the edge. “You gonna come for me now princess? You gonna soak my cock like that desperate little thing you are?” your body was already there, strung so tight, you could hardly breathe.
When Bucky’s thumb found your clit, rubbing circles in time with his thrusts, you shattered. It ripped out of you like a storm, your orgasm crashing through your body so hard it stole air from your lungs. You screamed his name, back arching, thighs shaking as you pulsed around his cock, soaking him just like he promised. But Bucky didn’t stop, god no, he fucked you through it, groaning as your walls milked him, thrusts growing sloppy, brutal.
“Gonna fill you up baby” he panted, burying his face in your neck, “gonna give you every fucking drop” you whimpered begging for it, pleading like you didn’t care how filthy it sounded. “Please, Bucky, want it—need your cum inside me” his hips snapped once, twice—Then he came with a snarl, cock buried deep, ropes of hot seed spilling inside you as he trembled against your body, moaning your name like a curse and a prayer.
You stayed like that for a long, long moment, breathing hard, clutching each other like the world outside didn’t exist. And then slowly, Bucky eased out of you gently, catching the whimper that left your lips with a kiss, his mouth was so soft now. Reverent. He dragged it across your cheeks, jaw, your temple, grounding you as his hands cradled your body like you were breakable.
“You did so good for me, princess” he murmured, voice low and warm. “So perfect.” you blinked up at him, dazed and blissed out. Bucky grabbed the blanket, wrapped you up in it before tugging you into him. His hands smothered over your thighs, your stomach, brushing your hair off your face.
“You okay?” he asked, voice softer than you’d ever heard it, you nod, smiling sleepily. “I’m better than okay”. His smile, small, crooked and real was almost enough to undo you. He leaned down, kissed your temple, then your lips.
“Good. You’re mine now, you know that?” you tangled your fingers in his hair. “Always was” he chuckled. “Cock drunk little doll face”.
And then he tucked you in against his chest, wrapped you in his arms like you were the only thing that mattered.
Because to Bucky, you were.
thank you love for taking the time to read this fic!
summary: at a high profile mission gala, bucky snaps when he sees another man's hands on you, jealousy boils over and he shows you exactly who you belong to
word count: 3.4k
author's note: hi! so bucky in a suit gave me this amazing idea, and here we are! thank you for reading, love ya guys and stay safe out there! 💓
say it with me, daddy
The mission was clear, infiltrate the gala just as Val had instructed the team to, identify the arms dealer, and intercept the transfer. You had done it all before with Steve way back when the team needed classified HYDRA information, and with Natasha who you had trained in the red room with, she had taught you basically everything you needed to know.
You had slipped into a silk dress like it was your second skin, painting on seduction. Your job was easy, sort of, play the temptress, distract the target. Smile like you were enjoying every excruciating second of their hands on you, while Bucky monitored from the perimeter—dark, silent, and ready to kill if anything went wrong.
But this time, something was different.
From the moment you stepped out of the safehouse that evening, the dress clinging to your curves like a second skin and your lips painted crimson red, he hadn’t spoken a word.
From the moment you stepped out of the safehouse that evening, the dress clinging to your curves like a second skin and your lips painted crimson red, he hadn’t spoken a word.
Jaw tight. Hands flexing at his sides like he was resisting the urge to reach for something—anything. His eyes dragged over you, slow and sharp, like a blade drawn deliberately over bare skin. Heat rolled off him in thick, stifling waves, all of it coiled tight beneath the surface, barely held in check.
He didn’t look at you like a teammate. He looked at you like a threat. Like temptation in its most dangerous form, alive and breathing and standing right in front of him. A trap wrapped in silk and sin. And for a second, you swore he stopped breathing entirely, just standing there, jaw clenched, pulse ticking in his throat like a warning.
Like if you moved, if you so much as breathed, he would snap.
And some part of you wanted him to.
You weren’t sure if it was the slit running dangerously high up your thigh or the way the plunging neckline dipped low enough to make any man ache, but something in him shifted the second he looked at you. His gaze caught there, throat bobbing like he’d just swallowed a curse, a growl, a need too sharp to name.
Still, your boyfriend said nothing.
Just clenched his fists and looked away.
Now, inside the ballroom that was glittering with chandeliers and crawling with sharp-dressed criminals, his silence followed you like a storm cloud.
You moved through the crowd like smoke, effortless. Laughter light as champagne spilled from your lips as you curled your fingers around the arm of Armand Liska, the smug weapons liaison you were specifically tasked to distract tonight.
He was handsome in that over-polished way men with too much money and too little substance often were. Sculpted jaw, tailored suit, expensive cologne, and a smirk that reeked of entitlement. The kind that believed every woman in the room was already his.
His money made him bold.
His arrogance made him sloppy.
Perfect.
You laughed at something he said, some tired line about Geneva and cigars, and leaned in just enough for your perfume to reach him, just enough for Bucky to see. Your hand slipped casually to Armand’s sleeve, fingers resting there like you belonged.
You didn’t have to look.
You could feel it.
Bucky’s gaze from across the room, it was cold, hard and burning a hole straight through you. Thirty feet away and you could still taste the tension on your tongue. He was watching. You knew that weight. Knew what it meant.
And maybe, just maybe, you leaned in a little closer.
His voice crackled through the earpiece once—tight, clipped. “You’re getting too close.”
You pressed your fingers to your comm. “He likes it close.”
Behind you, Armand chuckled, utterly oblivious to the tension stretching like wire across the ballroom. His hand slid lower, fingers brushing the curve of your hip… then lower still, settling on your ass with the kind of casual entitlement that made your skin crawl.
You didn’t flinch. Didn’t so much as blink. Just kept your smile painted on and tilted your chin, throwing a slow, deliberate glance over your shoulder, straight at Bucky.
And there he was.
Posted like a sentinel at the marble bar, a glass of whiskey cradled between his hands, the leather of his glove creaking against the metal plates of his prosthetic. His jaw clenched. His eyes, steel grey, dark, locked on you burned hotter than the liquor in his glass.
You held his gaze.
And then, as if to twist the knife, you let your smile grow just a fraction wider. Turned back to Armand, letting your fingers drift higher along his arm, nails just grazing fabric.
Across the room, the glass in Bucky’s hand groaned under the pressure of his grip.
One second more and it might’ve shattered.
“Jesus,” came Ava’s voice through the shared comms. “He’s going to explode.”
Yelena added with a smirk in her voice, “You okay over there, Barnes? Want us to send in another drink and a stress ball?”
John chimed in, full of smug amusement. “Or maybe just one of those ‘get well soon’ cards. ‘Sorry your girl had to flirt with some greasy asshole”.
“Back in my day,” Alexei added with a sigh “if man touch my woman, I break his finger and stir drink with it.”
Bucky wasn’t listening. He was too busy watching you run your fingers down the arm of a man who wasn’t him. Watching you laugh, lean in, play your part like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing.
Without a word, he shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it onto the bar, the movement sharp, deliberate, like peeling back a layer just to keep from snapping.
The second Armand’s hand slid lower, squeezing your ass like he could get away with it, Bucky moved. No hesitation. No warning. He didn’t walk, god, he stalked, every step deliberate, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the weapons dealer like a kill order had just been given.
His eyes locked on you like a predator finally off the leash, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. The suit jacket strained across his shoulders as he pushed through the crowd, focused, seething, every step radiating barely restrained violence.
You saw him coming. And you didn’t flinch. You just stood there, a little breathless, lips parting in the faintest smile—knowing exactly what you done.
Bucky didn’t spare your mark a glance. His metal hand clamped around your wrist—tight enough to make your breath hitch as he yanked you into him, chest to chest. The grip wasn’t gentle and you knew it wasn’t meant to be.
“Let’s go,” he growled, low and rough against your ear, voice edged with something dangerous.
You blinked up at him, lashes fluttering like you hadn’t just been caught. “Excuse me?”
Armand let out a quiet laugh behind you, hand still gripping your ass like he owned it. “Hey man, I’m getting lucky here.”
Bucky stopped.
Slowly, he turned his head, eyes dragging down to where Armand’s hand still sat, bold and possessive. That smug fucking grip. Like you were something he could touch. Keep. Claim.
“You’re touching something that doesn’t belong to you,” Bucky said, voice quiet—too quiet. “Take your hand off her. Or I’ll take it off for you.”
Armand raised a brow, still grinning. “What are you, her boyfriend or something?”
Bucky didn’t blink. “I’m the reason you’re still breathing. Don’t make me change that.”
The smile dropped off Armand’s face.
There was a beat of silence before he stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender, muttering under his breath. Bucky didn’t look at him again.
“Bucky—” you started.
“Now.”
He moved without hesitation, his arm snapping around your waist as he pulled you into his side, possessive and unyielding. His pace was fast, controlled, but every line of his body screamed tension.
You could feel it in the way his fingers dug into your hip, in the rigid press of his frame against yours as he steered you through the crowd like he didn’t trust himself to let go.
The air around him felt charged—sharp, crackling with restraint barely holding. The team watched in silence, heads turning as you passed, no one daring to speak.
John’s voice finally crackled to life. “I owe Ava twenty bucks.”
“I told you she was pushing his buttons,” Ava said smugly.
He should’ve waited. He should’ve remembered protocol. He should’ve played the part of the calm soldier, the cool operative.
But he couldn't, not after watching another man put his hands on you. Not after seeing you lean in, smile, let that bastard touch your waist like he owned a piece of you. Like he had the right to stare at your body, to laugh into your ear, to treat you like something he could keep.
You weren’t his.
And Bucky couldn’t stomach that for one more second.
The bathroom door slammed shut behind you, the heavy echo ricocheting off marble and tile like a gunshot. You barely had time to gasp before you felt it—Bucky’s body pressing into yours, pinning you flat against the door with the weight of everything he’d been holding back.
His hands slammed against the door on either side of your head, caging you in. His chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow breaths, the heat radiating off him in waves. He was too close, too still, like something barely leashed and seconds from snapping.
His scent hit you next, whiskey, leather, and clean sweat and it coiled through your senses like a drug, setting your nerves alight. It made you shiver, made your pulse jump in your throat.
Your eyes locked in the small sliver of space between you. He didn’t speak. Not right away. Just stared. Like he couldn’t decide whether to fuck you or punish you. Maybe both.
Then, low and gravel-rough, his lips brushed the shell of your ear.
“You wore that fucking dress on purpose.”
Your lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. The kind that always made him twitch. The kind that always got you in trouble.
“Maybe.”
His hand moved fast—fingers gripping your jaw, thumb pressing just below your chin. It wasn’t enough to hurt, but it made a point. It claimed. Possessive and unmistakable. And you didn’t resist.
“You let him touch you,” he said, quieter now, the words sharp enough to cut, laced with heat and something darker.
You shrugged, as much as the door behind you would allow. “It was part of the mission,” you said, breathless and sweet.
His mouth dragged along your jaw, rough stubble scraping your skin. He bit down, just enough to make you whimper, then pulled back to snarl against your ear, voice low and dangerous.
“You let him touch your ass.”
Your mouth parted. “It was part of the job—”
“Then why the fuck didn’t you stop him?”
His voice dropped to a growl. Real, rough, and ragged with restraint—like it physically hurt him to keep his hands to himself.
You turned your head just enough to meet his gaze. His pupils were blown wide, dark and stormy with jealousy and need. And you told him. Soft. Honest.
“Because I knew you were watching.”
That broke the dam.
He groaned, low and feral, and then you were moving—spun around so fast your heels nearly slipped. His hands locked around your waist, gripping tight, shoving you forward until your palms caught the edge of the marble sink.
The counter was cold against your skin, grounding, even as your thighs trembled beneath the press of his body.
Bucky didn’t say a word. Just stared at you in the mirror. And you stared back. Your reflection was already wrecked, flushed cheeks, parted lips, eyes glassy with lust.
You could feel the wild beat of your heart pounding against his chest behind you, every inch of your body mirroring the tension in his.
“Look at yourself,” he growled, mouth brushing your ear. “Look what you fuckin’ do to me.”
His hands slid over your hips, slow at first, rough palms tracing the dip of your waist as he pushed your dress higher with every pass.
There was no hesitation. No patience. Just raw, hungry need, burning through his touch like fire.
You arched into him with a soft gasp when you felt the hard press of his cock grinding through his slacks, pressed tight against your ass.
“This what you wanted?” he rasped. “Me watching you let some asshole touch what’s mine?”
A quiet moan slipped from your lips as you nodded, eyes fluttering toward the glass.
“Say it,” he snapped, his hand curling around your throat. “Say who you fuckin’ belong to.”
Your voice was breathless. Barely audible.
“You.”
He made a low sound—half groan, half curse—and his lips grazed your shoulder, teeth dragging across your skin as he bunched the dress higher and exposed the thin scrap of lace you’d worn beneath. When he saw you weren’t wearing anything else, the breath hissed through his teeth.
“Fuck, princess. You only wore this tiny thing?"
You nodded again, trembling beneath the weight of his touch. His hand clenched on your hip.
“You knew what this would do to me,” he muttered. “Walking in like that. Letting him touch you—like you didn’t fucking know better.”
He didn’t finish the thought. Just yanked your panties aside with one sharp tug, his fingers sliding between your thighs—finding you already soaked.
“Jesus. Drippin’ for me already?”
Your forehead hit the mirror as you exhaled a shaky breath, palms braced against the cold countertop. Your reflection was a mess, cheeks burning, mouth open, eyes dark with arousal. You looked breathless, flushed, completely undone by him—and he hadn’t even taken his time yet.
“Please, Bucky,” you whispered.
He didn’t make you beg for long.
One smooth motion—his zipper down, cock out, the tip teasing through your folds, slick and slow. You pushed your hips back into him, desperate, but he held you firm.
“No,” he said, voice like broken gravel. “You wanted to tease me? Now you’re gonna feel every fuckin’ inch of what you did to me.”
And then he pushed in.
Agonisingly slow, inch by thick inch, until he bottomed out, stretching you wide. The breath caught in your lungs, and your nails bit into the edge of the countertop.
“Look at you,” he murmured. “Watch yourself get fucked.”
You did. You watched the way your body trembled, watched the hunger in his eyes, watched the veins in his arm flex as he started to move.
His rhythm was rough, relentless and punishing, each thrust sending jolts of pleasure straight through your core, echoing between your thighs like fire.
“You feel that?” he growled against your neck. “That’s what you fuckin’ do to me. All night, hard as a rock, watching you let some asshole touch what’s mine.”
His hand slid up again, fingers wrapping around your throat, not choking, just holding, anchoring. You moaned as he fucked you harder, deeper, angling his hips just right.
Your eyes fluttered shut, but he tugged your chin back to the glass.
“No, no. Eyes open princess,” he said, breath hot on your ear. “You wanted the attention? You get it. Watch what I do to you."
And you did.
You watched the way your body bounced with every thrust, his grip bruising into your hips, marking you. Watched the red flush crawl up your chest, watched his expression, jaw tight, lips parted, eyes black with lust as he dragged you toward the edge.
Your moans grew louder. Desperate. He slapped a hand over your mouth, smirking darkly.
“Can’t be too loud, sweetheart. People outside will hear how needy you are for me.”
That only made it hotter.
Your legs started to shake. The pressure builds fast, your orgasm coiling tighter and tighter, ready to snap.
“You gonna cum for me?” he asked, his voice fraying at the edges.
You nodded, eyes wild, breath caught.
“Then say it,” he snarled. “Say who this fuckin’ pussy belongs to.”
You gasped against his hand, voice shaking.
“Y-You, Bucky. Fuck—yours.”
He groaned, loud and filthy, and slammed into you one last time just as you shattered around him. Your orgasm hit like a wave, body convulsing, breath gone, thighs trembling from the force of it. You clenched so hard around him he swore through gritted teeth, fucking you through it as he spilled inside with a broken growl.
“Atta girl,” he murmured, voice rough. “That’s my fuckin’ girl.”
Neither of you moved for a moment. Just panting, tangled together, your bodies buzzing from the crash. Outside, the party carried on—music drifting faintly under the door, as if the world hadn’t just come to a standstill inside that room.
Finally, Bucky leaned in and kissed your shoulder—softer now.
“Next time,” he whispered, still catching his breath, “you even smile at another man like that, I’ll bend you over in front of the whole damn party.”
You didn’t even try to hide your smile this time. You could still feel him inside you. His voice, his breath, his hands—etched into your body like a promise.
You swallowed hard, heels clicking sharply on the marble floor as you made your way back down the hallway. The air was cooler out here, but it didn’t help the burn still simmering between your thighs.
Your legs weren’t entirely steady, and you could feel the ache in every step. You didn’t dare look back at him. You didn’t need to. He was watching you. Always.
“Stop fixing your dress,” Bucky murmured low behind you, so close it ghosted against your ear. “Let ‘em see what’s mine.”
You bit your bottom lip, pulse fluttering. You weren’t sure if it was pride or arousal—but either way, you obeyed.
As the ballroom came into view, your stomach twisted. You knew the team would notice. They always did.
Sure enough, Ava was the first to clock you. Her eyes flicked over you once, then to Bucky, and then back again. The corner of her mouth twitched upward in a knowing smirk as she lifted her champagne flute like a toast.
“Huh. You two were gone a while,” she drawled, voice honeyed with sarcasm. “What’d you do, fall into the toilet?”
You tried to play it cool, brushing a hand along your necklace like you hadn’t just been fucked against a bathroom mirror by your boyfriend. Bucky said nothing, of course he didn’t, but the smug tilt of his jaw said everything.
John spotted you next and immediately barked out a laugh. “Oh no. Oh no. You didn’t—” He pointed vaguely toward the hall behind you. “You did.”
Yelena let out a long whistle and leaned in, hands clasped in mock prayer. “ Jesus. I thought the walls weren’t soundproof.”
Her gaze flicked to Bucky, and she grinned. “You’ve got lipstick on your jaw, Barnes.”
You blanched, immediately reaching up to fix it, but Bucky caught your wrist, stopping you with a firm grip. He didn’t even glance down. Just leaned into your ear with a quiet, gravelly murmur meant only for you.
“Leave it.”
It wasn’t a suggestion.
And damn you, your body obeyed before your brain caught up.
“Okay, but really,” John said, his grin practically splitting his face in two. “Bathroom? Bold move.”
“Definitely mirror sex," Yelena added. “That’s his thing, right?”
“Yelena,” you hissed, cheeks burning.
She shrugged, completely unbothered. “What? It’s not a judgment. Just an observation.”
Bucky didn’t offer them the satisfaction of a reaction. His eyes were scanning the crowd again, narrowed and alert, but his grip on your waist told a different story. You weren’t getting away. Not yet.
He pulled you closer with one strong arm, pressing a subtle kiss just below your ear—more threat than affection—and when he spoke, it was quiet, dangerous.
“If that asshole so much as looks at you again, I’ll put him through the goddamn table.”
And that? That was not a threat for public consumption.
But it made your thighs clench all over again.
You let your head tilt toward him just slightly, your voice low, teasing “Jealousy looks good on you, Sergeant.”
His answering smirk sent a shiver down your spine.
And as the team returned to their drinks, pretending not to watch, the heat between you and Bucky crackled just beneath the surface—undeniable, unresolved.
His touch on your waist lingered like a brand, his breath still warm against your skin. You didn’t need words to know what came next.
summary: after you put yourself in danger once again during a mission, bucky finally snaps.
word count: 3.2k
author's note: hello my loves, i hope you enjoy this fic! also, i am currently looking through all the requests i've received and am excited to say i got started on a few! so please, keep sending them, fresh ideas always helps me write better! love you guys and please stay safe out there!
want him so badly
The storm broke before the mission did.
Rain pelted the shattered rooftops, thunder cracked above as you darted through the ruined alleyways of Bucharest, your pulse hammering in your ears. The objective was simple, get in, extract the intel, get out.
“Left. Take the left,” Bucky’s voice crackled through your comms, taut with command.
“I see the target,” you shot back, breathless. “I’m going in.”
“You go in alone, and I swear to god—”
You cut the line.
Not because you were being reckless. You knew what you were doing. You had spent hours upon hours studying the building’s layout, the guards’ rotations, and the window of opportunity that was already closing.
You didn’t need him barking orders in your ear. And you especially didn’t need your boyfriend second-guessing you when you were this close to securing the objective.
But then, behind you—boots pounded on wet concrete, close, fast, and furious.
“Fuck—(y/n)!”
Too late.
The intel was secured. The flash drive sat warm in the lining of your suit, pressed against your sternum. On paper, the mission was a success.
But the cost?
Three injured agents. A building engulfed in fire. And Bucky’s silence on the jet ride towards the nearest safehouse, the tension was thick enough to choke on. He hadn’t looked at you once.
Not when you handed Val the drive. Not when she nodded coolly and dismissed you without a word of praise. Not when the soft hydraulic hiss of the safehouse doors opened and when the rest of the team shuffled in like ghosts.
Now it was just the two of you. The others had scattered quietly, retreating to their temporary rooms for the night. The rain still dripped from your suit's collar, blood clung dry beneath your fingernails, and the silence between you and Bucky pulsed like a second heartbeat.
You peeled your damp tactical vest from your shoulders and tossed it onto the table. Every breath you took felt too loud in the stillness. Your skin was still buzzed with leftover adrenaline and heat, you didn't know if it was from the mission of the confrontation you knew was about to come.
You heard the final set of footsteps retreat, then the soft click of the outer door.
Still, you didn’t turn around.
“I had it,” you said calmly, your voice flat but controlled. “You didn’t need to come after me.”
He didn’t respond at first.
But you could feel him. The tension radiated off him like heat off an engine block. You didn’t need to look to know his jaw was clenched, his hands curled into fists at his sides. You could already feel his glare burning through your back almost as if it was trying to set you aflame.
You met his eyes—cerulean, but sharper than usual. Tense. Controlled.
“I got the drive, didn’t I?”
“That’s not the fucking point,” he snapped, the steel in his voice sharp now. “Three agents could’ve died (y/n). You could’ve died.”
“I didn’t,” you bit out. “And I wasn’t going to.”
His mouth twisted, his chest heaving once before he spoke again, voice splintering. “You think I give a shit about your stats? Your little field heroics?” His voice cracked then, just slightly.
“You think I want to scrape you off the concrete one day just because you were too stubborn to follow the damn protocol?”
You barked a bitter laugh. "Funny. You’ve been quiet up until now.”
He moved fast.
One moment, he was across the room. The next, he was inches from you, towering, taut with anger, fist clenched so tight you could see the veins straining in his forearm.
“You wanna say that again?” he asked, low and dangerous.
You squared your shoulders, refusing to flinch. “I said—”
“Don’t,” he cut in sharply. “Don’t test me tonight.”
“Why not?” you hissed. “You’ve been dying to explode since we landed Bucky. Go ahead. Yell. Blame me. Do what you always do when you don’t get your damn way—”
He didn’t yell.
He didn’t move.
He just looked at you.
And somehow, that was worse.
The silence that followed crackled with heat. His jaw tensed, eyes burning into yours like he was holding back with everything he had.
Then, slow and deliberate, he stepped forward, closing the space between you. His body radiated heat, tension rolling off him in waves.
“You think this is about me?” he whispered, dangerously quiet now.
“You think I give a fuck if I look bad in the debrief? I don’t care about orders, (y/n). I care about you. And you made the call without backup, without thinking. Again."
“I knew what I was doing,” you murmured, but it came out thinner now.
“And if you were wrong?” he snapped. His breath hit your cheek—damp, hot, ragged. “If I hadn’t gone in after you?”
You couldn’t answer.
Because you didn’t know.
And suddenly the room felt too small. Too close. Your heart pounded against your ribs like it wanted out.
He was so close you could smell the rain still clinging to his skin, see the soaked-through fabric of his black shirt clinging to every line of muscle. His hair was still damp, curling around his jaw as his chest rose and fell with heavy, measured breaths.
He looked frayed at the edges, barely holding it together, and burning with fury.
“You scared the shit out of me,” he said, voice rough. “You think I care about the mission? You think I care about what Val thinks?”
Your breath hitched.
“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered. “I was just… I needed to prove I could handle it.”
He took another step forward. “To who?”
You blinked.
“To Val? The team?” He shook his head, eyes narrowing. “Or to me?”
You didn’t answer.
You didn’t need to. Your silence said enough.
Bucky’s hand came up, not fast, not aggressive, but deliberate. It hovered near your jaw, then gently ghosted along the column of your throat. Two fingers settled over your pulse, barely there. Feeling it. Reading you.
“You think I don’t see you?” he murmured. “Think I don’t know what you’re trying to prove every time you run headfirst into danger like you have nothing to lose?”
“You don’t have to be reckless to be worthy of standing next to me,” he said, and something broke in his voice then. Softer. Almost broken. “You already are.”
Your breath stuttered.
You hadn’t meant to move. You hadn’t even noticed your body leaning forward until your chest brushed his. Until you felt the ragged breath he caught against your cheek, until your eyes met his, and everything stopped.
He looked at you like he was drowning in everything he hadn’t said, rage, fear, hunger, all of it right there in his eyes, barely held back.
His thumb brushed your jaw, tilting your chin up. His touch was light, barely there, but it felt like the only thing tethering you to the ground.
“You keep pushing me,” he said, voice low and quiet, the kind of quiet that carried weight.
His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Always testing. Always toeing the line.”
Your throat tightened as you swallowed, pulse fluttering beneath your skin. A slow ache bloomed between your thighs, the kind that only got worse when you held his gaze.
“And what if I’m doing it on purpose?” you murmured. “What if I want you to snap?”
Something shifted behind his gaze, a flicker of heat barely restrained, and the air between you crackled like a live wire. His jaw flexed, his body unmoving, and then, the corner of his mouth lifted. Slow, measured, anything but kind.
“You really want to see what happens when I do?” he gritted out
“Maybe I like seeing how far I can push you.”
You didn’t get a second to breathe.
His hand clamped around your throat, not hard enough to cut off your air, but firm enough to remind you who was in control as he shoved you backward.
You stumbled, caught off guard, and then—without warning, he turned you. One arm braced across your shoulders, the other sliding between your thighs. You barely had time to gasp before he was behind you, chest flush to your back, hips grinding into your ass.
His body pinned you in place, unforgiving and close, and suddenly there was no space, no air, nothing except the burn of him against you and the way your body reacted, fast, instinctive and shameless.
“You want to push me?” Bucky snarled, the words like gravel dragged through his teeth. “Then take it. Don’t you fucking run from it now.”
Your pulse throbbed wildly beneath his fingers. He felt it—you knew he did—because he smiled against your neck. It wasn’t kind. It was the smile of a man barely containing the storm underneath, teeth bared like a wolf on a leash.
You tried to turn your head, to spit something sharp, something defiant, but his metal hand was there in an instant, pinning your cheek to the wall with a ruthless kind of tenderness. Cold vibranium fingers spread across your jaw, holding you still like he was lining up a shot.
“Don’t move unless I tell you to,” he growled. “You don’t get to talk back. Not after the fucking stunt you pulled.”
Then—he tore your suit open.
The front zipper split with a vicious rip, teeth dragging down your sternum, and then the fabric was shoved roughly off your shoulders. Your bra came into view, your skin prickling in the open air, exposed and vulnerable and throbbing with anticipation.
He didn’t hesitate.
His mouth latched onto the side of your neck, sucking hard enough to bruise, and your body reacted instantly, arching toward him, heat coiling low in your belly, wetness pooling between your thighs before you could even think to stop it.
It was humiliating how fast he had you soaked.
“Fucking wet,” he hissed, voice sharp with satisfaction. His flesh hand slid down the front of your suit. Two fingers pressed through your panties and straight into your slit, finding you hot, drenched and needy. “You’re dripping, sweetheart. All that mouth and you still want me this bad?”
You moaned—shameless, high-pitched and he growled like it offended him.
“Pathetic.”
Your suit hit the ground in a heap, shoved down carelessly around your boots. He didn’t bother to strip you completely, he didn’t need to. He just yanked them down far enough to spread your thighs apart, leaving you open, exposed, and trembling.
Then you heard it—the heavy clink of his belt, the hiss of his zipper. Your body jolted at the sound.
“Look at you,” he muttered, low and mean. “Begging to be fucked like a slut after risking your life like a dumb little brat.” The words hit you hard and god, they made your pussy throb.
You clenched around nothing, slick dripping down your thighs, and the worst part was how much you loved it. How much you needed more, needed him.
Your breath stuttered, your hips tilting back instinctively, shameless in how fast you were unraveling for him. You didn’t care what he called you. As long as he didn’t stop. As long as he fucked you like he meant every filthy word.
He pumped his cock once—twice—right behind you. You could feel it already, flushed and hard and heavy, the tip brushing the curve of your ass as he lined himself up.
“You wanted this,” Bucky rasped, voice dragging low and dark. “You pushed me on purpose. You knew exactly what would happen.”
You whimpered, cheeks burning.
And then he laughed, low and cruel and knowing.
“You like it when I’m like this, don’t you?”
His cock dragged through your folds—slick with your arousal, bumping your clit before dipping lower, teasing your entrance with maddening pressure. You nearly sobbed.
“Y-yes… I like it,” you breathed, eyes fluttering shut as your thighs trembled. “I wanted it. I wanted this. W-wanted you like this.”
He slammed into you.
You cry out, the stretch splitting you wide open in one unrelenting thrust. No warning. No mercy. Your nails scraped against the wall as your body spasmed around him, pussy clenching instinctively around the thick length now buried to the hilt.
“Oh my fucking—”
He slapped a hand over your mouth.
“Be quiet,” he gritted out, breath hot on your ear. “They’ll hear you.”
You moaned into his palm, the sound muffled and desperate, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes as he began to move—long, deep thrusts that rocked your entire body.
Each snap of his hips sent you forward, your chest jolting against the cold wall with every brutal push. Your legs shook beneath you, barely able to hold you up under the weight of him, his rhythm, his heat, the relentless way he claimed every inch of your body.
His cock hit every spot inside you—deep, relentless, perfect in its punishment. Each thrust drove you harder into the wall, your palms flattened against the cold surface, fingers splayed like you were holding on for dear life.
The air was thick with the sound of slick skin and broken moans, the wet slap of him pounding into you again and again until all you could do was whimper, body shaking, needing more.
He was ruthless.
“You feel that?” he grunted, fucking into you harder. “You feel how deep I am? Fuck, princess, your pussy’s squeezing me.”
You nodded, eyes rolling back. Everything was too much. Not enough.
He grabbed your hair and yanked your head back, lips brushing your ear.
“You gonna come already? Just from this? From getting fucked like you’re made for it?”
You tried to speak, tried to form a word, a plea, anything but your mouth refused to work. All that came out was a desperate, broken moan, choked off by the force of him inside you.
Every muscle in your body was strung tight, overwhelmed, aching, begging for release, but all you could do was let the sound of your need echo in the space between you, raw and strung out and wordless.
He let go of your mouth and slapped your ass—hard.
“Say it,” he snarled. “Tell me how badly you want to come.”
“I, god—I need it,” you choked. “Please, need your cock, need you to—”
He pulled out.
Completely.
You cry, voice raw with frustration.
Bucky laughed, voice thick with dominance.
“Look at you. Falling apart already. And I haven’t even gotten started.”
Before you could respond, he seized your wrists and twisted them behind your back, pinning them there easily with his hand. The cool press of vibranium against your skin made your breath hitch, your chest rising in shallow gasps.
You barely had time to brace yourself before he drove back into you—harder, deeper, with a force that knocked a strangled sound from your throat and sent sparks ricocheting through your core.
Your body jolted. Your mouth dropped open in a silent cry. His flesh hand wrapped around your waist, fingers finding your clit again—rubbing tight, relentless circles in time with each brutal thrust.
You were unravelling, your legs burned and your body trembled. You were a babbling, incoherent mess as your orgasm built again—rising like a fucking tsunami.
“Don’t you dare come,” he growled.
You tried. Fuck, you tried.
But he was everywhere—his cock driving into that sweet spot deep inside you with ruthless precision, his fingers working your clit in tight, relentless circles that had you trembling. His voice, low and filthy, poured into your ear like sin itself, each word pushing you closer to the edge.
“Say it,” he rasped. “Say who owns you.”
You sobbed.
“You do, Bucky! You do—”
“Good fucking girl.”
And then he snapped his hips again, slamming into you so deep you felt it in your throat.
You came with a strangled cry, body seizing as pleasure tore through you like a live wire. Your cunt clenched around him in tight, desperate pulses, milking every inch as wetness spilled down your thighs, slicking his cock and coating both of you in heat and ruin.
You slumped forward, forehead pressed to the wall, barely able to hold yourself upright as your orgasm wracked through you.
But he didn’t stop, he kept going—kept fucking you through it like he was trying to brand you from the inside out.
You sobbed, body trembling uncontrollably.
“That’s it,” he snarled. “Take it. Cry if you want princess, I’m not stopping.”
Your knees gave out, barely holding you upright and then the second wave hit. He slammed into you hard, tearing through your body before you had a chance to catch your breath.
You clenched around him again, tighter this time, a cry ripping from your throat as you came all over his cock. Everything blurred, your vision, your thoughts, until all that was left was the sharp pulse of pleasure and the rough sound of him still moving behind you.
“Gonna fill you up,” he muttered, pounding into you with short, broken thrusts. “Stuff you full, just like you deserve. Let it drip down those pretty thighs. Let everyone see who fucked you like this.”
He groaned—loud, rough—and then shuddered, cock twitching as he spilled inside you. You felt the warmth of it, the pulse of his release, the way his entire body seemed to collapse into yours.
The only sound was your wrecked breathing, the whine of your body, and the soft drip of his cum sliding down your thighs.
You were trembling, undone in every possible way—mind blank, body limp, pleasure still echoing through your nerves. Your knees wouldn’t hold you, but he didn’t let you fall. His arms were around you instantly, strong and steady, pulling you into his chest like he could anchor you there, like he needed to.
His breathing was still ragged, chest rising and falling against your back. His lips pressed to your temple, slow and soft, and you felt the way he lingered, like he was grounding himself, too.
“You okay?” he whispered.
You nodded, barely able to speak. Tears still clung to your lashes, not from pain, not even from the intensity, but from the overwhelming ache in your chest.
He kissed your temple again. Then your jaw. Then the corner of your mouth.
“Don’t ever fucking do that again.” he murmured.
You blinked, surprised by the tremble in his voice. He wasn’t angry. Not now.
“I can’t—” he swallowed, brow pressed to yours. “I know you’re capable, I know you’re smart. But I can’t watch you walk into something like that again.”
Your throat tightened.
“I thought I could handle it,” you whispered.
He shook his head. “No. No more of that. If something happened to you out there—”
He cut himself off. Pulled you closer. One hand cradled the back of your head. The other still wrapped around your waist, like he was afraid you would slip through his fingers.
“You don’t get to scare the shit out of me like that,” he rasped, voice cracking. “I’ve lost so much—and, fuck, I can’t lose you too.”
He looked away, just for a second, like the words hurt to say.
“I wouldn’t survive it.”
You nuzzled into his chest, heart hammering. His scent, his warmth, the rasp of his voice in your ear, it was all too much and not enough.
“I’m sorry,” you said, small and hoarse.
Bucky didn’t say anything right away. He just held you tighter, kissed the top of your head.
Prompt: Bucky, Sam, Y/N, and Zemo go undercover while in Madripoor and the mission doesn't go as planned.
---
“And we will be going undercover,” Zemo announced, his voice calm and composed as always, though his eyes sparkled with mischief as he addressed Y/N, Sam, and Bucky.
“You will be Smiling Tiger,” he said, handing Sam a garish, tiger-striped suit that looked like it had lost a fight with a disco ball. Sam raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
Zemo turned to Bucky next, holding out a sleek, black leather jacket. “And you will be the Winter Soldier.”
Bucky’s jaw tensed. His blue eyes darkened for a moment, flickering with memories he’d rather leave buried. He took the jacket in silence.
Then Zemo turned to Y/N, his tone shifting just slightly. “And you,” he said, walking toward her with a smug little smile, “will belong to us.”
Y/N blinked, caught somewhere between confusion and outrage as he handed her a designer shopping bag and a pair of ridiculously high stilettos. She scoffed loudly, spun on her heel, and stormed toward the bedroom without another word.
Once inside, she let out an exasperated sigh and dropped the heels on the bed like they’d personally offended her. She grabbed a push-up bra and a pair of boy shorts from her overnight bag, stripping down quickly before opening Zemo’s bag.
Her eyes went wide.
Inside was a dress—if it could even be called that. It was short. It was tight. It was practically indecent.
Y/N held it up between two fingers like it might bite her. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered. Still, curiosity got the better of her. She slowly pulled it on, tugging the fabric down over her body. It hugged every curve, stopped mid-thigh, and left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
With a frustrated grunt, she peeled it back off and tossed it onto the bed like it had betrayed her. She stomped to the door, yanked it open, and stepped out in just her underwear and bra.
Sam looked up from the couch, his eyes going wide in surprise.
“Where is he?!” she shouted, eyes scanning the room like a woman on a mission. The moment she spotted Zemo lounging smugly near the minibar, she snapped.
“I’m going to murder him!” she declared, marching toward the kitchen and grabbing the first weapon she could find—a wooden spoon.
“Bucky!” Sam shouted, practically leaping to his feet as Y/N charged.
In an instant, Bucky was in motion. With his vibranium arm, he scooped Y/N off her feet just before she could swing. She squirmed furiously in his grasp, smacking his metal shoulder. “Put me down!”
Unbothered, Bucky calmly carried her back into the bedroom, shut the door behind them, and gently set her down.
“Babe,” he said, eyebrows raised, “what is going on?” He plucked the spoon from her hand, still half-smiling in disbelief. “Were you really going to beat him to death with a wooden spoon?”
Y/N grabbed the offending dress from the bed and held it up like evidence in a courtroom. “This! This is what’s going on!”
Bucky took it from her and unfolded it. His eyes widened.
“This is what he wants you to wear?” he asked, incredulous.
Y/N gave a single, exasperated nod.
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’m going to murder him myself.”
Without another word, he turned and marched out.
He returned a few minutes later, his expression a little darker than before. “You’re going to have to wear it,” he muttered. “If you don’t want to stand out.”
Y/N groaned dramatically and snatched the dress back. “Fine.”
She tugged it on again, pulling it down as far as it would go—though it wasn’t far. Then, with a grin, she grabbed her scuffed-up combat boots and pulled them on.
“You know,” she said, smirking as she stood, “if we have to run or fight, my whole ass is going to be out.”
Bucky’s eyes lingered on her legs a second too long. “Stay close to me,” he muttered, already heading for the door.
Y/N took one last look at herself in the mirror, sighed, and followed him out of the room.
The moment she stepped out, she looked at Sam, lifted her chin and said, “Not a word.”
Bucky reached out and laced his fingers through hers, squeezing gently. She glanced up at him and found a quiet reassurance in his gaze that made the whole ridiculous outfit feel a little less awful.
---
The club was loud, dark, and pulsing with the bass of music that felt more like a threat than a song. They hadn’t even made it inside yet, and Y/N already felt a headache coming on. Outside the back entrance, they waited in the alley, pressed into shadows as Zemo made a call to Selby’s people.
Y/N shifted uncomfortably, arms crossed over her chest to ward off the cold and preserve what little modesty the dress allowed. She leaned into Bucky’s side for warmth, ignoring how the concrete wall scraped against her bare thigh.
Bucky stood beside her like a statue—tense, quiet, eyes fixed straight ahead. The black leather jacket looked too much like his old life, and Y/N could feel it clinging to him, pulling at old wounds. She bumped her shoulder gently into his arm.
“You good?” she asked softly.
He didn’t look at her at first. “Yeah.”
Y/N tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “You’re lying.”
Bucky sighed and finally glanced down at her. His fingers brushed hers, hesitant at first, then twining with them again. “It’s just… putting that jacket back on. Being that guy again. Even if it’s fake—it doesn’t feel fake.”
She gave his hand a small squeeze. “You’re not that guy anymore.”
His eyes flicked to hers. “You sure?”
Y/N gave a slow, deliberate once-over of his outfit, then raised an eyebrow. “Well, I mean, you look like the guy who used to assassinate world leaders, but I’ve seen you get excited about finding almond milk at the grocery store, so…”
That got a small huff of laughter out of him, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Thanks for that.”
“Anytime.” She leaned in closer. “Also, don’t think I didn’t notice you staring at my legs back at the safehouse.”
He gave a low groan. “Can we not talk about that when Zemo’s standing ten feet away and Sam’s trying not to look like he’s judging me?”
Y/N smirked. “Too late.”
Across the alley, Sam cleared his throat pointedly and shifted his weight. “Just so we’re clear—when I said I’d go undercover, I didn’t realize I’d be wearing something with rhinestones on the collar.”
“You look like the world's most aggressive party animal,” Y/N said, grinning.
Sam gave her a dry look. “You say that like it’s not entirely Zemo’s fault.”
As if summoned, Zemo turned from his call with a satisfied nod. “We’re in. Selby will see us. Try to remember—no sudden moves, and let me do the talking.”
Y/N took a breath, letting it out slowly. “Here we go.”
Bucky glanced down at her one more time, something unreadable flickering across his face. “Stay behind me, alright? No heroics.”
“I don’t do heroics,” she muttered. “I do chaos.”
His mouth twitched again. “That’s what I’m worried about.”
With Zemo in the lead, they headed for the door, the pounding bass of the club growing louder with each step.
Y/N squeezed Bucky’s hand once more before letting go.
They had a role to play—and it was time to act.
--
Inside the club, the world narrowed into smoke, strobe lights, and sweat. Music thrummed against the walls, a steady heartbeat of danger. Bodies moved like shadows—some dancing, some loitering, all watching.
Zemo led the way through the chaos like he owned the place. His posture relaxed, almost amused. Sam trailed just behind, jaw tight, eyes scanning everything. Bucky walked like a predator with Y/N tucked into his side, his arm around her waist in a way that said mine—a warning, not a statement.
Y/N played her part, draping herself against him with calculated indifference, like this was just another night out. She kept her gaze sharp and forward, ignoring the stares from nearby tables, especially the ones that lingered too long on her dress. Her boots echoed against the floor—an odd contrast to the otherwise silent glide of Bucky’s steps.
They were led through a side corridor into a quieter back room. Armed guards flanked the walls, eyeing them with open suspicion. At the center sat Selby—sharp, pale, and coiled like a serpent in human skin. Her lips curled into a smile that never reached her eyes.
“Well,” she purred, lounging in her seat. “Helmut Zemo, the infamous Smiling Tiger, and…” Her eyes dragged over Bucky, then Y/N. “The Winter Soldier. And his… accessory.”
Y/N smiled sweetly, though her fingers itched for a weapon. “Call me that again and I’ll show you exactly what kind of accessory I am.”
Selby’s brows lifted in interest. “Feisty. That’s dangerous in these parts.”
“She’s loyal,” Bucky said, his voice low and deadly. “That’s more dangerous.”
Selby laughed, clearly entertained. “I see the Soldier still speaks in grunts and threats. Some things never change.” She flicked her gaze to Zemo. “You brought quite the entourage. What do you want?”
Zemo’s tone was polite, laced with undertones of menace. “Information. About the super soldier serum. We know it’s resurfaced. And we know someone here in Madripoor is behind it.”
Selby leaned forward, sipping her drink. “That kind of intel doesn’t come cheap.”
Zemo smiled. “I didn’t think it would.”
The tension grew thick, cloying like the perfume hanging in the air. Y/N could feel Bucky’s muscles coiled beside her, ready to spring if things went sideways. Sam stood near the back, playing the role of smug and disinterested, though Y/N could see the tick in his jaw from here.
Selby’s eyes narrowed. “There’s a name you’re looking for. Dr. Wilfred Nagel. He was working for Hydra. He’s working for someone new now.”
Zemo nodded slowly. “And where can we find him?”
Selby opened her mouth to answer—but the moment was shattered by a sudden crack of a gunshot.
Blood bloomed across Selby’s chest.
Everything exploded into motion.
“Shit!” Sam ducked for cover as the guards reached for weapons.
“Go!” Bucky shouted, pulling Y/N behind him as bullets shredded the air. He took down two guards with brutal efficiency while Y/N kicked a third square in the chest with her boots, knocking him back.
Zemo fired with eerie calm as they moved. “We need to move—now!”
They burst back into the club, chaos already erupting behind them. Word spread fast in Madripoor—Selby was dead, and they were the prime suspects.
“Zemo!” Sam called, trying to keep them together in the madness. “Exit plan?!”
“We go up!” Zemo shouted, pointing to a fire escape on the far wall.
Y/N glared down at her short dress, knowing that it was going to be riding up the moment she started climbing. “I am never letting Zemo dress me again!”
Bucky glanced down at her and grinned—right before grabbing the railing and hoisting her up to the fire escape with one smooth motion. “We’ll talk fashion later. Right now? Try not to get shot.”
Y/N scrambled up, breathless, heart pounding—and despite everything, she was smiling.
This was chaos.
And it was kind of hot.
--
The fire escape groaned beneath their feet as they climbed, bullets ricocheting off the metal below. The night air hit hard—cool and sharp, thick with smoke and the distant howl of sirens. They barely made it to the rooftop before another shot whizzed past Sam’s head.
“This way!” Zemo shouted, already darting across the roof like he’d done this a hundred times. Which, Y/N thought grimly, he probably had.
“Split up!” Sam yelled, ducking behind a vent. “We’ll draw them off. Meet back at the safehouse in one hour!”
Before anyone could argue, he and Zemo vanished into the night, disappearing over the ledge of the opposite building.
Y/N skidded to a stop, breathing hard, her dress clinging to her like a second skin. “Great. Of course we’re splitting up.”
Bucky was already assessing their escape options. “There.” He pointed to a narrow ledge barely a foot wide, connecting their rooftop to another across the alley.
Y/N blinked. “That is not a ledge. That is a death wish.”
Bucky didn’t wait. He grabbed her hand. “You trust me?”
“I’m literally in the world’s shortest dress in the middle of a gunfight with a war criminal who thinks he’s a fashion designer. What do you think?”
Bucky grinned. “Good enough.”
They ran.
Bucky crossed first, moving with the silent precision of a soldier. Then he turned, reaching out. “Come on.”
Y/N stared at the ledge like it might bite her. “If I die, I’m haunting Zemo.”
“Noted,” Bucky said, still holding out his hand. “Come on, babe.”
She muttered something about needing hazard pay, then took his hand and stepped onto the ledge. Her heart pounded so loud it nearly drowned out the club music and gunshots behind them. Halfway across, a shot rang out below.
She gasped, her foot slipping—
Bucky caught her with his vibranium arm and yanked her across in one brutal pull, landing her hard against his chest on the opposite roof.
Her heart was in her throat, chest heaving. “Okay. That sucked. I’m filing an official complaint.”
Bucky looked down at her, worry etched in his features. “You okay?”
“Do I look okay?”
He didn’t answer—just cupped her face and kissed her, rough and desperate and full of adrenaline.
When they broke apart, she blinked. “Okay. That helped.”
“Come on,” he said, pulling her along as they moved deeper into the city, hopping down a rusted fire escape and disappearing into the shadows of a narrow alley.
They ducked into a quiet, dim-lit warehouse two blocks away, hiding in the dark behind crates stacked with broken-down tech and discarded crates. Bucky pulled the door shut behind them, breathing heavily. He finally relaxed enough to lean against the wall and glance her way.
“You were amazing back there,” he said.
Y/N let out a breathless laugh and slid to sit on a crate. “I took out one guy and nearly fell to my death trying to play tightrope on a metal pole. So yeah. Totally nailing it.”
Bucky chuckled and crouched in front of her, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You scared me for a second.”
“You scared me. You were ready to punch through an army to get to Selby.”
He shrugged. “I’ve had worse missions.”
“Yeah?” she asked softly, voice quieter now that the danger had ebbed.
He nodded. “But this is the first one where I had something to lose.”
That quieted her.
She reached out, took his hand, and threaded their fingers together.
For the next few moments, they just sat in the quiet of the warehouse—hearts slowing, minds racing, still wrapped in the aftershocks of danger.
Somewhere in the distance, the city pulsed on. And they waited, hidden in the dark, knowing they'd have to move again soon.
---
The safehouse was quiet.
The chaos of the club felt like a different lifetime now. But here, in the dim glow of a single lamp and the soft hum of the AC unit, everything had slowed. The tension, the noise, even time itself.
Y/N stood in front of the mirror, pulling pins from her hair, letting the waves fall loose over her shoulders. She caught Bucky’s reflection behind her, sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. Still in mission mode, but barely.
“You’ve been quiet,” she said gently, tossing the last pin on the nightstand.
He looked up. “Just... thinking.”
“About what?”
Bucky tilted his head, then gave a tired sort of smile. “About how many people looked at you tonight like you were something they wanted to steal.”
Y/N turned to face him fully, crossing the room in slow steps until she was standing between his knees. “You know none of them matter, right?”
He looked up at her, blue eyes stormy but soft. “I know. Doesn’t mean I liked it.”
She reached out and brushed her fingers through his hair, slow and soothing. “You were the only person I was paying attention to.”
His hands found her waist, settling naturally like they belonged there—which, at this point, they did. “You looked amazing,” he said, voice quieter now. “But I hated how many eyes were on you. I hated people not knowing you’re with me.”
They sat there for a moment, wrapped in silence. The kind of silence that only comes when you’re with someone who makes you feel safe.
His thumb traced circles over her bare thigh where the hem of the dress had bunched. “Can I say it now?”
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Say what?”
“That I hate this dress.”
She laughed, her forehead resting against his. “I hate it too.”
Bucky chuckled, wrapping his arms tighter around her. “I like you better in my t shirt.”
“Well,” she whispered, “you’re about to get your wish.”
He leaned in and kissed her—slow, deep, and unhurried. A kiss that wasn’t about disguise or survival. It was real. Grounding. Home.
“Thanks for keeping me safe tonight," Y/N said when they pulled apart.
“Always,” Bucky said.
Y/N emerged from the bathroom in one of Bucky’s t-shirts—soft, faded, and hanging off her shoulder in a way that made his chest ache. Her makeup was gone, hair tied up in a messy bun, and her bare legs padded silently across the carpet as she returned to where he sat on the bed.
Bucky had changed too. His jacket was tossed over the chair, boots by the door. He sat in black sweats and a plain shirt, propped against the headboard, phone in his hand. But the second he saw her, he placed his phone on the nightstand, forgotten.
“You look better now,” he murmured, gaze warm.
Y/N crawled onto the bed, slipping under the covers and curling into his side like it was second nature. “Better than in the club?”
Bucky made a low sound in his throat, brushing her knee with the back of his hand. “Way better."
He kissed the top of her head and let out a breath that loosened something in him.
They stayed like that, tucked in together, limbs tangled under thin sheets, quiet and close in a world that rarely allowed them softness. Bucky ran his fingers slowly through her hair until her eyelids started to flutter closed.
“Get some sleep,” he whispered, brushing a thumb over her cheekbone. “We’ve got another long day tomorrow.”
Y/N smiled drowsily. “Only if you’re beside me.”
“Always.”
The last thing she heard before sleep claimed her was the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear—and the quiet way he whispered her name like a vow.
---
Y/N woke slowly, blinking against the sun, her cheek nestled against Bucky’s chest. His arm was draped securely around her, hand resting against her lower back, and his breathing was steady—calm in a way it rarely was.
She smiled, eyes fluttering closed again for a moment as she let herself sink into the warmth of him. He always ran warmer than he let on. Like a furnace under cool steel.
“Morning,” came his rough, sleepy voice. His fingers traced lazy lines along her spine.
Y/N hummed, shifting just enough to press a kiss to his collarbone. “Hi.”
He craned his neck, pressing his lips into her hair. “Sleep okay?”
“Mhm. Best I’ve had in a while.”
“Me too,” he said softly.
They stayed like that for a long while, tangled in the sheets, legs intertwined, mouths finding each other in slow, lazy kisses that deepened without warning—soft turning to hungry, tongue brushing tongue, teeth grazing lips. Fingers wandered with purpose now, tracing over sensitive skin, dipping into familiar curves and hollows, teasing just enough to draw out quiet gasps and half-formed moans.
There was no rush, no orders to follow, no need to pull away. Just the intoxicating freedom of touch, of breathless laughter muffled against a neck, of nails scraping lightly down a spine. The kind of closeness that blurred where one ended and the other began.
“I like mornings like this,” Bucky said, quietly.
He kissed her again, slow and tender, like she was a promise he never thought he’d get to keep. And when they finally pulled apart, foreheads touching and hearts steady, she whispered, “You and me, Barnes. Always.”
warnings: nothing major. minor mentions of violence. not so secret secret wife. possible thunderbolts spoilers.
summary: bucky isn't coming clean about something. no matter how many times he's poked and prodded, he won't admit to his wrong doings.
author’s note: first fic in years. thunderbolts has done something to me. something short and sweet to kick it off.
Secrets would never make friends.
They would only create division. Discontent amongst the already wound tight group, leaving room for far too much speculation. While they had slowly come to accept each other, it was still an uphill battle even on good days.
Knives, for the most part, were kept sheathed. Guns were kept holstered. Communication kept this misfit band afloat. Secrets would only bring it down.
And Bucky Barnes? He definitely had a secret.
Yelena, as she would later claim, was the first to notice. It was the soft upturn of his lips. A type of softness that looked out of place on his usual annoyed expression. The crinkling around his eyes as he stared down at his phone. A soft, breathless chuckle that doesn’t sound like it should come from him.
Jokes about his age danced on the tip of her tongue. It was low hanging fruit. It was far too easy to poke jabs about how he might need to get a better prescription to see the text. Or, if he wanted, she could help make his text bubbles bigger. Those jokes would be better directed at someone with a confused expression.
John notices it a few days after her. This time that soft gaze of his isn’t directed at his phone but instead at you. Bob sits in between your feet, head tilted back into your hands as you work on detangling his hair. Self-care, as you preached to the rest of the Thunderbolts, was important. Something Bob was deprived of.
If looks could kill, John assumed that Bob would have been flat out on the floor. He should have been with the way Bucky was glaring.
His brows are pinched together, frown evident across his features. This time, there’s a quick downturn of his lips, quietly chewing on the inside of his cheek. Jealousy. An emotion John was surprised Bucky could even feel - let alone directing said emotion towards someone like Bob out of all people.
Now that he thought about it, the two of you have never been completely clear on the past. You came with Bucky. It was almost like a packaged deal, the two of you for the cost of one. Something or other about how to the two of you had been partner in the past. Whatever it was, John hadn’t been particularly listening to it. None of that felt very important at the time. Especially given the fact he hadn’t felt his little group would last any longer than a day.
The Void, and the subsequent voiding of New York, had been a far pressing matter.
Now, as John sits here, equating that expression on Bucky’s face to a man so bitterly jealous of the affection another man is getting, he can’t ignore the alarms sounding in his head.
-
Bucky could feel the stares from across the room. At first, he doesn’t want to look up. He doesn’t want to indulge them in whatever it is they have to pester him with today. As long as the city wasn’t on fire or flooding or both, he didn’t necessarily care in initiating conversation.
“Barnes.”
He groans, finally looking up. “Walker.”
It’s a relatively small exchange of works. Bucky knew he couldn’t look that busy with his phone in his hand. Even he knew his relaxed expression would do little convey that there was some pressing matter he needed to attend to. Nor did he think he could get away with claiming it was Valentina out of all people.
There was no way such a soft expression would be reversed for that woman. Besides, the way he was lazily thumbing through his texts conveyed it was someone he enjoyed talking to. When had he ever been thrilled to talk to Valentina.
“Who ya talkin’ to?” It’s a juvenile question. One that Bucky doesn’t even want to dignify with an answer of any kind. It would only add fuel to the fire he suspected was already burning. While they joked about how old he was, their conversations weren’t exactly falling on deaf ears.
“Your mom.” Comes Yelena’s response from across the room. A small chuckle from Ava’s direction follows shortly after.
“No no - she wouldn’t talk to him. She would have better standards than this rough around the edges Jesus look.” John, for once, does well not to let it get too under his skin. There were far more pressing questions to be asked. A simple ‘your mom’ joke wouldn’t derail him from his quest of truth.
John, after a second or two of thinking, can only conclude that it must be you on the other end. Those stupid little looks were reserved for both you and his phone when you weren’t in the same room.
“You two are married, aren’t you?”
Bucky rolls his shoulders back in a shrug, tossing his phone to the side. As hard as he tries to appear as he doesn’t care, it’s a poor attempt. “I think something as big as that would be hard to hide, don’t you think?”
“Yes because an ex-assassin would have such a hard time hiding something so important.” Ava calls. From first look, it hadn’t looked like she was listening in on the conversation from behind her magazine. Yet as her eyes flicker above the pages, there’s obviously a look of amusement and intrigue. “Let alone the ex-assassin.”
“If that was my wife, everyone would know. No one would keep me quiet.” It’s Alexei’s voice this time. He slouches father down into the couch, lazily tilting his head to get a better view of the T.V. His hands jerk up into the air, waving them around as he speaks. “What kind of man keeps his wife a secret?”
“Alexei - you don’t get a say in the matter.”
“‘Lena, what I say is the truth. He should be proud.”
“Yeah yeah yeah. Stop taking the attention off of Bucky and his secret wife.” John continues. “Where is she anyway?”
“The grocery store.”
“So you know her each and every move?”
“You just asked me where she was. Did you not hear her before she left? She’s getting food for all of us.”
"Oh yeah? You sure she's not out for just you."
“Besides you don’t keep up with the rest of us like that.” Yelena corrects. “Alexei was missing for days before you noticed. How did you not notice that?”
“To be fair, none of us really noticed it. The peace and quiet was almost too good to be true.”
“Ava - do not help him. He needs to tell the truth.”
Bucky huffs, rubbing his temples. Theses conversations were getting more and more exhausting by the minute. “There is no truth to tell. You guy are all making something out of nothing.”
“If it’s nothing, why are you getting so defensive over it?”
Defensive wasn’t the word he would have used. Protective maybe. Secretive perhaps. But never ever defensive. That would insinuate that he wasn’t proud of his life decisions. That he wasn’t proud of you. Defensive would make him come off as insecure and unsure. Two things he would never ever feel about you.
“Look - you better text her if there’s anything you want. I’m not going back out for anything any of you forgot.” And that, for now, is enough to halt the conversation.
-
The secret was becoming harder and hard to keep. It was beginning to bubble over more and more with each passing day. His glances were becoming a little too longing. The way you laughed at his jokes was a little too sweet. The two of you stole glances at each other’s lips a little too often.
Things eventually were going to come to a head. Unsurprisingly, one bad mission was all it needed. One time of him limping back into the tower was all it took for things to come undone.
It was supposed to be a simple mission. One that was supposed to be finished within a day. Maybe two at the maximum. By the time he, Yelena and John returned, you have been festering just long enough in your own anxiety to forget any safe guards put around your relationship. And that came out in the way you said his name.
“James Barnes.” His government name, missing only his middle initial. He considered himself lucky for that. At the same time it was a government name no one else was allowed to use.
He didn’t want anyone else muttering his name. No one else could compare to the way you said it so breathlessly. Even as you marched over, hands placed firmly on your hips, you still managed to say his name so perfectly. So much so, he forgets where he is for the time being. As well as those standing to his side.
“What?”
“Don’t you dare ‘what’ me. Look at you.”
He flexes his fingers a few times, trying to find his words. What could he say to get you to drop the topic. Was there anything? He knew how you could be. Insisting on worrying about each and every little mishap. Despite being s supersoldier, you never failed to drive home the point that each day could be his very last. He wouldn’t dare to leave you alone like that, would he?
“I know, honey. I’m sorry.” It slips out of his mouth before he can stop himself. A small attempt to cool you off has ruined months and months of guarding a very personal secret. One he didn’t want broadcasted on every news station and outlet.
Somewhere a few steps ahead of him, he hears a loud sputter. John has stopped dead in his tracks, slowly turning to face you. Even with all his bruises and blood crusted to both his nose and lips, it’s easy to see the shift in his expression. It first goes from shock to realization then to joy.
“I knew it!”
“You have got to be kidding me. You were right.” Yelena can barely bring herself to sit down, sliding down the nearest wall onto her bum.
“You owe me and Bob ten bucks.”
“When did Bob get in on it?”
Bucky can feel his head throb. The yelling going on all around him does little to help. To know the team was now placing bets on his love life caused his skin to crawl. What would be next? Were they going to start taking bets on who would die first?
At the same time, he can’t find it in him to particularly care all that much. He’s too busy trying to come to terms with your anger. Now that you’re closer to him, he can definitely make out all the creases to your expression. Anger. Disappointment. Concern. He wasn’t sure which one won out against all the others.
“How long?” Yelena asks.
“How long for what?” Bucky retorts.
If he had it his way, he would continue deflecting until the day he died. Even as you move to sit him down on the closest couch, with your hands already frantically working to strip him of what bloody clothing you can, he would continue to deny it.
“You called her honey.”
“I’m delirious.” He continues. “It’s the bloodloss.”
He was as stubborn as they came. With a huff, you cut your eyes at him, grimacing at both the sight and feel of blood beneath your fingertips. “Can this conversation not wait? You two look like you’ve had better days. Bucky is claiming he’s lost that much blood. Bob looks like he might puke - please sit down dear, maybe away from them.”
“How long has it been?”
“A while.” You reply, squatting down in front of Bucky to get a better look at his torso. The largest gash is enough to cause your stomach to churn. All in all, it wasn’t that bad of a wound. It was more so the fact of who the said wound was on.
“How long is a while?”
“Two years?”
“Actually it’ll be three in a few weeks.”
“Right…I forgot. I’ve been having to keep up with them.”
Three years. He couldn’t believe it. Three years of marriage kept so tightly guarded that the rest of the group had begun to think they were making it all up. That they had to be hallucinating there was something going on between the two of you. The gas lighting coming from Bucky needed to be studied - should be studied. His nonchalant nature he brushed everything off with was almost… Concerning.
“You lied to us.”
Bucky shakes he head from side to side, denying the accusations that are thrown his way. As much as he wants to argue back, to claim that he has never once lied to them, he’s far too busy thinking about your fingertips against his skin. He would rather the two of you be in your rooms, conveniently placed across the hall from each other. In the dead of night, room swaps were made, sneaking into each other’s beds like love sick teenagers.
“I’ve never really be very good at keeping secrets.” You say, motioning for Bucky to lift his arms. As he does so, you twist him this way and that way, searching for any wounds that might be hidden in the curves of his body. Satisfied when you find none, you allow him to relax.
“It was bound to come out at some point.”
Secrets weren’t ever going to last very long in this tower anyway. The close proximity you all lived together would make things like that difficult. High stress situations were bound to cause things to come to a head - whether you liked it or not.
“Now that that’s out of the way - why aren’t you wearing a ring? Are you ashamed?”
Bucky can only sigh. There were far worse things than his secrets being exposed.
Summary: Sam exposes Bucky’s obvious crush on you.
Word: 1,3k
The compound was quiet. Too quiet. Which meant you were about to commit a crime.
Not a real crime, just a tiny one. A harmless, innocent late-night snack raid. You tiptoed into the kitchen, trying not to make a sound, reaching for the cupboard handle.
"Really?"
You turned around, startled, finding Bucky leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, looking very unimpressed.
"You scared the hell out of me!" You hissed, pressing a hand to your chest.
He smirked. "You’re terrible at sneaking."
"I wasn’t sneaking."
"You absolutely were." He smiled, walking closer to you.
You rolled your eyes, turning back to the cupboard. "What are you doing up, anyway?"
"Same thing as you," He admitted, stepping closer. "Figured I’d grab something before Wilson wakes up and lectures me about eating properly."
You chuckled. "Well, now that you're here, you might as well make yourself useful."
He arched a brow. "Useful how?"
You gestured at the top shelf. "Grab that."
He sighed but reached up effortlessly, grabbing cookies you couldn’t get to.
You narrowed your eyes. "Showoff."
Bucky smirked, opening the cookie package, taking one out, and he exaggeratedly slowly took a bite.
"You are the worst," You muttered, grabbing a cookie from the package.
"You love it," He teased.
You snorted, but didn’t deny it. For a moment, comfortable silence settled.
Then Bucky glanced at you with a smirk. "We’re gonna get caught, you know."
You shrugged, taking a bite. "Worth it."
"Wow. Look at this."
Both of you froze.
Slowly, you turned, finding Sam standing in the doorway, arms crossed, shaking his head in mock disappointment.
"Two grown adults, sneaking snacks like criminals," He said, sighing. "Barnes, you should be ashamed."
Bucky groaned, rubbing his temple. "Sam-"
"No, no, don’t ‘Sam’ me." He pointed at both of you. "This is pathetic. You could’ve just eaten like normal people, but no midnight heist. What are you, spies?"
"Well...yeah," Bucky muttered.
Sam ignored that. "And you?" He turned to you, smirking. "Corrupted by Barnes already, huh?"
You sighed, pretending to be apologetic. "Guess I’ve been a bad influence on him."
Sam laughed, shaking his head. "No, no, you got it backwards, sweetheart."
Bucky rolled his eyes, grabbing cookies. "We’re leaving."
"Running from justice, huh?" Sam teased.
Bucky grabbed your wrist, pulling you toward the exit. "We don’t have to listen to him."
"Wait," Sam checked the shelf from which you got cookies. "Are those my cookies?" He called after you. "Thieves!"
You just laughed, following Bucky down the hallway.
---
"You’re terrible at this," Bucky muttered, watching you struggle with the dough. This time, the two of you decided to make cinnamon rolls.
You scoffed, tossing him a glare. "Excuse me?"
He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "You’re kneading like you’re trying to fight it. It’s dough, not an enemy."
You huffed, turning back to the sticky mess in front of you. "You said I had to be firm!"
"Not aggressive," He corrected. "You look like you’re trying to kill it."
You sighed, rolling your eyes. "Maybe if you actually helped-"
Bucky smirked. "And ruin the entertainment?"
You narrowed your eyes. "You’re enjoying this way too much."
"I absolutely am." He chuckled, stepping closer to you.
Slowly, casually, you scooped up a bit of flour. "You know, for someone who’s supposedly a trained fighter, you’re way too close right now."
Bucky’s brow furrowed. "What?"
And before he could react, you flicked the flour straight at him. It was beautiful. A perfect explosion of white powder across his dark shirt and face. For one glorious moment, he just stood there, processing. Then his expression darkened.
"You," he muttered, wiping flour from his jaw. "Are in so much trouble."
You shrieked, immediately trying to back away, but he moved faster. In an instant, he grabbed a handful of flour and smeared it against your cheek, grinning at your stunned reaction.
"You did not just,"
"Oh, I did."
You lunged for another handful, and just like that, chaos erupted.
Flour flew everywhere onto counters, into hair, across shirts. You were laughing, dodging him, while Bucky, the incredibly skilled fighter, was apparently terrible at avoiding kitchen warfare.
By the time Sam walked in, he stared at the disaster in complete horror. "What the hell happened here?"
You and Bucky were breathless, covered in flour, smirking at each other like two kids who had just gotten caught.
Sam sighed. "I don’t even wanna know. But Barnes," He shook his head, walking out. "Just tell her, man."
"Ignore him." Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his flour-covered face.
You just laughed, but you wanted to know what he meant.
---
The compound's kitchen was quiet until Sam decided to stir up trouble.
You were sitting across from Bucky at the table, quietly sipping coffee, when Sam decided today was the day to ruin Bucky Barnes' life.
"You know, man," Sam said, leaning against the counter, smirking at Bucky, "you’re not exactly subtle."
Bucky, sitting across from you, froze mid-sip.
You raised an eyebrow. "Subtle about what?"
Sam grinned like a man who lived for chaos. "You."
Bucky’s jaw clenched warningly. "Sam."
You blinked, confused. "Me?"
Sam turned back to Bucky, absolutely enjoying himself. "Look at you, all stiff and silent, pretending you don’t have a full-blown crush sitting right there."
Bucky exhaled sharply, gripping his coffee mug so tightly that you were sure it was seconds away from cracking.
"I do not-" He muttered.
"Oh, buddy," Sam interrupted, shaking his head. "You do. The way you watch her when she walks into the room? The way you get all weirdly protective? And let’s not forget the time you lost your mind when she got hit during training."
Bucky shot up from his chair. "I was concerned!"
"You were dramatic," Sam corrected.
You stared between the two men, heat rising to your cheeks. Bucky Barnes, former assassin, impossible grump, had a crush on you?
Bucky dragged a hand down his face. "Sam, I swear, I will-"
"What?" Sam taunted. "Kill me? Finally admit you like her?"
Bucky looked half ready to commit a crime. But before he could, Sam pushed off the counter, laughing. "Relax, man. I'm just saying that maybe you should stop glaring at me and do something about it."
Then, with an obnoxious wink at you, he walked out. You sat there, awkwardly clutching your coffee cup, very aware that Bucky was still standing.
"...So," you said, glancing at him. "You have a crush on me?"
Bucky groaned. "Ignore Sam. He likes ruining my life."
You smiled. "But…was he wrong?"
Silence.
Bucky rubbed his temple, sighed, and finally looked at you. "I hate him," he muttered. "But no. He wasn’t wrong."
Your heart stuttered.
Slowly, you set your coffee down. "So… what do we do about that?"
Bucky was silent for one long second. He hesitated, but only for a second. Then, he moved.
His hand reached up, fingers grazing your cheek like he was memorizing the feel of your skin. His touch was careful, uncertain, but when his thumb traced the edge of your jaw, you leaned into it. That was all he needed.
He slightly tilted his head, closed the distance, and kissed you. It started soft, hesitant, like he was afraid to break you, but the moment you melted into him, everything changed.
The tension, the months of stolen moments and unsaid words, came crashing down all at once. His lips pressed firmer against yours, his hand slipping to the back of your neck, pulling you closer like he’d been waiting, aching, for this.
And you kissed him back with everything you had, gripping his jacket, letting him swallow the breathless sound you made when he tilted his head, deepening the kiss. The world blurred.
It was just heat, hands, Bucky, the quiet realization that this was exactly where you wanted to be.
"FINALLY!"
You jerked away, breathless, turning toward the hallway where Sam stood, grinning like a damn idiot.
Bucky groaned, burying his face against your shoulder. "I am going to kill him."
You laughed, still catching your breath, still feeling the phantom imprint of Bucky’s lips.
"Took you long enough, Barnes." Sam just shook his head, victorious.
summary: You don’t expect to befriend your neighbor in apartment 3B.
Not the one who only speaks in dry observations and quiet glances. Not the one who watches you like he’s memorizing your escape routes.
But some people grow on you.
Like stray cats. Like bad habits. Like nicknames that weren’t yours–until they were.
It starts in the laundry room.
“That’s illegal,” he says.
“So is jaywalking,” you shrug.
He doesn’t ask why you never sleep. You don’t ask why he notices. You have keys to every exit, and he has scars no one sees. But the city is never truly quiet, and you’re both better at listening than you pretend to be.
The Soundtrack
Act 1
Act II
Act III
Act IV
Act V
Act VI
Act VII
Act VIII
Epilogue
A/n: Felt like writing angst, let me know if you want a sequal where Steve does return to the reader for something happier
Steve Rogers stood at the edge of the platform, the time travel device humming softly beneath his boots. His hands shook as he clutched the briefcase holding the Infinity Stones, the weight of his decision pressing against his chest like a vice.
You were standing there, watching him with wide, confused eyes. Your hands were clasped tightly in front of you, shoulders tense.
“You’re coming back, right?” You asked, your voice trembling.
Steve swallowed, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Of course,” he said. “Just… gotta put these back where they belong.”
Your eyes searched his face, and he knew you could sense it. The finality. The lie.
Steve turned away, unable to bear the sight of you breaking. He felt the world dissolve around him, colors bleeding and stretching as he was pulled through time.
You stare at the clock on the wall.
The seconds tick by, loud and hollow, each passing moment a punch to the gut. You try to breathe through it, telling yourself that it’s just a few more seconds. Just a few more and Steve will be back, standing in the middle of the room, with that gentle, boyish smile that always made you feel like you were home.
But the seconds bleed into minutes. Minutes stretch into hours.
Bucky stands near the window, arms crossed over his chest, jaw clenched so tightly you can see the muscle twitch beneath his stubble. He’s staring out into the open sky, his expression a mask of dread and denial.
You don’t realize you’re crying until the tears slip past your chin and onto your shirt, dampening the fabric.
You force yourself to look at Bucky. The man who had been Steve’s best friend, the man who swore to you that Steve was coming back. The man who told you to trust him.
Now he’s just standing there, staring at nothing. His shoulders drop, his eyes close, and that’s when you know.
Steve isn’t coming back.
You choke on a sob, staggering backward until the back of your knees hit the wall. You sink down onto the cold ground, burying your face in your hands.
“He… he promised me,” you whisper, the words trembling, shattering. “He said… he said he’d come back.”
Bucky’s eyes are glassy, jaw working as he swallows thickly. He moves toward you, his footsteps heavy as if every step is a battle. When he reaches you, he drops to his knees, his hands reaching for yours.
“Doll,” he murmurs, voice raw. “I’m so sorry.”
You can’t breathe. Can’t think. The world is spinning, collapsing, and the only solid thing left is Bucky’s hands, holding yours so tightly it hurts. You clutch him back, fingers digging into his skin as if he’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart.
“He left me,” you sob, the words tasting like poison. “He left me for her.”
Bucky’s expression crumples, his own eyes shining with unshed tears. He shifts, moving onto the ground beside you, and pulls you into his arms. You bury your face against his chest, fists clutching the fabric of his shirt, sobs wracking your body.
Bucky holds you tight, rocking you gently, his cheek pressed against the top of your head. His own tears fall silently, soaking into your hair as he whispers, “I’m here. I’m right here.
When the world settled again, he was in the 1940s. The air smelled of old newspapers and cigarette smoke. He felt the ache in his chest lessen as he caught sight of her. Peggy. Dancing in her living room, swaying to a song playing softly on the radio.
Steve dropped the briefcase, his heart pounding. She turned, and her eyes met his.
The years passed in a blur. Peggy, soft and warm beside him in bed. Lazy Sunday mornings filled with coffee and newspapers. Dinners with friends. The life he had always dreamed of.
But some nights, when Peggy was asleep and the house was silent, Steve would stare at the ceiling, feeling the ghost of your hands on his skin, the memory of your voice in his ear, saying, “You’re coming back, right?”
And he would close his eyes and try to forget.
But he couldn't, he couldn't forget your laughter, the way you would hold him through his nightmares, your soft touch.
Know matter how much he lied to himself;
He missed you
Years later, Steve sat on a bench in the park, the world around him feeling both familiar and foreign. His hands rested on the cane, his joints aching with age. People bustled around, moving quickly, talking into devices he barely understood.
Then, he heard it.
A soft, lilting laugh. The sound sent a jolt through his spine.
Because he recognized that laughter.
Steve turned, his eyes squinting against the sun, and his heart lurched painfully in his chest.
There you were. Beautiful as ever, your hair shining in the light, your eyes crinkled in laughter. You were holding the hand of a small child — a boy with dark hair and striking blue eyes that looked eerily familiar.
And beside you, holding your other hand, was Bucky Barnes.
His brother, his best friend.
Steve’s breath hitched as he watched them. Bucky leaned down to kiss your temple, his hand resting protectively on your lower back. You beamed up at him, your eyes filled with a warmth and love Steve had once known.
So many thoughts swirled his mind, so many questions.
The boy broke away from them, running ahead to the swings, his laughter echoing across the park. Bucky chased after him, hoisting him into the air with a grin that was wide and carefree.
Steve swallowed the lump in his throat, his eyes never leaving your face.
You glanced in his direction then, your eyes skimming over him briefly before returning to Bucky and your son. No recognition. Just a polite, distracted smile before you returned your focus to your family.
Steve felt the sting of tears behind his eyes.
This was the life he could have had. The life he walked away from.
And as he sat there, a man out of time and out of place, Steve Rogers realized that while he may have danced with Peggy, he had never really come home.
