summary | it’s just another chaotic night in the barnes household—one movie, four kids, and zero peace
tags | FLUFF, dad!bucky barnes, domestic bucky, established relationship, crack fic, bucky is so tired, but he’s so soft, pregnant!reader, no smut this time, just a man drowning in children, mentions of past trauma (very light, blink-and-you-miss-it), bucky barnes didn’t survive hydra for this but actually he did, fluff cleanse
a/n | i was watching 101 dalmatians and got soft thinking about bucky with a litter of puppies and a bowl of popcorn he’s not allowed to eat in peace. that’s it. that’s the fic. hope it makes your heart hurt a little in the good way.
likes, comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ
divider by @uzmacchiato
“Jamie, move outta the way, pal. Can’t see a damn thing.”
The kid didn’t even look back, just waved a hand like he was shooing a fly. “I can see just fine, Dad.”
“That’s not the problem,” Bucky muttered, leaning forward slightly on the couch, voice calm but that edge of tired dad already creeping in.
Jamie, of course, didn’t move an inch. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, directly in front of the TV, the bright light flashing over his face. The movie on-screen exploded into gunfire and shouting—the kind of film Bucky probably shouldn’t have let them watch, but it had been a long day and, well… it kept them quiet. Sort of.
Grace, sitting tucked into Bucky’s side, didn’t let it slide. “Daddy said move, Jamie,” she snapped, voice sharp for someone half his size. “You’re in the way.”
Jamie shot her a look over his shoulder. “Then move your eyes,” he said, deadpan, before turning back to the screen.
“Jamie,” she warned.
“Gracie,” he mimicked.
Bucky bit down a snort and shook his head. He probably should’ve been more firm about it, but after the week they’d had—homework meltdowns, Becca’s fever, the twins nearly setting the kitchen towels on fire—he was too tired to pick another battle.
Meanwhile, Stevie was half on Bucky, half on the couch, a small body molded to his side like a koala. His chubby fingers were glistening with butter as he alternated between feeding Bucky a piece of popcorn and shoving one into his own mouth.
“Stevie,” Bucky said between bites, “you know you don’t have to feed me every time, right?”
Stevie nodded solemnly. “I know. But I like sharin’.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You like popcorn too much. You’ll be sad if I eat it all.”
That got him. Bucky leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of the boy’s head, whispering something you couldn’t catch over the sound of the movie. It didn’t matter. Stevie giggled and went right back to it, determined to keep his dad’s snack ratio even.
On the far end of the couch, Becca was curled against you, droopy-eyed and pacifier in mouth, fighting sleep she’d clearly already lost. You smoothed a hand over her curls, listening to the rise and fall of noise around you.
It was loud, a little chaotic, the movie roaring through the speakers, the kids all talking over it, but somehow it was the most peaceful kind of noise.
Bucky sighed through his nose, leaning back into the couch cushions. “Alright, Jamie. Last warning. Move it, or I’m turning the TV off.”
That got Jamie’s attention—barely. He scooted an inch to the left, just enough to technically comply. Bucky shot him a look that said you think you’re funny, and Jamie grinned without looking away from the screen.
Grace huffed and leaned harder against her dad’s side, muttering something under her breath that made Bucky fight a smile.
And then somewhere between Grace’s scolding and Jamie’s latest “you can’t make me,” Bucky found himself zoning out. He wasn’t really watching the movie anymore. His eyes were on the screen, sure, but his mind was somewhere else—stuck on the same question that hit him every once in a while.
How the hell did he end up here?
It wasn’t a bad thought, just a confused one. A how-did-this-happen kind of thing. It still felt impossible most days—the idea that this was his life now.
There were years where he couldn’t trust his own reflection, couldn’t sit still without thinking someone would come for him. Before Hydra. Hydra. After Hydra. Whole decades where he’d been somebody’s weapon, and the rest just… trying to learn how to be a person again.
And now here he was—in sweatpants, on a couch, with four kids.
Jamie still blocking the TV. Grace playing self-appointed hall monitor. Stevie butter-fingered and happy. Becca half-asleep on your lap. The kind of domestic chaos that would’ve sounded like a fantasy if anyone told him this would be his future.
He did work occasionally—missions for the New Avengers every few weeks, nothing too heavy. Enough to keep his edge sharp. But most days were like this: home, noisy, lived-in. Normal. And that normal still caught him off guard sometimes.
Bucky let out a quiet breath and looked over. You were leaned back into the couch, eyes half-lidded from the movie, Becca’s small body sprawled across you. His gaze lingered just below—where her tiny body rested against the faint swell of your stomach.
His lips twitching upward. Five, he thought. You’ve gotta be kidding me.
And yet, somehow, it made sense. The man who once thought he’d never deserve a life like this—now sitting in the middle of one he built.
He glanced back up and couldn't help but huff. Becca was trying her best to fight sleep.
She was curled against your chest, soft and warm, her little legs twitching every now and then like she was dreaming mid-blink. Her pacifier bobbed lazily in her mouth, each suck slowing with every passing minute. You ran your hand gently over her back, murmuring half-coherent things—not really words, just soft sounds and shushing tones—the same way you’d done since she was a newborn.
Her head kept drooping further down your chest, mouth slipping open as she got comfortable in the curve of your boobs like they were custom-made pillows.
“She’s losing the fight,” Bucky said quietly, voice just barely over the sound of the movie.
You gave a sleepy little smile and nodded, not taking your eyes off Becca. “She’s got about two minutes left in her.”
But before the moment could stay soft, Jamie’s voice cut across the room—loud, excited, fully invested.
“Whoa! Did you see that? He just punched that guy through a wall!”
You glanced up. Jamie was practically vibrating, still planted in front of the TV like a human traffic cone. He bounced on his knees and jabbed a finger toward the screen.
“If I was that guy? I’d rip the villain’s head off. Then I’d cut out his tongue. Then I’d kick him in the—”
“James Samuel.”
Your voice snapped out sharper than you meant, but not wrong. Jamie froze mid-sentence and turned halfway toward you, sheepish and blink-blinking.
“Where’d you learn to talk like that?” you asked, squinting at him.
He blinked once more, twice, then slowly turned his head toward his father for backup.
Your gaze followed.
Bucky was very suddenly interested in the popcorn bowl, scooping up a handful with all the intensity of a man performing a delicate operation. He didn’t look up, didn’t move, didn’t breathe.
You stared at him. “Seriously?”
“I didn’t teach him that,” he muttered, picking out a kernel and pretending like he didn’t hear anything else. “He’s got an imagination.”
You kept staring. He still didn’t look up. Grace looked at the two of you from beneath his arm and mumbled something about how she never says stuff like that. Stevie, still focused on popcorn, shoved another piece toward Bucky’s mouth.
The movie kept going, gunshots and dramatic music swelling through the room like surround sound, but none of the kids flinched. Not even Becca, who’d gone still against your chest now, her pacifier barely hanging on. You brushed a curl from her forehead and rocked her gently side to side, more out of instinct than need.
And then, of course—
Jamie again.
“He should cut his eyeballs out next,” he muttered, half under his breath but clearly hoping someone would hear. “Then burn his fingers so he can’t hold a gun—”
Jamie paused mid-rant and looked over his shoulder
You didn’t even say anything this time. Just slowly turned your head, eyebrows raised, eyes trained on him.
He cleared his throat. “…Or like, maybe just arrest him or whatever.”
“Mmhm.”
Jamie turned back around, posture a little smaller
On Bucky's left, Grace tugged gently on the sleeve of his shirt. “Daddy?”
“Yeah, honey?”
She pointed at the screen, frowning thoughtfully as one character betrayed another. “Is he the bad guy now? Or just doing a bad thing?”
Bucky blinked. “Uh.”
“I mean… he’s helping the bad guy but he used to be friends with the good guy. So does that make him bad? Or just confused?”
Bucky opened his mouth, then closed it.
“I think maybe he thinks he’s doing the right thing,” Grace added, looking up at him, eyes round and patient, like she expected an actual answer. “But he’s still hurting people. So…” she trailed off. “I dunno.”
Stevie shoved another fistful of popcorn toward Bucky’s mouth. Bucky leaned back to dodge it, swiped a few kernels before they fell on his lap, and chewed slowly while his brain scrambled for a response.
“I think…” he started, swallowing, “…sometimes people do the wrong thing because they think it’s the only option they’ve got. Doesn’t mean they’re evil. Just… lost.”
Grace nodded. “Like when you used to work for the mean people?”
His jaw ticked for half a second, but he kept his face neutral. “Sorta like that,” he said softly.
Stevie pressed popcorn to his mouth again. “Eat,” he demanded, like Bucky was one of his toys.
Bucky huffed and took the offering, chewing like it gave him something to do with his hands. Grace leaned into his arm again, thoughtful, quiet. The kind of quiet that meant she was still turning it over in her head.
The room stayed still for a grand total of ninety seconds. Maybe less.
Then—
“Whoa, did you see that?” Jamie sat up straighter, practically vibrating. “That guy is so cool. He just broke through, like, three walls. With his shoulder.”
Grace didn’t even look up. “Dad could do that.”
Jamie made a noise—half-laugh, half-snort. “No he couldn’t.”
“Yeah, he could,” she shot back, immediate, like it wasn’t even up for debate.
“No way. That guy’s huge.” Jamie pointed to the screen with both hands now, trying to gesture the scale of muscle and destruction. “He’s probably, like, twenty feet tall. And he’s got laser arms or something.”
“Dad has a metal arm.”
“So? This guy has two laser arms. And he probably lifts cars. I bet he’s stronger than Dad.”
That was enough to pull Grace’s eyes up. She turned to look directly at her twin like he’d just cursed at the dinner table. “Nobody is stronger than Dad,” she said flatly. “Not even Uncle Sam.”
“Cap’s his friend, Gracie. He wouldn’t fight him.”
“Well, if he did, Dad would win.”
Jamie scoffed. “No he wouldn’t. This guy—” he gestured to the TV again, “—this guy would totally win. He’s got the muscles. And the sunglasses.”
Grace folded her arms like she was presenting evidence in court. “Daddy used to fight bad guys before he was even a dad. He was in, like, a hundred wars or something. He told me.”
Bucky was silent through the whole thing, not out of modesty—no, he was enjoying it a little too much. There was that smug, quiet grin creeping onto his face. The kind he got when he won a bet or found something you thought you'd lost.
You looked over from your spot with Becca still dozing on your chest, raised a brow. “You proud of yourself?”
He shrugged, totally unbothered. “Didn’t say anything.”
Grace folded her arms like she was preparing to cross-examine him in court. “Dad used to be in the Avengers. He fought aliens. He has a robot arm. And he used to work for the bad guys but now he doesn’t—which makes him stronger and smarter because he had to learn not to be bad anymore.”
Jamie blinked. “That’s not the same.”
“Yes it is,” Grace snapped. “And he’s bigger.”
Jamie shrugged like that didn’t count. “Still think the guy on TV could beat him.”
Bucky sat there, arms draped across the back of the couch like a king on his throne, watching his own children argue about his strength like it was a matter of national security.
You didn’t even have to look at him to know he was enjoying every second of it. His smug silence was answer enough, “Don’t let it go to your head.”
Too late. He was already sinking deeper into the cushions.
“I mean,” he said eventually, casual as anything, “that guy does fly. Might give me a run for my money.”
“Nope,” Grace said without looking at him, eyes back on the screen. “You’d win. He fights like he’s pretending.”
Bucky smirked, leaned over to kiss the top of her head. “Thanks, sweetheart.”
Stevie, still preoccupied with the popcorn bowl, chimed in around a mouthful, “Daddy wins. He lets me eat two popsicles if I say he’s the best.”
“Hey, don’t sell me out,” Bucky muttered, chuckling as Stevie tried to stuff another handful into his mouth… and failed.
One second, Stevie was happily alternating handfuls of popcorn between his own mouth and Bucky’s. The next, he looked down at the popcorn bowl in his lap like it had personally offended him.
His small brows furrowed, his chubby fingers sifting through the last few unpopped kernels like maybe—just maybe—one more buttery piece had magically appeared while he wasn’t looking.
It hadn’t.
He looked up at you, round eyes wide, cheeks still sticky with salt. “Mommy,” he said seriously. “The popcorn’s all done.”
You glanced over from your spot, Becca still snoozing with her head warm and heavy on your chest. “Yeah, baby,” you said, “because you ate it all.”
“I did?” he blinked again, puzzled.
Then he turned his face to you, all hopeful eyes and buttery cheeks.
“Can we have some more?” he asked, sweet as anything. No mischief, no angle—just a sincere, hopeful question like he really thought bedtime rules were negotiable.
You shook your head gently. “That was your bedtime snack, remember?”
He didn’t pout—not in a dramatic, stompy way. Just let out this small, deeply disappointed sigh, like the world had gently let him down. Then he turned to his backup option.
“Daddy?”
Bucky already knew what was coming. He was looking at the TV, pretending to still care about the movie. But he glanced down when Stevie tugged at the sleeve of his shirt, eyes wide and hopeful.
“Can we have more popcorn, please?”
Bucky sighed. He was weak for those eyes—always had been. Big and doe eyed, blinking up at him like Stevie didn’t even know he was asking for something. Just stating a fact. The popcorn’s gone. Fix it.
Stevie was just built like that. Soft face. Soft belly. Always one snack away from asking for another.
But Bucky cleared his throat and shook his head. “No, bud. That’s it for tonight.”
Stevie didn’t whine. Didn’t argue. He just blinked, real slow, like maybe he hadn’t heard right. Like surely that wasn’t a final answer.
“But…” he started, voice small, “…I’m hungry.”
Bucky huffed a quiet laugh through his nose. “Yeah? You were hungry when the movie started. You crushed half the bowl by yourself.”
Bucky cracked a smile but held firm. “Your tummy says that after every dinner, and three snacks.”
Stevie nodded, entirely unbothered. “It talks a lot.”
“Bet it does,” Bucky muttered.
He shifted on the couch, resting his head back for a second like he was gathering strength. “No more popcorn,” he said again—firm this time, dad voice activated.
Stevie just looked at him. Big eyes. Hands clasped in his lap. Like a starving cartoon orphan.
“Okay,” he said quietly. But the sigh he let out afterward felt like he’d been personally wronged by the entire house.
Bucky reached over and ruffled his hair, already half-laughing. “I’ll make you pancakes in the morning.”
“With the whipped cream?” Stevie perked up instantly.
“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky said. “With the whipped cream.”
“Can I have some now?”
“No.”
Another sigh.
Becca shifted against you with a soft grunt, her little legs twitching as she adjusted. You glanced down, gently brushing a thumb over her warm cheek. Her pacifier fell out and landed in your lap with a wet little thup.
You pressed a kiss to the top of her hair and looked up. “Alright,” you murmured, voice low but firm. “That’s enough excitement for one night. Time for bed.”
Jamie groaned like you’d just announced the end of summer. “But it’s not even done—”
“It’s the credits, bud,” Bucky pointed out, already reaching for the remote.
“They just started,” Jamie argued weakly.
You stood up slowly, careful not to jostle Becca too much, and she gave a soft hum of protest but didn’t wake. “I’m putting her down before she wakes herself up crying,” you said over your shoulder. “You handle the rest.”
Bucky looked at the remaining three with a kind of mild dread. “Alright, let’s go, up we—”
“I can’t walk,” Jamie cut in, flopping sideways onto the carpet like a body hitting the floor in a war film.
“Me either,” Grace added, climbing into a dramatic slump against Bucky’s leg. “My feet are too tired.”
Stevie was already halfway in Bucky’s lap, arms stretched up in a silent, obvious request.
Bucky blinked. “Are you all kidding me right now?”
Jamie flopped harder onto the rug.
“My body just isn't listening to my brain,” Grace added helpfully.
“I’m still hungry,” Stevie said again, as if it was a medical emergency.
Bucky stared at the three of them—all suddenly limp, lazy, arms up like tiny royalty waiting for their chauffeur.
You didn’t even flinch. “Good luck,” you said, heading slowly toward the hallway with Becca, who was now fully snoring against your chest. “You created them.”
Bucky scratched the back of his neck, looking down at the pile of children he somehow had to transport.
“Okay,” he said, thinking it out loud. “Let’s think this through.”
He turned to Stevie first. “You go on the shoulders.”
Stevie’s arms shot up immediately, all giddy. “Yay.”
He crouched down so Stevie could climb up, the little boy giggling the whole way like this was the best part of his night.
“No you’re not,” Jamie argued, already stepping closer. “You’re taller than me by a quarter inch.”
“She’s going in the arm,” Bucky said, already swinging Grace up and onto his hip like he’d done it a hundred times—because he had. She immediately curled into his side like a barnacle.
Jamie looked offended. “So what about me?”
“You’re walkin’.”
“My legs are broken, remember?”
Bucky exhaled like this was war strategy. “You go in the other arm,” he finally decided, crouching down just enough for Jamie to scramble up. “But only because this is faster than arguing.”
He straightened up with a groan, now carrying three whole kids—Stevie wobbling on his shoulders, Grace hanging off his left arm, Jamie slung on the right like a sack of potatoes.
“I’m gonna need a chiropractor,” Bucky muttered as he staggered toward the hallway.
“You’re strong, you can do it!” Jamie encouraged, hanging off his vibranium arm
“You said that guy on TV was stronger than me.”
“I’m allowed to change my mind.”
The kids’ bedroom looked like something out of three different catalogs at once.
On one end, Grace’s side was carefully curated—pink canopy, fluffy throw pillows lined up like guards, a rotating selection of stuffed animals chosen daily based on mood. Everything matched. She insisted on that. Her bookshelf was alphabetized. Her slippers had their own spot.
Jamie and Stevie’s bunk bed took up the other half—Jamie claimed the top bunk, naturally, and had slowly filled it with drawings, action figures, and enough tape to hang a hundred paper airplanes. He slept like he thought he was Spider-Man: upside down, sideways, occasionally half-falling off the edge. Stevie’s lower bunk was a different story—a small padded kingdom of teddy bears, soft blankets, and one suspiciously ragged elephant with a missing eye.
He'd initially been sharing with Becca, but she was a fussy sleeper—always tossing, always whining at 2am until she ended up in your bed anyway. Eventually, she got the room all to herself, and Stevie migrated to the bunk with his brother.
Bucky moved slowly through the room, voice low and hands busy—pulling back sheets, fluffing pillows, handing out water cups. It was a routine. The kind that changed every couple of months, depending on who was scared of what that week.
Grace was already tucked in, but not done.
“Can you fix the corner?” she asked, pointing to her blanket. “It’s crooked. I don’t like when it bunches.”
Bucky leaned down and smoothed it out like she asked. “Better?”
She nodded, then pointed to her nightstand. “Can you turn the star light on? Not the moon one. That one flickers.”
He flicked the correct switch. The star light glowed softly.
Grace settled deeper into her pillows, satisfied. “Okay.”
Bucky leaned over, kissed her forehead. “Sleep tight, Gracie.”
“’Night, Daddy.”
Bucky smiled and stepped back.
On the other side of the room, the bunk bed was a whole different story.
Jamie had already scrambled to the top bunk and was now dangling halfway off it, one hand on the guardrail, the other pretending to shoot webs.
“I’m Spider-Man,” he announced, “but like, cooler.”
“You’re gonna break your arm,” Bucky said automatically, not even looking up as he helped Stevie into the lower bunk.
“No I won’t. I have Spidey senses.”
“Yeah, well. Spidey better stay in bed.”
“I’m not tired,” he announced, staring upside down at Bucky.
“You said your legs didn’t work five minutes ago,” Bucky replied, crossing his arms.
“They got better.”
“Eyes still work?”
“Yep.”
“Shame,” Bucky muttered, pushing Jamie to lay flat on his back. “Let’s try and rest ’em anyway.”
Jamie groaned, and pulled the blanket over his face. “You don’t understand me, father.”
“Correct.”
Bucky turned back to Stevie, still sitting up on his bunk. The bears were arranged like a crowd around him, each one in its usual spot—Stevie never said it out loud, but Bucky had figured it out by now. You didn’t mess with the bear formation.
“You good, buddy?”
Stevie nodded, rubbing at his eyes. “M’fine.”
“You want the elephant or the dog tonight?”
Stevie held up the elephant. “Dumbo.”
Bucky crouched down to tuck the blanket around his sides, not too tight, just how he liked it. He fixed the collar on his pajama shirt, kissed his forehead, and made sure the cup of water on his nightstand had the straw turned the right way.
“Sleep tight,” Bucky whispered.
Stevie reached up and grabbed the edge of Bucky’s sleeve with chubby fingers. “You’ll check on us, yeah?”
Bucky glanced down at him. Nodded once. “Every night.”
Stevie let go. Laid back. Clutched Dumbo close.
He smiled quietly to himself, shut off the big light, and pulled the door halfway closed—not all the way. They still got nervous with it fully shut.
“G’night,” he whispered, mostly to himself now.
A pause.
“…I’m still hungry, daddy,” came Stevie’s voice from the dark.
Bucky sighed as he made his way to the kitchen.
a/n | lowkey which family dynamic do you guys prefer. this one? or Barnes Family Circus
inspired by this scene:
Pairing: TFATWS!Bucky x Reader!Steve's Granddaughter
Summary: Her grandfather’s last request was for her to deliver a bundle of letters written to friends he’d never forgotten. She expected a journey into her family history. She didn’t expect to meet Bucky Barnes—or to lose her heart to the man behind the legend of her grandfather's past.
Word Count: 20k
Warnings: best friend's granddaughter; angst; yearning; friends to lovers; angst-heavy relationship conflict; mentions of past death; grief; slow-burnish; cursing; mentions of PTSD; introspection; age gap; definitely not canon but a girl can dream
Author’s Note: I KNOW in canon something like this would never happen and Steve went back to a different timeline but c'mon, Bucky falling in love with his best friend's granddaughter? Does it get any better than that?
My biggest gripe with Endgame was how easily Steve went back to be with Peggy, leaving Bucky behind, so I wrote him as accepting of the choice Steve made, but with a bit of residual resentment.
She was used to the mugginess of D.C., the heavy summer air and the sudden storms that rolled through without warning, but the South was a different beast entirely. She was sure she stuck out like a sore thumb here.
That much seemed obvious. Even in jeans and a tank top, people gave her curious glances as she passed through town. Or maybe they sensed it, the thing she’d been forced to hide her entire life. That her very existence was a secret.
Sam Wilson’s address hadn’t been hard to find, not with his name and reputation. She was surprised his family home — a charming, Southern-style house in a small fishing community — wasn’t swarmed with fans looking for selfies or signatures. But ever since the Blip, the public had learned to be more respectful of heroes. Maybe even a little afraid of them. And she couldn’t blame them. Fear was a natural response to the unknown.
But to her, the unknown had always just been… life. Part of being human.
She took a steadying breath and knocked on the Wilsons’ front door, nerves tight in her chest. She hadn’t really planned this beyond stumbling across Sam’s address in one of her grandfather’s letters — one of many he’d written but never sent. She hadn’t had the heart to open them. It hadn’t felt like her place.
She raised a fist, counted to three, and knocked again — firm, deliberate.
The bundle of letters crinkled at her side.
From inside came the sound of shuffling and a child’s voice, high and animated. Her guess was confirmed when the door creaked open and a young boy with glasses squinted up at her, a suspicious frown tugging at his mouth.
She waited, awkwardly, hoping he’d say something first. When he didn’t, she shifted her weight and offered a small, uncertain smile.
“Hi… um, is your mom or uncle home?”
His frown deepened. “You wanna see Uncle Sam?”
“Yes, I actually would—”
“We don’t know you.”
She blinked at the interruption, caught off guard. The kid raised his brows like he was waiting for her to make a case for herself, arms folded firmly across his chest. He couldn’t have been more than ten, but he stood there like he ran the whole household.
She cleared her throat uncertainly. “Well, I don’t know you either.”
“I live here.”
“Okay, fair.”
A beat.
“What’s your name?” he demanded.
She hesitated, then only gave her first name.
The boy wasn’t fooled, however. “No last name?”
“Look,” she signed, starting to get frustrated. “I really just want to give your uncle something. If he’s not here, could I just leave it with your mom?”
He narrowed his eyes. “What do you really want with Uncle Sam?”
“To talk.”
“About what?”
“Classified stuff.”
The boy’s mouth opened in mild offense. “I’m ten, not stupid.”
She leaned in slightly. “You sure about that?”
His eyebrows shot up like she’d challenged him to a duel. Before he could fire back, a voice called from inside, warm but exasperated.
“Cass, stop interrogating people on the porch!”
Cass rolled his eyes but didn’t move. “She says she has classified stuff.”
“I did not say that,” she muttered.
A woman appeared behind him — Sarah, if she remembered correctly from her research — wiping her hands on a dish towel as she approached the door. Her eyes landed on her instantly, softening with polite curiosity.
“Can I help you?”
Cass muttered something under his breath and stomped off.
She offered a small smile, nerves creeping back in like a tide. “Hi. I’m sorry to just… show up. I was hoping to talk to Sam?”
Sarah eyed her with the same guarded skepticism her son had, gaze flicking briefly to the bundle of letters in her hand. “Are those for him?”
She nodded, her throat tightening. The papers felt hot in her grip. “They’re not from me. I found them a few weeks ago. Thought… he’d want to have them.”
Sarah’s lips pressed into a thoughtful line, her expression unreadable. “Who are they from?”
She hesitated, knowing the next words would shift everything. Up until now, she’d been nothing but a shadow, a secret tethered to a story no one else knew — watching history play out exactly the way her grandfather had said it would.
“They’re from my grandfather,” she said softly. “Steve.”
Sunlight caught the edge of the first envelope in the stack, illuminating the name written in her grandfather’s careful, steady hand, ink faded, but still unmistakable.
.
.
.
It only took one hushed phone call, words muffled through the living room wall. An hour later, Sam Wilson was walking through the front door, boots still dark and slick from the damp autumn evening.
His gaze found hers the moment the door clicked shut behind him.
She'd seen the Falcon countless times over the years. On the news, in grainy online clips, splashed across social media feeds. Usually standing beside a younger version of her grandfather, the man she'd never known in that era. The one who still belonged to the world instead of to her.
In person, Sam Wilson was exactly what she expected and somehow more. Tall, broad-shouldered, steady in a way that seemed effortless. There was confidence in the way he carried himself, yes, but warmth in the set of his mouth, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He had that same quiet geniality her grandfather had always carried, the kind that made you feel like you could trust him before he ever said a word.
Still, his eyes were skeptical as they swept over her. Not rudely, but carefully, deliberately searching. She knew exactly what he was looking for. Did she resemble Steve? Could she really be his last living blood relative? Or was this some elaborate trick, another ghost from the past come back to haunt him?
She already knew the answer. Her mother's side had left her with enough differences that the resemblance wasn't immediate, wasn't obvious. So she waited, still and patient, hands folded loosely in her lap, letting him decide for himself.
The silence stretched. Sarah watched from the kitchen doorway, her hands folded in front of her as if bracing for bad news, or maybe just holding herself together. Finally, Sam's shoulders eased. The tension slipped from him in one long, deliberate exhale. He dropped his duffel bag by the door and gave her a smile. Genuine, but tinged with something bittersweet.
"You have his eyes," he said quietly, voice rougher than she expected. "It's… good to see them again."
She returned the smile, tentative, unsure if her face reminded him too much of a best friend long gone. "He always said he was glad that was the only thing I got from him."
Sam chuckled, a low sound that seemed to ease something in the room. He let out another long breath before dragging a chair over and dropping into it directly in front of her. Elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped loosely between them. His gaze kept drifting back to her eyes, lingering there like he was trying to memorize them all over again. If it weren't for the faint twist of his mouth, the subtle tightness at the corners, she wouldn't have guessed he was lost in memory.
"No super soldier genes, then?" His tone was light, almost teasing, but there was real curiosity underneath.
She shook her head, biting the inside of her cheek. "None that I know of. My mom and her brother never had anything out of the ordinary. The serum didn't change his genetics. Couldn't be passed down. I think… he was grateful for that. Relieved, even."
Sam nodded slowly, absorbing that, quiet for a long beat. He was still studying her, not intrusively, but like he was piecing together a puzzle he'd thought was long finished. He hadn't even asked about the letters yet, though she could feel the questions simmering just behind his eyes, patient and waiting.
"When Steve went back…" he said finally, voice low and careful, "I guess I never thought we'd meet his grandkids one day. Didn't even cross my mind." He paused, something distant flickering across his face. "Makes sense, though. A few months for us…was decades for him."
"He told me everything," she said softly, hoping pieces of her grandfather's voice, his stories, might bridge the impossible gap between them. "World War II. The serum. Waking up in a world that had moved on without him. The Avengers. Meeting you. Fighting Ultron, Thanos… all of it. We watched every news story together, read every article we could find." She smiled faintly. "Well, I did. He said there was no point. He already knew exactly how it would all play out."
Sam let out a short, surprised snort, shaking his head with something like fond exasperation. "Sounds about right. Classic Steve. No point in reliving the headlines when you lived the whole damn thing."
His gaze finally dropped to the bundle of letters resting on the small table beside her, tied carefully with faded string. "Those for me?"
She nodded and lifted them, handing them over like they were something sacred. Some of them were decades old, the edges yellowed and brittle, the paper thin enough to see shadows of ink through the backs.
"He wrote them from the day he went back to my grandma," she said quietly, "all the way until his last. They were in his will… along with this address, and a request to find you." She swallowed. "I never opened them. Didn't feel like it was my right."
Sam turned the packet over in his hands slowly, reverently, his thumb brushing over the worn edges like he could feel the weight of decades pressed into the paper. His mouth tightened, jaw working for a moment before he spoke, voice steady but softer now.
"Thank you," he said. "For bringing these. For respecting them." He looked up, meeting her eyes again. "That means more than you know."
She nodded, throat tight, unsure what to say. Unsure of what to do next, really. She hadn't planned this far ahead in her mind when she first read her grandfather's wish for her to deliver the letters. All she'd really thought about was hoping she'd be able to find the recipients. And praying they'd want what she had been asked to give.
He glanced up after a moment. "I didn't catch your name."
She told him her first name, then added, "Carter. Last name's Carter. Steve took Peggy's name when they married. Said it made life easier to… stay out of sight. Start over."
Something in Sam's expression shifted. Recognition flickered, maybe even understanding — or sorrow for what that choice must have meant. "Your mom and… you said there was an uncle?"
Her gaze dropped to her hands, fingers twisting together. "My mother died a few years ago. Cancer." The word still tasted bitter. She swallowed hard. "My uncle… he was killed in Vietnam. Never made it home. So, yeah. I'm the last one left."
Sam was silent for a long moment, watching her with an expression that wasn't pity. He’d seen too much to know that pity wasn’t the accurate response to years of loss. Empathy, maybe. Shared understanding of what it meant to carry ghosts. Then he said, with a faint, sad smile, "You've got Peggy's face. The shape of it, anyway. But the eyes… those are all Steve."
Her own smile wavered, threatening to break. "That means a lot." She cleared her throat, steadying herself. "And… thank you. For taking up his shield. I know it wasn't easy."
Sam looked down briefly, a shade of something unspoken crossing his face. Pride, maybe, or the weight of what she knew was both a gift and a burden. "It's… an honor. Always will be. Even on the hard days."
She hesitated, then reached into her bag and pulled out another bundle, smaller than the first, bound in worn twine that had frayed at the edges. "I have one more packet," she said, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant. "These aren't for you. They're from my grandfather… to Bucky."
Sam's head lifted sharply, his brows drawing together. Not surprised, exactly. More like he'd been expecting this, dreading it maybe. Knowingly.
"I need help finding him," she continued, words coming faster now. "I know he's… hard to track down. Doesn't want to be found. But Grandpa wanted him to have these." She met Sam's eyes, steady and sure. "And I think… he needs to. Maybe more than anyone."
Sam stared at her for a long beat, jaw tight, weighing something heavy in his mind. Then he gave a single, slow nod, decision made.
"I might know where to start."
.
.
.
Her grandfather had spent most of his life talking about Bucky. Her grandma used to joke—half-teasing, half-serious—that Bucky was secretly his long-lost love rather than her. He'd just laugh and wave it off with that familiar boyish grin, but she knew better. She'd seen the way his eyes would go distant sometimes, especially in his last years. He carried a tremendous weight of guilt for leaving Bucky behind in the present, an anchor that never quite loosened its hold. He always said Bucky had given him his blessing, had practically shoved him toward the quantum tunnel himself, but the endless war stories about his best friend — told and retold until she could recite them by heart—were his way of coping with the sense of wrongdoing he carried until the day he died.
She knew the broad strokes of Bucky's life. The torture and brainwashing, his years spent as HYDRA's weapon. The time he spent as nothing more than a ghost story whispered in intelligence briefings. The bloody reunion with her grandfather that had made international headlines. His slow, painful return to himself. But it was in her grandfather's final years, after Grandma Peggy passed and the house felt too empty, that she got the clearest picture. Sitting by his bed while illness slowly claimed him, machines beeping softly in the background, she listened as he spoke of Bucky in a way that was more than just facts, more than hero worship or survivor's guilt.
Steve had described him as stubborn to a fault, fiercely loyal, and braver than anyone had a right to be. The kind of bravery that didn't come from fearlessness but from choosing to stand anyway. A man with a sharp wit and a dry sense of humor that could cut through the tension of any battlefield, make men laugh even when they were knee-deep in mud and blood. He said Bucky could fight like hell but would still give away his last meal if someone else needed it more, would carry a wounded soldier on his back for miles without complaint. And no matter how much the world had taken from him, no matter how much blood was on his hands or how many memories had been stripped away, there was still a piece of that kid from Brooklyn who'd do anything to protect the people he loved.
She had to admit, she'd spent the last few years wondering more about Bucky than about Sam. A man out of time, just like her grandfather, but worse somehow. Recovering from losing not just his era but his memories, his autonomy…himself. Utterly alone except for Sam, really, and whatever tenuous thread still connected him to a world that had moved on without him. It was a tragic story, Shakespearean in its cruelty, and she felt quite a bit of sympathy for a man she had only seen in grainy pictures and heavily redacted news reports.
Sam had given her Bucky's Brooklyn address himself, though not without a significant disclaimer.
"He's a bit standoffish," Sam had said, leaning back in his chair like he was bracing her for turbulence. "Still healing in ways that matter. Good guy underneath it all—great guy, actually—but he's got walls. Thick ones." He'd paused, choosing his words carefully. "He's still got a lot of guilt about his past. Still processing Steve being gone. It's… complicated."
He'd let the words sit there, watching her reaction with those perceptive eyes.
The unspoken truth was loud enough to hear: He's still dealing with his trauma and isn't the Bucky your grandfather told you about. Maybe he never will be.
Sam had smirked then, softening what he just delivered with humor. "And hey, fair warning…you might remind him a little too much of Steve. So, y'know… if he slams the door in your face, don't take it personal. That's just his love language."
She'd raised an eyebrow, couldn't help the small smile. "Door slamming as a love language?"
"In Bucky's case? Yeah. Right up there with glaring and intense brooding. Olympic level, really. He could medal."
So, with Sam's warning ringing in her ears and a knot of anxiety in her stomach, she booked the next flight to New York and now stood on the cracked sidewalk outside James Buchanan Barnes' apartment building, clutching his letters like they might vanish if she loosened her grip.
The place was exactly the kind of building you'd expect a man avoiding the world to live in. Weathered brick darkened by decades of soot and rain, yellowed with age and neglect. A rust-flecked fire escape zigzagged up the facade like a skeletal ladder, bolts loose enough that she could hear it rattling faintly when a breeze blew by. The windows were made of that old, wavy glass that distorted the reflection of the afternoon sun into something dreamlike and wrong, and the front door bore the scuffs and dents of a thousand careless kicks.
Inside, the air was thick and close, smelling faintly of old radiator heat and stale cigarette smoke. She wrinkled her nose at the smell upon entering and wondered why he chose to live here, when he could probably have the pick of the litter of any place in the city given his notoriety with the Avengers. Familiarity, maybe?
She glanced at the mailboxes in the narrow entryway. Half had peeling name labels curled at the edges, the rest just bore tarnished numbers. His was one of the bare ones. Of course it was.
Her boots echoed faintly against the chipped tile as she climbed the narrow staircase, the railing cool and slightly sticky under her palm with years of grime. The higher she went, the quieter it got, the sounds of the street fading until all she could hear was the steady drumbeat of her own pulse and the distant hum of someone's television.
Her stomach was in knots. She wasn't sure if Sam had warned him she was coming, or if she was about to knock on the door of a man who might slam it in her face without a word.
A hermit, Sam had called him. She didn't blame him. She'd spent her whole life doing the same, hiding in plain sight, deflecting questions about her family tree with practiced ease.
At the third floor, she stopped in front of his door. The brass number was slightly crooked, loose on one screw, and the wood around the peephole was scuffed and faded. She knocked before she could talk herself out of it, three sharp raps that sounded too loud in the quiet hallway, heart drumming an unsteady rhythm against her ribs.
The door opened a moment later, and for a long, disorienting moment, she was utterly floored.
Because he was far more handsome in person than she had expected. Devastatingly so.
She had seen the photos. Black and white images of a young sergeant with a cocky grin, had heard how much of a ladies' man he'd been back in the day from her grandfather's fond, exasperated stories—but none of that did justice to the real thing.
He was taller than she'd expected, broad-shouldered and solid in a way that seemed effortless, wearing a dark henley that clung to lean muscle and did absolutely nothing to hide his build underneath. His hair was short now, dark and slightly mussed like he'd been running his hands through it, framing a sharp jawline shadowed with stubble and rough, intensely masculine features. The blue of his eyes was startling vivid even as they glared at her from under a furrowed brow, assessing and cold.
She forgot, for just a second, why she was there.
He looked her over quickly, efficiently, his expression darkening immediately. "If you're here to sell me something—"
"I'm not—" she began, but he was already starting to shut the door, movement smooth and dismissive.
Her hand shot out on instinct, catching the edge of the door before it could slam shut, palm stinging from the impact. "Wait, didn't Sam tell you I was coming?" she asked, forcing her voice to stay even, reasonable.
Bucky's jaw twitched, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble. His scowl deepened, carving harsh lines around his mouth. "Sam? No. And whatever you're selling, I'm not interested. Have a good day, kid."
"I'm not selling anything." She snapped, leaning her weight into the door, refusing to let it close. Stubbornness flared hot in her chest. "And maybe if you actually answered your phone once in a while instead of ghosting everyone, you'd know why I'm here."
His jaw flexed again, teeth grinding. Annoyance flashed in those steely eyes. "You've got about three seconds to explain before I make you leave."
She huffed, already feeling her patience fray at the edges like old rope. "Wow. You're exactly as charming as Sam said you'd be."
His eyes narrowed dangerously, but there was something else there too. Surprise, maybe, at her directness. He blinked at her, clearly not expecting the attitude. "What…did he send you here?"
"I mean… in a way, but — listen, can you let me explain, dude?"
His expression shifted to something between incredulity and exhaustion, like the thirty seconds he'd spent talking to her had already shaved years off his life and he deeply resented it. "How old are you?"
She blinked at the abruptness, thrown. "Uh… twenty-four? Why is that relevant?"
Bucky nodded slowly, deliberately, like he'd just confirmed a working theory he'd had. Then he reached into his back pocket with his right hand. She frowned, confused, until he pulled out a worn leather wallet. Her eyes widened when he opened it and produced a massive wad of cash, crisp bills folded thick.
"Sounds about right," he said casually, tone flat and matter-of-fact. "If I pay you extra, will you leave and tell Sam you did whatever he paid you for? I'll throw in a tip."
She gawked at the money, speechless. Then at him. Then back at the money, trying to process what was happening. Heat rushed into her cheeks, flooding her face, but not from embarrassment. From pure, uncut, incandescent rage. "Do you think I'm a hooker?"
He looked her up and down slowly, taking in her jeans and jacket, then shrugged like it was the most natural, logical conclusion in the world. He held the bills out again, expression unchanged. "No judgment here, kid. Consenting adults and all that. He does it as a practical joke sometimes, sends someone over, watches me squirm. Don't get too upset about it. You're still a fine-looking dame. Now — have a good day."
Without a flicker of irony or shame, he grabbed her hand, pressed the cash into her palm, folded her fingers over it, and shut the door. Hard. The sound echoed in the hallway like a gunshot.
She stood there frozen, fist full of bills, mind blank with shock, trying to process what the hell had just happened. Her grandfather's best friend, the man he'd spent two decades praising to her, had just mistaken her for a prostitute Sam had sent as a prank and slammed the door in her face without a second thought.
Go. Fucking. Figure.
Shaking her head sharply to break the trance, she muttered a vicious string of curses that would've made her mother roll in her grave. Then, with slow, deliberate care, she crouched down, slid the packet of letters under his door where he couldn't miss them, and tossed the wad of cash down onto the floor where his feet had been ten seconds ago. Let him choke on it.
"Fuck that guy," she hissed under her breath, turning on her heel and stalking toward the stairs. Her grandfather had been dead wrong about James Buchanan Barnes. Absolutely, utterly, infuriatingly wrong. What an asshole.
She left the apartment seething, jaw clenched, already wondering bitterly what anyone—anyone—could have ever seen in the so-called "notorious" Bucky Barnes.
.
.
.
She had been born in D.C., spent nearly her whole life there in the shadow of monuments and power, but when it came time to graduate high school and pick a college, she really only applied to schools in New York. Her mother had passed by the time she was a junior—cancer, brutal and quick—leaving her under the care of her grandparents in a house that suddenly felt too big and too quiet.
Her father was someone she had never met, never bothered to find out about, and never wanted to. Her mother's pregnancy with her had been an accident, a foolish fling with a soldier who had promised her the world and given her nothing but abandonment and a daughter to raise alone. So she had spent a lot of her teenage years hearing about New York instead, learning about her grandfather's early history in painstaking detail. Learning about how he became a hero, how he'd met her grandmother, how Brooklyn had shaped him into something more than just a scrawny kid with too much heart.
She graduated from Cornell top of her class with honors and a thesis that made her professors take notice, landing a position straight out of college with a Veterans' Outreach Nonprofit in New York. So, she had stayed, putting down roots, residing near where her grandfather used to live—close to where Bucky now lived, though she hadn't known it at the time. And when her grandfather had died, slipping away peacefully in his sleep after months of decline, he left all of his considerable inheritance to her as his last living relative. She used none of the money for herself, not a dime. Instead, she opened her own Veterans' Outreach center, pouring everything into it, something she desperately hoped would have made him proud. Something that felt like honoring him without living in his shadow.
Given that her name was plastered all over the nonprofit's website, listed as founder and director, it wasn't a surprise that Bucky Barnes was able to easily track her down. What was a surprise was his quickness in doing so.
The day after visiting his apartment, she had woken up, poured her normal morning coffee with heavy eyes, and drove over to the center to get some work done before opening hours. She had strolled up to the front doors just after dawn, keys in hand, the sun barely peeking over the horizon of the city in soft pinks and golds, when she noticed a familiar figure standing outside, leaning against the doorway like he'd been there awhile.
Dressed in dark jeans and a worn leather jacket that had seen better days, gloved hands shoved deep into his pockets, Bucky Barnes watched her approach with tired, intent eyes that tracked her every movement. In daylight, she noticed things she'd missed yesterday in the dim hallway. The shadows beneath his cerulean gaze were darker, heavier, bruise-like. Insomnia, most likely. Most of the veterans she worked with carried the same weight under their eyes, the same bone-deep fatigue that no amount of sleep could fix.
Still, even exhausted and haunted, for a man who barely looked past his early thirties, he was beautiful in that tragic, carved-from-marble way. The same handsome young man from her grandfather's faded photos, just more haunted now, sharper at the edges.
She stopped five feet from him, fingers curling protectively around the keys in her pocket, metal biting into her palm. She didn’t look at him directly, instead keeping her tone dry to hide the flare of anger in her chest at the sight of him. "I wasn't too hard to track down, then, huh? Did Sam give you my information?"
Bucky didn't answer right away. His expression stayed carefully impassive, neutral, but she could feel him measuring her, taking her apart piece by piece. Sam had done the same, just less subtly, with more obvious emotion.
His gaze drifted over her features slowly, deliberately, lingering on her eyes like he was searching for something specific. She saw the shift in him when he found it—the faint bite of the inside of his cheek, the muscle in his jaw flexing hard as if bracing for impact.
Where Sam's look had been sad, grieving and warm, Bucky's was… resigned. Haunted. Like he didn't want to see her, didn't want this confirmation, but couldn't avoid it now that she was here. She swallowed against the bitter weight of it, turning to unlock the door just as he glanced away, jaw tight.
"I… found the letters you left," he said at last, his voice low, distant, carefully controlled. "From Steve. Called Sam after I read them. If it makes you feel any better, he gave me a good beating for thinking you were a—"
"Doesn't matter," she cut in quickly, the metal of the key scraping against the lock a little too hard, hands unsteady. She doubted he noticed her edge, the sharpness creeping into her tone. "My purpose was to give you both the letters. You got 'em—no harm, no foul. Mission accomplished."
She pushed the door open, but before she could shut it behind her and put a barrier between them, Bucky stepped in smoothly, blocking it with his body. "For what it's worth, I am sorry. I didn't mean to offend you…it's just something Sam's pulled before, and I thought—"
"Really, Mr. Barnes, it's fine," she interrupted again, sharper this time, forcing a polite smile that didn't quite reach her eyes and felt wrong on her face. "If you came all the way here just to apologize, you don't need to. You don't owe me anything. We're square."
He didn't move closer, didn't push, but when she turned fully to face him, his eyes locked on hers like they were reading a page he'd thought long burned to ash. Fascination flickered across his face—raw and unguarded for just a moment—then faded into something harder to read, more carefully controlled.
"I don't," he admitted quietly, "but I am sorry. Shit…if Steve knew I called his —" He stopped abruptly, dragging a gloved hand over his face in frustration. His gaze stayed locked on hers, unwavering. "I don't know how I missed it yesterday. You look just like Peggy. The resemblance is… uncanny. But you have his eyes. Steve's eyes."
"He was always happy I took after her," she swallowed, voice softer now despite herself, giving a shaky smile she couldn't quite control. She couldn't imagine what it must be like for him—to stand in front of the granddaughter of his best friend, wearing two faces he'd loved and lost, ghosts made flesh. "I'm sure he would've gotten a kick out of last night. Laughed himself sick."
A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Bucky's mouth, fleeting and sad. It didn't last. His stare lingered, unflinching and intense, and she fought the urge to shift under the weight of it, to look away. She knew so much of his life from her grandfather's stories, had heard his name more times than she could count…yet here he was. A complete stranger standing in front of her looking at her like she was haunting him.
"Found you online," he said finally, breaking the silence. "Didn't realize you'd been living a few blocks away for years. Small world. You own this place?"
"Yeah," she said, glancing around at the dimly lit hallway leading to offices not yet occupied for the day, the rooms where they held group therapy sessions for vets who needed a safe space to talk. "After Grandpa… Steve… passed, I opened it up myself with his inheritance. It's been doing well so far. Better than I hoped, actually. Figured he'd want it in the city he grew up in, where it all started for him. I hope he would have liked it."
Bucky's face didn't change dramatically, but she watched his eyes soften at the edges, something warm and genuine breaking through the careful walls. Again, she noticed that he hadn't torn his eyes away from her this whole time, like he was memorizing her. "He would have loved it. Same with Peggy. It's exactly what they would have wanted you to do with his legacy. Exactly right."
The words were genuine, sincere in a way that hit her square in the chest. The warmth of his praise coursed through her like something physical, and she returned it with a small smile, truer this time, less guarded. "I appreciate that, Mr. Barnes—"
"Bucky," he cut her off gently, his voice softer now, almost careful. The corner of his mouth curved in the barest, almost apologetic smile. "Call me Bucky. Please."
She pulled in a deep breath, hoping it would ground her, steady the sudden flutter in her chest. It didn't. Her pulse still thudded high and fast in her throat, and her fingers itched with nervous energy she couldn't explain or control. Why was she so jittery? This was just a man. A man she'd heard about her whole life, sure, but still just a man. Flesh and blood.
"Okay… I guess we are practically family," she said, forcing lightness into her tone, trying for casual. She didn't miss the faint twitch in his expression at that word. Probably just now realizing how surreal this all was, finally meeting her. Knowing she existed. That Steve's life had continued, had meant something beyond the fight. "But really, I have to get to work. Thank you again for coming by—"
"What time do you get off?"
The question stopped her cold. Her feet, her thoughts, her breath — everything stilled. She blinked at him, searching his face for context she couldn't find, couldn't parse. He just stood there watching her, expression neutral but not quite, and she noticed the restless twitch of his hands inside his pockets, like he wasn't sure if he should keep them there or reach for something else.
"I'm sorry?"
He chuckled quietly, but there was a strain in it. Nerves, maybe, or uncertainty. One gloved hand came up to rake through his hair before settling at the back of his neck, a gesture that seemed unconscious. "I know we got off on the wrong foot and all—worst possible first impression—but… you're Steve's granddaughter. And I'm just finding out he had a life, a whole family, after everything. I'd like to hear about it. About him. About you. If… if that's okay."
Of course he did. And she understood. She even felt the faint tug of wanting to say yes, to sit down over coffee and talk about her grandfather, to share stories and memories. But this…this was exactly why she kept the Carter last name even after Steve died, even when lawyers suggested changing it might open doors. Why she never plastered his shield on the nonprofit's letterhead or renamed it in his honor, despite pressure from the board. Because the moment people knew who she was, everything she'd built—her work, her identity, her worth—would be filtered through his legacy. Through the man who had been Captain America.
And as much as she wanted to believe Bucky and Sam were good men, and she genuinely did, there was always the risk that they'd never see her. Only him. Only Steve's ghost wearing her face.
And she couldn't stomach the idea of failing them. Of not living up to an impossible ghost, of being a disappointment.
So she put on the polite, neutral smile she reserved for boardroom strangers and pushy donors. The one that looked friendly but left no doors open, no room for negotiation. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Barnes, but I won't have any free time tonight. But again, thank you for the apology and for dropping by. I hope the letters were… I hope they gave you and Sam some peace. Some closure."
The change in his expression was immediate and striking. Confusion pulled his brows together sharply, his eyes narrowing slightly, jaw tensing like her smile had shifted something fundamental in him he didn't understand. But she didn't give him a chance to speak, to question, to push.
She pivoted sharply, retreating down the hallway toward her office with more speed than dignity, heels clicking too loud on the tile, refusing to glance over her shoulder even though she could feel his eyes on her back. It felt cowardly, running instead of staying, but if she lingered even a moment longer, she knew she might say something she couldn't take back. Might crack open and spill everything she'd kept carefully locked away.
.
.
.
She figured that was the end of it. She had fulfilled her grandfather's final request, Sam and Bucky had his letters, and now she could quietly slip back into the life she'd built before. The life where she was just herself, not a legacy, not a symbol. Just her.
Except Bucky Barnes apparently didn't know how to take no for an answer.
The next morning, when she arrived at work at her usual ten-past-seven, the sun barely cresting the buildings nearby, she spotted him instantly. He was parked in the exact same spot outside the entrance as yesterday, leaning casually against the weathered brick wall with a carrier tray of coffee in one leather-gloved hand. His eyes found her the moment she stepped onto the sidewalk, tracking her approach with quiet intensity.
A wave of awkwardness hit her so hard she nearly stopped mid-step, her stride faltering. Questions tumbled over each other in her mind like dominoes. What was he doing here? Did he need something else? Was she about to be pulled into some bizarre follow-up errand she hadn't signed up for? She straightened her shoulders, drew in a steadying breath that did nothing to calm her pulse, and approached with as much confidence as she could fake.
"Mr. Barnes," she greeted, nodding politely, ignoring the subtle flicker across his expression at the formality. Something like frustration mixed with resignation. "You're back."
His answering smile was small and tentative, almost nervous in a way that didn't fit the intimidating frame. It caught her completely off guard. Her grandfather had told her countless stories about Bucky Barnes as the smooth-talking charmer who could coax a dance out of any woman with a single grin. The man in front of her, though, seemed nothing like that legend. He was a little fidgety, shifting his weight slightly, a little unsure, like he was carefully considering every word before he spoke.
"I figured you might want some coffee before your day started," he said, gesturing with the tray, voice low and careful. His eyes dropped to it, as if suddenly unsure of the choice, second-guessing himself. "Didn't know what you liked, so… I brought a few different kinds. Covered my bases."
She glanced down at the cups, each neatly labeled in blocky handwriting: latte, mocha, cappuccino, drip coffee. Something warm and unexpected tugged at her chest, unfurling slowly. It was such a simple thing, almost embarrassingly simple, but thoughtful in a way she hadn't expected from a man she'd all but brushed off the day before. From a man who could probably snap her in half without breaking a sweat.
And you were such a jackass to him yesterday, her conscience hissed viciously. He came to apologize and you practically ran away.
She exhaled slowly through her nose, fingers tightening on her purse strap until the leather bit into her palm. Her conscience was right. She'd been defensive, guarded, unfair.
"That's… really kind of you. Really sweet, actually." Her gaze lingered on the cups, then lifted to his—storm-blue and full of quiet sincerity that made her chest ache. "You didn't have to do all that. Go through all that trouble."
A half-smile curved his mouth, uncertain and hopeful at once. His eyes searched her face like he was bracing for her to shut him out again, preparing for rejection he'd clearly decided was worth risking anyway.
"Told you I owed you, didn't I?"
Something in his voice, in the gentle way he said it without expectation or pressure, softened the last bit of hesitation she'd been clinging to like armor. She let her eyes linger on him a beat longer, taking in the tired lines around his eyes, before her lips curved in the faintest, most genuine smile she'd given him yet.
"Well… if you went through all this trouble, it'd be rude not to try them," she said, tilting her head toward the building's entrance. "Come on, we'll sample them together. See which one's the winner. Scientific method and all that."
He blinked, clearly surprised, like he hadn't expected the invitation. He gave a small nod, and the corners of his mouth twitched up again in that almost-smile of his that made him look younger somehow, less terse. More like the photos from before everything went wrong.
Inside, the quiet hum of the early office filled the space, fluorescent lights still warming to full brightness and casting everything in slightly sterile white. She led him down the narrow hall to her small office, tucked away near the back corner. It wasn't much—just a desk perpetually stacked with papers and grant applications, a worn leather chair that had seen better days, and a window that let in the pale morning light and gave her a view of the brick building across the alley—but it felt good enough for her.
She set the carrier of coffees on her cluttered desk and shrugged out of her coat, draping it over her chair. "Alright," she said, reaching for the first cup with both hands, warming her fingers against the heat. "Latte first?"
But before she could hand it to him, his voice cut through the comfortable quiet, low but direct, cutting straight to bone.
"Do you not like me?"
She froze, fingers tightening reflexively on the cup, the warmth suddenly too hot. Her gaze flicked up to his, catching the intensity there. Not harsh or accusatory, but searching. Vulnerable in a way that made her stomach twist.
When she didn't answer right away, couldn't find the words, he went on, voice steady but quieter, more careful. "Or are you afraid of me?"
Her breath caught sharply in her throat, trapped there. Of all the questions she'd expected from him—about Steve, about the letters—that wasn't even on the list. Not even close.
"What?" she said softly, startled more by the raw honesty, the unguarded hurt in the question, than the words themselves.
"You avoided me. Yesterday," he said, eyes holding hers with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. "You seemed like you wanted nothing to do with me. Like I was… I don't know. A problem you needed to solve and move on from."
She blinked, throat tight, then shook her head slowly, deliberately. "No. That's not it. That's not it at all." Setting the latte down carefully, she folded her arms loosely and leaned back against the desk, needing the support. "My grandfather spent half his life telling me stories about you. About the two of you getting into trouble in Brooklyn, getting out of trouble, saving his ass more times than he could count. How you always had his back, even when no one else did." She exhaled, a small, rueful smile tugging at her lips despite the weight in her chest. "I… I grew up hearing your name like it was part of the family. I'd never met you, but somehow knew everything about you. I'm not afraid of you, Bucky. I promise you that."
His gaze stayed fixed on her, steady and unreadable, jaw tight as if he was weighing whether to believe her, whether this was truth or apathetic kindness. She let the silence hang for a moment, gathering her courage, before she spoke again, her voice a touch quieter, more vulnerable than she'd intended.
"It's not that I don't like you," she said, fingers unconsciously tracing the seam of her sleeve, a nervous habit she'd never managed to break. "It's just… this is a lot. Meeting you. Meeting Sam. You've both been these… larger-than-life figures in my head for years, because of Steve. These legends. Heroes. And now here you are, standing in my office, and you're real, and I don't…"
She let out a breath, shaking her head slightly, frustration bleeding into her tone. "I don't want to be treated like some figurehead of Steve's legacy. Like I'm only here, only worth knowing, because I'm connected to him. Like I'm just… an echo of something you lost. That's not fair to either of us."
His brow furrowed slightly, something shifting behind his eyes, but he didn't interrupt. He just listened, patient and still.
"I guess part of me is worried," she admitted, the words spilling out now that she'd started, unable to stop them. "That I'll disappoint you. Or Sam. Or both of you. That you'll realize I'm just… me. Not whatever version of Steve you think I might be, or what pieces of him you hope I inherited." She gave a faint, self-deprecating smile that felt brittle. "And honestly? That's a little terrifying. Knowing I can't possibly live up to him. Knowing I'll always fall short."
Bucky's expression softened in a way she hadn't expected. Something sharp flickered across his features and settled there.
"For the record," he said quietly, voice rough with sincerity, "I'm not looking for a version of Steve in you. Trust me, I've already got enough memories of him rattling around in my head to last three lifetimes." One corner of his mouth twitched upward, sad and fond at once. "I just… want to get to know you. Get to know his granddaughter. The woman who built all this from nothing. That's all I want. Nothing more, nothing less."
The tension in her chest eased a fraction, enough for her shoulders to drop, enough for her to breathe properly. Her throat tightened with unexpected emotion, and she had to blink hard against the sudden sting in her eyes.
"Alright," she murmured, voice barely above a whisper, glancing down at the carrier of coffee to avoid his gaze. "Then let's start with this."
She slid the first cup toward him, the latte, and kept the mocha for herself, wrapping both hands around it like a lifeline. "First impression counts, so be honest."
He took a sip, and his face immediately twisted into a thin line of poorly disguised disgust. "To be honest with you," he deadpanned, setting it down with exaggerated care, "I don't drink anything but black coffee. I have no idea why I just tried that. That was a mistake."
She snorted, nearly choking on her mocha, laughter bubbling up unbidden. "Okay, so that's a hard no for the latte. Take the drip. Back to basics."
She passed him the paper cup, and her fingers brushed his glove as he took it from her—just the briefest contact, fleeting and accidental. Even through the leather material, he felt warm. Like a contained heat source, like stepping barefoot outside in the early afternoon.
His eyes didn't drop from hers, didn't waver, even when he lifted the cup to his lips for a careful sip.
She felt like she was holding her breath until Bucky set down his cup and leaned back slightly against the edge of her desk, studying her with that same steady gaze from before, but now without the guarded edge, the defensive walls. "You own all this? At twenty-four, with no help? Built it from the ground up?"
She let out a short laugh, shaking her head. "I own it, yeah—but I've got people who help me keep it running. A small staff, volunteers, a board that mostly stays out of my way. I might've inherited Steve's stubborn streak and his inability to quit, but this place… it's worth every headache, every late night. It does a lot of good. Or at least, I try to make sure it does. That's the goal, anyway."
His brow furrowed, like he was trying to reconcile the picture in his head. Whatever vague image of Steve's granddaughter he had with the reality of what she'd just said, what she'd actually accomplished. "So you built this on your own? Really? No partners, no investors?"
"Yeah. After my grandfather—" her voice hitched unexpectedly, cracking on the word, and she bit her lip hard, forcing the wave of grief back down, past the too-vivid image of fresh dirt over a grave beside her grandmother's. Beside her mother's. Three headstones in a row. "After Steve died, he left me everything. Every penny. I'm the last one left…the last Carter. So I took just a portion of it and put it to good use. Did something I know he would have wanted, something that felt right.
"He lived as Steve Carter most of his life. Just a normal, everyday American who paid his taxes and mowed his lawn and complained about traffic. But at his heart, he was always a soldier. That never left him. So I figured… I'd give back to other soldiers like him. The ones who came home but didn't really come home."
Bucky stared at her, eyes wide, blinking once, twice, like he was seeing her clearly for the first time. Then, after a slow swallow, visible in the movement of his throat, he gave her a small, genuine smile. His gloved fingers traced the seam of the coffee cup absently. "That's… yeah. He would've loved that. Been so damn proud of you, too. What you've done here…most people your age wouldn't even think about doing something like this. They'd take the money and run. Buy a house, travel the world, live easy."
She arched a brow, a playful glint in her eye. "Kid, huh? I'm wounded, Mr. Barnes. Truly."
"Stop with the 'Mr. Barnes' nonsense," he groaned, a faint scoff escaping him, exasperation clear in his tone. "It's Bucky. Just Bucky. And you're almost ten years younger than me. Actually younger, not technically. You're a kid to me."
She smiled, but something in her chest twisted unexpectedly, sharp and unwelcome. Disappointment? She brushed it off quickly with a wry remark, deflecting. "Add another seventy decades or so to that ten-year gap."
He shot her a withering look, unimpressed and mildly offended, and she couldn’t help but laugh. An unguarded sound escaped her lips, genuinity that surprised even her.
His eyes lit up at it immediately, actually lit up, his whole posture shifting like he was unconsciously leaning closer, drawn in.
"You live in Brooklyn now? Sam mentioned that," he said, voice casual but curious.
So he'd asked Sam about her. That thought landed somewhere she didn't want to examine too closely, didn't want to unpack. "Ten blocks away. Down by—"
"Ten blocks?" he cut in sharply, his brows pulling together in immediate concern. "You… walk here? Alone? Every morning?"
"Yeah, it's not far. Especially in the morning when the streets are—"
"And you walk home alone too? At what time?" His voice had an edge now, protective and frustrated.
Her frown deepened, defensiveness rising. "Depends on the day. Sometimes six… sometimes ten at the latest. Depends on what needs to get done."
Bucky's expression hardened into a full-on frown, jaw tight. "No. No way. Absolutely not. It's not safe for you to be doing that alone in the city, especially not at night."
She stared at him, caught somewhere between surprise and rising annoyance, heat creeping up her neck. "Bucky, I've been fine—"
"What time are you leaving tonight?" he pressed, ignoring her protest entirely.
She hesitated, sensing a trap. "Probably around seven. It depends on—"
"Okay," he said firmly, leaning forward, voice brooking no argument. "Take down my number. When you're done for the day, call me. I'll come pick you up and walk you home. Non-negotiable."
She blinked at him, his words hanging between them like some kind of decree she'd never agreed to, never asked for. "Uh… no. Absolutely not. Not happening."
His brow ticked upward, genuinely confused. "Why not?"
"Because I don't need a babysitter," she said, setting her coffee down with a little more force than necessary, the sound sharp in the quiet office. "No offense to you personally. But I've been walking that route for years, Bucky. I know every corner, every streetlight, every bodega owner, every guy selling knockoff handbags on the corner. I'm fine. I've always been fine."
He leaned back carefully, not in surrender but in that patient, infuriating way people do when they're about to dig their heels in and refuse to budge. "Doesn't matter how well you know the streets. Bad things don't send you a warning text before they happen. They don't check to see if you care."
She crossed her arms defensively. "What, you're suddenly my bodyguard now? My personal security detail?"
"No, you're a defenseless, attractive, young woman walking alone in one of the most dangerous cities in the country at night," he said bluntly, unapologetically, meeting her glare head-on. She forced herself not to linger on the fact that he called her attractive. "No offense meant by that, but it's a fact. And before you argue, because I can see you gearing up for it, I'm not doing this because I think you're helpless or incapable. I'm doing it because Steve would haunt me for the rest of my life if I let something happen to you when I could've prevented it.."
Her lips parted, but nothing came out right away. He said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, like it was just… objective truth. No drama, no condescension, no macho posturing. And that made it so much harder to push back, to argue.
And as much as she hated admitting it, even silently to herself, he was right. Her grandfather would be biting her head off if he knew she walked alone at night. If he knew she was entirely alone in general, no family, no real support system. He would probably be thanking Bucky profusely for this act of service, buying him drinks, clapping him on the back.
"I'm not calling you," she said finally, though the words lacked the bite she'd intended, coming out more resigned than defiant.
Bucky just smirked faintly, infuriatingly confident, like she'd already lost and they both knew it. "We'll see about that."
.
.
.
She didn't call him. Or text, though she wasn't even sure if he knew how to text on the archaic-looking flip phone he'd pulled out earlier like it was perfectly normal in 2025. She'd survived twenty-four years without a man coddling her, hovering over her like she was made of glass; she definitely didn't need her grandfather's century-old friend shadowing her every move like some overprotective watchdog.
And yet, somehow, it didn't surprise her in the slightest that when she flipped off the office lights at five minutes past eight and went to lock the front doors, key in hand and exhaustion settling into her bones, Bucky Barnes was right there. Leaning casually against the brick wall like he'd been part of the architecture all along, like he'd grown roots.
He gave her a look straight out of a disapproving parent's playbook, the kind reserved for a teenager who'd ignored curfew. She couldn’t help it — she bristled and shot her own challenging glare back at him.
"You didn't call," he said plainly, voice flat, one brow arched over a face that belonged on a Greek sculpture. Not that she'd ever tell him that. His ego didn't need the help.
She didn't bother hiding her sigh, shooting him a deadpan stare. "Told you I wasn't going to. How long have you been out here?"
"Three hours," he replied without a hint of shame or exaggeration, as if he'd been waiting three minutes instead of sitting in the cold Brooklyn evening for half her shift. "You need help with your bags?"
"Three… hours?" She gaped at him, her irritation temporarily short-circuited by sheer disbelief. "Why didn't you just come inside? We have chairs. Heat. Coffee that's only moderately terrible."
He shrugged, his expression flat but his tone casual, as though camping outside her workplace was nothing out of the ordinary, just a normal Thursday activity. "You were busy. Didn't want to bother you or get in the way. Now, hand me one of your bags, kid."
"I'm not going to give you my—"
With inhuman smoothness, faster than she could track, he plucked the heavier bag off her shoulder the instant she turned, holding it in his left hand, his metal hand, like it weighed absolutely nothing. Less than nothing. She froze, staring at him in disbelief and growing frustration.
"HYDRA serum," he said dryly, raising his brows with mock innocence. "In case you forgot. Super strength and all that fun stuff."
"I know about the—" She exhaled sharply through her nose, muttering a creative curse under her breath that would've made a sailor blush. "Fine. Whatever. Let's just go. We can keep bickering on the way; maybe it'll save me some of my night. I have laundry to do."
She took off at a brisk pace, determined to make the walk home as short as humanly possible, but his strides were longer, effortlessly longer. Within seconds, he was half a step ahead, matching her pace without even trying.
"Wanna tell me why you didn't call?" he asked, his tone threaded with quiet amusement, like this was entertaining to him.
She kept her eyes forward, jaw set. "We went over this already. I told you I wasn't going to. I don't need a bodyguard. I'm a grown woman."
"And I told you I didn't care what you thought you needed," he shot back easily, unbothered. She could feel his gaze flick toward her, deliberate and assessing. "Steve would've—"
"I swear to God," she cut in, glaring at him from the corner of her eye, heat rising in her cheeks, "if you mention doing something for me because of my grandfather one more time, I'm going to start running. Full sprint. See how you like chasing me down the street."
Bucky went silent, his boots slowing just a fraction on the pavement. She didn't look at him, stubbornness winning out, but she could almost feel him processing her threat.
"I'd catch you in maybe four seconds flat," he said after a beat, voice low and matter-of-fact. "Five, if you wanted a head start. Your call."
"Oh my God," she drawled, finally stopping in her tracks, spinning to face him. He halted too, looming over her, his chin dipping as he looked down. She realized, belatedly and with growing awareness, how close they were. Less than a foot of space separated them and she was close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. He was absurdly tall compared to her. Even in heels, the top of her head barely reached his sternum. The sheer size of him, the solid presence, was… obvious. Undeniable. Dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with violence.
She forced herself to blink those treacherous thoughts away and shook her head. "I don't need you doing things for me out of obligation to your best friend's memory. I lived every single day up until two days ago without knowing you existed outside of stories, and you did the same. So, please, stop doing things because you feel guilty. Because you feel bad for me. Or for my grandfather. I'm not a charity case."
For a long moment, he just studied her, his expression unreadable in the dim orange glow of the streetlight above them. Then his jaw shifted slightly, tension releasing.
"I know," Bucky cut in, calm but firm. He leaned forward slightly, closing the already-small distance, his eyes boring into hers with an intensity that stole her breath. "That's not why I'm offering."
She tilted her head, uncertain, searching his expression for the catch, the angle she was missing.
"I know what it's like to build something from nothing," he said after a moment, voice low and even, weighted with experience. "To be underestimated constantly, to have people look at you and think they've already figured you out, already decided what you're worth. And sometimes… having someone in your corner, someone who sees you, can make the difference between working out and burning out. Between making it and breaking."
His eyes held hers, steady and without pity, without condescension. Just truth. "Steve was that for me, more than once. In more ways than I can count. Guess I'm just trying to return the favor in my own way, pay it forward. And yeah, selfishly, you're his blood and flesh. His legacy walking around. He was my brother. That makes you a priority to me whether you like it or not."
The tightness in her chest eased, though she wasn't sure what to do with the warmth settling in its place, spreading through her ribs.
"Okay. I get it," she breathed, letting her gaze trace over his face—the shadows smudged under his eyes like bruises, the stubble along his jaw from a day or two without shaving, the small scar cutting through his eyebrow. This close, she caught the faint bite of mint toothpaste on his breath, the lingering trace of cologne in his clothes. Something sharp and musky, masculine, expensive.
She could see why women had flocked to him almost a century ago, why they still would now if he let them; he was all rugged charm and effortless masculinity wrapped in danger. But beneath it, in the depths of his eyes, in the measured, careful way he spoke…there was still that edge of darkness. The shadow of too many lifetimes carried alone, too much blood, too many ghosts.
She wondered, not for the first time, what it would have been like to meet him before the fall from the train. Before HYDRA. Before the Winter Soldier. When he'd been her age, still untouched by the weight of what was coming. The man her grandfather had grown up with.
And then it clicked. An idea forming fully-realized in her mind.
"I have a deal for you… Sergeant Barnes." She tested the title on her tongue deliberately, catching the way something flickered in his eyes at the sound. "I'll let you walk me home every day from work… if you come to some of the group sessions we do with veterans."
His expression shifted immediately, surprise flashing across his face, eyes widening slightly. He blinked down at her, mouth slightly open. "Group… sessions? Like group therapy? You want me to talk about my feelings?"
"No, not like that. Not therapy." She shook her head quickly. "In the evenings, a few times a week, we host a group where military veterans can come in and just… talk. Share experiences if they want. Listen if they don't. It's more helpful than you'd think. No pressure, no judgment. I think you might actually like it. Or at least not hate it."
Bucky dragged a hand down his face, his eyes still fixed on her, looking torn. He sighed heavily. "I don't need any friends, kid—"
"It's not about making friends," she cut in, her confidence building as she warmed to the idea. "Though, from what Sam said about your social life, or complete lack thereof, you could probably use some human interaction that doesn't involve punching things. It's about connecting with people who understand. Just talking. Seeing you're not—"
"Anyone in there brainwashed by Nazis, fitted with a vibranium arm, and trained to kill mindlessly for seventy years?" he interrupted, dry sarcasm dripping from his voice. His eyes were dark despite the humor laced into his words.
She leveled him with an unimpressed look. He smirked despite himself.
"Don't be a smartass," she said, shaking her head but fighting a smile. "You know what I mean. Just try one session. One. If you hate it, you never have to go back. I'll never ask again."
He studied her in silence, his gaze unreadable, intense. She waited, heart thudding, resisting the urge to fidget under his scrutiny or backpedal.
Finally, he let out a slow breath and shook his head, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Reluctant, fond. "You really are Steve's blood, aren't you, sweetheart?"
The heat rushed to her cheeks at the nickname before she could stop it, unbidden and obvious. She wanted to kick herself. "So… deal?"
"You gonna let me walk you in the mornings too?"
She bit her lip in thought, considering. "Two group sessions a week then."
He rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath that sounded like a curse. "One to start."
"And next week, you move to two."
He narrowed his eyes, still unreadable, weighing it. "Fine. But you have to actually use that phone I'm going to give you my number for and call me when you're done. Every time."
She grinned in victory, genuine and bright, offering him an outstretched hand. "You have yourself a deal there, Sergeant."
Bucky shook his head in exaggerated annoyance, but the light in his eyes spoke volumes. Warmth, amusement, something softer she couldn't quite name. He took her hand, his grip firm and warm even through the glove, and shook once. "Just make sure you actually use the damn phone. I mean it."
.
.
.
She used the phone.
The next morning, he was outside her building at 6:30 A.M. sharp, two coffees in hand—one black, one a mocha. She called him thirty minutes before she planned on leaving work that night, and there he was again, waiting outside the center patiently as she locked the doors.
And surprisingly, miraculously, it was never awkward. He didn't talk much, content with silence in a way most people weren't, but she had enough to say for the both of them. Conversation came easier than she expected, flowing naturally. Beneath his gruff edges—socially awkward, a little withdrawn, occasionally grumpy in that old-man way—she caught glimpses of the man her grandfather had described in those late-night stories. Sarcastic with a bite that made her laugh. Charming in unexpected moments. Blunt to the point of brutal honesty. Unlike any of the boys her age she'd met through dating apps or fleeting college flings that never went anywhere.
And, albeit begrudgingly at first, she started noticing him at some of the group sessions. She never intruded, respected his privacy too much for that, but she'd steal a glance or two from the hallway window when she passed by. Without fail, he was there every Tuesday and Thursday at 5 P.M., sitting in the circle with the other veterans, listening more than talking. When she finally worked up the courage to ask him about them, he'd just shrug and mutter, "Went well today," like he didn't want to make a big deal of it.
Curiosity got the better of her eventually. She asked Shaun, an Army veteran in his forties who ran the sessions with practiced ease, how Bucky was doing. If he seemed like he hated being there, if he was just going through the motions to keep his end of their deal. Though she kept that last part to herself.
"He's quiet, kinda standoffish at first," Shaun said, leaning against his desk with his arms crossed. "But he participates every single time now. Doesn't give much detail on his past…not that anyone here doesn't know who he is, but he's trying. Really trying, in the best way he knows how. Seems like he's improving, opening up more. I think it's helping him."
She took it as a small victory, a private one. Maybe it was helping him process things, work through decades of trauma in small, manageable pieces. She hoped it was. Her grandfather would have wanted that for him more than anything.
And over time, the calls to him stopped feeling like a responsibility or an obligation, and started feeling like a reward. Something she looked forward to.
She began counting down to Mondays, to seeing him after the weekend stretched too long. To the walks between her apartment and the bookstore on the corner, where she'd tell him stories about Steve and her childhood—the embarrassing ones, the sweet ones, the ones that made her voice crack. She'd listen to him laugh over old Howling Commandos memories that sounded impossible and watch his expression shift into something more serious when she asked careful questions about his own past.
It worked, somehow. Their friendship. That's what she decided to call it, for lack of a better term. The unknown granddaughter of Captain America and the century-old, vibranium-armed former assassin who'd killed more people than almost anyone in modern history. She could only imagine the headlines if the public ever found out about her, the think pieces and hot takes.
Two weeks after their first walk, Sam called her to ask if he could join the sessions too. Said Bucky had brought it up over beers, asked him to come along. She was stunned, not just that the new Captain America wanted anything to do with her little nonprofit, but that Bucky, who rolled his eyes dramatically every time Sam's name came up despite their obvious friendship, had actually invited him. Asked for him. Of course, she said yes immediately.
And just like that, two very famous Avengers were suddenly fixtures at the evening group sessions. It took less than twelve hours after the first social media post of them walking into the building together, Sam with his arm slung around Bucky's shoulders despite his scowl, for the media to swarm her doors the next morning, demanding interviews, quotes, photo ops. Then came the flood of donations, overwhelming the nonprofit’s ancient website. The waitlist for sessions that now stretched months long. The scramble to hire more staff, find more space, expand faster than she'd ever planned. All within weeks.
She wasn't an idiot, she knew exactly what the two of them were doing. So after poring over the numbers on a Saturday night, scrolling through thousands of tags on social media until her eyes burned, and seeing her name splashed across local news headlines for "making a difference in the military community", she picked up the phone and called Bucky for the first time without it being a thirty-second "I'm leaving now" or "I'm at work" update.
The line rang just once before he picked up, like he'd been holding the phone.
"What's wrong?" he asked immediately, voice low and gruff through the speaker, threaded with concern. No hello, no small talk. Just that deep, even voice of his cutting straight to what mattered.
"Nothing's wrong," she said, tucking her legs up under her on the couch, pulling a blanket over her lap. "But I think we need to talk."
There was a pause, deliberate and weighted. She could almost hear him leaning back in whatever chair he was sitting in, crossing his arms in that skeptical way he did when he knew he'd been caught at something and was deciding whether to admit it.
"Must be important if you're calling me on the weekend, kid. What about?"
She hesitated, suddenly aware of how small her apartment felt, how the silence pressed in around her. How quiet the night was. "About… whatever game you and Sam are playing. Bringing him to the sessions, showing up together, making sure every camera in Brooklyn catches you walking through my doors."
"We didn't make a scene," Bucky said flatly, defensive.
"You knew what would happen," she pressed, her voice sharper now, frustration bleeding through. "Two superheroes walking into a group session for veterans? It's a media circus, and now I'm being turned into this—" She cut herself off abruptly, the word sticking uncomfortably in her throat.
"This what?"
She exhaled hard through her nose. "This symbol. This figurehead for the community. Steve's legacy personified. And I don't want that, Bucky. I don't want to be put on a pedestal I didn't ask for. I don't want to disappoint you, or Sam, when I inevitably fall short. And honestly? The whole thing is… it's terrifying."
Silence hummed between them for a long moment, heavy but not hostile. She could hear him breathing, thinking.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, gentler. "That's not why I did it."
She waited, heart thudding.
"I didn't do it for Steve," he went on, words careful and measured. "Or for Sam. Or for some press stunt to boost my image or whatever the hell people think I care about. I did it for you."
Her pulse skipped, stumbled. "For me?"
"You're out here busting your ass every day for people who need it," he said, voice rough with conviction. "No cameras when you started, no paycheck worth the hours you put in, no orders from someone higher up telling you to care. Just you, doing good because you actually give a damn. Because you want to make a difference."
He let that hang in the air for a moment, let it settle. "You deserve someone in your corner. And if I can make sure you get a little more support—funding, visibility, resources, whatever you need—then I'm gonna do it. Not because Steve would've wanted it. Not because Sam thinks it's a good idea. Because I want to."
She swallowed hard, suddenly unsure where to look in her own empty apartment, throat tight with emotion she didn't know how to name. "You… want to help me."
"Yeah," he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I want to help you. Because you deserve it. You're one of the good ones, and that's rare these days. People doing good just for the sake of it, without expecting anything back. And if anyone's gonna be the one backing you up, supporting what you're building, I want it to be me."
Her heart clenched painfully. Something washed over her, a feeling she only used to get when her grandparents smiled at her with pure pride, when her mom ran her hands through her hair and told her she was loved. Her mouth went dry, words failing her completely.
I want it to be me.
"You still there?"
Bucky's voice brought her back, anchored her. She cleared her throat, biting down on her thumb. "Yeah… sorry. I—"
She stopped. How could she even thank him properly? What words could possibly match his actions, his belief in her?
"Do you want to come over?"
The line went silent for what felt like the longest five seconds of her life. She heard nothing from his end. Not even an inhale or exhale, no rustle of movement.
So she waited, perched on the edge of her seat, wondering why the hell she'd spoken without thinking, why she couldn't just leave well enough alone.
Then, finally, he spoke. His voice was soft.
"I'll be there in ten minutes."
Exactly ten minutes later, her heart hammering wildly in her chest like it was trying to escape, there was a knock on her door. Three precise raps.
She opened it to find Bucky standing in her hallway, still in his jacket and jeans from wherever he'd been. Probably home, probably alone.
His hair was slightly mussed, like he'd run his hands through it repeatedly on the way over, and there was something in his eyes she couldn't quite read. For a moment, they just looked at each other — her in her oversized sweater and leggings, bare feet on cold tile, him with his hands shoved deep in his pockets like he didn't know what else to do with them.
"Hey," she said softly, voice barely above a whisper.
"Hey," he replied, staring at her intently, the corners of his mouth turning upwards in that almost-smile she'd come to recognize.
She stepped back to let him in, and he moved past her into the small space, his presence somehow making her already-tiny apartment feel even smaller, more intimate.
He stepped inside, leather gloves covering his hands like armor. She realized, not for the first time, that she'd yet to see his metal arm uncovered. Wondered if he ever took the gloves off, even alone.
Bucky's gaze swept the room with quiet precision, taking everything in with the practiced eye of someone trained to assess threats and exits. Her apartment was simple, almost sparse—not much in the way of trendy décor or expensive furniture, but filled with personal touches that made it hers: framed photographs on every surface, a worn bookshelf stuffed with dog-eared paperbacks, little pieces of a life she was trying to piece together.
He stopped in front of a picture hanging beside the bedroom door—her younger self, maybe eight or nine, standing between her grandparents in front of a lake—and a faint, almost wistful smile ghosted across his face when his eyes landed on the older man beside her. Steve, silver-haired and content, his arm around Peggy's waist.
"He looked happy," Bucky said quietly.
"I think he was." She stepped closer, her own eyes settling on the familiar image, memorized down to every crease. "Always had a smile on his face, even at the end. But… he missed you. Talked about you all his life. Wondered how you were, if you were okay."
Something shifted in Bucky's expression. A flicker of sadness edged with something darker, more complicated. Guilt, maybe. Resentment.
She knew he'd told Steve to go back, to live his life, but she could imagine the bitterness that might still linger beneath the acceptance. Being left behind wasn't something you just… got over. Not really.
And then, like he'd physically closed a door on the thought, it was gone. His gaze returned to her, steady and searching, intense.
"You ok?"
"Yeah." Her mouth went dry, tongue thick. It hit her, abruptly and uncomfortably, that she had no idea what she'd meant to say once he got here. She hadn't even put any thought into what would happen next, what came after "come over." All she knew was that she had wanted to see him. Needed to, maybe.
Her mind scrambled desperately for something—anything—and before she could stop herself, before common sense could intervene, she blurted out, "Do you… want to grab dinner?"
The moment the words were out, she winced inwardly. It was nearly ten at night, and she sounded like she'd just asked him out on a real date. Like a teenager with a crush.
Bucky didn't seem to mind. In fact, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, genuine and warm, one that made him look younger for just a moment. Like the boy in her grandfather's stories again. "Yeah," he said easily, without hesitation. "I know a place."
By half past ten, they were standing in the warm, fluorescent glow of a corner bodega a few blocks away. The place smelled faintly of fresh bread and oregano, the quiet hum of the refrigerator cases filling the comfortable space.
The man behind the counter, a kindly older gentleman with a heavy Italian accent and hooded eyes, smiled warmly as he wrapped their sandwiches in white paper. His eyes crinkled as he glanced between them. "You make a lovely couple."
She froze mid-reach for her wallet, heat crawling instantly up her neck and flooding her cheeks. "Oh— we…we aren't dating," she stammered, her voice higher than usual, too quick. She kept her gaze firmly on the floor tiles, the scuffed linoleum, refusing to risk looking at Bucky's face and seeing his reaction.
"Nonsense," the man tutted with the absolute certainty of someone who thought they knew better. He tapped a finger knowingly on the register as he rang them up. "He looks at you like you have hung the moon, my dear. Like you are light."
Her heart did an uncomfortable flip, lurching sideways in her chest, and she swallowed hard, still not daring a glance in Bucky's direction. The silence that followed was heavy.
She finally risked a sideways look. Bucky's mouth was twitching, not quite a smile or a smirk, his gaze fixed on her with that same unreadable intensity that made it impossible to tell if he was amused or annoyed. He didn't respond to the man’s comment, didn't deny it or laugh it off. Instead, his hand closed over the wallet in her grasp, warm and firm even through the glove, pushing it gently but decisively back down toward her purse.
"I'm buying," he said, voice low and final, brooking no argument.
She opened her mouth to protest—she'd invited him, after all—but he cut the attempt short with a single look. Sharp, steady, and impossible to argue with. Without breaking eye contact, he pulled a couple of bills from his own wallet and handed them to the man behind the counter.
She bit the inside of her cheek hard and didn't speak again until they were outside, seated at a plastic table far too small for a man Bucky's size, his knees bumping the underside. The night air was cool against her flushed cheeks, and she busied herself with unwrapping her sandwich with more concentration than necessary before finally breaking the silence.
"If that guy knew you were over a century old," she said, her tone attempting casual but leaning a little too much on the sarcastic edge, deflecting, "I doubt he'd stand by his statement."
Bucky's brow furrowed slightly beneath the shadow of his cap as he looked at her, genuinely confused. "Which statement?"
She gave him a look of disbelief, surprised he was making her say it. "That we're dating, Buck."
His eyes lingered on her for a beat too long, something flickering in their depths, before he turned his attention back to peeling the wrapper from his sandwich. "Some people might be into that sort of thing in this era. Age gaps aren't as scandalous as they used to be."
She rolled her eyes, taking a bite to avoid responding immediately. "Feel like that was more of a thing in your era, grandpa. Wasn't it normal to marry sixteen-year-olds back then?"
"I was born in the 1910’s, not the Dark Ages, sweetheart," he said dryly, a hint of offense in his tone.
God, she hated when he called her that. Mostly because she couldn't stop the blush that crept up her neck every single time and the way her stomach flipped traitorously.
And now she was flustered. Because here he was, without question the most gorgeous man she had ever seen in her life —- sitting across from her at a plastic table outside a bodega, those startling blue eyes fixed on her like she was the only person in the world, like she mattered. Her. A girl a decade younger than him physically, whose only real claim to fame if she had one was her famous grandfather. And him—one of the world's most celebrated heroes despite a bloody, chaotic past that would haunt anyone else forever—a man with a vibranium arm who had endured more than anyone should, who'd been unmade and remade, and who had seen far too little of life's beauty and far too much of its cruelty.
So naturally, because she was apparently a glutton for punishment and had no sense of self-preservation, she decided to poke the bear.
"Have you been…you know, dating?"
Bucky stopped chewing instantly. His gaze snapped to her like she'd just asked him to commit a felony.
"Have I been… dating?" he repeated slowly, carefully, tasting each word like he wasn't sure if they belonged together in that order.
She felt like an idiot now. But there was no going back, no taking it back. Tapping her leg nervously under the table, she kept her voice as casual as she could manage. "Like, going on dates with women. Dinner, maybe a movie…or, you know, 'courting' or whatever—"
"Sweetheart, I know what dating is," Bucky said flatly, cutting her off. "And no. Not really. Went on one date a bit back, before the whole Flag Smashers mess with Sam. Didn't go very well. My fault, mostly."
"Oh," she mumbled, tearing at a piece of lettuce in her sandwich, suddenly finding it fascinating. "Well… maybe you should reach out again? Give her another shot. Second chances and all that."
Bucky's gaze stayed locked on her for a long, heavy moment that stretched unbearably. "I don't need to do that. I've met you."
It was like her brain short-circuited, all coherent thought evaporating. If there was a term for feeling like you were both on fire and drowning at the same time, suspended in impossible contradiction, she would have used it.
She nearly choked on her bite of sandwich but forced a small laugh, trying desperately to look relaxed instead of completely undone. "We aren't dating, Buck. I don't see how I factor into your love life."
Bucky tilted his head, studying her like she was the most interesting puzzle he had ever encountered, like he was trying to figure her out. "We aren't dating," he agreed, voice low, "but I'd rather focus my time on you."
She didn't trust herself to answer that directly, didn't dare ask him what he meant by that, so she went with the conversational equivalent of stepping sideways to avoid a collision. "So… how are you sleeping lately?"
Something flickered in his eyes at the abrupt transition—amusement, maybe—but he didn't comment on it, didn't call her out.
His shoulders shifted in the kind of shrug that said don't expect too much honesty, but his eyes gave him away. "Still hard to get through the night most nights," he admitted quietly. "Wake up more than I stay asleep. But… I like the group sessions. They help. More than I thought they would. More than I wanted them to."
"That's good," she said softly, leaning forward on her elbows, genuinely pleased. "Really good. I'm glad."
For a moment, they just sat there, the hum of the city filling in the silence between them. Distant sirens, someone's laughter, the rattle of a passing subway. Then she ventured, carefully, "What about the letters? Did you… read all of them?"
Bucky's mouth twitched. This time, a faint, genuine smile reached his eyes. "Yeah. I read 'em all. Every single one, multiple times. They helped a lot, more than I can explain. Gave me something I didn't think I'd ever get back."
"What's that?"
"Peace."
Her chest tightened painfully, and before she could stop herself, before she could think better of it, the words slipped out. "I still feel terrible he left you behind."
But Bucky just shook his head, calm and sure, no hesitation. "I don't. Not anymore." His gaze met hers, steady and warm in a way that made her stomach flip dangerously. "If he hadn't gone back, if he'd stayed, I would've never met you."
Something warm and overwhelming flared in her chest at his words.
Something she couldn't quite name through the haze of nerves and want and confusion.
She smiled at him, sweet and unguarded. Because she wanted to, because she couldn't help it. The rest of her sandwich sat forgotten on the wrapper, growing cold.
She didn't even have to ask him to walk her home. He did it like it was instinct, like there was never any question. When the night air made her shiver, goosebumps rising on her arms, he shrugged off his jacket without a word and draped it over her shoulders before she could protest.
She caught the faint trace of his cologne as she pulled it closer, wrapping herself in it. The same earthy musk and something sharper, the kind of scent that was undeniably, uniquely him. The sleeves hung loose and long, like she was a kid drowning in her father's coat.
Even in just his thermal shirt, the bulk of his arms was obvious. Corded muscle shifted beneath the fabric with every movement, powerful and controlled. Her gaze drifted to his gloves as they neared her building, the unsaid thought forming and reforming in her mind.
She toyed with it, weighing the right words, the right approach.
It wasn't until they reached her floor, standing in the too-bright hallway outside her door, that she finally blurted it out.
"You don't need to wear the gloves around me, you know."
Bucky froze mid-step, his whole body going still. He glanced at her sharply, surprise clear on his face. She met his eyes head-on, determined to read whatever emotion flickered across his usually carefully impassive face.
First came surprise, raw and unfiltered. Then the tight pull of anxiety. The flicker of fear. She watched his shoulders tense, his breathing pick up noticeably.
He didn't speak right away. Just blinked at her, clearly at a loss for words, for what to do with what she'd said. So she filled the silence herself, pushed through the tension.
"I know you wear them in public in general," she said softly, keeping her voice gentle. "And I know it's not about me specifically. But you don't need to hide yourself from the world. They don't get to decide who you are, or what you've been through, or what you're worth. And if that's too big of a step, if that feels impossible… maybe you could just start by taking them off when you're with me."
Still, he said nothing. Just looked at her with those piercing eyes, a quiet storm raging behind the blue. Like he was bracing for her to laugh, or take it back, or reveal it was some kind of cruel test. And in that moment, she saw what her grandfather must have seen all those years ago when the Winter Soldier's mask was first ripped away.
Fear of himself. The shame, the certainty that he was something monstrous.
She did what she would have wanted someone to do for her. What felt right. She reached for his hand.
She heard his sharp inhale, felt it in the air between them, before she felt the tension in his body when her fingers wrapped gently around his left hand. The vibranium one. A faint tremor ran through him, and she wasn't sure if her own hands looked steadier than they felt, betraying her nerves. But he didn't pull away. He just stood there, breathing slow and heavy, measured, as she held on.
Carefully—watching him closely, waiting for any sign of retreat or panic—she began to peel the glove from his hand.
He didn't stop her.
The glove slipped free and fell between them, forgotten the moment it hit the floor. She took in the arm she had only seen in news footage and grainy photographs, but up close it was something else entirely. Sleek and intricate, Wakandan black threaded with veins of gold that caught the light, like molten sunlight trapped in metal. The faint hum of hidden mechanics vibrated against her palm, each twitch of his fingers carrying an understated strength that felt both dangerous and impossibly, yet carefully gentle.
"It's beautiful," she murmured, tracing the lines with her eyes before looking up, wanting to see him in this moment.
His jaw was tight, clenched hard, like he didn't know what to do with her words, how to process them. He didn't look away — just kept his gaze locked on hers, as if he was afraid to blink and she would disappear.
When her fingers slid between his, lacing together, he let out a slow, almost imperceptible breath that sounded like relief. The plates under her touch shifted minutely as his grip tightened, careful but sure, like he was testing just how much pressure she could take, how much of himself he could give.
"Can you feel things with it?" she asked quietly, curiosity genuine.
He hesitated, his brow knitting before he answered. "I can tell when something's hard or soft. Textures. I can sense pressure when something's there. But it's… not the same as my actual hand. Not even close. It's muted."
She gave his fingers a deliberate squeeze, firm and real. "Different doesn't mean worse. And I'm not afraid of it, Bucky. I'm not afraid of you."
His eyes softened, the faintest flicker of something—gratitude, relief—crossing his face. The way he was looking at her sent shivers cascading down her spine, made her breath catch.
And for a moment, maybe longer than a moment, she forgot who he was. His connection to her grandfather, his age, his past, the bodies, the blood. For now, he was just a man standing outside her door, holding her hand like it was something precious and fragile.
He stepped closer, blue eyes darkening until they were nearly black in the dim hallway light. She could taste his breath, mint and coffee, feel the faint heat radiating from him like a furnace. His gaze traced over her face with aching slowness, lingering—her hand in his, her lips, the curve of her jaw—before returning to her eyes.
Her pulse thundered in her neck, loud and insistent in her ears. If he just tilted his head, just leaned one more inch forward, his mouth would be on hers.
And she realized, his metal hand like fire against her skin, that she wanted that. She wanted him to kiss her.
Down the hall, a door opened suddenly. The sharp sound sliced through the silence like a knife.
And the moment shattered.
Bucky blinked, like he'd been jarred from a trance, pulled back from somewhere far away. He cleared his throat roughly, stepping back, putting distance between them. The magnetic pull between them snapped.
Much to her abrupt disappointment, he let go of her hand. Slowly. As if he hadn't even realized he'd been holding it.
"I… should go. It's late," he said, his voice pitched rough. It sounded like he was talking more to himself than to her. "I had a good night. With you. A really good time."
The words were warm, sincere, but they didn't stop the disappointment from settling heavy and cold in her chest. She dropped her gaze to her feet, not trusting her expression, not wanting him to see. She didn't want him to see the truth written plainly in her eyes.
That she hadn't wanted the night to end there. That she wanted more.
He stepped back another pace, boots scuffing the worn hallway floor, but didn't turn right away. Instead, his eyes flicked over her face like he was memorizing it, committing every detail to memory. Then he moved toward the stairwell door, his movements reluctant.
His hand was already on the knob when he stopped. He didn't look at her at first, just let out a slow breath that she felt more than heard.
"I don’t… wear the gloves because of what people think," he said finally, voice quiet but steady.
His gaze found hers again, and there was something raw there. Vulnerable. "I wore them around you because I didn't want to scare you."
Her chest tightened, ached.
"You wouldn't," she murmured, the words instinctive and true.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then he gave a small nod, like he'd been hoping to hear that.
"Goodnight, sweetheart," he said softly, and this time he left without looking back.
Her mind was a mess the whole night. She turned over every moment of their interaction, every word said and unsaid, every look, every touch. Sleep was impossible.
He looks at you like you have hung the moon, my dear.
I doubt he'd stand by his statement.
Which statement?
.
.
.
When Sam called her the week after, inviting her for a night out with the group, she initially wanted to politely decline. Because she knew Bucky was part of "the group," and while everything had been perfectly normal between them since that night together—surface-level normal, anyway—she still couldn't shake the nerves she'd developed around him, the hyperawareness that made her pulse jump whenever he was near.
He'd picked her up for work on Monday glove-free, and while she'd noticed it immediately—it was impossible not to—she didn't mention it. And he didn't mention anything about the moment they'd shared outside her door, the hand-holding, the almost-kiss that still played on repeat in her mind at night. Just resumed business as usual. He continued to walk her to and from work with easy silence, picked up coffee without being asked, and sat in on the group sessions.
So she didn't bring it up either. As much as she wanted to. As much as the words sat heavy on her tongue every time they were alone.
But was there even anything to bring up? All they'd done was hold hands for a moment, really. Something she'd done in middle school during lunch period with her first boyfriend. And here she was, a grown adult, holding hands again and thinking it meant something. Obsessing over it like a teenager.
She couldn't say no to Sam, though, despite her reservations and the anxiety coiling in her stomach at the implications. So she confirmed that she would be there, at the dive bar he'd named with infectious excitement.
The place was tucked into the corner of a block that hadn't seen a fresh coat of paint in years, maybe decades. The wooden sign out front hung crooked on its rusted chain, its neon beer logo flickering in and out like it was barely clinging to life. Inside, the air smelled faintly of old wood, spilled whiskey, and decades of cigarette smoke that had seeped into every surface. A jukebox in the corner warbled a classic rock song, something by Springsteen, over the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses.
She could see why Sam and Bucky would like the place. Typical guy bar.
She spotted them right away. Sam leaning back in a worn leather booth near the wall, next to a young man about her age she didn't recognize, grinning broadly as soon as he saw her. Bucky sat opposite him, shoulders relaxed but posture alert. His head turned when Sam's gaze shifted toward her, and a small smile tugged at his lips. It was so subtle most people would miss it, but she'd learned to read the minute movement in his cheeks, the softening around his eyes.
"Hey, you made it!" Sam called over the noise, waving her over.
Bucky's reaction was quieter, more contained. His eyes tracked her as she wove through the crowd, his expression neutral despite the whisper of a smile on his lips in that way she was starting to recognize as deliberate control. When she reached the booth, Sam gestured enthusiastically at the spot next to Bucky.
The space next to him was open, waiting. Her heart beat a hair faster as she slid in, hyper-conscious of every movement.
"Long time no see, kiddo," Sam teased, nudging her shoulder once she settled.
She sighed dramatically, shaking her head in mock displeasure. "What is it with everyone calling me 'kid'? I'm a functioning adult with a nonprofit."
Bucky said nothing, but she could feel the awareness of him beside her. The heat of his body, the way you feel fire without looking at it, the magnetic pull. She deliberately kept her thigh from brushing his, maintaining a careful inch of space.
"That's 'cause you are one," Sam noted with a knowing grin, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Both of you, actually."
He gestured at the young man sitting across from them—Hispanic, military-sharp haircut, fit build, and grinning like a kid meeting his heroes for the first time. "This is Joaquin Torres. Joaquin, meet—"
"Oh, c'mon man! I know who she is," Joaquin beamed, practically vibrating with excitement as he leaned across to shake her hand enthusiastically. "Pleasure to meet you, ma'am. Sam and Bucky have talked a lot about you."
Bucky grumbled something under his breath that she couldn't quite catch, but it sounded distinctly like a warning.
"Nice to meet you, Joaquin. Are you… the new Falcon?" she asked, genuinely curious.
Joaquin's chest puffed up like he'd just been knighted. Sam groaned dramatically.
"Don't get him started," Sam huffed, but there was affection in his exasperation. "Coming from a pretty girl like you? He's never gonna shut up. Ever."
"C'mon, dude, give me some credit," Joaquin chuckled, but his grin said otherwise. "But seriously…did you hear that from Sam or did you see a cool news clip? Maybe a TikTok edit? Please tell me it was a TikTok edit."
Bucky's voice cut through the table like a blade, quiet but stern. "Leave her alone, Torres. She's not here to feed your ego."
She laughed, a warm counter to Bucky's gruffness, trying to lighten the sudden tension. "It's fine, Buck. Really. If I were the new Falcon, I'd be just as excited. It's a big deal." She leaned toward Joaquin conspiratorially. "Saw you and Sam take down that cartel on the news the other week. You guys did great, really impressive work."
Joaquin looked like he might actually faint, stars in his eyes. Sam shook his head with a smirk. "Oh, he's gonna marry you now. Especially if he finds out who your grandfather is."
Bucky's head snapped toward Sam with frightening speed, his voice sharper than before, cutting. "Don't."
Her brows lifted slightly at his tone, at the edge of real warning there. "It's okay," she said gently, turning to him, catching his eyes. "I don't mind if he knows. It's not a secret if he’s an Avenger."
Bucky stared at her for a long moment, his jaw ticking visibly before he finally looked away, tension radiating from his shoulders.
With Torres looking between all of them in growing confusion, Sam didn't waste the opportunity. "Torres, buddy, turns out our girl here's the granddaughter of a certain Captain America. The original."
Joaquin froze completely, then looked at her like he'd just been handed the keys to a vintage Ferrari and told it was his. "No way. Nope. That's it. I'm in love. When's the wedding?"
She laughed along with Sam as Joaquin clasped his chest in exaggerated mock devotion, playing it up. Beside her, Bucky stayed quiet. His jaw was set hard, his arm resting on the back of the booth behind her, close but not touching, the faintest shadow in his eyes even as the others joked and laughed.
Bucky's shift was subtle, but she caught it, and had been watching for it. The faint smirk he'd been wearing earlier flattened completely, his shoulders going rigid like someone had just flipped a switch inside him, shutting down something warm. He didn't even glance at Sam this time—his eyes stayed on Joaquin, mouth set in a hard scowl.
Sam caught her eye across the table and raised his brows in that way friends would do when silently trying to communicate something important. She didn't know if it was a warning, a tease, or both. She frowned at him in confusion.
"What?" she murmured under her breath, leaning slightly toward Sam.
Sam just gave her a faint, knowing smirk before looking away, taking a deliberate sip of his drink.
When she turned back to Bucky, she saw the faint tick in his jaw again, the clear tension in his neck. "You could try being less of a storm cloud," she said quietly, half-joking but half-serious too.
"I'm not a storm cloud," Bucky muttered without looking at her, eyes still fixed on Torres.
She arched her brow. "You kinda are right now. Very brooding and thunderous."
That earned her a sideways glance. Brief, but loaded.
"Maybe I just don't like watching Torres audition for a rom-com," he grunted, voice low.
She huffed, shaking her head, fighting a smile. "He's harmless, Buck. Excited. You don't have to act like he's trying to steal nuclear codes or kidnap me."
That got the smallest twitch of his mouth, the ghost of amusement, but it vanished almost immediately. She rolled her eyes and decided to let him stew if he wanted to be stubborn.
"I'm getting a drink," she announced, pushing up from the booth with purpose.
Sam's gaze followed her with that same faint, loaded expression before he turned back to Bucky, clearly ready to poke the bear the absolute second she was out of earshot. She would happily stay out of that one.
The bar top was dimly lit, scarred wood that had seen decades of use. The walls were even lined with faded neon beer signs advertising brands she wasn’t even sure existed anymore. She ordered something simple—vodka soda—the ice clinking pleasantly in the glass as the bartender slid it her way.
She took a slow sip, trying to ignore the nagging question looping relentlessly in her head: What was Bucky's deal tonight?
He was usually grumpy in public, sure—standoffish with strangers, slow to warm up—but tonight, he was different. Off. Especially around Joaquin, his mood souring faster than she had ever seen before. Did it have anything to do with their night out? That quiet, hand-holding moment they'd both were carefully avoiding mentioning?
She was so deep in her own thoughts that she didn’t register a man sliding up beside her at the bar until he leaned in too close, making sure he was in eyeshot. "Haven't seen you here before," he said. She fought the urge to close her eyes in distaste. His tone already carried a presumption that she owed him attention and she had the feeling he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
"I'm just here with friends," she replied evenly, not unkind but not inviting more, keeping her eyes forward.
He didn't take the hint. She watched his eyes run down her frame slowly out of her peripheral, something lighting in his expression that made her stomach churn with instinctive disgust. "Well, your friends can wait. Pretty girl like you shouldn't be standing here alone at the bar."
"I'm fine, thanks buddy." She shifted her stance and gripped her glass tighter, shoulders squaring. Tried to scream with her body language that the conversation was over. At least, she hoped that was what he gathered from her complete lack of interest.
His voice dipped sharper, ugly. "Don't have to be a bitch about it."
His hand suddenly clamped around her arm without warning, fingers digging in just enough to hurt, to send a flash of alarm up her spine. She barely had time to react or even process what was happening, before she heard rapid movement behind her and the sound of heavy boots closing in fast.
In less than a second, Bucky was there.
He slammed the man chest-first against the bar top with brutal efficiency, his metal hand wrapped around the guy's throat, pressing hard enough to cut off air, making the man gasp and choke instantly. The entire room seemed to freeze at the sight, conversations dying mid-sentence.
Bucky's expression was nothing short of murderous. His eyes were like shards of ice, cold and deadly. Every line of him radiated lethal intent barely contained. It would have been a stunning sight if she wasn’t the cause of it.
"Don't touch her, you son of a bitch," Bucky hissed, digging his vibranium hand further into the man's neck. The plates in his palm whirred softly as their mechanics moved, the only sound apart from the man's desperate gasping and the creak of wood beneath him as he struggled.
She heard Sam and Joaquin stand quickly. Sam moved closer but didn’t intervene, posture deliberately relaxed with his hands idle in his pockets.
She sucked in a sharp breath, grabbing Sam's arm when he stopped beside her. "You're not going to stop him?"
Sam's face was serious, but there was an unmistakable spark of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Nah. He's not gonna kill him. I've seen Buck actually trying to kill someone…this ain't it. Besides, I'm not the kind of guy to step in on another man protecting his girl."
Her head whipped toward him, eyes wide with shock. Something churned in her gut at his words. "Sam, we aren't—"
"Oh, but you will be," Sam cut in knowingly, leaning down so only she could hear over the noise. "Thought I didn't notice? Both of you? White Panther over there is head over heels for you. Has been since day one. It's honestly painful to watch at this point, all this pining."
She stared at him, her pulse skipping. Her brain was barely processing the words, struggling to catch up with the reality of it all. She had no words for once — all she could muster up was something that sounded like a mix of a scoff and a wheeze.
Sam's grin widened, clearly enjoying himself. "Tell me, does he do the staring thing with you too? That intense, unblinking thing where he looks at you like he’s X-raying your insides?"
She opened her mouth, but again, nothing came out. Sam just looked far too pleased at the response, like he'd been waiting weeks to say this.
The sound of the man's choking dragged her attention back to reality. He was still struggling desperately against Bucky's iron grip, voice raspy and terrified when he finally managed to croak out, "C'mon… man… I'm sorry. Didn't… know she was with—"
"Shut up," Bucky snarled, low and venomous, voice like gravel. His jaw was locked tight, his entire body coiled like a spring. She had never seen him like this, terrifying in a way that made the air feel heavier, dangerous enough that every person nearby had gone completely silent.
"Apologize to her," he ordered, pressing harder against the man's throat. His eyes were like blue fire, burning.
The man instantly wheezed out a hoarse, pathetic, "Sorry—"
"Louder."
The man's eyes went wide with panic, real fear. He coughed out a second, much louder apology, voice shaking with terror. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
Only then did Bucky release him, letting him crumple forward against the bar. The man stumbled back immediately, clutching his throat, gasping for air before scrambling toward the door without looking back, nearly tripping over his own feet.
Bucky let out a heavy breath, flexing his metal hand slowly as the plates shifted, before he turned to her. His chest rose and fell fast, fury still smoldering visibly in his expression, but his gaze swept over her like a careful scan—checking for injury, for fear, for any sign she was hurt.
She just stared at him, probably still looking dumbstruck. She had no idea what to think, what to do, how to process what just happened. All she could hear was Sam's words ringing in her ears on repeat.
Head over heels for you. Has been since day one.
Bucky's blue eyes locked onto her own. The fire faded gradually, burning down, turning into something softer. Something warmer. Purer.
She recognized it. She had seen it in his eyes before, she realized with startling clarity. She had seen it so many times before—when her grandfather looked at her grandmother in old photographs, in her memories of them together. And now, it clicked.
Which statement?
She was an idiot. It had been in front of her this whole time, so obvious she had been blind to it.
The air around them was electric, thick with the echo of what just happened, with Bucky's ragged breathing settling back into stillness. He was still riding the wave of his own fury, but as the tension dissipated, his gaze relaxed just enough to break into concern.
"You okay?" His voice was gravel, edged with barely contained anger still simmering beneath the surface.
She didn't answer. Couldn't. The mix of adrenaline, shock, and something far more dangerous was coursing through her too fast for coherent words.
"Damn, Barnes," Sam drawled from behind them, the smirk unmistakable in his voice. "Didn't know you had it in you to make public service announcements like that. Very dramatic."
She barely heard him. Her pulse was pounding in her ears, deafening. Without thinking, she stepped forward, grabbed Bucky's wrist, the metal one, and muttered, "Come with me."
He frowned, taken off guard, surprised. "What—"
But he didn't resist as she tugged him past the crowd, past Sam's knowing look and raised eyebrows, past Torres's confused expression, toward the back hallway.
They reached the single-person bathroom, and she shoved the door open, pulling him inside before locking it firmly behind them with shaking hands.
Bucky blinked, still catching up, still processing. "What are you—"
She didn't give him a chance to finish. In one sharp movement, fueled by adrenaline and clarity, she pushed him back against the wall, her hands curling tight into the fabric of his shirt.
His eyes widened in genuine surprise, just for a moment, before her mouth crashed against his.
The kiss was messy, heated, reckless—a clash of lips and tongue. He froze for a beat, stunned, but then his hands found her waist immediately, one warm and one cold, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them, until she could feel every hard line of him against her.
Pleasure flared within her immediately, hot and demanding. He tasted like the beer he'd been drinking and something sharper, more distinctively him. The taste of him was intoxicating, something so undeniably sweet it made her dizzy.
Her breath hitched sharply when his metal fingers flexed against her hip, careful and controlled, his other hand sliding up her back like he couldn't decide whether to anchor her there or drag her impossibly closer. Like he was fighting the want to consume her.
Her back hit the cold tile as he reversed them without warning, caging her in with one arm braced above her head, the other still gripping her hip like he was afraid she'd disappear if he loosened his hold. His mouth left hers just long enough for a ragged inhale, his forehead finding a pillow against her own.
"What are you doing?" he asked, voice hoarse and rough, shaking slightly. But he didn't move back, didn't put distance between them.
She swallowed hard, her pulse rattling violently in her throat. "Testing a theory."
That was the truth. She didn't know why she'd dragged him in here, didn't know why her body had made the decision for her before her brain could catch up—but she knew the feeling of him holding her like this was making her dizzy in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with want.
He searched her face like he was trying to find the answer for himself, his breath hot against her cheek, pupils blown wide.
"Testing a—" His voice broke slightly, rough and strained, his grip on her hip tightening unconsciously. "You shouldn't. Not with me. I'm… not… enough for you. You're too good, too sweet, too—"
"Bucky…" She meant it to be a warning, maybe even a plea to stop talking, but it came out softer, breathier, almost like an invitation.
Something in his expression cracked, the last thread of restraint snapping audibly. His mouth was on hers again, deeper this time. Almost desperate, devouring her with a passion that felt unbridled. She clutched the front of his shirt, dragging him closer until his body was pressed flush against hers, until she could feel his heart hammering against her own chest.
Every inhale was shared, every sound they made swallowed into the charged space between them. Her head tipped back against the wall, and he followed the motion immediately, his lips brushing down her jaw to the rapid thrum of her pulse at her throat.
The heat between them was overwhelming, an intoxicating mix of want that she couldn’t put into words if she tried. Her senses were overrun by pleasure, his touch alone short-circuiting any tangible thought she could muster.
He caught himself then, just barely. She watched him pull back enough to look at her again, chest heaving, as if needing to confirm she still wanted this. That this was real and not some sort of fever dream.
He studied her intently, like he was trying to memorize every detail of her face. "You shouldn't… we shouldn't," his voice frayed at the edges, his grip tightening. "You don't know what you're asking for."
Her lips parted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I think I do."
Something in his eyes broke then, the restraint giving way to something darker, more primal. His mouth crashed back to hers, almost desperate, the kind of kiss that burned straight through bone, through reason.
She gasped into him, and he took the sound like he'd been starving for it, pressing her harder into the wall. His hands traced her waist, her back, her ribs, as if he was trying to brand the shape of her into memory. Learn every curve, every divot. She was doing the same to him, running her hands along any part of his body she could reach. The corded muscles in his forearms, the strain underneath his biceps as he gripped her. He felt heavenly, like he’d been carved out of marble and chiseled to perfection.
When they finally broke apart, both gasping for air, she kept her gaze locked on his. His eyes were dark, nearly black with want, and the sight made her shiver.
"Sam told me you've been… attracted to me. Wanted me, liked me—whatever word you want to use." Her voice trembled, not from fear but from the way his breath brushed her lips, the way he was looking at her. "I wanted to… find out for myself if it was true."
Bucky's expression didn't waver. The hunger in his eyes didn't fade even slightly. If anything, his grip tightened, pulling her even closer, eliminating the last molecule of space between them. "Sam's got a big mouth."
She almost laughed, but the sound caught in her throat when his thumb brushed along her jaw with devastating gentleness. The gesture was so gentle, so reverent, so at odds with the intensity of moments before. "Is Sam's big mouth telling the truth?"
His eyes flickered. Desire tangled with something heavier, more complicated. "I fell for you the second I came to your office," he admitted, voice rough and raw. "And when you walked away from me that first time, brushed me off, I knew it. Knew I was in trouble. Knew I wanted you in a way I had no right to. And the more I got to know you, the worse it got. Every conversation, every walk, every smile."
He paused, jaw flexing. "At first, I tried to kill it. Bury it. You're Steve's blood. His legacy. You're… young. Too young for someone like me, someone with my past." His throat bobbed. "I felt guilty as hell. Still do, if I'm being honest."
Her chest ached at the emotion in his voice, at the way he looked at her like he'd already memorized every inch of her but was still afraid he'd somehow ruin her.
She leaned in, close enough that her words brushed his lips. "I'm not too young for you. And I'm not Steve. Whatever rules you think apply, they don't here. Not with me."
Bucky sighed heavily, reaching up to cup her cheek in his hand—the flesh one, warm and calloused. She understood the hesitation. His dead best friend's granddaughter, almost a decade younger than him physically, a lifetime younger in experience. So she continued, needing him to understand. "You don't need to feel guilty. And neither should I. We're both adults. We both want this."
Bucky exhaled sharply, his metal fingers flexing against her hip like he was trying to let her go but couldn't quite bring himself to, couldn't quite make himself step back. She saw the battle play out clearly in his eyes. Duty versus want, guilt versus satisfaction.
"You don't know what you're asking for," he said, voice low and strained, almost pleading. "Steve… he was my best friend. My brother. And you're his granddaughter. Hell, I shouldn't have even looked twice at you. Shouldn't have let myself get close."
His jaw tightened visibly, but then his eyes softened almost painfully. "But the truth is…I didn't stand a chance. The second I saw you, I was done for. And every damn day since has just made it worse. Your laugh, your smile, the way you look at me…you're perfect in ways I can't even put into words. And it kills me how much I want you when I know I shouldn't."
She pressed closer, sliding her hands up the hard planes of his chest until they hooked behind his neck, fingers threading through his short locks. "Then stop killing yourself over it. I'm not some fragile little thing you need to protect from yourself, Barnes. And I'm certainly not going to go tattling to my grandfather’s ghost about this."
That earned the smallest smirk from him, a flash of humor. "Pretty sure he'd still find a way to punch me. Come back from the dead just for that."
"Then he can get in line," she shot back, her voice dipping into a whisper that sent heat rushing between them like wildfire. "Because you've kept me waiting long enough."
Something in him broke then. Snapped like a cable under too much tension. His hand slid up her back, pressing her flush against the wall as his mouth finally crashed against hers again. The kiss was hungry, yet revenant, all of his careful restraint burning away in a single instant.
Her fingers gripped his hair, pulling him closer, swallowing the groan that rumbled deep in his chest. When they finally broke for air, both breathing hard, his lips still brushed against hers as he murmured, "You have no idea what you've started."
She grinned against his mouth, breathless and reckless. "Guess you'll have to show me."
And then his mouth was on hers again, rougher this time, more demanding. And she knew he had every intention of making good on his promise.
✦Read on a03!✦
✦Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist✦
✦pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!reader✦
✦summary: All you wanted in a roommate was someone not insane, who didn't shift anything in your life who didn't drive you out of your mind. You didn't get either of those things.
You got Bucky Barnes instead.✦
✦warnings/tags: roommates, enemies to friends to lovers, insecurity, jealousy, angst, fluff, pining, shameless smut (fingering, slight body worship, dirty talk, nipple play, softdom!bucky), no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: I'm trying something. Enjoy!✦
“Do you… have any pets?”
The man across from you blinks slowly, then shakes his head. He hasn’t said much at all, despite this being an interview.
But the last girl had asked some very explicit questions about your sex life. Specifically if you were open to threesomes, and—if not—if you’d be really chill about them happening in the living room.
Then there has been the guy who told you that you shouldn’t fall in love with him—despite looking and sounding like the human version of Mickey Mouse—the girl who grabbed your palm and started crying because apparently you were going to be in grave danger by the end of the month, and the couple who told you they were professional Youtubers, but when you looked them up after they seemed to be airing on the aspiring side. The guy had made you sit for twenty minutes to listen to his podcast, and the girl had told you she’d leave him for you in a second before they left.
So quiet isn’t great.
It’s far better than your other options.
And this guy seems sane enough. He hasn’t tried to sleep with you. He doesn’t look like the type to have a podcast. He’s just been staring at you from the couch, sitting a little straighter than you’ve ever seen, his resting causal on his legs. Jeans, hoodie and leather jacket, boots that he’d wiped on the mat before coming inside.
Gloves.
It’s not that cold outside, but he’s wearing gloves. And there’s something about his face that seems familiar, but he might just be that kind of pretty.
He is pretty.
Which doesn’t matter, because you’re interviewing for a roommate and not a boyfriend, but it’s still nice. Especially if, barring he says something that makes you think he’s a serial killer, he’s probably about to be your new roommate.
“What do you do for work?” You ask, tapping your pen against your knee, and his eyes flick to the motion before he responds.
“I clean things up. For people.”
You tilt your head at him. “Like a janitor?”
He huffs a low laugh, and shrugs. “Sure.”
“Sure? Or you are a janitor?”
“I’m like a janitor.”
“So what are you actually?” You raise your brows, and he sighs.
“I clean up bigger messes. Me and my… friends. We take care of things that important people fuck up.”
Fucking Christ, he is a murder. “So you’re a hitman.”
He frowns. “I didn’t say that, doll-“
“You’re either a hitman or a janitor…” you glance down at his application. “James. So which is it.”
James stares at you for a long moment, and it feels like he’s seeing into you. It makes your skin buzz and your legs feel kind of soft, and you’re definitely leaning hitman because a janitor would never need to learn how to make you fold with only a look. It could just be that his eyes are a really clear shade of blue, and it reminds you of summertime.
It’s probably that you’re interviewing a hitman, and you just called him out on being a hitman, and now he’s going to fucking kill you-
“You got my name, on that paper?”
You blink at him. “Yes?”
“Look at it again.”
You hold his gaze, trying to figure out if this is some kind of trick, and he’s going to stab you while you look at the paper. But James just raises his brows and nods to the paper, and you chew on your lower lip, bracing yourself to run, just in case.
He doesn’t try to kill you, as you scan over his application again. James just waits, patiently and when you glance back up at him, his expression is so neutral you’d think he was a statue.
You’d read the application before. You don’t know what he’s expecting you to find. James Buchanan Barnes, previous address somewhere a few blocks away, checked the veteran box, born March 10th, 1917, fairly average income but a good credit score when you’d run his social-
Born in 1917.
You look up at him, gaping and wide eyed, and there’s a twitch to his lips. You’d think he meant 1971, but even then, he doesn’t really look older than his mid-thirties. And he’s staring at you like he expected that reaction.
“Are you a hundred years old?”
“Hundred and six.” He shrugs, still looking vaguely amused. “You ever take a history class?”
You scowl. “Of course I’ve taken a history class-“
“They do a unit on world war two?”
“Of course they-“ You cut yourself off, looking back down to the application. James Buchanan Barnes. He’s a veteran. He’s old, but doesn’t look old, and he and his buddy clean up messes.
You feel like a fucking idiot. You watch the news. You have a subscription to the New York Times that you never fucking read, but you glance at the front page of. It’s not your fault his hair is different, and you also don’t expect superheroes to just walk into your apartment for interviews. You’d always imagined they just had a I’ve saved the world card that they can pull out and flash to get what they need. And-
“Don’t you have a tower?” You blurt, starting to shred the edge of his application paper. “Like, in Manhattan? That’s free?”
“Yep.” James shrugs, watching you carefully. “But if I keep livin’ with John stealing all the food and Valentina ambushing me for staged dates, I’m gonna jump off the roof.”
You frown. “Staged dates?”
“Apparently I need to be more personable.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“Okay, well- Would you actually live here-“
“Yes.”
“And am I going to get a bunch of… super-people trying to get into my apartment. Because I was in the city for the battle of New York, and the Blip, and the Void- Which- Thank you for your service? But I’d really rather just not have that.” You gesture to yourself, and James is looking more amused by the second. “Here.”
“No super people.” He says. “They don’t know I’m doin’ this yet.”
“And when you move out?”
“I’ll make sure they don’t bother you.”
You swallow, and there’s an option to tell him to look somewhere else. That he seems like an okay guy, and this isn’t about the Winter Solider thing, but that you’d just rather not be anywhere near superheroes and the mess they bring.
But it’s either this, or aspiring Youtubers.
And he really is pretty.
It helps.
“Okay.” You take a deep breath, looking back to your list of questions. “Do you drink, smoke, or use any other narcotic substances?”
James shakes his head, and you can still feel his gaze, searing over your skin. “No. They don’t work on me.”
“Because you’re… old?”
“Because of the serum.”
“Oh. Right.” You kind of feel like you have a fever. He needs to stop looking at you. “Good. That’s it, I think. I’ll call you after I look at all the applicants.”
“Alright.” James pauses. “If the superhero thing is a problem-“
“It’s not. I just, um-“ You clear your throat, and his eyes are really blue. “I need to think about it.”
He nods, pushing off the couch and offering out his hand. “Thank you for your time, even if you decide you don’t want any part of it.” He gives you a tight smile. “Can’t say I’d blame you. There’s a reason I’m tryin’ to get away from it.”
You feel kind of dizzy, so you just nod, and shake his hand. He’s using the normal one—you can feel the soft skin and muscled through the glove—and you can’t stop yourself from glancing at the metal one.
“It’s safe.” He says, and you flush.
“I- I know. Sorry-“
“Don’t worry about it.” He takes a step back, and your hand feels like it’s been electrified, but that might just be the nerves. “Have a good day, ma’am.”
“Don’t-“ You wrinkle your nose before you can stop yourself. “You can just use my name.”
James nods, echoing it back to you. “Have a good day.”
“You as well.” You’re still shredding his application between your fingers. You might be about to throw up. “I- Bye.”
His lips twitch again, and he dips his head. “Bye.”
James leaves, and you take a deep, long breath.
Maybe you can sneak in a clause that any superhero stuff means the lease is broken, so you don’t get pulled into all that. But it’s not like you’re rich in alternatives anyway, and he seems like the kind of guy to clean up after himself, and he didn’t try to hit on you once.
You can have him as a roommate.
It’s not the stupidest thing you’ve ever done. You’ll probably never really see him, because he’ll still work at the Watchtower.
It’ll be a nice story, when you’re seventy and have grandchildren, asking if you knew any superheroes. And you’re not prime kidnapping material, because you’d just start crying and you don’t know anything.
You really don’t have that many other options.
So James Barnes is going to be your roommate.
———
He moves in fast. About ten boxes that he carries up himself, one delivery of an Ikea bed frame and dresser that he somehow builds by himself in a single afternoon, and a rug that he carries up by himself. He doesn’t even really speak to you, he doesn’t keep that much food in the fridge, and he shower really fast in the morning, so you still get hot water.
You don’t see him that much, either. After about three days, you realize he’s pretty much always gone before you get up, and back after you go to bed. It’s like you’re still living by yourself, only there’s now a vague smell of leather and pine trees in the living room, a motorcycle parked next to your car, and your rent is cut in half. You see him maybe two times in the first week overall. Once when you get up extra early, and once when he comes home suddenly around four pm, grabs something from his room, and leaves with barely a glance in your direction.
At first, it’s perfect.
Then the second week hits. And James is still never home.
But his presence is everywhere.
You’re not the neatest person. Clothing ends up on the floor of your room, and dishes can pile in the sink. There’s no obvious method to the madness of your fridge or living room, but you understand it. Everything is in its place, and its place may seem insane to anyone else, but it makes perfect sense to you. Nothing ever gets lost, because you know exactly where to find it.
Your keys go under the same jacket every morning. You always pick it up, shove them in your pocket, and shrug the jacket on as you walk out the door.
But you go to grab them, and they’re gone.
The jacket, and your keys.
A lump quickly builds in your throat. You could take a bus to work, but then you’d have to leave the apartment unlocked. Plus your keyring has the keys to your office, and if you don’t have those you’re going to have to beg for a copy from admin, and they’ll yell at you for losing them in the first place. You work for a non-profit, and you really doubt anyone is going to try and steal soup receipts, but they’re still going to yell at you, and you’ll start crying, and it’s going to fucking suck.
You need your keys.
And you rip up half the apartment before you find them.
Your jacket had been hung on the wall, and there’s a new little shelf that has a tiny bowl. A key bowl. It’s cute.
You’re going to be fifteen minutes late for work.
It will be fine. You’ll tell your boss that you just ran into worse traffic than usual, and you’re almost always early, so she’ll let it slide. You’ll ask James not to move things without telling you, the next time you see him, or just text him if he keeps barely actually living in the apartment.
Overall, it’s not even the worst thing about the day, because you go out on a date with a guy your friend introduced you to, and he tries to get you to chain smoke with him.
But it only gets worse from there.
You forget to text James. Between the date, being overflowed with work, and putting back everything you’d torn apart in your frantic search, it just slips through the cracks.
So it doesn’t stop.
The cleaning.
Something is in a new spot, every time you step into the living room. You’re not sure he ever sleeps, because if he did there’s no fucking way he’d have the time to do all this. The dishes are all cleaned and in a neat order. The fridge has been classified by food group. He got coasters instead of napkins, and he fixed the broken cabinet hinge, and there’s no more dust on the floor, and all the towels in the bathroom are color-coded. You feel like you’re living in a fucking hotel.
It needs to stop.
You keep forgetting to text him. The only time you see him is after you get back from another failed date, and you’re too tired to yell at him, so you just stumble past him with a grumble and slam the door to your room. When you wake up in the morning, coffee is already waiting for you, and this feels like a waking nightmare.
James must think you’re a fucking mess. A disaster of a woman, who can’t clean, can’t organize, can’t take care of herself enough to make her own coffee. You’d seen the frown on his face when you’d kicked off your heels and tossed your jacket onto the couch. You know you hadn’t looked your best—you’d walked home in the rain, and your hair was stuck to your face and lipstick smeared with your too-small dress clinging to your body—but it had been a shit date. The guy had asked how many kids you wanted, and when you said you weren’t sure, he’d told you that you’d have six.
“Six?” You’d laughed, swirling the wine in your glass. It was easier to play that type of comment as a joke. “That’s gonna hurt.”
“You’ll get through it.” He’d shrugged, winking at you. “You’ve got birthing hips.”
You’d left early. He’d tried to stop you, and you’d punched him in the face because you can take care of yourself.
So this cleaning you up shit is going to end, now. You’re not a pet project. And James doesn’t get to just barrel into your life, move everything around, and then never even fucking talk to you.
You stay up, tonight. It’s a Saturday, and you’re talking to him, whether he likes it or not.
The door clicks open after midnight, and you stand up, rubbing your eyes. You’d only managed not to fall asleep with coffee and a lot of alarms, and every nerve in your body feels wired to snap. You don’t know why the fuck he’d been out so late—it’s Saturday, and if it’s superhero stuff he should have just stayed with the other New Avenger’s—but you just want to go to sleep.
If you go to sleep, you’ll forget to have the conversation again. You’re barely going to be able to keep it together as it is, to not scream at him and do this like an adult.
So you take a deep breath, cross your arms over your chest, and clear your throat as he kicks off his shoes.
“I see you.” He drawls, and you dig your nails into your arm. “What’re you still doing up?”
You raise your chin, keeping your voice level. “We need to talk.”
James glances at you, features impossibly neutral. “Do we?”
“Yes.” It might be an intimidation tactic. You won’t let it get to you. “Stop moving all my shit around.”
“Your… what?”
“My stuff.” You snap. “My jacket and my key and- Everything. Stop changing everything without asking me.”
He frowns at you. “I’ve been cleaning up.”
“You did ask me to clean up.”
“I didn’t think I had to,” he says slowly, still watching you carefully. “I live here as well, and this place was a fuckin’ mess-“
“It wasn’t a mess!” Your voice is rising. You push it back down with a deep breath. “I had a system, and I- I was late to work because of you moving my fucking keys-“
“The keys that were under the jacket? They were about to fall on the floor-“
“And I would have known they were on the floor! You don’t just get to come in and change my whole life-“
James snorts, shaking his head. “I’m not changing your life. I’m barely even here-“
“So you have no right to move everything around.” You hiss, and he blinks at you. “If you wanted to live somewhere neat and perfect or whatever, you should have chosen that. You saw my place before you moved in, and it’s still my place. Touch my stuff again, and I cut off your other hand.”
He stares at you for a second. “You’re a lot more than you want people to think, huh.”
It’s like he’s punched you right in the gut. Knocked your right in the windpipe, make you choke on your own words and stare at him, your head grabbing his words and grounding them into a toxin for your blood. He’s still looking at you. It’s still burning all over your skin. There’s a lump forming in your throat, and your nails are going to leave little indents on your arms, and he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about so why is it burning in your gut-
“I’ll stop moving your shit.” He says, walking right past you with a bored tone, and his eyes are still a pretty, clear shade of blue that seems to shine in the dark.
White-hot. Sparking through you in a hot, furious way that makes your head spin and fingers curl into fists.
“Good.” You manage to mutter, and he snorts.
“Yeah, well, if you start makin’ a big mess again, I’m cleaning it. My ma raised me better than that.”
Before his words can sink in, he’s gone, the door to his room closing behind him.
His mother raised him better than that.
Than you.
You whip around, ready to bang your fists on his door and snap that your mother raised you just fine, you just have bigger things to worry about than installing fucking shelves. The only thing that stops you is another alarm, going off on your phone and snapping you out of your thoughts.
Even if he’s a shit roommate and you should have gone with the sex-life girl—at least you might be getting laid—he still signed the lease, and is at least pretending he wants to be here.
You still don’t understand why the fuck he’d do this at all, if it’s so disgusting for him. The New Avengers have to have a cleaning crew.
Hopefully, by the end of the month, he’ll give up on you and return to the watchtower.
Until then, you’ll just pretend he doesn’t exist.
It won’t be that hard. He’s barely around anyway.
——
You need to stop making predictions. You’re really fucking bad at them.
He’s around. A week passes, and you don’t see him at all, then suddenly you go out into the living room and he’s there. Sitting on the couch and reading a book, a mug of coffee on a the side table.
He’s wearing a long sleeve shirt, sweatpants, and the gloves. It’s the closest you’ve seen to him looking normal, and it feels wrong. Even when he’d just been interviewing, there had been a rigid, careful aura around him of someone more than a man. But there’s a half-eaten apple in his hand, and his hair is still mussed from sleep, and he’s so settled into the couch it’s clear he’s not moving any time soon.
You don’t know what you’re supposed to do with that.
For today, you settle on ignoring him. Pouring the coffee—already made again, but maybe he’s just really bad at estimating proportions—and pulling on your shoes, walking out the door without a glance back. You’ve got work, and if he wants to sit on the couch, he does technically live here. He’ll probably be gone when you get back, anyway.
But he’s not.
You’re home around six, and James has moved to the kitchen. He’s making dinner, like he’s a person. Who eats.
It feels like you’re intruding on something. Like you’re watching Thor take a shit.
You elect to keep pretending he isn’t there. He probably just had a day off, and tomorrow will be back to normal. You close yourself in your room for the rest of the night, watching TV on your laptop and messaging with a few friends about going out this weekend. It might be a trap to make you go on another date, but you don’t really care.
All your friends are married, and they really do mean well. They want you to have what they found. One of them just had a baby, and she’s been sending you the least photos because she feels bad. You’ve stopped complaining to them about not having a partner. It’s not that you don’t want one.
You’re just really really bad at dating. At going out and meeting people, showing them all the best angles of you to adore, then holding onto them. It might just be something you can’t do. That you’re not meant for, no matter how bad you want it.
And you want it. You want it when you watch stupid romcoms, and when you walk your friends dance around with their partners, and when you think about your future there’s always someone there. A faceless silhouette, who may never get to have a name.
If they do, you doubt it will be Keith, the blond-haired guy who’s had a suspicious amount of his photos texted to the group chat. You’ll give him a shot, just to say you missed. If nothing, it can be a good night at his place.
Not your place.
Not with James changing all his habits, and actually living with you. He’s even more inescapable, now. He’d stopped touching your things, but the little bowl on the shelf now holds his keys, and you feel like a bitch if you don’t put yours in as well. Your clutter stays organized, because it would be petty to scatter it everywhere just to get back at him. Petty and childish.
And you’re not petty and childish. You’re a grown woman, and you’re going to force yourself to behave as one. Even if it would be satisfying to keep your shoes just off the mat he bought, and put your food wherever you’d like in the fridge, instead of according to James’ system. But you’re going to be mature. You’re going to follow the vegetable and fruit drawer designations, and you’re going to put the dishes on the stupid drying rack.
And you will not admit to him that it all makes your apartment feel nicer.
James can just silently be smug about that himself. With his stupid books and gloves and thick thighs on your couch. He’s still pretty.
You still want to strangle him.
“I like the candles.” You mutter a few nights later—well into the sudden shift into him being a person instead of a ghost—and you’re trying to be sweet. You can be sweet. That’s a gear you can have. “Apple cinnamon is nice.”
“They’re your candles.” James doesn’t look up from his book. “You’d left them in the closet, figured you weren’t touchin’ them anymore.”
You bite the inside of your cheek. It’s not bait. You won’t take it. “Oh? How’s that?”
“They were covered in dust, doll. Like half the shit in-“ James’ cuts himself off, and you turn with a small frown.
He’s staring at you. Scanning over your body in a way that makes you think you’re covered in some kind of fucking goo. Your legs, your arms, your dress-
Oh.
Your dress.
Somehow, in just two sentences with James, you’d forgotten that you were out in the living area for a reason. To get the heels, and test if they went with the outfit. You’re about to head out, to meet Blond Keith and hopefully at least get laid. So you’d dressed like you’re trying to get laid.
James’ eyes are pushing a little out of his head, his jaw is clenched, and his fist is curled on his leg. He’s acting like you’re a 14th century noblewoman who just showed her ankle.
To a hundred-year-old, you might be.
It’s the biggest reaction you’ve gotten out of him yet.
“You’re going to get cold.” He mutters, voice stuttering slightly, and you smile at him.
This kind of sweet you can actually do. Full lips and batting eyelashes and a crude, mocking tone under all the sugary fluff. “Really? Why do you think so?”
His jaw ticks. “No jacket.”
“I have a jacket, though.” You shrug, turning around to walk back into your room. “And I’ll be getting a ride home tomorrow.”
You can hear the frown in his voice. “Tomorrow.”
“Yep.” You grab your jacket, and—even though you weren’t going to leave for ten more minutes—shrug it on. “Bye, James.”
He doesn’t respond. Just watches you walk out the door, all the way until it slams closed behind you. He hadn’t snapped and told you to change, but he had stared. Had acted like more than the tauntingly neutral statue that’s been sitting in your living room all week.
You’re not childish.
As long as he keeps acting like he knows what’s best for you, you’re going to milk this for all its fucking worth.
——
“Where are you going?”
You hum, focusing on your mascara in the mirror.
You could be doing it in the bathroom. But James isn’t in the bathroom. And half of this is just doing a show to get a rise out of him.
So you’re doing it in the living room.
“Out.”
“Out.” He repeats, voice low. “You just got back.”
“That was from work, it doesn’t count.”
He grunts, and you can feel him staring. “Last night count, as well?”
You just shrug, running your tongue over your lips to test the lipstick. He doesn’t need to know that this is most you’ve gone out, ever, in your life. That most of the nights are just spent with your friends, and only one or two have been with Blond Keith. Then you’d met Dan the bodyguard, who you never managed to sleep with, and Miles who wore a thousand-dollar watch, and tried to fuck you in the bathroom after the second date.
But those are all just normal date failures. The hanging out with friends all the time is getting exhausting, and they do keep trying to set you up with people, but you’ll eat glass before you hang out with Thousand Dollar Miles again.
It’s all exhausting.
Work is exhausting. Putting so much effort into pissing James off is exhausting. Dating is exhausting.
You still give him another sweet smile, before you walk out the door for your next date. It should be casual, with a guy from a dating app who had a nice face and fairly normal opinions about things. James doesn’t say anything, but—just like every night before—you can feel him watching you leave. It makes you stand a little taller, sway your hips a little more. Rushes a hot, sparkling feeling through your veins before you close the door.
It’s the high point of the night.
Dating App Henry does have a nice face. His opinions are normal.
He also won’t stop asking you for your opinions about things, then cutting you off before you can actually give them.
“Can you see yourself having kids?”
You almost choke on your shitty wine. Not again. “I-“
“I’ve thought about having, four or five? You seem like you’d be a good mother, like you organize your cabinet by colors or whatever.” Dating App Henry laughs to himself. “That’s good, because I can’t clean at all. I don’t even know how to do laundry.”
You blink at him. “You don’t know how to do laundry?”
Dating App Henry shakes his head, grinning at you like that’s supposed to be cute, and you shake your head.
“Then… I’m sorry, who does your laundry?”
“My ex did it for a while.” He shrugs. “Lately I’ve just been buying new stuff, whenever I run out. I got another raise at work, so I can afford it.”
Later, you learn that Dating App Henry is a lobbyist for AI companies.
He asks if you want dessert.
You shake your head politely, and call a cab.
Maybe it’s you, is all you can think as the dark of the city rushes by. Maybe you really can’t date, or there’s something about you that screams weirdos only. You might have to be one of those women who really focuses on their career, and retries early to paint birds.
You press your brow against the glass and squeeze your eyes shut. You already really focused on your career.
You’re going to die, and nobody’s going to come to your funeral. Sure you’ll have friends who will attend, but no one who’s going to talk about how they love loved you. Work is going to name a conference room after you, and in twenty years you’ll be nothing more than that room on the third floor, where the boss boned her secretary, because it’s being rubbed in your face from beyond the fucking grave.
James is still up, when you shove the door open and kick off your shoes.
“How was going out.” He drawls, and you shoot him a glare.
“Dogshit.”
He chuckles to himself. “Sorry, doll.”
“Shut the fuck up.” You shuffle across the room, and he looks up with raised brows.
“She bites back.”
“I’ll bite your fucking cock off.” You mutter, and it’s probably too far, but you’re so tired. “I know you’re on superheroing sabbatical or whatever, but I’ve got some work due tomorrow, and if you do anything to distract me, I’m going to put shit in your shampoo.”
James stares at you for a second, then says, “How do I distract you?”
You flip him off, and slam your door behind you.
You’re not going to die alone.
Fucking James Barnes is going to die right next to you, in this stupid apartment, and you’re going to turn into soil that shoves his further down because you hate him. And his stupid small grin, and jawline, and smooth voice, and pretty blue eyes that light your skin on fire.
And it’s not anyone’s business how—after a long day of pure frustration, working until three in the morning, and his handsome face being the last one you saw before bed—you fall into bed with your hand between your thighs and his name in tiny moans on your lips.
He’d be rough. Or soft. And he’d wrap fully around you, and only look at you. Never cut off any of your moans. He’d tease and pry them out you, and kiss your neck with slight scruff brushing sensitive skin, and a deep drawl in your ears, and everything in a neat, easy place.
You cover your mouth with a pillow, as your body shakes through your orgasm.
He’s still pretty.
A hate fuck might you. The idea of having him sneer and tease you until you cum in his big arms is a good one.
But you’re tired of just sex.
So you fall asleep, and dream of that faceless man, dancing you around in the kitchen.
———
You finished all your work. Your feet hurt from standing and giving the same presentation, over and over and over, to different rich people who still only might give you money. But you did it.
And now you get to shuffle home, order food because you don’t want to talk to James, and sleep for a hundred million years.
You push open the door, keeping your attention away from his spot on the couch—you really don’t want to see him, don’t have the energy to fight—and kick off your shoes. They land off the mat.
With a soft groan, you lean down, pick them up, and place them on the mat.
You draw back up, ready to walk right into your room, but there’s a chest blocking your path. A chest with legs, and arms, and gloves, and-
“Are you hungry?”
You slowly drag your gaze up to James’ and he’s staring at you in the way you can feel again. You swallow, and shake your head.
“No-“ Your stomach cuts you off with a deep grumble, and James huffs softly.
“No, huh.”
You scowl. “I’m not going out, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not worried about it.” His brow draws, and that’s a point for you. “I just think- Shit-“ He runs a hand over his face, and you frown.
“What-“
“I made food.” His words are fast, but strained. Like he’s trying to push them out as fast as possible. “You are welcome to it, if you want.”
He must have fallen and hit his head. There’s no possible reason for him to be making you food. You didn’t even know he could cook, and honestly, smelling the air, you’re still not sure.
“What did you make?” You ask wearily, and he shrugs.
“Tortellini.”
“And it’s… good?”
His lips twitch. “I’ll let you be the judge of that, doll.”
You could tell him no. Could shove past him and storm into your room, and just keep fighting forever.
But he’s trying.
He made you dinner. You’ve been ordering out too much this week, solely to avoid him.
You really are far too tired to fight. Even if it is some kind of trap, at least you’ll get food out of it.
“Fine.” You mumble, crossing your arm over your chest. “Where is it.”
He tilts his head to the kitchen. “C’mon. Should still be warm.”
It is still warm. More than warm. James pushes the bowl towards you, and steam is rising from the pasta.
“Are you not going to eat?” You ask as he passes you the fork, and he shakes his head.
“Ate at the Watchtower.”
“Oh.” You pause. “Then why did you make this-“
“Just eat it,” he drawls your name, and you roll your eyes, but listen. There’s something in his voice that makes you want to poke at it, to see it snap, but not now. Not when you can feel the weight of your eyelids, and the pressure of James’ stare.
You hold his gaze, taking the slowest, most dramatic bite you can manage.
It tastes like salt. Salt and slightly burnt vegetables. You don’t spit it out—you’re stronger than that—but you lean back slightly, wrinkling your nose.
“Have you ever made tortellini before?”
“No.” He grunts. “Followed the instructions on the packet thingy. Is it-“
“It’s shit.” You shrug, and go for a second bite.
James frowns. “You don’t gotta eat it-“
“I’m hungry.”
He nods slowly, and there’s about a minute before he clears his throat, and his gaze somehow burns deeper into your skin.
“There’s no superhero sabbatical.”
You glance up from the bowl, mouth full, and all you can make is a hurh? sound in response. James’ sighs, looking up to the ceiling before continuing.
“You said I was on superhero sabbatical. I’m not. Right now there are just no imminent threats, so I only have to work normal hours. That’s why I’m home.”
Home.
You don’t love how he says that so casually. Or how it makes your skin buzz a little, because home is the same place for you both. Even if you’re trapping yourself in your room, and he still won’t take off his gloves.
It’s even worse how that makes you feel sore, something twisting in your gut.
It’s easier to pretend you don’t feel any of it, and swallow your pasta.
“Okay.” You tap your fork on the edge of the bowl. “What are normal New Avengers hours?”
“Changes every day.” He mutters, words slow. “I’m doin’ whatever Yelena tells me to, and she’s trying to help, so it’s not much. Paperwork. Saved a cat from a tree a few days ago. Busted into a nightclub that was dealing some heavy drugs. Nothing important.”
You hum, taking another stab of your pasta, and James braces his hands on the table, leaning over you with that intense, impossible to ignore gaze.
You don’t flinch, or move back, but you don’t think he’s trying to be intimidating. So just tilt your head at him, keeping your voice semi-sweet and casual. “Do you want me to say something?”
“No.” James grunts, letting out a long, slow exhale. “I’m just- I think we got off on the wrong foot or something.”
“Did we?”
His nostrils flare slightly. “Yes, we did.”
“Okay.” You look back down to your pasta. “Are you asking to start over?”
“Uh-“ He coughs, and you focus on keeping your foot from bouncing under the table. You’re really not sure what’s happening, if he’s being serious, or if this is going to be some kind of trick. “Yeah?”
“Why?”
He pauses. “Because we live together.”
“People live together and hate each other all the time.”
“Well, do you hate me?”
You let out a slow breath, and look up at him. He’s still pretty. His face is still that almost unreadable mask.
But his words sound sincere.
And not fighting anymore sounds okay. He doesn’t have to be your best friend. But if you decided to ignore him, then you’re certainly being a petty bitch, and that’s too exhausting to keep up.
“No.” You sigh, and his eyes flash slightly. “I don’t.”
“Good.” His tongue flicks over his lips, and he leans a little further forward. “I don’t hate you either.”
You hum, and whatever evergreen shampoo or cologne he uses is starting to invade your sense, making you feel a little drunk. If he kisses you, you’re not going to have the willpower to shove him away. He’s too pretty, and there’s a lot of heat radiating from him body, and it won’t be a hate-fuck or making love or whatever, but a stress-fuck also sounds pretty fucking nice-
“My therapist tells me I can be off-putting and controlling.” He mutters, and you blink. No kiss.
You don’t know why the fuck you thought he would.
You take a large bite of the pasta as he continues, before you can say something stupid.
“I’ve been focusing on interpersonal skills. I used to be pretty damn good at them, but- Things change.”
You mumble an agreement through your food, not really sure what you’re supposed to be contributing to the conversation here.
“I am going to ask you a question.” He keeps staring at you, and you swallow your bite.
“Oh- Okay.”
He nods, jaw clenching slightly before he speaks. “Why do you call me James.”
You blink at him. “Because it’s your name?”
“Most people call me Bucky.”
“How am I supposed to know that?”
“Yeah. Alright.” He sighs, giving you a weak, slightly strained smile. “If we’re startin’ over, you should mostly call me Bucky.”
“Mostly?” You frown at him. “When would I call you James?”
He shrugs. “I dunno. You’re smart. You’ll find it.”
A softer heat rises in your cheeks. “I’m smart?”
“Yeah. You are.” He runs his hand over his face, jaw ticking as his voice drops. “Might have Googled that place you work at. They do good work. Not for stupid people.”
That’s making your chest glow. You try to push it down, and keep your voice even. “What jobs are for stupid people?”
He snorts. “My job. Jumpin’ on bullets and saving the world when it keeps trying to kill itself.”
“Do you not like your job?”
“It’s complicated.” Bucky mutters, something like caution crossing his features. “Am I allowed to ask you another question?”
“Is it something stupid?”
“Nah.” He huffs a low laugh. “But it might piss you off.”
You hum, and give him a small smile. It’s not forced.
None of this is forced.
And it’s a little terrifying, how quickly you went from ready to mock and shove him to eating a little slower in order to keep talking to him.
It probably doesn’t mean anything. Bucky is just easy to talk to, when you’re not trying to think of insults or picking apart how he might be calling you a mess. And he really is nice to look at.
So this is easy.
“I think you should ask me anyway.” You hum. “Just to see what happens.”
Bucky nods, he does the tongue thing again. You don’t know if he’s been doing the whole time you’ve known him and you just never noticed, but you can’t stop noticing now. His lips are full and pink. They move so smoothly when he talks.
You might be losing your mind.
“When you go out.” He says slowly, and you raise your brows. “Where are you actually going?”
He doesn’t sound as if he’s judging you. Just that he’s curious.
And you refuse to be ashamed about it, even if you’re still feeling like there’s grime growing over your heart, and there’s a tiny voice in the back of your head reminding you that you’re unlovable. That’s not Bucky’s problem.
So he gets the simple, bored, casual answer, and he can do whatever the fuck he wants with it. You don’t care.
“Mostly out with friends. But sometimes dates.”
“Dates,” he echoes, frowning at the air—most with what seems to be confusion—and you give him an amused look.
“Yeah. Like, we get dinner or a drink and talk. See if we’re compatible. Learn about each other, then maybe have sex-“
“You’re havin’ sex on dates?”
He seems shocked, and you snort. It’s not judgment. Bucky just seems truly baffled by the concept, and you have bite your cheek to stop yourself from laughing more.
“Yeah. Casual sex. Don’t tell me you’ve never had sex, dude, I know you’re from the 40s or whatever, but-“
“I’ve had sex.” He mutters. “But it was with girls I liked. Knew for a while.”
“What, all two of them?”
He shoots you a dry look. “You got a mouth on you, you know that?”
You give him a sweet smile. “I’ve been told it’s one of my best qualities.”
Bucky’s hand curls on the table as he snorts, and his gaze is going to brand you. “Could say that, yeah.”
Before you can ask what that means, he’s pushing on.
“Stevie called me a ladies man. But that just meant I got dates easy. Never really just fucked in a backroom. Not my style.”
“Yeah?” You’re saying it before you can stop yourself. “What is your style?”
He chuckles, and it’s a deep, rich sound that makes your head spin slightly. He’s smiling. At you. And laughing, and this is so much fucking better than fighting with him. You don’t even know why you were so determined to fight with him to start, when it could have been like this.
And he’s still pretty. In the soft-edged light of the kitchen, every shadow is gentle on his face, and it makes his jaw seem sharper, the pace of his face more rugged, and you want to trace your hand over his jaw.
That might be too far.
You just started liking him.
You’re not going to turn this into something it’s not. He can be your friend.
But he’s so handsome. And you think you could live in his face, frozen in time under his gaze and small grin.
Shit.
You’re just horny. You’re thinking like this because you’re horny, and nothing else. It has nothing to do with how he leans closer when he speaks, and lets you speak, and made you food to try and talk something out. Like an adult, instead of two bitter teenagers.
You’re just horny.
“I’m an old man,” he drawls your name, and it makes that glow in your chest bloom, but you’re just horny. “I don’t think people my age do casual.”
“Old people fuck.” Your voice is more breathless than you want it to be. “And- I don’t think there are people your age.”
He snorts. “Fair point. You like casual?”
You shrug, looking back to your bowl, because you can’t look at him while you say this. “I don’t know.”
Bucky just makes a low sound of agreement. “Well, you at least bring pepper spray, right? Men can be creeps.”
“Okay, dad.” You roll your eyes, kicking his shin under the table. “I bring pepper spray and a pocketknife. I’m not dumb.”
“I didn’t say you were dumb. Just want to make sure you’re being safe.”
“Thanks.” You mumble, and he said that like it was obvious. As if you should have assumed that he’s worried about your safety.
As if you’re something that matters.
It feels nice. The glow in your chest is moving over your ribs, and it makes you sit a little taller, all while making it harder to look him in the eyes. If you do, you’re certain you’ll get trapped in them.
That wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
“No problem, doll.” You can hear the small grin in his voice, and the heat rises again. “We good?”
“Yeah, Bucky.” You poke at your tortellini. It really does taste like shit.
But he made it for you.
“We’re good.”
———
It’s happening so fast.
You stop fighting with Bucky—not James anymore, Bucky—and everything falls into an odd, perfect place.
He still can’t cook, but he cleans the apartment, and it doesn’t feel like he’s trying to invade anymore. He knows with things to leave in their strange places because you tell him to, and you follow all the new, small rules without thinking about it. In exchange, you make him food, and you take turns doing each other’s laundry.
Which means you’ve touched his boxers.
And maybe you’d stared at them for a few minutes, trying to not think about the part of Bucky the fabric had touched. If the size of the boxers in any inditement of the size of… other things.
You won’t think about it. That would be a violation of his privacy, and he is now your friend. You don’t think about your other friends underwear, of it they think you’re cute when you shuffle around in too-big shirts and smaller shorts.
You’ve got something good here. Something easy. If you ruin it, you’re going to have to reach out to orgy girl and see if she’s still in the market, and you really don’t want to do that when you can have Bucky.
Because you do have Bucky. You’ve learned all his favorite foods. You watch TV together, at the end of the night, and you’ve started exchanging book recommendations. He even showed you his motorcycle.
“You can ride it, if you want.” He’d nodded to the seat, giving you the half grin that sort of set you on fire, and you’d flushed, shaking your head.
“Pass. I’m not trying to die, Buck.”
“I wouldn’t let you die,” he’d drawled your name back in a teasing tone. “I need you. Without you here, I’d starve to death.”
You’d rolled your eyes. “Well if that’s your only reason for keeping me around-“
“It’s not and you know it.” He’d held out his hand, the metal glinting into the flickering garage lights.
He’d taken off the glove a couple of weeks ago. Walked into the living area wearing a t-shirt, the black and gold vibranium on full display, and you hadn’t said a word. There wasn’t anything to be said. He was comfortable enough around you to show his arm. That made you feel like you were floating up, up, up into the sky.
You’d smiled at him, passed him a bowl of cereal, and that had been it.
In the garage you’d backed away, shaking your head, spinning around what other reasons he might want to keep you around.
And you really hadn’t wanted to get on that motorcycle.
“Well, what if- The engine could blow up-“
“No, it couldn’t.” He’d flexed his hand, giving you a firm look. “You’ll like it, doll, promise.”
“Maybe, but I think I’ll like it, and then I’ll die when the engine blows up-“
Bucky had grabbed your hand, his mouth curved into a small, gentle grin, and you’d swallowed. He’s always so fucking handsome. You might have been about to drool.
“We don’t gotta do it today.” He’d said. “But I do think you’d like it. Offer stays on the table.”
You’d nodded, voice breathy again. “Okay.”
“Okay.” He’d pulled you forward slightly, and suddenly you were holding his hand as you walked out of the garage.
And it just kept escalating. Higher and higher. Bucky stands with you while you cook every night, and touches your lower back whenever he has to reach over you to grab something from the top shelf. You stop going on all the dates, because so, so fast, you don’t want to do anything but hang out with Bucky.
But your friends don’t about that. They know you’re complaining about your roommate less, but you never told them it was the Winter Solider. Or anything about him as a person.
You’re keeping it like that. If not for yourself, and all the millions of questions you’ll have to endure, for Bucky.
He doesn’t love being a public person. It’s easy to tell whenever you’re reading the news and he leans over your shoulder, seeing a New Avengers photo where he looks like he’s trying to figure out the best way to kill the person behind the camera.
“What’re they sayin’ now.” He’d asked this morning, putting on the coffee, and you’d made a dramatic look of mock thought.
“That you’re a hero. A god among men. That we should elect you king, and every street in Brooklyn should be called Saint Barnes road.”
Bucky had rolled his eyes, but his glare had been soft. “I’m not a saint, doll.”
It’s not fair how deep and smooth his voice always is, when he says that. It makes you feel fuzzy.
“You’re not.” You’d hummed, giving him a small grin. “They just misprinted Sargent.”
Bucky had snorted. “Alright. What are they actually sayin’?”
“About you?” You pretend to check the article, even though it’s the first thing you’d looked for. “The hair again.”
He’d groaned, voice dropping under his breath. “Always the fuckin’ hair.”
You’d shrugged, but you understood it. He has really nice hair. You’ve been having fantasies about running your fingers through it, or petting his head, or yanking on it as his face dove between your legs-
Not going to ruin it.
This is a good thing, so you’d taken a deep breath and dug your nails into your wrist, because you wouldn’t fucking ruin this.
That’s why you agreed to go out at all. Bucky isn’t really an option on the table, and you still want to have that. The love. The faceless man, spinning you around and around, kissing your neck and holding your hand and whispering with you in the dead of night.
You’ve been whispering with Bucky. He sits with you on the couch until the silent hours of the morning, sometimes just to be there while you work.
He’s not an option.
So you took a date with Polo-Shirt Michael, and really, really tried.
But he keeps telling you about his gains. And how many female friends he has, and how they all want him but he’s looking for true love.
“They’re going to try and scare you off, ‘cause I gave them one hit and they got addicted.” He winks at you, and you swallow a little bile. “You the tough kind of woman? You gonna be able to take it, babygirl?”
You gave him a sweet smile, folding the napkin in your lap, and stand up. “I need to shit.”
It’s not worth seeing his reaction. You head straight for the bathroom and pull out your phone, scrolling for who can pick you up. You could call an Uber, but you don’t get paid until next week, and you’re not sure getting away from Polo Michael will be that easy without backup. All your friends have date nights or vacations.
Your thumb hovers over Bucky’s contact for a minute before you bite your thumb, and call him.
He picks up in two rings.
“Hey,” he says your name and you swallow, pressing your back against the wall. “What’s up?”
“I need your help.” You mumble, playing with your skirt. “If I send you an address, can you pick me up?”
“Yeah, of course.” There’s some shuffling on the other end of the line. “What’s goin’ on, doll, are you-“
“I’m safe.” You sigh. “Bad date.”
He grunts. “Pepper spray bad?”
“Not yet. I just really want to go home.”
“Alright. I’ve got you. Be there in,” there’s a pause, then, “ten.”
You nod, the line drops, and you start to pace. You should go out and say goodnight to Polo Michael. Lie that something came up, and you’ll text him to reschedule. But he also said his girlfriend was a crazy bitch.
That’s enough of a reason to slip out without any words. You hadn’t ordered yet, so you’re not leaving him with a bill. You’d even only gotten water, so at worst he’s paying for his $90 wine.
You glance over your shoulder as you stand on the curb, to check if he’s still waiting at the table. Bucky should be here soon, and as long as you’re not spotted, everything will be-
Michael looks at you. Right at you, as Bucky’s headlights appear down the street. He stands as Buck pulls up to your side.
“Hey, what-“
“Drive.” You climb on the bike without a thought. “Fucking drive, Bucky, go-“
Bucky turns, drops an oversized helmet onto your head, and buckles it. His knuckles brush over your chin, you mouth falls open with a soft breath. By some miracle, you don’t think he hears it.
He turns back around, speeds off without anything else, and you let out an exhale of relief.
Then it hits you.
You’re on the motorcycle. The world is rushing past you and you’re on the motorcycle and you’re going to die-
Bucky pulls off to the side and you squeak at the movement, pressing your face into his back.
“It’s fine, doll.” His voice is clear as the engine turns off, but you don’t let go. “You’re gonna strangle me, you know.”
“No, I’m not.” You don’t let go. “Thank you, Bucky, I- I can walk home-“
“You are not walking.” He grabs your wrist, keeping you against his chest, and you shake your head.
“I’m okay-“
“You get dinner?”
“I-“ You lean back. “What?”
“Look like you were gettin’ dinner.” He mutters, turning to look at you. “You eat?”
You shake your head, and somehow, let Bucky talk you into one of those 24-hour diners. Your date outfit and makeup a little messed up from the motorcycle, his shoes slip-ons that make him look like an actual old man.
Bucky glances at you across the booth, and you give him a weak smile, playing with some of your jewelry.
“You wanna take this home and eat there?”
You let out a soft breath. “Yes, please. My feet feel like they’re being stabbed and vomited on.”
He snorts. “Gross, doll.”
You shrug, and your smile feels a little more real.
Then you’re at home. Bucky somehow talks you into taking the motorcycle back, and he gives you a few minutes to change and clean while he put out the food. You join him on the couch, kicking up your feet with a dramatic moan, and Bucky rolls his eyes.
“So what was wrong with him?”
You turn to look at him with a frown. “What?”
“The date.” Bucky shrugs. “What was wrong with him. He not up to your standard.”
“I guess, yeah. But my standard isn’t really that high.”
He raises his brows, and you sigh.
“I just want someone that doesn’t, like, hate me.”
“That’s it?”
You nod, and Bucky snorts.
“Jesus, that is a low bar. This guy-“
“He didn’t hate me. But he seemed to not love women in general.”
“Ah.” Bucky pauses, looking down to his food. “Don’t know how you could hate women. All the women I know are the best.”
You nudge his calf with your foot. “Even me?”
“Yeah, doll, even you.” He gives you a small, real smile.
He’s being serious.
So you smile back. “Thanks, Buck.”
“No problem.” He pokes your food with his fork. “Eat, doll. I didn’t spend twenty dollars for nothing.”
You focus on your food, but your fingers are shaking a little. You rode on Bucky’s motorcycle and didn’t die. But you’re also sitting still on the couch, and you can feel your heart at the top of your chest, hear it in your head.
It’s a bigger rush, just sitting with Bucky and eating.
And maybe it’s how Polo Michael looked like he was going to strangle you, or how busy you are with work, but you might be done with dates for a while.
It’s not a hard choice to make, when Bucky starts to tell you about how he worked on the shower while you were gone, and laughs at all your pipe jokes. Or Bucky’s low, rough version of a laugh, which you like better.
Not one date has ever even gotten to hear a sex joke.
So you’d really rather stay here.
———
You’re wasted.
It was a celebration. Someone just got engaged. Or broke up. Or had a baby. Or broke up and had a baby.
You’re not sure anymore. And you don’t really care. Someone had something good happen to them, and you’d wanted a reason to drink.
So you drank.
And now your head is spinning, and all your effort goes into swallowing down the vomit rising up your throat. Your skin feels like it’s lighting on fire, but it’s also freezing cold, and there’s a harsh wind but it’s not enough to shock you out of the colorful hazy lights dancing over your vision.
The hallway is spinning, and you giggle as you walk, arms out like you’re on a tightrope.
Bucky sighs from behind you.
You don’t remember calling him.
It’s making you feel bubbly, that he’s here at all.
“James.” You sing, spinning around to smile at him. “You have a funny face.”
Bucky raises his brows, catching you easily. Grounding you down to the earth, because you might have been about to float away. “Do I.”
“Uh huh.” You keep walking as he moves you, moving your fingers to trace over his features. “It’s all serious and pretty. Like a magnetic painting of a handsome person.”
His voice remains flat. “You mean majestic?”
“I dunno.” You turn again, but Bucky keeps holding you, keeping your back to his chest. “Like a… wolf.”
He hums. “I was called White Wolf in Wakanda.”
“In…” You trail off, squinting at the wall, then gasp as the word reach through the fog. “You went to Wakanda?”
“Yeah, for about two years.”
“Were there stars?”
Bucky sighs, kicking the door shut behind you. “There- Shit-“
A rush of nausea sweeps through you, and you double over, covering your hand to stop the vomit.
Big, strong arms wrap around you, and one of them is nice and cold. You hold that one, as you’re carried through the air and into the bathroom. The world spins as a toilet comes into your vision, and you let your dinner spill out into the bowl.
Your hair is somehow moved from your face, and you groan, slumping to the ground. The cold hand tries to leave, but you grab it. Press it against your brow as you take a ragged breath.
Bucky mutters your name. “I need my hand-“
“No.” You mumble, moving it to press on your cheek. “’S nice.”
He sighs, but doesn’t argue with you. Keeps sitting with you, when you surge back up for another round with the toilet. Bucky rubs your back with that cool hand, then let you nuzzle into it when you get a break. He hums, deep and smooth, and the sound is easy to hold onto, keeping you from flying out of your skin as it prickles. When you’re finally run out, he gets you water. Helps you move against the wall, and stays at your side.
Your voice slowly comes back, and you turn to look at him, only one thought managing to stay in your head.
“Were they pretty?”
“What?”
“The stars?”
He blinks, then lets out a long, slow sigh, turning back to look at the wall. “Yeah. They were beautiful.”
That’s the answer you wanted. And you’re sort of done for the night.
You let your eyes flutter shut and tip your head back, making a soft noise of content.
Everything drifts in and out, morphing between Bucky, carrying you to bed, and that dream. The one where you have someone, and it’s easy.
The light leaks through your blinds in the morning, but you don’t remember falling asleep. There’s a glass of water on your nightstand, but you didn’t put it there.
You know Bucky did.
And when you close your eyes again, you can see it again.
The faceless man isn’t faceless anymore.
You giggle in the fantasy, spinning around and around and around, only coming back down when a smooth voice hums your name.
Blue eyes watch you with a look that you might have seen before, but can’t remember.
Bucky sways you back and forth in his arms, but only in your head.
And you never want to do anything but sleep again.
———
You did something stupid.
You offered to teach Bucky how to cook. Not told him about a video or blog or book to teach him. Offered yourself. Because you like being around him too much. And when he focuses you’ve noticed he gets an adorable expression on his face, and you want to see it more.
Tonight you could have gone out on one last date, because your friend had practically begged you to. This one had a six-pack and knew three languages.
All you could think what that Bucky knows at least five.
And that’s how you ended up here.
“I know you don’t want any part of the superhero shit.” Bucky says as you ride up the elevator. “But it’s the weekend. None of the idiots are working, which means they’re all doin’ their own thing. No one will even know you’re here.”
You swallow, but nod. “I still think we could’ve done this at home-“
“We got more options here.” He bumps your shoulder, and it makes your body rush with heat. “Plus if I fuck up, nothing important gets burned.”
You give him a flat look. “How much is this building worth, James.”
“’bout a billion.” He shrugs. “Means they got the money to replace things. Come on.”
The elevator doors open, and Bucky starts to herd you through the halls of the Watchtower. You don’t know how he talked you into this, but you’re also hitting a strange, foreign point of doing almost anything Bucky asks you to do. You trust him. He’s usually rational, and always has a logical reason for things—even when that thing is why the cheese needs to go in this drawer—and it makes your brain do a funny kind of static drawl.
You don’t know if he feels it the same, with you. If he feels anything at all.
But you’re not going to ruin it.
So you won’t ask.
“Here.” He turns you into a massive, glossy kitchen, and your mouth falls open.
“Are you saving the world with cooking?”
Bucky snorts, and moves you further into the room. “No, we’re just overfunded. What’re we making?”
“I-“ You stare around the room, trying to force yourself out of the daze of Bucky right behind you and the majesty of the kitchen. “I was going to do pizza?”
“Alright.” His voice is right in your ear. It’s distracting. “Tell me what to do, doll.”
You flush again, scanning over the cabinets. “I’m just going to give you all the instructions, but you’re going to do the actual work yourself, okay?”
Bucky hums, and you start to list off the ingredients. You’re expecting to have to run out for some things, but this miracle kitchen has everything. Even if this building does get attacked by terrorists and supervillains all the time, you sort of want to stay here forever. There’s soft music playing over speakers, and everything smells like cookies, and you’ve never seen so much space in your life.
But Bucky chose to leave.
And you still don’t really understand why.
“Bucky?” You say carefully, watching him roll the dough from your seat on the counter, and he glances up with raised brows.
“What, am I rollin’ it wrong-“
“No, you’re- You’re doing fine. Can I ask you something?”
He nods. “Shoot.”
“Why’d you decide to move out of here? It’s… really nice.”
Bucky sighs, stopping his rolling, and you swallow.
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to-“
“No, it’s fine.” He lets out a slow breath. “Guess I just got sick of it. My family wasn’t the worst off, in the 40s, but I haven’t been used to… this.” He waves to the kitchen. “In years. Feels wrong.”
You nod, swinging your legs back and forth. “The luxury?”
“All of it.” Bucky does the tongue thing. He does it all the time. It’s never helpful in making you focus. “Never really wanted any of this. Just sorta happened. Valentina wanted me to walk this weird fuckin’ line of being down to earth and normal, after the news broke about John’s divorce. I told her I’d quit if she made me parade around like a monkey.”
“But…” You frown. “You didn’t quit.”
“No. Got a deal. I’d keep workin’, but I’m allowed to live normally otherwise.” He chuckles to himself, resuming his work on the dough. “Least I don’t have to be in congress anymore. I nearly punched about fifty people a day.”
You giggle, rolling your eyes, and before you can respond, a bellowing, thickly accented voice echoes through the room and nearly starts you out of your skin. You fall off the counter.
Bucky catches you around your waist, and his face is oddly tight—almost apologetic—but you don’t really have the brainpower to think about it.
He’s touching you. You’re pressed right to his chest. And he really is warm.
It’s taking a tremendous amount of effort to not press yourself into his chest. You won’t ruin the only easy thing in your life.
Certainly not in front of other people.
“Bucky Barnes!” A large, bearded man walks into the kitchen with spread arms, and a wide grin on his face. “You have returned!”
Bucky lets out a slow breath, and he’s still holding onto you. You’re not sure he’s going to let go. “I’m not back, Alexei, we’re just using the kitchen-“
“We?” The man—Alexei, the Red Guardian, you’re meeting a second superhero and Bucky promised this wouldn’t happen and you’re going to kill him—leans around, his eyes landing on you. “You have brought a girl!”
Bucky tenses. “No-“
“Yelena!” Alexei calls over this shoulder, voice echoing through the halls. “Bucky Barnes has returned with a girl! Ava- Ava, look-“
Alexei grabs someone from the hall, and a terrifyingly beautiful woman walks into the kitchen, shoving his arm away.
“Do not grab me, Alexei-“
“I did not know if it would work.” He shrugs. “You might have vanished, was a fifty-fifty. And this is important, Barnes-“
“Brought a girl. I know, I saw them enter the building.”
Alexei gapes at her. “And you did not tell me such important news?”
“No, she didn’t, because she respects privacy.” Bucky glares between them, and you’ve started to hold his arm. You don’t really want him to let go. “I told you, we’re just using the kitchen, we don’t all have to-“
“What is so urgent that we are screaming.” A shorter, equally scary and pretty blonde woman appears, growing around the small group. “It is loud, Alexei, you could have texted me-“
“There is no time for texting.” Alexei waves her off. “Bucky Barnes has brought a girl to meet us.”
“I don’t think she’s here to meet us.” Ava drawls, looking more amused than anything. “He’s been avoiding the hall cameras. And he would have told us, if he was bringing someone, he cared about enough for us to know.”
“Really, Ava?” Bucky glares at her, his grip on you tightening, like he thinks you’re going to run. “It’s not a matter of caring, I was just trying to avoid this happening.”
He waves his hand to Alexei, and Ava grins.
“I know. You’re cooking.”
“He is cooking?” Yelena frowns at Bucky. “You do not cook, Bucky Barnes. You burn everything.”
Bucky’s words sound like he’s pushing them through his teeth. “I know. That’s why we’re practicing here.”
“Why would you practice here, Bucky.” Ava hums, still grinning. “Why not at your apartment.”
Alexei gasps, and the glare Bucky shoot Ava probably would have made you start crying, but she just grins.
“This is the roommate?” Alexei claps his hands, and suddenly they’re all looking at you. Every inch of your body wants to move closer to Bucky—see if he can shield you from all of it—but you don’t think that would help your case. “You work for charity, yes? Very good cause, I believe we could talk about an opportunity. Red Guardian sponsored vaccines-“
“Alexei.” Bucky grunts, and his glare is somehow scarier than before. “How the fuck do you know where she works.”
“Because I ran a background check on her.” Another person, a blond man with a beret, materializes next to Yelena, and you’re starting to think they’ve just been hiding in the walls. “You think I’m just going to let a member of our team go and live with some random woman? She might have been a murderer.”
Bucky’s jaw tics. “She’s not a murderer, John, you’re an idiot.”
“That’s hurtful, Bucky. I could have saved your life.”
“I do not think you saved his life, Walker.” Yelena says flatly. “Look at her, she is like a baby bird.”
“Well, we didn’t know that before- Hey, wait.” John frowns at you. “This is the roommate, Bucky? The girl that you-“
“John.” Bucky hisses. “I will take your taco shield, and turn it into pieces of a taco shield.”
John sighs. “Look, I’m trying to help you, man. Unless you want Ava to be your wingman.”
“I don’t need-“
“Hey, guys.” Another blond man—why are they all blond—appears from behind Alexei, and if you’re up to date on current events, that should finally be all of them. “Why are we all in the kitchen?”
“Bucky is back, Bob. He has brought a girl, but not to meet us.” Yelena sighs. “John is being an idiot. Alexei needs to take a walk before he begins to ask stupid questions.”
Alexei frowns. “I am not asking stupid questions, Yelena-“
“What was the next thing you were going to say?”
There’s a long silence, and Alexei heaves a long, dramatic sigh.
“I will take my walk.”
He starts to shuffle away, Ava following him with a mock pat on his back.
Bob clears his throat and raises his hand. “Bucky, as long as you’re back, can you please fix the toilet? I don’t want to bother Valentina, and I’m pretty sure John would just make it worse-“
John cuts him off with a scowl. “Hey-“
“Yeah, I can fix the toilet.” Bucky turns back to you, squeezing your arms. “Stay here. If anyone starts to be a dick or bother you, ignore them. I’ll be right back.”
“Oh- Okay.” You give him a small smile. “Bye.”
He does the tongue thing again, then nods and walks out into the hall, taking a nervous looking Bob and annoyed John with him.
Leaving you with Yelena.
She stares at you, and you fidget with your fingers, trying to work out if you should smile at her or not. Probably not. She doesn’t seem like the type to love smiling. All you can really think about is what just happened. How Bucky’s told them about you. Which means you’re not just his roommate. You’re at least his friend. A good enough friend to mention to other friends. The girl that-
Something.
John hadn’t finished his sentence.
And it’s going to fucking eat at your every thought, until it’s all empty except for what John going to say. What does Bucky tell them about you. Is it good. It should be good, or they probably would’ve been acting differently.
But you need to know.
Yelena’s right here.
And when you look up at her, she’s still staring at you.
So you swallow, trying to stand a little taller, and give her a small smile.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Me?” Yelena blinks at you, and you nod nervously. “Is it something about the New Avengers? Because I do not know any of the approved press answers, Valentina thought we should be memorizing them, but I think that is stupid, so I have not-“
“It’s not about the New Avengers.” You cut her off, rubbing at your arms as you speak. “I, um- I just wanted to know what Bucky’s told you guys about me?”
Yelena nods slowly. “Why?”
“I-“
“You know, I do not actually care.” Yelena moves across the kitchen, starting to sort through a cabinet. “He has only said good things about you.”
You flush, and the glow spreads down to your toes. “Really?”
“Yes. Are you who he is texting, all the time?” Yelena turns back around with a bag of chips, and you blink.
“I- I don’t text him all the time.”
“Yes, you do. All he does now is smile at his phone. Like a puppy. I did not know he could make that kind of face, but now he will not stop making it.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You should be.” Yelena mutters, taking a large bite of a chip. “He is all soft now. Like a-“ She cuts herself off with a frown. “All I can think of is puppy. But that is what Bucky Barnes has become. It is adorable, and annoying.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to figure out a proper apology, but you can’t really think outside of he says good things. And he smiles at his phone. And-
“It is nice.” Yelena sighs to herself, cutting through your thoughts. “He is more focused now, on a mission. No more brooding, like a-“
“Puppy?” You finish for you, and she stares at you for a long, tight second before smiling.
“I like you. You are funnier than Bucky. If he breaks your heart, you can call me and I will steal his arm and hide it where he will never find it.”
You open and close your mouth a few times, then shake your head. “No, Bucky doesn’t- We’re not-“
“I know, it is not worth ruining.” Yelena rolls her eyes, taking another chip before starting out of the room. “It isn’t anything, Yelena, and we’re supposed to be focusing on the mission, so shut the hell up.” Her voice has dropped to a deep, mocking tone similar to Bucky’s. “Like he does not smile all the time.”
“He-“
“I had seen Bucky smile three times.” She snaps, holding up her fingers. “That is a pathetic amount of times. But yes.” She turns to walk out of the kitchen, voice echoing behind her. “Keep acting like it is nothing. I am sure that will be very fun and fulfilling for both of you.”
———
The ceiling hasn’t changed in hours. It won’t. It’s a static object, it’s white with all the same little popcorn dots, because this is a nice apartment but it’s not that nice.
You don’t stop staring at it though.
Maybe, if it starts to shift, that will be a sign. A clear green light from the universe, that you should do something about this.
About you and Bucky.
There is no you and Bucky. There shouldn’t be a you and Bucky. It wouldn’t make any actual sense. He’s a hundred-year-old superhero, and you’re you. Nothing about you screams superhero’s girlfriend. Nothing about you screams girlfriend in general, because you have horrible streaks of luck in love, and you don’t want to hit Bucky with any of that.
You don’t even know if Bucky would want to date. He’s got other things going on, like being a New Avenger and trying to reintegrate into civilian life. You can’t really be worth that much time over the world, over something that he’s been trying to do since before he met you. And he might not even like you like that.
He smiles all the time.
Bucky’s always sort of smiled at you. It had been a crude, slightly mocking smile at the start, but you’d also screamed at him a lot. When you’d met him, he’d let out that low, amused noise that was basically a barking laugh in Bucky-words.
But he’s also talked about you, with the other people that—despite what he might grumble on the drive back home—he considers friends. And they’d all tried to keep talking to you, after he’d fixed the toilet, because they’d seemed to think you’d have information for them.
You don’t.
All you know is that Bucky is Bucky. He’s the first really good thing you’ve had in a while. It easy to come home to him and harder to leave him in the morning, and when he texts you, it always makes that glow in you rush right down to your core and toes and fingers. He’s pretty, but he’s always pretty, even when you want to rip out his stupid, handsome throat.
And maybe you’re in love with him. The longer you stare at the ceiling, the more it remains the same, the more you feel the same.
Like you love him.
There’s not much more to say.
Every time you close your eyes, he’s lingering behind them. You can still feel every place he’d touched you all day. He’s scattered all over your apartment now, but you’d never want a single trace of him to go away.
He went to work today, even though it’s the weekend, and you’ve spent most of the day glancing at the door or your phone for an update.
You don’t know why he’d give one to you. It’s probably some big, fancy classified mission.
But you’re still rolling to the side, just to text that you haven’t missed the buzz of your phone.
Your screen remains dark.
The ceiling doesn’t change.
When he gets home, you should tell him that you love him, so he can text you safety updates.
No, you shouldn’t. That’s a stupid fucking reason to tell someone you’re in love with them. Especially when you’re not sure they love you back.
He smiles all the time.
He could just be more relaxed, when he’s not doing superhero things.
He hadn’t been relaxed the first month of you living together.
This is going to drive you insane. You won’t sleep until Bucky is home. Until you know that he’s safe, or you get a sudden text from him saying I love you, in case you were wondering. But Bucky wouldn’t type like that. He wouldn’t just tell you over the phone if he loved you, either.
You can’t picture him telling you that he loves you. That might be a bad sign.
Or you just haven’t had someone say that in so long that you’ve forgotten what it sounds like.
Bucky might not even be coming home. He might have had the mission run late enough that he decided to crash at the tower, and he could stay in all that luxury and decided he’d rather have that over cleaning up after you and eating dinner on the couch, and the text is going to say he’s moving back out and you’re never going to see him again-
There’s a loud bang out in the living room, and the ceiling shakes. You shoot up in, grabbing for your pepper spray, and slide quietly off the bed. Bucky’s told you, if you ever did have a break-in, you should barricade your room or go out onto the fire escape, while he deals with it.
But Bucky isn’t home. So it’s just you and the pepper spray.
You keep your steps light across the floor, carefully taking the doorknob and pulling it open, holding the pepper spray far in front of you as you scan over the dark.
No one is there. The door is even closer, but-
A little off its hinges. The wood looked sort of splintered. And you definitely heard a bang.
There’s a low groan of your name from across the room, and it sounds like-
“Bucky?” You grab for the light switch, wincing slightly as you’re blinded by the lamps. “Bucky what-“
Your mouth falls open as you round the couch, and he’s lying on the floor, eyes half open, breathing heavy, and a lot of red staining his clothing.
Blood.
That’s fucking blood.
“Oh my fucking- Bucky-“ You kneel down, tossing the pepper spray off to the side and taking his face between your hands. “What the fuck happened, I- We need to go to a hospital-“
“No.” He grunts, grabbing one of your wrists. “No hospital, doll- ‘m fine-“
“You’re bleeding-“
“Not mine.” He starts to push up with a low groan, and your hands move frantically, trying to find some way to help him. “Just tired, doll, I’ll be alright- Fuck-“
He groans, slipping back slightly, and you only manage to catch him with your full body weight to his back.
“You’re not fine, Bucky.” Your voice isn’t strong, but you’re either about to stop crying or throw up. It’s like a small, waking nightmare. You’re not going to lose him because of luxury. He’s just going to pass out on the floor and not wake up. “Can I at least get you to your team?”
“Don’t need ‘em.” He starts trying to sit up again. “Not injured, nothin’ they can do.”
“Not- You’re obviously fucking injured, you idiot-“
“I don’t get injured, baby.” He squeezes your hand, and your eyes are stinging too much to really register his words. “We got any food-“
He groans, slumping against the couch, but at least he made it upright this time.
“You’re not eating until I figure out what’s wrong with you.” You mutter, settling yourself between his legs, and he groans.
His hand is resting on your waist. You’d bet a lot of money he doesn’t know he’s doing it.
“Nothin’ is wrong,” he mutters your name, but doesn’t fight it as you turn his face, trying to find some sort of writing that says infected wound on leg or something. “I told you, I don’t get hurt, would take a fuckin’ bomb to get me.”
“Was there a bomb?”
“No, doll, just some assholes shootin’ bullets.”
You glare at him. “Did you get hit?”
“No.” His lips twitch slightly. “You’re worried about me, huh?”
“Yes. I am.” You grab his jaw, turning it up, and he hisses. “Does that hurt.”
“No.” His words are through his teeth. “I swear, I’m just tired. Everything is spinning, if I go to bed it’ll be fine in the morning.”
You pause, your hand dropping to rest on his chest. “Everything is spinning?”
He nods, reaching up to cover your hand with his own. “Not you, though. You look like you’re glowing.”
“Thanks.” You mumble, flushing slightly as you scan over his features. “Bucky, did you hit your head at all?”
“Uh…” He pauses, and you can see it now. The lack of focus behind his eyes. “Maybe.”
“How hard?”
“Don’t know.”
“You don’t-“ You let out a slow breath. “Well, what hit you?”
“Pipe.” He mutters, suddenly avoiding your gaze. “Big pipe.”
“Big-“ You sigh, bowing your head. “God, fucking- You have a concussion, dummy.
“No-“
“Yes.” You grab his hand, slowly pulling him to his feet. “Come on, you need to get to bed.”
Bucky groans, but lets you help him up. His arm tosses around your shoulders, his face pressing into the back of your neck, and you bite the inside of your cheek to stop the shiver it sends up your spine.
“You smell nice.” He mutters against your skin, nose nuzzling against a soft spot, and you take a deep breath.
“Thank you, Bucky.”
“Look nice, too.” He’s a deadweight over your shoulders, and it’s an effort to keep him moving when he doesn’t seem to want to contribute all that much. “Like a flower.”
“I look like a flower?”
“Yeah. Pretty.”
You’re not going to let yourself think about that. He’s basically drunk right now, so it doesn’t really mean anything. Your only job is to get him into his bed—which, through an almost herculean effort, you do—and make sure there’s no serious brain damage with the limited knowledge of concussions you have.
“I think you’ll be okay.” You mumble, watching his eyes dazedly follow your finger. “But if it’s still this bad in the morning, we’re going to the Watchtower so your team can look at you, okay?”
“Fine.” He grumbles, his hand still resting over yours. “I’m sorry, doll.”
You blink at him. “What?”
“You didn’t want any of this heroing shit in your life. I dragged it in with me.”
“You didn’t mean to. And it’s not like you wanted any of it, either.”
“Doesn’t matter what I want-“
“Yes, it does.” The words fall out of you before you can stop them “And it’s not like aliens are invading my bathroom. I think that would be the line.”
He sighs. “I bled on the floor.”
“We’ll clean it in the morning.” You shrug, smiling softly. “I’m just glad you’re safe, James.”
Bucky’s jaw twitches, and he’s still holding your hand. His eyes scan over you, almost blindingly blue through the dark, and a little more focused than even a second ago.
Time seems to slow to a drizzle like honey, slipping through your fingers but sticking to them at the same time. It can’t go slow enough, but it’s still too fast to give you the chance to think.
Bucky pulls you gently down, his free hand cradling the back of your head. His tongue does the little flick thing, and you swallow, settling a little further over him. He’s warm, but his metal thumb is sweeping over the back of your hand, and it’s just enough to tell you that this isn’t a dream.
You let out a small, soft gasp as Bucky kisses you, and it’s lazy. His lips move perfectly against yours, his touch on your careful and tender. He tastes a little like sweat, but it’s hard to care when his tongue presses between your lips, and he groans down your throat.
It’s easy to deepen it. To push a little further, and run your fingers through his beard, maybe lean further down and try to feel him everywhere when he nips at your lower lip, and you whine.
Then he pulls back suddenly. Without warning. Leaving you still lightheaded, but falling back to earth far too fast.
Bucky shakes his head, pulling away with a low groan, and it starts to sting. Your eyes, your throat, your skin.
He didn’t want that.
He didn’t mean it, or you took it too far, or you took advantage of him in a vulnerable state, and now you’ve ruined it.
“I- I’m sorry.” You move off the bed, wrapping your arms around your stomach and staring up at the ceiling. It’s the same as before.
But everything has changed.
“I’ll check on you in the morning,” you whisper, and Bucky grunts your name.
“Wait, let me-“
“It’s okay. You don’t have to-“ You swallow, and you’re not going to cry in front of him. “I understand. I’m sorry.”
Bucky tries to call after you, as you walk out of his room, but he’s hurt. He shouldn’t have to deal with your feeling being hurt right now. You can wrap your head around just friends later, right now you just need to sit in the pain. In what you destroyed, in all the lies you’d been quietly telling yourself that maybe this time it would be different.
It won’t be.
It never is.
But when you cry in bed, the man in your fantasies is still Bucky. Because you love him, and that’s not going to be as easy to brush off as a meaningless date.
You hope it will pass.
But there’s a chance he’s going to linger in your head for the rest of your life.
You fall asleep with muffled sobs into your pillow.
And your brain is cruel.
Because you dream of Bucky all night long.
———
You’re have a plan to avoid him. You spent the bleak hours of the morning, thinking about it. You’ll give it just enough time and space for Bucky to understand that you’re not hurt by it—he never needs to see the tears staining your cheeks, or the swell of your lips from chewing them into oblivion—and then everything will go back to normal.
Your heart hasn’t stopped beating for him, no matter how hard you’ve grabbed your throat and tried to force it down. Bucky doesn’t love you back, and that’s okay. It’s in line what you know. How painfully aware you are that you’re just not the type of person who gets to have that. Which can be fine. You have good friends. A good career. Maybe to make up for the gaping hole splitting through your chest, you can talk Bucky into getting a cat.
Or he’ll just move back into the tower, to avoid the awkwardness. Which means you’d get that cat.
But lose him.
You’ve sort of already lost him. You’re not sure you ever actually had him.
Which is what you’d thought. So you were right.
You’d never wanted so bad to be wrong in your life.
It’s easy to avoid Bucky, for most of the day. You poke your head into his room while he’s sleeping, just to make sure he’s still alive. He’s snoring, his hair mussed and face smushed into his pillows, and it takes a lot of effort to pull yourself away. He doesn’t want you. You have absolutely no right to watch him in this vulnerable state, when he’s very obviously already feeling better.
After that, you dance around him. Put on the coffee, and leave enough for him to have before you go out to get some food. Sit in a cafe and turn off your notifications, but still glance at your messages every few minutes, just to see if he’s messaged you.
It’s an hour before the first text comes through.
Where are you?
You sigh, quickly type back, out working, and close the thread. You’re only telling him, so he doesn’t worry about kidnapping or something. If you keep talking to him, you’ll just miss him more, or he’ll bring up last night and you’ll have to act like everything is fine.
Finishing work happens too fast, so you go for a walk. Then another walk. Then get lunch, and stare at your phone. At the little 3 notification on your calls, and the 10 on your messages. It might not even be Bucky. It’s still better to not look.
You only go home once the Sun starts to set, and you have it all rehearsed. If he stops you, you’re going to tell him that it’s not a big deal. It was only a kiss. You never have to speak of it again, and nothing has to change. If he pushes it, you’ll keep your head level, because you’re an adult. You’ve had a lot of failed romances, and this wasn’t even an actual relationship. So it’s not a big deal.
One failed kiss hurts more than any previous break-up, though. Feels like your heart is being split in half, and you’re never going to put it back together quite the same.
But that’s not Bucky’s problem.
So you’ll stick to your lines, and recover in your room, where he can’t hear your tears.
You open the door slowly, close it silently, and yelp as Bucky grunts your name from right behind you.
“Jesus fucking- James-“
“Where were you.” He snaps, and he’s standing really close. His arms are cross over his chest, eyes narrowed, and all the carefully practiced words are dissipating in the heat from his body. He sounds angry, his eyes boring into you like he’s going to pull the answer out of you with only a glare.
He might be able to.
You feel lightheaded again.
“Out working-“
“All day?” Bucky narrows his eyes, and you swallow.
“I had a lot of work.”
“Enough that you couldn’t pick up the damn phone?”
Your eyes are starting to blur again. “I was busy,” you whisper, and Bucky lets out a slow, heavy breath.
“Well don’t fuckin’ do that. I came home from a mission, someone coulda followed me, and if you-“ He shakes his head, glowering at the air. “Just tell me. Okay?”
“Okay.” You give him a small smile, rubbing your wrists behind your back. “Is that it?”
Bucky’s jaw tics. “Is it?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one who cornered me-“
“And you’re the one who’s been ignoring me all day.”
Shit. “I wasn’t ignoring you-“
“Yes, you were.” He grunts, taking a step forward, then freezing as you take a smaller one back. Something like hurt flashes over his features, and it drives right into your heart.
“Bucky-““No, it’s-” His voice is low, and it doesn’t sound fine. “I’d never hurt you, doll. Nothin’ could make me hurt you-“
“I know.” You say quickly, and you want to cross over to him, so he knows, but your knees feel like they’re about to give out. “I just- I’m sorry, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, I’m trying to give you space-“
He cuts you off with a frown. “Give me space?”
You nod weakly, and he stares at you like you’ve lost your mind.
“I don’t want space.”
“But-“
“No, I was callin’ you all fucking day, and you think I want space?” He takes another step forward, eyes driving into some raw, needy part of you that’s pulling to him like a magnet. “You’re the one dodging me, doll. Do you want space?”
You take a deep breath, trying not to sound like every thought in your head isn’t melting into Bucky. “I just don’t want it to be weird-“
Another step. “Why would it be weird.”
“Because I kissed you.” You mumble. “And- It’s just a kiss-“
“It wasn’t just a kiss.” He grunts, and it’s getting harder to remember what you’d told yourself you’d say.
“Well, it doesn’t have to be a big deal-
“No, it doesn’t.” Bucky stops, right in front of you, but he’s not touching you at all. It’s a small, strange torture. You can smell him, see twitch of his jaw and breath. But he’s not touching you. “But I kissed you, doll. So it’s up to you if we want to make it a big deal or not.”
The world does a stutter-stop. Time slows back to that honey, and his words take a second to skin under your skin. Another second for you to understand them.
When you speak, your voice is just a whisper. “What?”
“It’s fuzzy for me.” He mutters, and you’re trapped under his attention and low voice. “But I know I kissed you. So we can forget it, if that’s what you’re telling me to do. Is that what you’re tellin’ me to do?”
You shake your head. “You- You stopped kissing me-“
“I didn’t want it to happen like that.”
“Like… What?”
“Casual.” He mutters. “Just because you felt bad for me or some shit.”
“I-“
“If you want to keep doing your casual thing, I’m not going to stop you.” Bucky leans down as he says your name, and his breath is hot over your lips. “But I’m not going to be a part of it. I’m takin’ all of you, or none of you. Again, your choice.”
You feel dizzy. “You- You want me
Bucky chuckles, his lips curling into that handsome, teasing smile. “I’ve wanted you since I saw you, doll. You were the prettiest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen. Smart, too. Spent a lot of nights wondering what mighta happened if I just asked you out instead of moving in.”
“What might have happened?” You’re half echoing, because your brain is caught in a loop of whatever Bucky is saying. But the other half is a question. Because he can’t mean what you think he means.
That would mean you hadn’t ruined it.
That would mean there was a chance.
“Between us.” He mutters, just his metal hand moving on trace over your wrist, sending small shivers up your spine. “We could’ve skipped all the fighting, doll. Just gone straight to spending time together. Doing crosswords. Makin’ dinner.” He gives you a small grin, something teasing behind his eyes as his voice drops. “I might be bendin’ you over the couch right now, instead of trying to convince you that I wanted that kiss more than I’ve wanted anything in eighty goddamn years.”
He’s still looking at you. It’s making your tongue loose, your core molten. “I wanted it to.” You whisper, and he nods.
“I know, babydoll. But,” one last step, and you’re almost pinned to the door by his weight above you. “You need to tell me what you want. I’m not old-fashioned enough that I won’t touch you, but if we’re doing this, we’re doing it for a while. I-“ He takes a long breath, looking down to where he’s still stroking your wrist. “I don’t get to keep things I love, usually. So I’m not just gonna mess around.”
The world is definitely blurry. It doesn’t hurt anymore. “You love me?”
Bucky’s throat bobs, but he looks back up, and nods.
You take his face between your hands, and give him a wide, bright smile, the glow from your chest seeming to burst through your whole fucking body as time comes rushing back. It’s going to keep moving.
You’re not going to be alone.
“I love you too,” you keep smiling, and Bucky’s eyes shine on yours. “And I don’t want it casual, I- I just want you.”
Bucky’s voice is hoarse, as he drops his brow to yours. “I want you, too.”
You hum, standing up a little taller, just enough for your lips to brush. “Can you show me?”
Bucky makes a low, deep sound from his throat, and time isn’t dripping anymore. It’s flying, rushing through you and sweeping you away, and it doesn’t matter if it’s the dead of night or the middle of the day or the end of the world.
All you can feel is Bucky.
His mouth crashes over yours, and this isn’t a soft, slow kiss like last night. It’s hungry. Rough and possessive, with his hands groping at your ass and hips, his pelvis pressed right against yours, and your grip on his shirt the only thing keeping you upright. Every single second the kiss only gets deeper, until you’re gasping against his lips for air and scratching at his chest for more, you can feel him pressing right into your leg, thick and big, and you need more-
“You have no idea,” Bucky almost growls, starting to kiss—open mouthed and wet—down your neck. “What you do to me, pretty girl. How hard it’s been,” he thrusts his hips forward, and you let out a high squeak as he sucks on a soft, pulse point. “To be a gentleman, to not get on my knees and fuckin’ beg you to give me a shot.”
“You- You wouldn’t have had to-” You let out a needy moan as his hand slips under your shirt, playing with your nipples as he kisses over your shoulder. “God, you wouldn’t have had to beg, Bucky, I’ve been thinking about it too-“
“I got that now.” He hums, grinning at you as he draws back, and you only gape at him as he slowly pulls your shirt over your head. “Fuck, you’re perfect, doll. Look at you.”
He leans back down, kissing your open mouth with an almost mocking sweetness, and unhooks your bra in one motion. You melt into him as he kneads at the skin of your hips, his cool, metal hand groping and squeezing at your breasts. His thumb runs over your nipple and starting to roll it, and you arch into him with a whine. The groan that rumbles from his chest is animalistic, and it vibrates right into your core, making your thighs rub together for a little friction.
“Oh, Bucky, I- Fuck-“
He pulls you up, keeping you trapped between the wall and his body. Your pants are quickly shed by your own frantic hands, and Bucky tosses them away, rubbing your pussy over your panties. You moan as his fingers tease your slit, then whine when they move away. He grabs your ass, lifting you a little higher, and your legs manage to wrap around his torso, your chest level with his face. He looks up with a hooded awe as you grind against his body. You throw your head back, a coil starting to build in your core, and Bucky groans your name.
“You’re like a fucking painting, baby.” He mutters, and you whimper as he kisses over your breast. “Think I could watch you try to fuck yourself on me forever.”
You shake your head, your hips rutting up as another needy sound leaves your throat, and Bucky chuckles.
“You want a little more, though, don’t you.” He takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking and flicking his tongue against the sensitive bud. You writhe above him, thighs starting to get sore as he doubles his efforts.
“Oh my- Ohmygod-“ Your words start to slur, and Bucky’s teeth graze against you.
He pulls back with a lazy grin, the metal hand slowly starting to tease back over your panties. “You’re soaking,” he says your name, a low reverence in his voice. “This for me?”
You nod weakly, and his gaze drops down to where you’re spreading your legs. You try to use your grip around him to pull him closer, but he pinches your inner thigh, and you squeak.
“Patience, baby.” He mutters, kissing your neglected breast as he slowly pulls your ruined underwear to the side. “I’ve got you. Gonna make you feel so good, treat you right.”
Two metal fingers drive right into your core, curving right against a bundle of nerves deep inside your cunt, and his mouth wraps around your nipple once again. Your mouth falls open in long, loud moan as he starts to pump in and out of you at an unforgiving rhythm, always crooking at that same spot, twisting slightly every few thrusts. His tongue plays over your nipple, taking the peak between his teeth before his tongue presses flat.
Your fingers fly into his hair, and you tug hard.
Bucky fucking moans around you, and the vibrates against your tit, shooting right down to your core. You yank again, grinding down onto his hand, and he grunts. Bucky pulling his fingers fully out and leans back, licking his lips as he glares up at you.
“You get bratty.” He mutters, spanking your clit once—just enough to make you shake and send a rush through your body—and kissing your neck softly. “Keep doin’ that and I’m gonna get you in bed before we even get a proper date.”
“A- Oh-“ Bucky’s fingers push back into you, now going at a torturous, taunting pace. “A date?”
He hums against your skin. “I’m taking on you on a date before I fuck you, baby. I told you, we’re not doing casual.”
You nod, voice breathy as his thumb presses over your clit. “But- We can still- Fuck-“
He chuckles, starting to rub slow, firm circles over the bundle of nerves. “Not until the date. But don’t worry.” His fingers start to rub fast against that spot inside of you. “I’m still gonna make you cum on my hand.”
Bucky’s mouth moves back to your breast, and you take a sharp breath as release threatens to snap in your core.
“James-“
“Shit,” he mutters, kissing on a bruise he’d left on your collar. “Keep saying my name, babydoll. Make all those sounds I’ve dream about.”
You moan, loud and lewd, and Bucky grunts, his fingers picking up the pace. You tug at his hair again, and his thumb starts to flick your clit.
“I- James, I’m close-“
“I know.” He growls, returning his to your almost abused nipple. “Play with your tits for me, baby, c’mon-“
You cry out, grabbing your free breast and pinching your nipple, pulling at Bucky’s hair as you fall right over the edge. Your vision goes white as you clench around Bucky’s fingers. He presses in further, every shake of your body only seeming to make him work harder. Your thighs press together, when his finger finally pull out, but then he refocuses on your clit. Gives it small, rough hits that make your breath short and eyes roll back.
You try to squirm away from him, but he’s stronger, and into not until you’re a shaking, soaked and panting mess that he pulls away.
Bucky grins, leaning up to press at sweet, gentle kiss to your lips, and you melt over him. It’s just a kiss.
But it feels like everything.
Like you’re right where you’re supposed to be.
Eventually you find your voice, murmuring against his lips. “Do you have to pay my father a dowery now?”
He chuckles. “I’m not that old, baby. And,” he nips the of your nose. “We aren’t gettin’ married right now.”
“Right now?”
Bucky hums in acknowledgment, you lean away with small grin, playing with his hair.
“If we do…” You focus on his lips, swollen from touching you. “What would it be?”
“Your dowery?”
You nod, giving him a small smile, and he rolls his eyes.
“How about I just get you a cat, doll.”
Oh.
He’s perfect.
You beam at him, moving back down for another kiss. Bucky meets you halfway, his hand rubbing gently against your still-sensitive skin. Holding you carefully.
Holding like he never plans to let go.
“You like that?” He mutters, and you smile.
“Yeah. I do.”
✦End note: I need those metal fingers to do unspeakable things to me okay. Please join me on that journey ✦
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Summary: A winter team-building activity turns into chaos when your reckless streak ends in injury—and Bucky's gruff concern reveals just how much he truly cares.
Word Count: 1.2K+
Content: Mild injury / Swearing / Emotional distress / Light romantic tension / protective behavior / Some medical caretaking
a/n: catching up on all the requests from my 600 follower event! <3 thank you @writing-for-marvel for the request! i hope i did it justice!!
masterlist -- requests/inbox open!
“This is a very , very bad idea.”
Bucky said it with his arms crossed tight , eyes narrowed behind his navy beanie , watching the rink like it was some sort of war zone instead of a holiday team-building activity.
You—cheeks pink from the cold air , red scarf wrapped haphazardly around your neck , grinning ear to ear. You were practically bouncing beside him.
“It’s ice skating, Barnes. Not a tactical op.”
“I’ve seen less risk in tactical ops.”
You laughed , patting his muscular chest with your mitten clad hands. “You’re being dramatic.”
Valentina had demanded the Thunderbolts do something “festive” as a team to show the world the New Avengers were still people , which naturally meant dumping all of you—mercenaries, assassins, emotionally-stunted lunatics—onto a very crowded very public rink with hot chocolate and the subtle threat of photos being snapped the entire time.
Yelena had already hip-checked Alexei into ice twice. John was attempting pirouettes and nearly decapitated a twelve-year-old girl with pigtails while Ava had vanished. Literally.
You laced up your skates , tugging the laces tight with a perfect bow, then straightened up and beamed hands on hips at Bucky. “Come on , Buck. Live a little.”
He stared at you like you’d asked him to bungee jump into an active volcano.
“You’ve never done this before,” he muttered , worry coating the entirety of his handsome face.
“So?”
“So let me show you before you just head out there.”
You rolled your eyes shaking your head. “You gonna give me an ice skating tutorial, soldier boy?”
“Yes.” He dead panned.
You laughed again, grabbing his hand and dragging him toward the rink.
“Okay, okay. Let’s see what you’ve got, Professor.”
Ten Minutes Later
“You’re leaning too far forward,” Bucky grumbled , guiding your hips to be more straight , gently with both hands. “Center your weight.”
“Mm-hmm.” Your tongue was poked out with concentration.
“Your knees should bend. Don’t lock them.”
“Got it.”
“And don’t take sharp turns–”
You looked over your shoulder, smirking. “You worry too much.”
“That’s because you get hurt too much.”
You gave a dramatic gasp. “I never get hurt.”
“You got a concussion last month from trying to backflip off a moving jeep.”
“I almost landed it , if Alexie kept it steady I would have!”
Bucky growled under his breath before sighing loudly. “Just go slow, okay?”
You winked, skating ahead a little faster, arms out for balance. He followed behind, eye twitching. His eyes never left you. Not for a second.
And that was his fatal flaw.
Because you?
You never listened.
You picked up speed.
It wasn’t graceful—it was like Bambi on espresso , but it was fun. You dodged a cluster of kids of a field trip , made a sharp (and stupid) turn around one of the snowbanks, and then—
Crack-thump.
Pain.
Instant. Hot. Stabbing up your leg from your ankle.
You gasped, fell hard onto your side, skates sprawled out beneath you, eyes squeezing shut , tight.
People gasped as they skated by.
And Bucky?
He ran.
Not skated—ran.
“Doll—doll, hey!”
He dropped to his knees beside you, hands all over, checking, assessing, cataloging damage like he was back on active battlefield. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it hurt worse than you.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he hissed. “Are you—? Did you hit your head? What hurts?”
“My ankle,” you whispered, blinking up at him holding the injured foot.
Your voice was shaky. You hated that.
“I think I twisted it, Buck. I didn’t— I didn’t mean to—”
“I told you not to make sharp turns,” he bit out, pulling your skate off with slow, careful fingers.
The moment the boot slid off, pain shot through your leg and you whimpered, gripping his coat.
He paled. “Okay. That’s it. We’re done. You’re done.”
“Bucky–”
“No. I knew this would happen.”
“I was just having fun—”
“You don’t need to break your damn ankle to have fun!”
You flinched at his tone. He instantly softened feeling awful.
“I didn’t mean to yell,” he said quietly, brushing a strand of hair from your face with his metal fingers. “I just—god, doll, you scared the shit out of me.”
“I’ve scared you worse.”
“Doesn’t mean I ever get used to it.”
He moved slowly, sliding his arms beneath you, and lifted you effortlessly off the ice. You hissed in pain, but curled into him.
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m cold. And injured. And maybe mildly humiliated.”
You buried your face in his scarf, voice muffled.
“I was trying to impress you.”
Bucky blinked. “By giving yourself a sprain?”
“…It sounded better in my head.”
He laughed under his breath, tight and fond and exasperated , and pressed a kiss to your temple. “You impress me by breathing. You don’t have to kill yourself to prove a point.”
“That’s romantic,” you murmured.
“I’m serious.”
You didn’t reply right away.
Instead, you let yourself relax in his hold, cheek pressed to his heartbeat, surrounded by the buzz of the blades on the rink and the sound of snow starting to fall gently around you.
Then—
“I still almost landed that jeep backflip.”
“Dont”
Later That Night
“You need to ice it every hour.”
“Yes, Bucky.”
“And keep it elevated.”
“Yes, Bucky.”
“And no walking without the brace. I mean it.”
You crossed your arms. “You’re very bossy when I’m injured.”
“I wouldn’t have to be if you weren’t so reckless.”
You smirked from the couch. “You like it.”
He growled, half a glare, half a smile, as he knelt beside you with a fresh ice pack. His hands were gentle on your ankle. Too gentle. You could see the stress in the tight line of his mouth.
“You okay?” you asked.
He looked up, surprised.
“I’m not the one with a busted ankle.”
“No, but you look like i just ran over your cat.”
He exhaled, pressing his forehead to your knee , and mumbled, “I just…I hate seeing you hurt. I really hate it.”
“I know,” you whispered, threading your fingers in his hair.
He looked up again.
“You’re not mad at me for getting upset?” he asked.
“I mean, I’m mad at myself. And at physics. But no , never at you.”
“You’re not gonna listen next time either, are you?”
“…probably not.”
He huffed a quiet laugh.
“I’ll be there to catch you,” he murmured.
You tilted your head. “Always?”
He leaned in, kissed your bandaged ankle, then your knee, then your hand.
“Always, reckless girl.”
You smiled softly.
And Bucky , the grumpy, protective, old-soul Bucky—sat on the floor beside you all night, grumbling about your poor choices and refilling your hot cocoa every time it got cold.
Because that’s what you do when the love of your life insists on flying headfirst into danger.
You hold them tight. You patch them up.
And you stay ready to catch them every time they fall.
-end
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Summary : You leave lipstick marks on Bucky’s face.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x wife!reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : fluff, slightly suggestive content, canon-typical violence, please let me know if I missed anything.
Word count : 2.8k
Note : I didn’t post at all last week because I was busy viewing wedding venues, and we’ve finally picked one, so that’s a big weight off our shoulders lol. I’ll be updating my taglist, masterlist, and replying to asks very soon. In the meantime, I’ve queued this up while watching Fantastic Four, so… enjoy!
The morning was chaos, as always.
You were already finished with your cereal and halfway through your coffee, trying to wrestle your foot into a pair of your favourite flats when you realised you were running late.
Bucky’s slice of toast had been sitting in the toaster for the past seven minutes because you couldn’t find your lanyard. Your phone was only thirty percent charged. You’d only slept four hours. And your husband was—
“—way too calm for someone who’s also late,” you muttered as Bucky emerged from the bathroom, toweling his hair and wearing nothing but his dog tags and a pair of black boxer briefs.
He smirked. “You’re staring, sweets.”
“I’m stressed,” you snapped, stepping over a pile of clean laundry.
He chuckled, walking barefoot to the kitchen island and stealing your half-full mug of coffee like it was his God-given right.
“Did you take my last granola bar too?” you asked, rifling through the cabinets.
“Nope,” he said between sips. “You ate that last night when I fell asleep on the couch.”
You stopped mid-step, hands on your hips, about to give him hell—when you noticed the little box he was holding behind his back.
“Buck.”
“Hm?”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
“James.”
He grinned, then revealed the box — matte black, small, with a thin satin ribbon around it. You immediately recognized the luxury brand embossed in gold across the top. You blinked, confused.
“What…” you started, walking toward him slowly.
Bucky shrugged casually, but his eyes were almost shy. “It’s just... a thing. Just because.”
You stared. “That’s… the lipstick? The one I’ve wanted for months?”
“The exact shade, darlin’” — he sounded proud — “Figured you might like to wear it today. Y’know. For your big meeting with the board,” he said, stepping closer, trailing both metal and human fingers down your arm and pressing kisses, “and maybe let me kiss it off tonight.”
Oh.
Your stomach flipped.
You reached out, pulling the ribbon, and opened the box. The lipstick sat nestled in velvet, a rich shade of red that reminded you of another era. You lifted carefully, like it might break if you touched it with too much force— it was very expensive, after all.
“I can’t believe you remembered,” you whispered, brushing your thumb across the cap.
“I remember everything about you,” he said, that dangerous rasp curling into your ear.
Even after all these years, your cheeks flushed, heat pooling in your stomach. “Bucky, we have to leave in ten minutes.”
“We’ve done worse things in five,” he whispered, lips brushing the side of your neck.
“Don’t tempt me.”
“I’m not. I’m just saying... if you wanted to try it out right now, I wouldn’t mind.”
You smacked his chest, though lightly. “If you don’t stop trying to seduce me, we are not leaving this apartment today.”
He grinned and backed away with both his hands up. “Fair.”
You turned to the mirror by the entryway and carefully uncapped the lipstick. You smoothed the deep crimson shade over your lips, and it went on like a velvety and bold dream.
You turned back toward him. “Well?”
Bucky looked like he’d been punched in the chest.
“Holy shit.”
“Too much?”
“No.” His voice was hoarse. “That’s… that your colour.”
You stepped toward him slowly, lips parted just slightly, eyes flicking up to his. He grabbed you by the waist before you could reply, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that had been simmering under his skin since he walked out of the bathroom with no top on. He smiled against your mouth, triumphant, as you wound your arms around his neck and let him deepen the kiss.
Then you pulled back and planted one kiss on his jaw. Another on his cheek. One right under his ear, just to hear him groan. Then one more, on one of his eyebrows, because he was finally frowning at the time on the microwave.
“Shit,” he muttered. “I really do have to go.”
You were laughing as you grabbed your coat and swiped your bag from the floor. “I’m always right.”
He was still blinking in a daze as you passed him.
“What?” you asked.
“Did you… did you leave a mark?”
You paused, cocking your head. “…maybe.”
“I have a briefing,” he whined dramatically, touching his face with metal fingers.
You shrugged. “You’ll survive. Tell the team I say hi.”
He jogged after you, grabbing his jacket and boots. “You are so lucky I love you.”
“I know,” you said, kissing him once more on the lips, just to reapply the color.
You opened the door and winked. “Now go, Sergeant. Before I drag you back to bed and ruin both our careers.”
He didn’t move for a second.
Just stood there, watching you walk away, cheeks flushed, all kissed up, no thoughts whatsoever in his mind as he looked at the lipstick smudge on his collarbone in the distorted reflection of your stainless steel pan.
—
Once you were gone. Bucky rushed into the bathroom mirror, and it showed exactly what he expected.
Your new lipstick stain, bolder than he would imagine.
It was smeared like war paint along his jaw and neck. One kiss was just below his ear, slightly angled like you’d pulled him down by the collar. Another was fainter, near his cheekbone.
“Fuck,” Bucky muttered.
He yanked the hem of his black long-sleeve shirt up and scrubbed at his jaw. He loved that color on you, and loved that he could still feel the drag of your lips across his skin, but the team would drag him to the ground.
He wiped again, a little too hard this time. A faint pink patch came off on his shirt, but the rest stayed stubbornly in place like a brand.
“Shit,” he muttered again, but it was too late now.
He had a work briefing to go to.
—
The elevator dinged in the watchtower.
He adjusted his jacket, popped the collar up slightly to shield the worst of it, and rolled his shoulders back as he stepped into the new, refurbished Avengers briefing room.
The calm lasted about four seconds.
“Jesus, Barnes,” Yelena said, looking up from her tablet. “You wrestle a lipstick monster on your way in?”
The entire room froze for a second.
John blinked before letting out a low whistle. “Oh damn.”
Alexei squinted. “What... is that paint?”
Bob Reynolds raised his hand like they were in a classroom. “No, those are lip stains! Most likely from his lovely wife that brings us cookies once a week.”
Bucky clenched his teeth and sighed. “You people need hobbies.”
Ava’s tone was flat as ever. “We do have hobbies. One of them is watching you walk into meetings like you just rolled out of bed with your wife still attached to your face.”
John burst out laughing. “I mean, fair. It’s kind of impressive.”
Bucky reached up slowly and tried to rub his thumb over the spot near his ear. Still there. Of course.
He exhaled through his nose. “I wiped it off.”
“You tried to wipe it off,” Yelena corrected, standing up and walking around the table to inspect him like a forensic analyst. “That’s high-end lipstick. Long-wear. Transfer-proof, so clearly she kissed you when it was still drying.”
“She did it on purpose,” Ava said casually, arms crossed. “You can tell. Look at the placement. That’s a ‘he belongs to me’ kiss. And that one”—she pointed—“is downright territorial.”
Bucky bit the inside of his cheek, suddenly remembering the way you smiled as you kissed each spot on his face that morning. Like a map.
He had to look away from his own reflection in the polished black table. His skin was warm now. His ears were hot. His neck… was tingling.
John clapped him on the shoulder. “So this is how married life is treating you, Barnes.”
Bucky didn’t answer.
The truth, though?
He was starting to like it.
No — he loved it.
The more he looked at his reflection, the more loved seeing the lipstick on his skin the way it clung to him even after he scrubbed at it like a sinner trying to wash off guilt. The possessiveness in it. The heat it left behind. The way it made him feel like you’d staked a claim on him trying — just by pressing your mouth to his skin, casually.
God, that made his knees weak.
He dragged a hand down his face and tried to clear his head, but he could still feel the phantom weight of your hands in his hair, tugging just slightly. The scent of your perfume still clung to his jacket. The taste of your mouth lingered on his lips like honey.
And now, thanks to your indestructible lipstick and a complete lack of shame, he was sitting in a military-grade conference room looking like he’d been devoured alive by his wife.
And he wanted more.
He wanted to walk into battle with your lipstick on his jawline. He wanted the world to see he had something — someone — worth coming home to.
Yelena slid back into her seat and gave him a knowing grin. “So. You want us to pretend we didn’t see it, or...?”
He sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Pretend away.”
Bob leaned over, stage-whispering, “Don’t worry, man. If I had a wife who kissed like that, I wouldn’t wipe it off either.”
—
The mission was supposed to be routine.
Get in, extract intel, maybe break a few bones. It was a Hydra splinter cell — the wannabes, fanatics, and leftovers still pretending their little empire wasn't in ruins.
But no one warned them that James Buchanan Barnes was showing up with red lipstick smeared across his face.
—
20 Minutes Into Infiltration
The base was buried in some frozen forest.
Bucky didn’t care.
He moved like a shadow through the corridors, metal arm whirring. But it wasn’t the weapon in his hand that made the first patrol unit freeze.
It was his face.
Or, more specifically … the kiss marks on it.
One print glowed faint red under the stark fluorescent lighting, right beneath his cheekbone. Another peeked out just above his collar. A third bold and shameless one sat on his eyebrows.
“What the hell…” muttered one of the guards, gun wavering.
“Is that… lipstick?” another whispered, confused. “Is he—“
“I think someone got lucky this morning.”
“I think we’re about to get beat up.”
And they were right.
Bucky didn’t say a word. He just smiled, thinking I’ve got nothing to prove — but I’m going to make this hurt anyway.
Three seconds later, the hallway was a pile of bodies— cracked ribs, dislocated shoulders, and a shattered femur, probably. The last guy was still groaning when Bucky knelt beside him, blood dripping down his temple.
“The drive,” Bucky growled, pressing the cold frost of his fist to the guy’s shirt. “Where is it?”
The guy coughed. Eyes wide. “Y-You’ve got… lipstick on your face.”
Bucky blinked once.
“Yeah, well.” Bucky hissed proudly. “My wife kissed me goodbye.”
The Hydra agent whimpered. “...Lucky bastard.”
—
40 Minutes In, Main Control Room
The alarm was blaring. Red lights flashed like strobe against the concrete walls. Another squad of agents waited in a semicircle with their weapons raised. They were prepared.
Then Bucky stepped through the smoke.
And for a split second, they hesitated.
Because he wasn’t just battle-worn — he looked like he’d come straight from someone’s bed. Hair mussed. Collar half-popped. Face kissed like a trophy, yet with blood on his knuckles.
“Is this a joke?” one of the agents sneered. “You show up looking like you fucked a runway model?”
Another tilted his head. “That lipstick waterproof or what?”
“Why don’t you come find out?” Bucky deadpanned.
Then he dove straight into the fray.
His fists moved like they were born for it — metal arm catching one throat, organic arm snapping another wrist. Someone tried to tase him and he drove an elbow into their ribs hard enough to lift them off the ground.
The whole time, the lipstick stayed.
One agent tried to mock him mid-fight. “Does your wife know you’re out here fucking up people with her makeup on?”
Bucky shoved him against the wall, face inches away.
“She picked the shade,” he growled.
Then he headbutted the guy so hard he dropped like a ragdoll.
—
The last Hydra grunt was backed against the server wall, his eyes wide.
“Y-You’re fucking insane,” he stammered. “You’re not the Winter Soldier anymore. You’re someone’s pet.”
Bucky tilted his head.
He leaned in close, giving the guy a good long look at the smeared lipstick still faintly on his cheek — a little smudged now with sweat and blood, but still there.
“No,” Bucky said, voice low and lethal. “I’m her husband.”
And then he knocked the guy out cold and completed the mission.
—
It was past midnight when you heard the key turn at the front door.
You were curled up on the couch, hair tied up, reading the same paragraph on your annual report for the fourth time — half waiting, half trying not to stare at the clock.
Then you heard a heavy pair of boots, followed by the thud of a tactical jacket hitting the floor, and you didn’t even have to look up.
He was home.
“Buck?"
He let out a tired grunt.
You stood, moving toward the hallway, just as he stepped into view, sweaty, bruised, and a bit wrecked, with blood on his forearm and gravel in his hair.
And still… wearing your lipstick marks.
The marks were faded now, but still unmistakably there.
You blinked, covering your mouth to stifle the giggle that bubbled up. “Oh my God.”
He looked up, eyes heavy, mouth tugging into a sleepy smirk. “Tried to wipe it.”
“I know.” You grinned. “Bob messaged me. Didn’t know it was that bad.”
Bucky chuckled, as he kicked his boots off. “Of course he did.”
Then, he walked right into you, his arms wrapped tight around your waist, head ducked against your neck and just held you.
You barely had time to react. “Hi—Whoa. Okay. Hi.”
His body felt like home against yours, metal arm sliding up your spine as he practically lifted you off the couch, burying his nose into your shoulder.
You laughed softly, hugging him back. “You okay?”
He nodded, murmuring into your skin. “Mhm. Just needed this.”
“You smell like shit.”
“And you smell like home,” he murmured, voice gone hoarse.
“Rough mission?” you asked, brushing your fingers through his hair.
Bucky hummed again, nodding lazily. “Got messy. One of ‘em asked if the lipstick was waterproof.”
You laughed. “And?”
“I broke his nose.”
“Good man.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes half-lidded. “They all saw it, babe. Saw me like this.”
You smiled and smoothed your hand over his beard. “I think it’s hot.”
That got his attention. “Yeah?”
You nodded. “You, showing up to a mission marked by me? Of course.”
He looked like he was about to melt into the floor.
“I really love you,” he mumbled.
“I really love you too, especially with this lipstick,” you teased, brushing your thumb over the faint smudge near his eyebrows. “This one held up through gunfire and hand-to-hand combat. I’m impressed.”
“I didn’t really want to wipe it off,” he admitted sheepishly, voice gentler now. “Even when I saw it in the mirror. I tried, but… not that hard.”
You grinned. “You liked it, huh?”
Bucky pressed his forehead against yours, and you felt the tiniest, almost embarrassed nod on skin.
You reached up and gently tilted his chin, eyes tracing the places where your kisses had landed. His skin was flushed, warm, bruised in places — but somehow, the lipstick was still the first thing you saw.
You leaned in and kissed his cheek again, just beside the original print.
Bucky’s eyes fluttered shut, and a rumbled content from his chest, almost like a purr.
"You're clingy," you whispered fondly.
"M'happy," he mumbled. “Mission’s done. You’re here. Your kisses are still on me.”
You ran your hands up under his shirt, feeling the scarred skin, the steady heartbeat. “Come to bed, baby.”
He shook his head. “Not yet.”
You blinked. “No?”
“I just wanna hold you for a bit,” he said, walking backward and pulling you with him toward the couch.
So you curled up on the couch again — this time with a super soldier wrapped around you like a weighted blanket. His arm tucked under your legs, his nose against your collarbone, his sigh on your skin.
Every few minutes, he kissed your neck or your shoulder or the inside of your wrist, like he couldn’t stop.
Eventually, his lips brushed your ear. “Hey.”
“Hmm?”
“You think, since it’s a rest day…” he paused thoughtfully. “Maybe I could try the lipstick tomorrow? Kiss you up before your work.”
Your heart skipped a beat. “That’s... kind of hot, Buck.”
summary | The next morning, instead of questioning bucky, the girls paint you as the problem — the messy one who blindsided sharon and stirred the pot. the judgment builds. the energy shifts.
Then comes the dumping.
Three girls vulnerable. One will go.
a/n | guys omg, I did not expect so much love for the love island headcanons lollll, anyway I went hella overboard for this. also I wrote this in present tense and it was giving me the ick and making my fingers crawlllll
taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist 🩵
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ - ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1
divider by @cafekitsune
The Next Morning 🌅
Cue soft acoustic guitar and wide drone shot of the villa bathed in early morning sunlight.
Iain Stirling (voiceover): “It’s a brand new day in the Love Island villa, and after last night’s emotionally devastating, slow-motion, whisper-in-the-dark, Soul Ties-level drama, you’d think things might have calmed down…”
Cut to you and Bucky, asleep and cuddled up in Soul Ties.
“But no. Because this is Love Island, and peace is just a rumor.”
Cut to the girls’ dressing room, where tension is spreading faster than MJ’s lip gloss.
“Elektra’s getting ready to look flawless while ruining someone’s morning. MJ’s in her usual position — two inches from drama. And Trish? Trish is there because no one wants to be the third wheel and the fourth wall.”
The dressing room is thick with hair spray and tension. Sunlight filters through the windows, casting golden lines across countertops cluttered with makeup bags and hair tools.
Elektra sits at the center vanity like it's a throne, legs crossed, one brow arched as she slowly runs a brush through her hair. Her voice is soft, almost casual — which makes it sting worse.
“I just think it’s wild,” she says, watching her own reflection with amusement. “Bucky brings Sharon back, and now he’s creeping into bed with her like it’s nothing?”
MJ lets out a gasp that practically echoes off the tile. She's leaned close to Elektra, glossing her lips and pretending she's not dying to be the one spilling the tea. “Wait, they were actually together last night?”
Trish, sitting behind them and stretching like she hadn’t been up for an hour waiting for this conversation to kick off, nods like it pained her to confirm. “I heard he left the bed after lights out. Went straight to her. Didn’t even try to be subtle.”
Elektra gives a low, theatrical laugh. “Please. That girl’s been crying all week — now she’s in Soul Ties with Bucky again? She’s been playing the victim card like it’s her job. It’s giving... manipulative.”
“And Sharon?” MJ adds, voice pitched to sound sincere, but there's that edge in it — the same one she always has when she wants someone to look bad. “She’s literally so sweet. Like, she did nothing wrong.”
“She got blindsided, that’s what happened,” Elektra mutters, tossing her brush onto the counter. “And that one—” she doesn't even say your name, just nods toward the door, “—knew exactly what she was doing.”
“She’s not even subtle about it,” Trish says. “I mean, don’t act like you’re above the mess and then go sneak a boy out of bed.”
Elektra’s lips curl. “Exactly. Some people talk about loyalty like it’s a brand — but clearly she’s only loyal when it benefits her.”
Across the room, Ororo stands by the mirror, arms folded as she slowly applies her moisturizer, not once looking in their direction. Karen sits nearby, silent, eyes fixed on her reflection, jaw tight. Neither of them says a word — but the air around them has changed. They heard every syllable.
“I swear,” Ororo mutters under her breath once the others are too busy giggling to notice, “if she says one more word...”
Karen leans in slightly. “She’s poking for a reaction. They all are. Don’t give it to them.” Then, quieter still, “But we’ve got her back. No matter what.”
You push open the dressing room door with one hand, the other tugging the hood of your sweatshirt further over your head. You don’t say anything — not “morning,” not even a nod. You just walk in with your face mostly hidden, body language tight, and that stiff, quiet air of someone who’s not sure whether they want to cry or scream.
You feel the eyes on you immediately. Not all of them. But enough.
You can practically hear them stop talking.
You know what they’re thinking. You know what you’re thinking — and that’s the worst part.
You're still torn. Still bruised.
He came back with another girl. But then he left her bed, broke the rules, and found you. Held you. Slept beside you like nothing in the world could’ve pulled him away.
So what the fuck does that mean?
You’re still figuring it out when Elektra says, without even turning fully around, “Well. Looks like someone had a wild night.”
You stop in your tracks. You don’t look at her — not yet. But your voice is clear when it comes out.
“Don’t start. Not this early.”
There’s a pause. MJ tries — tries — to stifle a reaction. Trish looks up from her water bottle, waiting.
But Elektra? She’s already smiling. Not wide. Just the kind of smile that says she was hoping you’d bite.
“I’m just making conversation,” she says lightly, flicking her mascara wand up through her lashes. “Didn’t realize that was off-limits now.”
You let out a short laugh through your nose. Dry. Exhausted. “You know what you’re doing.”
Elektra glances at you in the mirror, her tone casual. “What? I can’t ask about the villa’s newest and most confusing love triangle?”
Karen, sitting nearby, shifts slightly — not looking up, but her grip on her brush tightens.
Ororo doesn’t even pretend to ignore it. She turns her head, calm but watching.
Elektra continues, voice cool. “Bucky brings Sharon back from Casa, and not even twenty-four hours later he’s cuddled up with you like it didn’t happen. But sure, I’m the one being messy.”
The way she says it — soft, deliberate — isn’t loud. Isn’t obviously cruel. But it’s sharp. She doesn’t need volume to cut deep.
You lift your head finally, just enough for your eyes to meet hers in the mirror.
“You don’t care about Sharon,” you say flatly. “You just don’t like not being in the middle of the drama.”
Trish stifles a breath. MJ goes quiet.
Elektra doesn’t blink. “If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t be saying anything.”
“You’re not saying anything helpful,” you shoot back. “You’re stirring shit you know nothing about.”
Elektra leans back slightly, crossing one leg over the other, eyes locked on yours through the mirror like she’s bored, but her smile is too precise for that to be true.
She shrugs, slow and cool. “Hey, if you can dish it out, you should be able to take it.”
You squint at her, that dull throb in your temples starting to flare.
“Dish what out?” you ask, voice quieter now, but sharper. “You’ve been talking shit since you walked in this villa.”
“I’ve been asking questions,” Elektra says innocently, setting down her mascara wand like she’s so done with this. “If that gets under your skin, maybe there’s something worth unpacking.”
Ororo makes a sound from across the room — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Karen just tilts her head down, like she’s reading the label on her moisturizer just to keep from rolling her eyes.
You open your mouth to say something else, heat rising up the back of your neck —
And then the door opens.
Sharon steps in quietly, wrapped in her robe, makeup-free, her expression open and uncertain. She looks around the room, her eyes scanning like she’s stepping into something she wasn’t invited to. Her brows knit just slightly, but she keeps her posture calm.
“Hey,” she says gently. “I just need a few minutes to get ready. Is the shower free?”
Elektra is up like clockwork — the switch in her tone almost whiplash-inducing.
“Yeah, of course, babe,” she says, turning to face Sharon with the perfect balance of warm concern and subtle drama. “You okay? You look kind of... off.”
Sharon hesitates, just a second too long. “Didn’t sleep much.”
Elektra gives her a soft, pitying look that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah. I would think so. Must be weird trying to sleep while your guy’s out in another bed.”
That lands like a pin drop.
You lift your head immediately, expression tightening.
“Elektra,” you warn, voice low, but she waves it off like you’re being dramatic.
“No, I’m just saying,” she continues, still looking at Sharon, voice all faux-sympathy. “I’d be pretty torn up too. First night in the villa and he’s already moving on. That’s... brutal.”
You step forward, pulse spiking. “Don’t do that. Don’t put this on me.”
Elektra finally looks at you — not angry, not loud — just surgical.
“You went off with him. While she was still sleeping in his bed. After everything. That’s not just messy, it’s fucked.”
Sharon shifts slightly, her face still composed, but there’s something behind her eyes now — not shock, just quiet confirmation that she’s already been thinking everything Elektra’s saying.
You take a breath, trying to keep your voice steady. “It wasn’t like that.”
Elektra lets out a breath of disbelief. “Oh come on. You think that makes it better? You’re not stupid — you knew what it looked like.”
You glance at Sharon — and the worst part is, she’s not glaring. She’s not accusing. She just looks... tired. Like she’s trying not to feel humiliated.
And now, you feel sick.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen that way,” you say quickly, eyes still on Sharon. “I didn’t plan any of it. He came to me. I didn’t even know he would.”
Elektra scoffs. “Yeah, but you let him stay.”
Silence.
No one says a word. MJ’s frozen mid-makeup swipe. Trish has stopped pretending she’s not watching.
Ororo stands by the sink, arms crossed now, expression unreadable. Karen meets your eyes from across the room — no judgment, but concern. She knows this isn’t black and white.
But Elektra just tilts her head, all soft venom.
“You can do what you want,” she says sweetly. “Just don’t act like you’re the victim anymore. Not when someone else is standing right there.”
You stare at the floor for a second, jaw clenched, vision hot.
Elektra’s words hang in the air like smoke, still curling around the room, seeping into everyone’s silence. Sharon doesn’t say anything — she’s polite like that — but you can feel the judgment twisting, building, pressing against your chest like a weight.
You laugh once — short, sharp, humorless.
And then it just snaps.
“You know what?” Your voice is low, but it cuts through the room like a blade. “Go ahead. All of you. Dogpile on me. That’s clearly the game today, yeah?”
You look up, eyes bright and full of fire now. “Like I wasn’t the one standing at that firepit yesterday in front of all of you looking like a fucking idiot. Like I wasn’t the one humiliated on national fucking television while he walked in with someone else.”
No one says anything. MJ shifts her weight like she wants to disappear. Trish stares at the floor.
You keep going, voice steady but shaking from the sheer force of everything behind it.
“And now I’m the bad guy because I didn’t shove him off me in the middle of the night? Because for one second I wanted to feel like I didn’t imagine all of it?”
You glance at Sharon again, and your voice softens — not apologetic, but real.
“I didn’t mean for you to get hurt. And I’m sorry that you did. But I’m done pretending like I’m the one who fucked this whole thing up.”
You look back at Elektra, finally meeting her eyes head-on.
“You wanna play girl's girl? Cool. Just don’t rewrite the story like Bucky didn’t make the mess. You all wanna call me messy, but none of you have had the balls to say anything to him.”
But Elektra says nothing now.
Because you’re right. And everyone in that room knows it.
You exhale hard, rubbing your face once, then shake your head. “I’m done with this shit.”
And you walk out — hoodie still up, heart still bruised.
You find the staircase that wraps around the back of the villa — barely used, tucked between two walls where the cameras can’t quite catch a clean angle. You sit on the third step, legs pulled up, arms resting on your knees, trying to fold in on yourself like maybe you could disappear if you got small enough.
It’s quiet. For a few seconds. Then soft footsteps approach.
Ororo and Karen don’t say your name. Don’t announce themselves. They just stop a few steps down, careful not to crowd you.
Karen crouches down beside you, her expression gentle but serious. Ororo leans against the railing, arms crossed lightly, watching you like she’s waiting for you to look up first.
You don’t.
Karen’s voice is soft. “Are you okay?”
You laugh. Not because it’s funny. Just because what else are you supposed to do?
“No,” you say. Quiet, but real. “Seriously—no. I’m not.”
You finally lift your head, and the way your voice cracks a little as you speak again makes Karen reach for your hand instinctively.
“I have no fucking clue what’s going on anymore. I don’t know where I stand with him. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel. One second I’m being embarrassed in front of everyone, and the next he’s sneaking out to hold me like—like that didn’t happen.”
Your eyes glass over, and you blink hard.
“I feel like I’m losing my mind. Everyone’s looking at me like I’m the bad guy, and I don’t even know what I’m defending anymore. I’m just… so fucking tired.”
Ororo still hasn’t moved. She’s quiet for a beat, then says softly, “You’re not crazy. You’re in the middle of something real, and people forget that just because it’s on camera.”
You shake your head. “Yeah, well, it feels crazy.”
Karen squeezes your hand gently. “You don’t have to have it figured out right now. You just need space to feel it.”
Ororo steps forward, finally, kneeling on the step just above yours.
“You’re not alone,” she says simply. “You never have to be.”
You exhale slowly, pressing your knuckles to your eyes for a second before letting your hands drop back into your lap. The weight in your chest hasn’t shifted, and your voice is quieter now, like you're already tired of hearing yourself talk — but it needs to come out.
Karen tilts her head gently. “What… actually happened last night?”
You hesitate, eyes flicking between her and Ororo. There’s no pressure in their faces. Just space. Space to be honest.
You finally speak.
“He found out I was sleeping in Soul Ties,” you say, voice low. “And then… after everyone went to sleep, he came out.”
You stare down at your hands. “Didn’t say much. Just got in behind me and held me. Like it was the most normal thing in the world.”
Karen watches you closely, her brows pulling together just slightly.
“He said he didn’t care if he wasn’t supposed to. That he couldn’t sleep knowing I was out there alone. And then he…” You trail off for a second. The words feel heavier in your mouth than they did in your memory. “He said some things before that. About how he didn’t think I’d pick him. About how he made the wrong choice. And then… we kissed.”
Ororo’s expression shifts subtly — not shock, not judgment. Just concern. Like she knows what’s coming before you even say it.
You let the silence hang for a second longer before your voice comes back, brittle and quiet.
“That was it. That’s all that happened. But—”
You shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek before the rest tumbles out.
“Words are cheap. Anyone can say nice shit when they’re lying next to you at two in the morning. What matters is what they do when the lights are on. And all I’ve seen so far is him choosing someone else and me being the one who looks pathetic.”
You blink again, hard.
“I feel like the biggest piece of shit. Like I let myself be played again. And now Sharon’s hurt, Elektra’s making it her mission to drag me, and I’m just sitting here trying to remember how I even got in the middle of this.”
Karen doesn’t speak. She just lets you sit with it.
Ororo’s voice is calm when it comes, steady and grounding. “You’re not the piece of shit in this story. You’re the one they keep expecting to carry all the guilt while he walks around like he didn’t light the match.”
You press your lips together, shaking your head again, like you can physically will the tears not to fall.
“I just…” your voice is barely there now, hoarse around the tightness in your throat, “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
You stare down at the floor, blinking fast, willing yourself not to fall apart in front of them. Not now. Not again.
“I don’t know if what he said meant anything. I don’t know if he’s just playing a game, or if I am for letting him in. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do to fix it, and honestly…”
You stop. Take a deep breath. It shakes on the way out.
“I just wanna go home.”
The words fall out small, tired, and honest in a way that makes the air feel still. You don’t say it for sympathy.
You say it because you mean it. Because for the first time since you got here, the idea of finishing the show doesn’t feel like a challenge — it feels like punishment.
Karen gently leans into you, resting her head against your shoulder without a word. Ororo doesn’t move, but her presence wraps around you like a second spine.
They don’t say anything right away.
Because they know that sometimes the most important thing someone can do is just be there when you can’t carry it anymore.
Tweet Challenge📱
The islanders are gathered around the firepit, energy nervous and unsettled. A few people try to fake-laugh their way through it, but no one’s really relaxed — not with a card on the table marked “#VillaTalks”.
A text informs Trish to take the first card, who reads it out loud.
“It’s time to find out what the world really thinks. One by one, tweets from viewers will be read out loud. Some are nice. Most… not so much.”
The first few tweets are harmless — jabs at random couples, calling Matt a walking red flag, teasing MJ for always stirring the pot (she takes it in stride, grinning). You’re sitting off to the side, Karen beside you, Ororo on your other side, silent support flanking you like armor.
Then the next tweet is pulled.
Elektra leans forward, plucking the card with dramatic flair. Her eyes flick across the words, and you already know — from the flicker of her smile — it’s about you.
She reads it out loud, tone sweet but loaded.
“Not her crying all week then playing sleepover with Mr. Flip-Flop 🤡#PickASide #MessyQueen”
A few people laugh awkwardly. MJ lets out a “Yikes” under her breath. Sharon’s expression doesn’t move, but her hand tenses slightly on her knee.
You stare straight ahead, jaw locked.
Elektra raises an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Oof. Wonder who that could be.”
Karen shifts beside you. “We don’t have to pretend.”
The text prompt: “Islanders, who do you think that tweet’s about?”
It’s rhetorical. Everyone knows.
You speak before anyone else can.
“Me,” you say flatly. “Obviously.”
The next card comes, but the tension hasn’t broken. It clings to you, thick and sharp, like you’ve just been handed a version of yourself that the outside world has already judged.
And the worst part?
They don’t know half the story.
Bucky’s across from you, hands clasped between his knees, head lowered slightly. You don’t look at him. You don’t need to. You can feel the weight of his guilt across the firepit.
And still — no one says anything.
The tweet sits there in the air, sharper than anything Elektra could’ve cooked up.
And you sit in the middle of it, stone-still, trying to hold your head up — even though your chest is caving in.
The cards keep coming.
MJ grabs the next one, eyes widening slightly as she reads. Her tone is more neutral now — less playful.
“Her reaction was raw, real, and heartbreaking. Bucky doesn’t deserve her. #StayStrongQueen #KnowYourWorth”
A few murmurs ripple through the group. Karen nods slightly beside you. Ororo doesn’t react — but you feel the subtle shift in her posture, like she’s quietly validating it.
You don’t smile. You just stare ahead. You can’t smile, not when your heart’s still tangled up in all the parts of this that didn’t happen in front of a camera.
But then Sharon — quiet, careful — picks up the next tweet.
Her voice is steady, but there’s an edge under it.
“Bucky's out here doing everything but picking a lane. One day he’s with Sharon, next he’s in Soul Ties whispering sweet nothings to Y/N. Bro’s a full-time shapeshifter. #CasualKing #CuddleContractRenewed”
Even Bucky lets out a quiet breath — part laugh, part groan.
The villa chuckles, but no one’s really laughing.
You don’t look at him. You just fold your arms across your chest tighter.
Then Trish pulls the next one — and you know from her expression before she even speaks that this one’s going to sting.
“I tried to feel bad for Y/N but girl… you let him embarrass you at the firepit and still kissed him? You’re not a victim. You’re a volunteer. #Embarrassing #HaveSomeSelfRespect”
It hits harder than you expect.
Hard enough that your stomach flips.
You breathe in slowly through your nose, eyes locked on the fire like it’s the only thing grounding you.
Karen reaches out, her hand brushing yours in a way that’s subtle but sure.
Ororo doesn’t speak, but her gaze is locked on Trish — and Trish suddenly looks a little uncomfortable holding the card.
Elektra, of course, can't help herself. “People are just saying what we’re all thinking,” she says lightly.
You turn your head slowly, finally looking at her. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”
Elektra smiles, tilting her head. “I didn’t write the tweets, babe.”
The air stills again. Even Bucky looks up now, eyes locked on you like he’s finally realizing how much this is costing you.
And the producers? They call it there — challenge over. Maybe it’s too real now. Maybe they got what they wanted.
You stand up slowly, brushing invisible dust off your legs, not looking at anyone as you walk off.
After The Challenge ❤️🩹
You find the far edge of the villa near the swing bench — not because it’s hidden, but because it’s just far enough from the cameras and the people and the noise.
You sit with your hands folded in your lap, staring at nothing, your breath coming in that slow, numb way that only happens when you’ve stopped trying to fight the burn in your throat.
And then you hear his footsteps.
You don’t even have to look. The weight in the air changes when he’s around now.
Bucky doesn’t speak right away. He just stops a few feet away, like he’s trying to figure out if he’s even allowed to stand that close to you anymore.
You can feel his eyes on you — studying the way your shoulders are curled in slightly, how you’re blinking a little too often, trying to keep your face neutral.
He steps forward once.
You look up. Not all the way. Just enough to catch him in your periphery.
Your voice is soft. Frayed.
“Not now. Please.”
He doesn’t answer at first. Maybe he wasn’t expecting you to sound so… tired. Not angry. Not biting. Just done.
But then he speaks — quiet, almost like he’s trying not to scare you off.
“I just wanted to check on you.”
You shake your head once, still not looking directly at him. “Too late for that.”
“I know,” he says. “I know I’ve made all of this worse. I just… I didn’t see it until today. The way they’re coming for you. How it’s all landing on you instead of me.”
You finally look at him then. And it’s not with hate. It’s worse — it’s with that expression of someone who’s still holding onto the last sliver of something soft and hurt and doesn't know if it’s even worth it anymore.
“I didn’t ask for any of this,” you say. “I didn’t want a storyline or screen time or whatever the hell they think I’m doing. I just—” you stop yourself. The rest sits in your throat, unspoken.
He swallows, eyes searching yours. “I know. I’m not here to defend myself.”
You exhale slowly, like each breath is being pulled from your ribs.
“I can’t do this right now, Bucky.”
A pause. Then quieter:
“Please don’t make me.”
And that’s when it finally hits him — fully, deeply — that this isn’t just some tension to smooth over. This is a wound he’s responsible for. One you’ve bled from in silence while everyone else clapped and laughed and read tweets.
He nods once. Not in defeat. In understanding.
“I’ll give you space,” he says. “But I’m not gonna stop trying to make it right.”
You don’t answer. You just close your eyes for a second. And he walks away.
This time, he looks like the one carrying the weight.
Your Confessional 📹
You sit back in the chair, hoodie still on, strings pulled halfway tight around your face like you’re trying to disappear but couldn’t be bothered to finish the job. Your eyes are red-rimmed — not from sobbing, just worn out. Like sleep hasn’t found you in days.
For a second, you just sit there.
Then you huff a small laugh — not amused, not bitter. Just... tired. You shake your head and drag your hand down your face, pausing to press your fingers over your eyes for a moment, like maybe that’ll hold everything in place.
You drop your hand.
Look straight at the camera.
And smile — just barely.
“Apparently America hates me, which is unfortunate. But also kinda impressive, ‘cause America can’t hate me more than I hate myself right now.”
Your laugh is quiet, almost like it escaped by accident.
“No seriously, I got humiliated on national television, kissed the guy who humiliated me, then woke up to be called a messy queen by a Twitter handle named @/hornyforyourdad. Like. What the actual fuck am I doing.”
There’s no self-pity in your tone — just exhaustion. The kind that comes after feeling too much, too fast, for too long. You glance off camera, shrug once.
“I should’ve just gone home yesterday. But I stayed. Because some part of me thought maybe…”
You stop. Then shake your head.
“Anyway. That’s on me.”
You exhale hard, sit up straighter, and give the camera one last deadpan look.
“Can I go now? Or do I have to read another tweet from someone who thinks I’m ruining feminism.”
Few Days Later — The Firepit 🌙🔥
Cue slow aerial shot of the villa under moonlight. Fairy lights twinkle across the patio. Wine glasses clink. Someone’s laughing too loud.
Iain Stirling (voiceover): “The moon is shining. The water is warm. And the tension? Well, that’s about to boil over like Karen after three glasses of white wine and a poorly timed truth-or-dare…”
“After a few blissful days of silence — and by blissful I mean emotionally repressed — it’s time for another Love Island classic: America’s vote.”
Cut to a group text alert. Everyone’s phones buzz at once.
“Islanders, please gather around the firepit immediately.”
The islanders file in, uneasy. You’re not even trying to hide the exhaustion on your face anymore.
Ariana walks in, flawless as always, cards in hand and not a single strand of hair out of place.
“Good evening, islanders.”
They respond — quiet, respectful, nervous.
Ariana wastes no time.
“As you know, America has been voting for who they believe are the least compatible couples in the villa.”
She pauses, lets the silence build.
“The three with the fewest votes are…”
She looks at the card.
“…MJ and Peter.”
Peter stiffens. MJ exhales, muttering, “Knew it.”
“…Karen and Frank.”
Karen swallows hard, jaw tense. Frank says nothing.
“And the third… is Y/N.”
A few heads turn your way. You stare straight ahead. Expression flat. Not surprised.
The firepit glows soft and orange against the night, casting shadows across stiff shoulders and tense expressions.
Everyone’s sitting upright, backs straight like posture might protect them from what’s coming. You stand with Karen and MJ on either side — the only three girls up for elimination.
Your hands rest neatly at your sides. You’re not shaking. You’re not crying. You’re past all that.
Ariana stands in front of you, perfectly lit, her expression calm but unreadably focused — the kind of expression that means this was not the production plan.
She scans the card again, then looks back up.
“As there are three girls standing here — and only one will be leaving tonight — the decision falls to the islanders.”
The villa goes dead silent. You can feel people looking at each other, calculating, already shifting.
You already know.
The moment Ariana says it’s down to the islanders, you know.
And that’s when you step forward.
Not dramatically. Not slowly. Just one clean step, like you’re simply ready to be done.
“Ariana,” you say, clearly.
She pauses — caught off guard. That never happens.
“Yes?”
You exhale, not even blinking. “Can I volunteer to be voted off?”
There’s an audible reaction. Not gasps — just stunned silence. The kind that comes when people don’t know what to say, because no one expected this to come out of your mouth.
Ariana blinks. “You want to… step forward?”
“Yeah,” you say. Still composed, still poised. “I’d rather go on my own than stand here while everyone pretends it’s not already decided.”
It erupts. Quiet gasps, some whispered “what?” s, one “nah, she’s not serious” from the back.
You glance at her just once, soft but steady. “Kare. It’s fine.”
She’s already blinking too fast, her lips parted like she wants to argue, but she’s choking on the emotion. Her hand twitches like she wants to grab yours and hold you there.
Ororo, still seated across the firepit, has her hand over her mouth. Wide-eyed. Frozen. Like watching someone walk into oncoming traffic in slow motion.
Ariana, still holding her cue card like it might save her, hesitates. “Are you sure?”
You nod once, then again. “Yeah.”
She takes a half step closer, voice quieter. “You don’t have to do this. You can wait for the vote. You still have people here.”
You let out the smallest breath, and you smile — just barely. Not a performance. Just the kind of smile people give when they’ve already made peace with something.
“Not enough of them.”
The air shifts. You’re not angry. You’re not bitter. You’re just done. And that honesty? It stings more than anything you could’ve shouted.
Ariana’s eyes scan you for a beat longer, like she’s trying to read something off you — trying to confirm you’re not breaking under the surface.
“Last chance to change your mind,” she says softly. “Are you sure?”
You nod again.
“I’m sure.”
The words land like a closing door. No one knows what to say.
Bucky hasn’t moved.
Karen’s face is crumpling now — barely holding it together. You feel her beside you, trembling.
Ororo finally lowers her hand from her mouth, jaw tense, eyes locked on you like she wants to get up and pull you away from this.
You’ve stepped forward. Ariana’s face has softened slightly — professional still, but there’s a flicker of something real in her voice now.
She looks at you one more time, calm, composed. “Well... if that’s your decision—”
“No.”
The word cuts through the night like glass.
Everyone turns.
Bucky’s standing now — two steps out from the bench, his jaw tight, eyes wide, like he can’t believe what’s happening even though he’s been watching it unravel for days.
“No,” he says again, louder now. His voice isn’t angry — it’s broken. “That’s not fair. She didn’t even let us vote. She just—she just stepped forward like it was already done.”
Ariana’s caught off guard again. Her brows lift. “Bucky—”
He keeps going, not hearing her. Not hearing anything.
“You don’t just get to decide that. You don’t get to stand up and walk out like you didn’t matter here. Like we were all gonna pick you without even thinking. You didn’t let us—you can't just leave.”
His voice is cracking, pitching up.
“You didn’t even give me a chance to say—”
He stops himself. But the words are still there, hanging in the silence like smoke.
Karen’s crying now. Not hiding it anymore. Shoulders shaking as she turns away, hand over her mouth.
You still haven’t turned to look at him.
Not yet.
Ariana glances between the two of you, then gently speaks again. “Bucky… she's made her choice.”
But he doesn’t move.
“I didn’t.”
His voice is softer now. Almost to himself.
“I didn’t choose right when I should have. And now she’s leaving before I get the chance to make it right?”
You finally look at him. Eyes rimmed red, but dry. And it’s not anger in your face.
It’s sadness.
Because maybe, just maybe, this is the first time he’s finally saying what you needed — but it’s three days, and a thousand cuts, too late.
You offer him something soft — something you’ve barely had left for yourself these past few days.
“It’s fine,” you say gently.
His head snaps a little, like you just told him the sky isn’t blue.
“No,” he says, voice sharp, shaky. “It’s not.”
He takes a step closer. Not crossing boundaries — just reacting like he physically can’t stand where he is anymore.
“You’re just—what? You’re gonna volunteer to go and act like that’s normal? Like we didn’t all just sit here stunned because no one was gonna pick you. Not a single person.”
You open your mouth, but he keeps going — not at you, for you.
“You think it’s fine because you’re tired. Because you’ve been carrying everything and everyone’s been letting you do it. But that doesn’t mean you deserve to walk out like you don’t belong here.”
His voice drops, quieter now, but tighter. Barely held together.
“You’re still here because people care about you. Because I care about you.”
That hangs in the air. No one moves.
The fire crackles behind you.
You inhale slowly.
The silence stretches long enough that everyone expects you might break.
But you don’t.
You steady your voice — not cold, not distant — just honest. Exhausted. Real.
“I want to go home.”
Bucky’s eyes flash — like he’s about to say something, but you raise your hand slightly, not to silence him, just to finish.
“I don’t want Karen to go,” you say, turning slightly toward her, just enough to feel her body trembling beside you. “She’s been solid since day one. She hasn’t played a single game. She deserves more time here.”
Karen’s hand covers her mouth again, and she shakes her head slightly, trying to stay quiet through it.
“And yeah,” you continue, with the hint of a wry smile, “me and MJ haven’t exactly braided each other’s hair this week. But she has a real connection. Peter has her back.”
You turn back to Ariana.
Your posture straightens — not stiff, just ready.
“This isn’t about who deserves to be punished. It’s about who has something left to do here. And I don’t.”
Your hands are at your sides. Your voice hasn’t cracked once.
Bucky’s chest rises again, and he opens his mouth — but for the first time tonight, he doesn’t speak.
Because what can he say?
You’ve already said it all. And this time, you’re not asking permission. You’re telling them.
You’ve just said your piece.
Your voice is steady. Your decision is clear.
And for a second — just a second — it feels like everyone might finally accept it.
Then Bucky exhales, sharp and short.
And says, “Okay.”
You glance at him — unsure what that means — but then he steps forward.
“I’m going too.”
There’s an audible reaction now. Not just gasps — full-on shock. Heads turning. Elektra's mouth drops. Sam sits forward like he's misheard.
Even Ariana’s expression cracks slightly. “Sorry—what?”
Bucky looks right at her. “I’m going with her.”
You blink — stunned. “Bucky.”
He doesn’t look at you. Not yet. His eyes are locked on Ariana. “I’m not gonna stay here and watch her leave like she’s disposable. I’ve done enough of that already.”
Ariana raises her hand, trying to maintain order. “Bucky, this isn’t—”
“I know it’s not how it works,” he cuts in, voice firm but not aggressive. “But I’ve made up my mind.”
You step closer now, voice low and urgent. “You’re going to walk away from the villa for me? After everything?”
He nods once. No hesitation.
But you’re not moved — you’re panicking now, because you know what comes next if he leaves for you.
“You think this is romantic,” you say, eyes shining now, not with tears — with clarity. “But it’s not. This is adrenaline. This is guilt. You’re gonna step out of here, get one breath of air, and start resenting me for it.”
“I won’t,” he says, voice sharp.
“Yes, you will,” you snap, heart racing. “Because you didn’t finish what you started here. And when it all settles and you’re sitting at home thinking about what could’ve happened — you’ll look at me and wonder if I was worth it.”
His jaw tightens. “You are worth it.”
“Then prove it by staying.”
The firepit is dead silent now. No one dares breathe.
He steps forward again, closer now. Not aggressive — just desperate. Real.
“I don’t want a better connection,” he says, his voice cracking at the edge. “I don’t want to flirt around and see what’s out there. I want you.”
You close your eyes for a second, chest tight, trying to hold the line.
“Bucky,” you whisper. “This isn’t the time to figure that out.”
He swallows hard, shaking his head. “It’s the only time that’s ever mattered.”
The air between you is so charged it almost hurts to stand in it.
Ariana waits for a beat longer, giving you both space to speak — to come down, maybe.
But when neither of you moves, she straightens, the weight of production behind her now.
“I have to ask,” she says carefully, her voice as gentle as it’s ever been. “Y/N, Bucky — is this your final decision?”
She looks at you first, but you glance at Bucky.
He answers before you can.
“I’m going.”
The words come out clear. No hesitation. Just certainty — the kind that makes the rest of the firepit collectively freeze.
Ariana blinks. “Bucky…”
But he’s already stepping forward, standing beside you now. Fully.
“I made my choice too late the first time,” he says, looking at you. “I’m not doing that again.”
It’s real. You can see it in his face.
But then Sam stands up from the bench, shaking his head.
“Buck, man,” he says, voice low, not condescending — worried. “Just think about this. You’ve still got a spot here. Don’t throw it away on impulse.”
Logan joins him. “You guys need space to figure this out — not both get dumped on a firepit and regret it next week.”
Frank speaks up, surprisingly sincere. “This isn’t a movie, bro. It’s your life. Don’t make it harder than it has to be.”
Bucky doesn’t move.
“I know what I’m doing.”
He looks at you again, quieter now.
“And I’m not staying here without her.”
Sharon's hand is over her mouth again. Trish is leaning forward like she’s witnessing history unfold. Even MJ — lips pressed in a hard line — looks shaken.
You?
You’re just standing there, trying to hold it together while the man who let you fall is now trying to catch you, after you already hit the ground.
Ariana clears her throat once, a beat longer before speaking.
“Alright,” she says gently. “If you’re both sure, then you have thirty minutes to pack your things.”
You nod. Bucky nods.
And just like that — it's done.
Girl's Dressing Room 👜
The villa’s quieter now. Thirty minutes.
That’s all you’ve got left.
Your suitcase is already half-packed. The dressing room feels weirdly still — like even the lights are dimmer, like the walls are holding their breath with you. And Karen is sitting cross-legged beside it, absolutely no help, sniffling so hard she’s practically shaking the floor.
And then Ororo walks in.
She stops in the doorway, blinking fast like she meant to hold it together — and then just doesn’t.
“Bitch.”
That’s all she says before the tears start. She walks across the room with fire in her step and heartbreak in her chest.
“We walked into this place together,” she says, voice cracking as she reaches you. “You and me. Day one. First step through the door.”
Her arms wrap around you so tight it’s like she’s trying to anchor you there.
You’ve been stone-faced for hours. Holding it in. Keeping it neat.
But the second you hear her voice crack, your whole chest caves in.
You don’t say anything — just bury your face into her neck and let go. Sobs shake out of you like they’ve been waiting for permission. You nod against her shoulder, helpless, clinging.
“I know,” you whisper. “Rori, I know.”
She tightens her grip. “No, I’m not doing this. I’m not letting you go like this. Not like this.”
Karen’s still on the floor beside your suitcase, full-on crying now, her hands fumbling with a half-folded dress like maybe if she just packs slow enough you won’t really leave.
“I’m so mad at you,” she says through a laugh-sob. “But I love you so much.”
You drop to your knees with her, still holding Ororo, and Karen just throws herself forward into your arms, the three of you wrapped up in one heap of heartbreak and mascara.
In The Bedroom 🏠
The crying from the dressing room is so loud it’s echoing through the villa.
Frank’s lying on his bed, pillow over his face. “Blondie is trying to zip herself into that girl's suitcase.”
Logan’s leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed. “And Storm’s gripping her like she’s got a death grip on a limited edition Birkin.”
They all pause for a second as another wave of sobs carries across the villa walls.
“Damn it,” Logan mutters.
At the end of the row, Sam’s still talking to Bucky, voice low but tense. “Man, just think about it. You walk out now, you’re done. You don’t even know what this is yet. You haven’t figured it out.”
Bucky doesn’t look at him. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, bag already half-packed.
His tone is calm. Clear.
“If my girl’s leaving,” he says, zipping his suitcase, “then I’m leaving.”
By The Docks🌙🏝️
The sky is velvet blue now. The moon hangs low over the water, casting silver light across the still surface. It’s quiet — quiet enough that you can hear your own breathing.
Bucky’s already waiting at the end of the dock.
Shoulders tense. Hands in his pockets. But when he hears your footsteps, he turns.
And the second he sees your face, his softens. You’ve cried too much to pretend now. Your cheeks are flushed, eyes red and shining. You don’t even bother wiping them this time.
You stop in front of him, heart pounding, breath shallow.
“Are you sure?” you ask, voice raw. “Like really sure.”
He steps forward immediately, hands reaching up — one settling on your shoulder, the other rubbing gently at your upper arm.
“I’m sure.”
You shake your head, voice cracking. “You don’t have to do this for me, Buck. I’m not asking you to.”
He nods. “I know.”
You look up at him, hands trembling slightly as you press your palms flat to his chest — not pushing him away, just holding him there.
“This could ruin everything,” you whisper.
He exhales through his nose, then cups the side of your neck, thumb brushing the damp corner of your eye.
“I don’t care,” he says quietly. “You’ve been the only thing in this villa that’s ever felt real. And if I stay, I’m not just losing you — I’m staying in something that never meant shit without you in it.”
You press your forehead into his chest, eyes squeezed shut, trying to keep the emotion from swallowing you whole. His hands stay steady on your shoulders, rubbing soft, grounding circles into your skin like he’s trying to remind your body to breathe.
“I just don’t want you to regret this,” you say, voice muffled, trembling. “Staying would mean a real chance for you. New connections. A shot at the money. Everything.”
Bucky exhales — deep, slow — like he’s been holding that thought in too.
“That’s exactly why I’m not staying,” he says.
You look up, confused through the blur in your vision.
“If I stayed,” he continues, “it’d mean I’d have to explore more connections. Get to know more girls. Do the whole thing again.”
He pauses, gaze locked with yours, calm but serious now.
“I don’t want another connection,” he says. “I just want you.”
Your breath catches. It’s not sweet-talk. It’s not a line. It’s just true.
“But what about the money?” you ask, your voice thin, eyes searching his face for something — logic, doubt, anything.
He lets out a small laugh — not dismissive, just almost surprised that it still matters to anyone.
“I don’t care about the 100K,” he says, gently brushing his hand along the back of your neck. “What would I even do with it if I lost the one thing that made being here worth it?”
You shake your head, overwhelmed, tears welling again despite yourself. “You’re gonna ruin your chance.”
He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours.
“I’d rather leave here broke and with you than win it all and feel empty as hell every time I go to bed.”
You let out a soft sob, clutching at his shirt now, and he just holds you tighter.
“You’ve carried this whole thing alone,” he whispers. “Let me carry the rest with you.”
You’re still wrapped in his arms, hands balled in the fabric of his shirt, tears hot and silent now as they slip down your cheeks.
You’ve fought so hard to be strong, to be rational, to not let this mess define you — and now here he is, undoing every wall you built with one truth after another.
Bucky leans back just slightly, just enough to see your face. His hand comes up to gently brush a tear away from your cheek, thumb grazing the edge of your jaw like he’s memorizing the feel of you.
He’s quiet for a second.
Then he says it.
“I didn’t choose you once.”
You freeze.
“And it was the worst decision I’ve ever made.”
His voice isn’t trembling anymore. It’s solid. Certain.
“I’m not making that mistake again.”
You look at him — really look at him — and you know this time, he means every word.
This isn’t about guilt. It’s not about saving face.
It’s about finally showing up. And this time… he did choose you. Out loud. In front of everyone. No hesitation.
Your lip trembles as you pull your gaze away from him, turning your face slightly — not because you don’t believe him, but because it’s too much. Too much love, too much regret, too much truth.
You lift a hand quickly, trying to wipe your face, get it together — keep the illusion of being okay just a little longer.
But he notices.
He always notices.
“Don’t do that,” Bucky says softly.
You shake your head, still turned slightly, but he lifts his hand — slow, careful — and gently guides your chin back toward him.
“Don’t hide your face from me,” he says again, voice barely above a whisper. His eyes never leave yours. “Not now. Lemme see you.”
Your breath catches in your throat, your defenses crumbling all over again — not from his touch, but from his attention. The way he’s looking at you like you're the only person in the world who matters.
And for once… you let him see all of it.
Even the tears. Even the fear. Even the hope that maybe — just maybe — this isn’t the end.
You’re still holding his gaze, breathing uneven, heart thudding against your ribcage like it’s trying to get to him first.
He brushes his thumb gently over your jaw, voice barely audible over the sound of the waves nearby.
“Can I kiss you?”
It’s so quiet — the kind of question that feels like a vow.
You nod, almost instantly, but there’s a hitch in your breath as you do. A soft, shaky little exhale slips out of you, part laugh, part hiccup — like even this feels surreal.
Your hands lift, instinctively, fingers grazing his face — one cupping his cheek, the other resting just under his jaw. His stubble brushes your skin, grounding you. This is real.
He leans in slowly, eyes on your mouth for a breath longer than he should. His hand finds the back of your neck, warm and steady, thumb sliding just beneath your hairline.
And then finally — finally — his lips meet yours.
It starts soft. Delicate.
Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Like he’s afraid to ruin it by rushing.
He kisses you like he has all the time in the world — like he wants to undo every moment you felt unwanted, like he’s trying to rewrite all the nights you cried.
But then? You kiss him back. And it changes.
You press into him with something that isn’t just relief — it’s heat. Desperate. Your hands move up into his hair, threading through it as you pull him closer. You feel him exhale hard through his nose, his other hand gripping your waist now, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers.
The kiss deepens — no longer slow, no longer sweet. It’s breathless now. Messy. Full of everything you’ve been holding back.
Your mouth parts and he takes the invitation without hesitation — tongue meeting yours in a rhythm that’s equal parts apology and promise.
He’s kissing you like he can’t get close enough.
And you’re kissing him like you’ve waited too damn long.
You pull back slightly, both of you still breathless, lips tingling. You try to catch your breath, your fingers still lightly curled in his shirt, chest rising and falling as you laugh softly.
“I can’t even think straight,” you murmur, voice barely a whisper.
Bucky just looks at you — eyes flickering down to your mouth again, lips parted like he’s considering whether to let you finish that thought.
And then he makes the decision for both of you.
He leans back in without warning and steals another kiss — not soft this time. Hungry.
His mouth crashes into yours, and this time there’s nothing gentle about it. His tongue slides deep into your mouth like he’s claiming every inch of you, tasting you like he wants to burn this moment into his memory.
His hands find your body again — rougher now, more confident. One grips the back of your neck, fingers weaving into your hair. The other drops to your waist, sliding around to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him like he needs you pressed to him.
You let out a soft moan, completely overtaken, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as your back arches instinctively under his touch. He groans low in his throat when you push up against him, like you just knocked the last bit of restraint out of him.
Your fingers claw lightly at the fabric of his shirt, trying to keep your balance, your lips moving with his like you’re starved — like you’ve both been craving this too long and now it’s spilling out of you all at once.
When he finally pulls back — just barely — his mouth lingers near yours, breathing heavy.
You blink at him, dazed, your lips wet and parted, and let out a breathless laugh.
“Okay,” you whisper, dazed. “Now I really can’t think straight.”
He smiles, breath still ragged. “Good.”
Your Confessional 📹
You’re sitting alone on the velvet bench, the light soft and warm on your skin. For the first time in days, your shoulders aren’t slumped. There’s no hoodie. No deep sigh. No tears.
You look like you again.
And even though you try — really try — not to smile… you fail miserably.
A small grin tugs at the corner of your mouth, and you bite your lip, cheeks lifting as your eyes flicker off-camera, bashful but glowing. You shake your head slightly.
“It’s kind of ironic, isn’t it?”
You look right at the camera now, eyes bright.
“I’m getting dumped from Love Island…”
You shrug, smile growing.
“…and I’ve never felt lighter in my life.”
There’s something warm behind your eyes now — not fire, not anger — just peace. Peace that only comes after surviving the storm and finding something real in the wreckage.
You pause, playing with the hem of your dress as you lean forward, elbows on your knees.
“For days, it felt like I was trying to hold the world up on my own. Carrying the silence. The judgment. Even trying to protect him.”
You glance down, your smile softening into something deeper now.
“And then… he chose me.”
You say it quietly. Like it still doesn’t feel real.
“But not like ‘I pick you in the next recoupling’ kinda way. I mean, actually chose me.”
Your voice thickens slightly, in the best way.
“Walked away from the game. The connections. The hundred grand. For me.”
You laugh softly, shaking your head.
“This was the ultimate choice. And he didn’t flinch.”
You lean back now, more relaxed than you’ve been the entire season. A sparkle in your eye.
“I’m leaving broke. Dumped. Probably roasted on Twitter.”
You purse your lips trying to contain your smile.
“But I’m also walking out with Bucky Barnes’ hand in mine.”
You glance sideways, that cheeky grin sneaking back in full force.
“And I don’t know about you, but that sounds like a win to me.”
Villa – Main Walkway 🌴
You and Bucky stand just at the top of the stairs.
His fingers lace with yours, firm, warm. You give him one last glance — that kind of look that says are we really doing this? — and he just squeezes your hand tighter.
Yeah. You are.
And then the two of you start walking.
The lights lining the path glow soft gold, like the villa itself is quietly watching you go. The islanders are still gathered at the firepit — Karen’s sniffling again, Ororo’s got her arms crossed like she’s proud and pissed, and the boys are quiet, even Frank, for the first time ever.
But you don’t look back.
Not once.
Because this exit? It’s about moving forward.
With him.
Iain Stirling (voiceover): “Ah yes, there they go… Bucky and Y/N. The emotional damage duo.”
The camera cuts to a slow-mo of you both walking in sync, fingers tightly interlocked, the music swelling underneath like something off a season finale soundtrack.
“Dumped by America, walked out by choice, left the hundred grand behind — but gained a man who finally learned how to use his heart instead of his… well, other assets.”
Cut to Bucky opening the gate for you — a tiny, stupidly sweet gesture — and you walking through first, glancing at him with a smirk.
“They say love is a battlefield. But in this villa? Apparently, it’s a firepit, a daybed, one tweet challenge, and emotional devastation wrapped in lip gloss and jawlines.”
The final shot catches your intertwined hands, backs to camera, walking into the night — away from the lights, the drama, the game.
Together.
“Will they make it on the outside? Who knows. But one thing’s for sure: they’ve just delivered the most dramatic exit since Natasha tried to storm out in 9-inch heels”
The gate closes behind you.
Cue black screen.
The Girliesss (in case people didnt understand my love island multiverse): Ororo Munroe (X-Men), you, Karen Page (Daredevil). Trish Walker (Jessica Jones), Elektra Natchios (Daredevil), MJ Watson (Spiderman)
Pairing: Thunderbolts! Bucky Barnes x Curvy! Female Reader
Tags: Fluff. Slight sprinkle of angst if you squint. Pinning.
Summary: Life at the Thunderbolts Tower is loud, chaotic, and full of questionable moral choices. Bucky’s used to keeping to himself, until one night, after one of those questionable moral choices was made, the guys got him high.
Word Count: About 7.6k.
They didn’t recruit her for the violence.
The Thunderbolts had enough of that. More than enough, actually. Three supersoldiers, a walking quantum anomaly, a man with literal god-tier potential buried beneath trauma, and Yelena, who didn’t need powers to make anyone cry.
No, she was brought in to patch what was left behind.
Civilians mostly. Collateral damage.
The ones caught in the debris cloud of a botched extraction, or buried under the wrong side of a knocked-over building. She’d move between the screams and the smoke, crouch in the rubble with her hands pressed to scorched skin or crushed lungs, and pull people back. Not metaphorically. Literally.
She didn’t stop death, but she slowed it. Called it off. Reversed it in some cases. No one liked to use the word resurrect, not even her, but she knew what it looked like when a rib cage stopped collapsing under its own weight, when air found its way back into lungs that had already forgotten how to breathe.
It didn’t take long for the team to realize she wasn’t there for them.
Mostly.
The first time Bucky came to her, it wasn’t after a mission.
It was late, the tower was in that in-between time when most of the team had gone to bed or passed out somewhere inconvenient. The common room was only lit by the flat screen, where Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth danced around each other in the 1995 Pride and Prejudice adaptation. She had a blanket over her knees and a mug in her hands. The night was ordinary. Unremarkable.
Then she felt him.
She didn’t startle, just looked up to find him standing by the edge of the couch. His eyes weren’t on her, but on the TV, and his arms were folded too tightly across his chest.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said.
“You didn’t.”
A pause. Then, quietly. “Could I… borrow your time?”
She tilted her head, studying him. He wasn’t bruised. No dried blood, no marred tac suit. But his posture was wrong. His left shoulder sat higher than the right, tensed and pulling across his collarbone.
“Is your back?” she asked softly, setting down her mug.
He gave the barest nod. “Shoulder and neck are acting up. Pulls when I use the arm too much. Been pushing it. And that strains my back, too.”
“Sit.”
He obeyed without question, sitting on the rug in front of the couch with a faint wince. She shifted to sit behind him, spreading her legs on each side of his shoulders.
When she laid her hands over the thick knot of muscle at his trapezius, he didn’t flinch but he tensed, just slightly. Then he exhaled. The heat under her palms was sharp and wrong, deep where metal met skin. She let the current of healing rise gently from her hands, coaxing away the ache like drawing poison from a wound. It wasn’t dramatic -there was no holy glow, no divine wind- just a flush of cool relief that sank slowly into his muscles. His eyes closed as he relaxed.
“Sorry to bug you so late,” he murmured after a while.
“You’re not.”
“I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d wait it out, but…” He trailed off, shrugged with his good shoulder. “Saw the glow of the tv. Damn, this helps.”
She nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “I’m glad.”
He was quiet for a while. Let her work, let himself rest a little. Then, after a long pause-
“You like this series? I think there is a more recent movie.”
“I love it,” she said. “It’s my comfort watch, wouldn’t trade it for any other version.”
He hummed.
She smiled, pressing a little deeper into the heat at his shoulder. He made a sound then -not a groan, not quite- but something close. She felt him soften beneath her palms.
When she finished, he didn’t move right away. Just sat there, with his head bowed.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“You’re welcome.”
He stood up a moment later, with his shoulder visibly lower, freer, and his arm hanging loose again at his side. He looked at her then and nodded, padding back to his room.
----
She got along with all of them eventually. Yelena dragged her into a chaotic kind of sisterhood almost immediately; Alexei insisted on teaching her Russian phrases she didn’t ask for; Bob started helping her when she baked and apologized whenever he accidentally thew something panicked with the blender’s noise; Ava didn’t speak much, but once left a book outside her door with the title underlined in black. John well… he was an asshole, but a tolerable one.
But with Bucky… it was different. There was something in him that calmed her when he was near. She couldn’t tell. He kept a certain distance, like it were policy. She never took it personally. Still, there were moments.
Moments when he stood too close to her while scanning for exits, like he’d throw her over his shoulder if a ceiling caved in.
Moments like the night he sat on the other end of the couch, halfway through Pride and Prejudice, and watched in silence, asking questions with real interest, even when John heckled him for it, something about finally a period older than him.
Like the time he set aside a tupperware for her when she got back late, grunting something about how the “jackals already circled the kitchen.”
Like how he always lurked just close enough when she healed others, as if assessing what it might cost her.
That’s why she asked him.
One night, after a debrief, while everyone else argued over takeout orders and Bob tried to fix the busted kitchen fan by staring at it too hard, she leaned in at the counter beside Bucky and- “Teach me how to shoot.”
“No.” He didn’t even look up.
She raised a brow. “You don’t even want to know why?”
“Don’t care.”
“Bucky-”
“You already help people,” he said, clenching his fingers around the cheap ceramic mug with Yelena’s printed face. “You do enough. Let us manage the other part of the job.”
She didn’t argue. Not out loud. Just stood there, with heat crawling up her neck, unsure if it was from frustration or the way he said it.
----
The next morning, she didn’t bring it up again.
Bucky had said no, flat and final, with a tone like he was trying to crush the idea before it had a chance to grow legs. She wasn’t one to beg, so she thought of an alternative and left him alone.
So there she was, helping Yelena to repot the herbs Alexei kept murdering by accident in the kitchen.
Feet away, Bucky and Alexei sat in the common area. A soccer match was running on the TV. Bucky leaned back, with socked feet up on the coffee table, silent as ever. Alexei was cracking sunflower seeds and muttering something in a mix of Russian and fatherly disappointment.
Then came the voice.
“So! Guess who I’m gonna teach shooting after lunch?” John swaggered over, like he’d invented testosterone. “As a hint,” he added, wagging a finger, “it’s not the guinea pig.”
Bucky’s face soured instantly. His jaw ticked. “The hell does that mean?”
Alexei perked up. “Bob? Oho! I knew the kid would want to jump into heroic deeds instead of making waffles!”
“Nope.” John popped the p with relish. “Our group’s walking panacea.”
Alexei blinked. “Her? Da. Makes sense. She’s not bad with her hands. Has calm eyes, like assassin nun. I approve.”
John grinned like he’d just won a bet at someone else’s expense.
“I’m the only one here who thinks it’s a bad idea?” Bucky asked, frowning. “She doesn’t need to learn that,” he muttered.
“Uh, yeah, she does?” John scoffed, raising his brows like it hurt to explain. “Let’s face it, she’s super cool with the healing mumbo jumbo, but couldn’t reduce-”
“That’s not her role.” Bucky’s voice cut him promptly.
He stood slowly in all his height, his shadow stretching over the rug. “She doesn’t go on heavy missions. She takes care of us. She assists when we’re with civilians. That’s what she does.”
“And what happens,” Walker shot back, closing the gape, “when none of us are there to save her ass, huh? What happens the day it costs her life, or fucks up a mission because we’re too busy babysitting her?”
The room went still. Even the TV dulled down, like it knew something ugly was about to happen.
Bucky’s fists closed. “You’re not teaching her.”
John took a step forward. “Oh yeah? And what- what assembly named you the fucking leader, Bucky?”
No answer.
“I don’t take orders from you. She asked me. She’s a grown-ass woman who wants to learn, so, fuck off.”
Bucky moved.
Quick. Sharp. Enough menace in that single step that John instinctively squared his shoulders. But before anything snapped, Alexei clomped forward, stuffing himself between them in his garish yellow AvengerZ tracksuit like a human foam wall.
“Look, mister soldier,” he sighed, hands up like he was negotiating hostage terms. “He has a point, da? And she did ask. Haven’t you heard about women’s rights and determination?” He wagged a seed-covered finger. “Maybe in your time -and I’m not saying it was wrong- women belong in the kitchen, but-”
Bucky stopped listening.
She’d asked John.
She wanted this.
And clearly, she wasn’t going to let him stop her.
He shut his eyes. Counted to three. Didn’t make it to two.
“She’s not learning from you,” he told Walker, calmly. “If someone’s teaching her, it’s gonna be me.”
“Oh yeah?” John tilted his head, smiling all wolfish teeth. “And why’s that?”
Bucky snapped the case on the remote shut.
“Because I’m the fucking Winter Soldier.”
----
The tracksuit didn’t fit.
Or more specifically, the zipper refused to participate in any fantasy where it might slide up over her chest without protest. She wrestled with it anyway, with stubborn fingers pulling and tugging, trying to wedge the metal teeth up over her sports bra and the too-tight cotton clinging to her skin.
Her breathing had picked up. The top gaped open, exposing the rise of cleavage as she tried to smoosh herself flat enough to force the zipper into cooperation.
A quiet mutter escaped her lips. “Goddamn tits…”
Across the room, the door opened.
Bucky froze just inside the threshold.
There was a second -a full second- where all conscious thought left his brain.
He'd been expecting a shooting lesson.
What he got instead was the kind of image that used to be currency in the field. Back in the war, a photograph like that -wide hips, full breasts straining against cheap blue polyester- could’ve bought a man a whole week of smokes. Maybe two, if she smiled.
She wasn’t smiling now.
She was squishing herself with both arms, muttering curses, oblivious to his presence. He couldn’t move. His brain short-circuited somewhere between don’t stare and holy shit.
She heard the footsteps, finally.
Didn’t look up.
She thought it was John. For some reason she couldn’t picture, he told her they were going to start with rifles.
“Hey there, teach,” she called, still focused on the zipper. “Ready to show me your long gun?”
Silence.
It hit like a brick.
She looked up slowly, dragging her eyes from boots to black pants to the unmistakable slope of a broad chest under a grey Henley. Metal arm. Stubbled jaw. And that face. Oh god. That face.
Not stupid John.
“Bucky,” she breathed. The horror crept up her neck in a heatwave.
He blinked.
She scrambled to yank the zipper up in panic, gave up when it snagged under her chest, then crossed her arms to hide the worst of it, which only shoved her tits higher and made everything worse.
“I- uh- ” she stammered, backing toward the bench like she might vanish into the wall if she just concentrated hard enough.
Bucky’s voice came late. Gravel rough. “You’re not learning from Walker.”
She blinked.
“What?”
He stepped in, closing the door behind him. His jaw clenched once. “I’m teaching you.”
Silence again.
She wanted to die.
He hadn’t even blinked at her joke. No snort. No teasing comeback. Just that serious scowl and the ghost of something unreadable behind his eyes.
“I thought you said-” she started, still not daring to lower her arms.
“I changed my mind.”
Another beat.
Then, under his breath, almost too low to catch: “He’s not careful enough with you.”
Her heart kicked.
He didn’t look away. Just moved to the weapon rack methodically, like nothing had just happened. Like he hadn’t walked in on a living pin-up girl wrestling her zipper, talking about his long gun.
But his ears were red.
She exhaled through her nose and quietly regretted waking up at all that morning.
----
He handed her the rifle like it was made of glass.
“Start with the stance,” he instructed.
She nodded, lifting the long weapon with both hands. It was heavier than it looked, and she nearly tilted forward trying to keep it level. Her elbows wobbled. Feet shuffled on the mat. Then, squinting down the barrel, she bent her knees and leaned forward the way she’d seen in action movies.
Bucky made a noise.
Not a word.
Not a breath.
A noise.
His lips pressed into a line. He looked like someone who’d just bitten into a lemon and was trying to hide it. She was too focused to notice. Which was good. Because from behind, the way she bent into the stance, with her hips back, thick thighs under the stretch of her track pants, spine arched just enough to lift her ass like an offering, was testing his military-grade self-control.
He cleared his throat and walked forward like he wasn’t dying inside.
“Okay- no. You’re compensating too much.”
“What?”
“You’re sticking your ass out,” he said flatly.
She looked at him, half mortified, half amused. “Oh, so that’s your professional assessment, Sergeant Barnes?”
His ears turned red. “I’m just correcting your form.”
“Right.”
“Look,” he muttered, stepping behind her. “Feet shoulder-width. Hips square. Don’t tilt forward like that unless you wanna throw your back out.”
She smirked but followed directions. He reached out, -hesitated- then touched her shoulders very lightly to guide them back. She tensed under his hands. Not from discomfort, but something else. Awareness. Warm and prickly.
“Better,” he said, stepping to her side. His metal hand touched her wrist now. “Elbow up. Relax your grip. You’re not strangling the thing.”
“I didn’t know rifles were so delicate,” she murmured, still hyper-aware of him in her personal space.
He didn’t reply.
Because the sight of her shoulders pulled back, chest forward, arms braced in that stance, it was just too much.
In his head, he was screaming.
Professional. Stay professional. She’s trusting you. She’s trying. You’re a trainer. You’re a sandbag with instructions. Do not look down. Do not-
He looked down.
Her chest, barely contained by the track jacket, rose with each breath. A single drop of sweat slid down between her breasts and disappeared under the zipper that still refused to close fully.
He stepped back.
Farther than necessary.
“I’ll, uh. I’ll get the smaller rifle. That one’s… too much.”
He turned on his heel and walked off, jaw clenched, neck red, pretending he wasn’t about to re-evaluate every decision that led him to this exact moment.
They trained three times a week after that.
She was better than he expected, quick to learn, surprisingly capable once she stopped overthinking every movement. He still didn’t like it. Hated it, actually. But the touch-starved part of him -the one that had been pining for months- thrived under the excuse of proximity. Guiding her hand to the trigger. Adjusting her shoulders. Watching the way her eyes narrowed when she focused, the way she grinned when she nailed a shot. He got to stand close. He got to see her.
And she let him.
It was enough.
Until it wasn’t.
Like every other Saturday, he was chewing through a leg of an aggressively over-roasted chicken, sitting sideways on the kitchen bench with his legs stretched out and one boot hooked on the rung. Bob was mid-scrubbing dishes, with his sleeves rolled up and humming some offbeat tune under his breath.
Then came the death sentence.
“You know, it’s cool Yelena’s taking Y/n out tonight,” Bob said casually, flicking soap off his fingers. “It’s good they get to chill. She deserves it.”
Bucky didn’t look up.
Didn’t blink.
Just kept chewing.
Harder.
The meat turned to ash in his mouth.
Bob, kept going, oblivious. “I think they’re hitting that new place near the pier. The one with the neon sign that looks like a melting martini. Or a fish. Dunno.”
Across the room, something cracked.
The chicken bone, under Bucky’s grip.
“Right,” he said, voice like gravel. “Great.”
John didn’t miss a thing. He leaned back in his chair, with his arms crossed, smirking like a wolf catching scent of blood. “What? Don’t like your girlfriend going out?”
Alexei perked up like a dog hearing a squirrel. “Oh? You sly fox! Had it all covered up! So it wasn’t shooting lessons, eh?” He gave Bucky’s shoulder a hearty slap. “Were other kind of action? Da? Oh, Mister Soldier, you are so cool.”
Bucky threw him a sideways glare sharp enough to skin bark.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” he said flatly. “And I don’t know what the hell you're talking about.”
Nonchalance didn’t suit him, his jaw was too tight, his voice too frayed. The tension sat around him like a storm cloud in a leather jacket.
John made a wheezing sound and shook his head. “God, you are so emotionally constipated, Bucky. One day you’re gonna blow up and take half the damn tower with you.”
Alexei blinked. “Ima… I am missing something in translation. Constipation and feelings do not go well in same sentence.”
Bucky’s eye twitched. His glare swept across both of them like a loaded weapon.
“I’m going out.”
No further explanation.
He dropped the bone-scarred plate in the sink with a loud clang and left the kitchen without a backward glance.
----
The kitchen fell silent.
“God, it’s painful seeing him like this,” John muttered, rubbing his face. “It’s not even fun anymore.”
“Da. I say, what if we do our Men’s Night here!” Alexei declared, triumphant like he’d cracked the formula for world peace.
“What?” John wrinkled his nose.
“We drink! We bond! We order from that new shawarma place with the 2-for-1 coupons I got as a special gift!”
“They give those to everyone. They hand them out on the street.” Walker muttered.
“They recognized me,” Alexei said, offended.
John gave him a look. “I’m not wasting my Saturday with you losers. Bucky brooding in a corner, Bob vacuuming in sweatpants, and you doing… whatever it is you do on Weekends.”
Alexei stared at him, unimpressed. “Oh, because you sure have a lot going on tonight, American Bachelor. Come on. It will be fun. Do it for Mister Soldier!”
“He doesn’t even like me.”
“Da. But he would. After tonight, eh? Alcohol and food strengthen friendship!”
“You do know we’re supersoldiers, right? We can’t get drunk. Or high, for that matter.”
“Uh-” Bob’s voice floated in meekly from the sink, one squeaky-clean dish still clutched in his hand. “I’m not proud of this, but… I could help you with that.”
Both heads turned toward him.
“See, Ava found… well, a lot of Asgardian ale once. Inside a wall. Don’t ask. She never told anyone.”
Alexei blinked. “Inside a wall?”
“I saw her disappear into the surface and come back with a bottle,” Bob shrugged. “That’s how I know.”
John frowned. “What wall?”
Bob pointed.
Without another word, John walked over and punched straight through it.
Plaster rained down, dust curled into the air, and nestled like a hidden altar, six bottles gleamed behind cracked drywall.
Alexei gasped like he’d just witnessed a birth. “I told you! Men’s Night! It is fate!”
“What if he doesn’t drink?” John asked after a beat, crossing his arms as the dust started to settle.
“Oh, he will,” Alexei declared, solemn and sure. “He is so manly. So cool. Like brooding tiger in small kitchen-”
“God, stop worshipping that asshole,” John groaned. “He’s not in the mood. Might not even show up.”
“Well…”
Two pairs of eyes slowly turned toward Bob.
“What if,” Bob began, twisting his hands, “we give him special muffins?”
“Da!” Alexei clapped. “With sprinkles and that Nutella thing stuffing! You’re such a good boy.”
“No- I… I meant a muffin that could, uh… make him a little merrier,” Bob clarified, dropping his gaze.
“Well Nutella muffins do that,” Alexei reasoned, proud of himself.
John ran a hand down his face. “Oh my god. He’s talking about getting Bucky high. Drugged. Doped.”
There was a pause.
John straightened his back with a pleased smile.
“And I’m so in.”
It was late afternoon when Alexei thudded into the common room, with blind optimism. “Bucky! Tonight we bond. Men’s night. Like real men. With food. And feelings.”
Bucky didn’t even look up from where he sat, sharpening a knife that didn’t really need it. “No.”
Before Alexei could plead, Bob shuffled in, all wide eyes, hands tucked behind his back like he’d rehearsed this exact moment in the mirror. “It’d be nice to chill a little,” he said softly. “Just… hang out. Please?”
Bucky looked up, met the kicked-puppy eyes, and his jaw worked like he was chewing gravel. “I’ll… think about it,” he said finally, voice low. “I’m tired.”
“You told me you don’t get tired,” Alexei pointed out smugly.
Bucky muttered without meeting his eye, “Emotionally tired.”
Silence stretched uncomfortably.
Then Bob, eyes lighting up with now or never, reached behind his back and presented something small and innocent, cupped in his palms. “At least take one of these. Y/n made them earlier. John and Alexei almost emptied the tin.”
He didn’t even get through the sentence before Bucky’s hand reached out and snatched the muffin like it might vanish if he waited.
“She made them?” he repeated, already halfway through the wrapper.
He bit in fast, like someone might try to steal it back. The sponge was warm, soft, sugary- but with something odd underneath. Something behind the sweetness, bitter at the roof of his mouth.
He frowned.
But then he glanced at the supposedly empty tin on the table and got distracted, scowling harder. “Should’ve saved me more,” he muttered, licking a crumb off his thumb.
Bob and Alexei shared a look.
Showtime.
----
It was already dark when she stepped out of her room, one heel on, one still clutched in her hand, the dress tugged halfway down her thighs as she hobbled to the hallway mirror. Short black dress, modest enough by most standards, but the V neckline dipped just enough to remind her why she always paired it with the golden earrings, something to balance the look. She only found one.
“Yelena!” she called out flatly. She didn’t even have to elaborate.
“Maaaybe I borrowed them?” the younger woman called back from her own room, with no hint of guilt.
“Yelena.” She sighed.
“And maaaybe I lost one in the kitchen or somewhere near the couch while dancing. But in my defense, I looked very good with them.”
With another sigh, she slipped on her second heel and made her way toward the common room to check. If she were lucky, Bob might have found it while doing his usual nighttime sweep of crumbs and inexplicably misplaced socks.
But as she turned the corner, '90s music hit her ears, loud, obnoxious, unapologetically nostalgic. High laughter. Male voices, overlapping and hollering. Glasses clinking. A plastic thunk against a tabletop.
She blinked.
What the hell-
The sight made her stop short.
Bucky, John, Alexei, and Bob sat huddled around the coffee table, with a half-collapsed Risk board between beer bottles and empty snack bowls. Bob looked like a benign god of war, deploying his little plastic soldiers across Asia while sipping from a glass of water. John was mid-yell, stabbing a finger at the board. Alexei was roaring with laughter, slapping his thigh so hard the couch creaked.
But it was Bucky who made her forget why she’d come.
He was laughing.
Not a scoff, not a breathy exhale of amusement, but laughing. Open-mouthed, with his body leaning back against the couch like he hadn’t carried the world on his shoulders for years. He made a circle with one hand and penetrated it with his index finger toward John in an unmistakably rude gesture, still chuckling as he stole a red soldier from the board and hid it behind his ale bottle.
She almost tripped.
What the hell were they drinking?
The three supersoldiers were clearly tipsy. No other word for it. Pink-cheeked, all glassy-eyed, loose-limbed. Whatever they’d found had bypassed their enhanced metabolism. She would bet Bob had something to do with it, but couldn’t prove it. But there he was, the only one completely sober, amused, controlling half the world map without a single drink. Still, it was a responsible thing to do, since no one knew what could make the void peek through some crack in his mind.
But it wasn’t Bob’s fault she couldn’t take her eyes off Bucky.
God. He looked… relaxed. Warm. Happy in a way she hadn’t seen before. It panged her chest in the worst -best- way.
Don’t look at him. You're here for an earring. She focused on Bob. Nice, predictable, unenhanced Bob.
Bucky’s eyes tracked her every move. Every sway of her hips. Every sparkle of skin not covered by the dress. His mouth parted slightly. His back pressed against the back of the couch as if he were bracing himself for a blow.
She stopped at Bob’s side and leaned slightly over the table. “Hey,” she said softly, “you haven’t seen one of my earrings around here, have you? Yelena borrowed them and thinks she left one in the kitchen or something.”
Bob blinked, like waking from a gentle trance. “Uhh- n-no. But I’ll help you look. Maybe it rolled under something?”
John caught Bucky’s expression and elbowed him hard in the ribs.
"Dude, that's so uncool."
“What?” Bucky grunted, eyes not moving from her.
“Have some dignity, man. You're practically drooling.”
Bucky didn’t look at him. Just muttered, “I think it’s time to tell that cookie to take a powder and go cut some rugs.”
John stared at him like he’d finally lost it. “I don’t understand half a word you say. What powder? What rugs?”
Alexei slammed his pint down. “I think Mr. Soldier wants to invite her to dance.”
“No. No-no-no.” John’s voice lowered to a sharp hiss as he leaned toward Alexei. “As much as I love to see him crash and burn, I’m not letting him throw himself into the fire before he’ve even boarded the damn boat.”
He turned back to Bucky. “Maybe it’s not the best time, Buck. She’s going out. This is men’s night. You gonna ditch us?”
There was almost hurt there, buried deep under John's usual smugness, but there. Maybe seeing Bucky relaxed, laughing, not shadowed by silence or some kind of grief, had touched something vulnerable in him.
Bucky, still staring across the room, shrugged one shoulder lazily. “Well, yeah. Look at 'er. If someone’s gonna swag with her, it’s gonna be me.”
John reeled back. “What is this? His ‘40s casanova era? And what- don’t say swag. It sounds dirty. And old.”
But Bucky wasn’t listening. He was already shifting, gripping the armrest with one hand, the other adjusting the hem of his shirt. Calculating.
John reached out and gripped his wrist. “Don’t.”
“What?” Bucky finally turned to look at him. “You wanna make love to her too?”
John made a strangled sound. “Okay. Ew. Don’t say it like that. I’m not trying to fuck her, I just-”
“I think Mr. Soldier means… if you are interested in her, or like her. In that manly, old-timey way of speaking,” Alexei chimed in, grinning like a gossiping aunt.
Bucky raised a brow, slowly and deliberately. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business either way.”
And with that, he rose to his full height, adjusted the collar of his shirt, and turned toward her, toward the woman in black, who had just straightened, with her earrings forgotten, because now he was coming.
----
She looked at him like a doe caught in the road, because one thing was the usual Bucky: Serious, broody, dry, grumpy. But this?
This was something else.
This was Bucky Barnes with his hair tousled back in a calculated sweep, like he’d done it a thousand times in mirrors with lipstick on his collar. Like he knew he looked good, knew it with the finger-snap confidence of a man who used to leave dances with someone on his arm every single time.
And he was walking toward her like he owned every inch of the floor he stepped on. Chin up, loose shoulders. A sexy smirk blooming slowly across his face.
“The fellas tell me you’re steppin’ out with Yelena tonight?” he asked, his voice was velvet and low, laced in something that sounded far too close to a purr.
Her lips parted. Her throat forgot how to work.
Behind him, John made a dramatic groan and slapped a hand over his own eyes.
“Uh- yeah,” she managed, dragging her eyes away from the collarbone peeking out of Bucky’s shirt. “She’s taking me to some club I’ve never heard of. Girls’ night. More or less what you’ve got going here, but…”
“But more high-tone?” he cut in, lifting one brow like he already knew the answer.
“A little,” she conceded, suddenly very aware of her bare shoulders and the heat of his gaze. He was looking at her like a man who knew all her tells.
He tipped his head, just slightly. “Well, sweetheart, you show up in a swell little number like that, and those clubs’ll be thick with chiselers tryin’ to make time.”
She blinked. “With what?”
“Chiselers,” he repeated, solemn as a preacher. “Sharp-dressed fellas with quick grins and slick intentions.”
Behind him, John groaned again. “Oh my god, he’s time-traveling. Somebody stop him.”
But Bucky wasn’t done. His voice dropped lower, the charm coming out his lips like it had never left. “Lucky for you, I’m around to keep those lounge lizards in line.”
She blinked. “So… you wanna come with us?” she asked, trying to keep her tone dry, unaffected, casual, though her voice pitched up at the end like it didn’t get the memo.
“More like with you, but yes,” Bucky said, straight-faced and warm-eyed, like he hadn’t just rearranged the atmosphere around them.
A flash of heat bloomed up her face. She opened her mouth, fumbled. “Uh- but Yelena…”
Bucky turned, scanning the room like a man surveying a poker table before placing a bet. His gaze landed on Bob, sitting primly with his water glass, a solitary yellow pawn in hand.
“Maybe…” Bucky drawled, one hand finding his hip, the other gesturing vaguely toward Bob without breaking eye contact, “Bob can come too. And we four can go have a little fun. What d’you say?”
Her stomach dipped. What.
This was definitely not the quiet man with a staring problem she secretly admired.
Asking her out? Softly trying to ditch Yelena? Proposing some sort of double date?
Her eyes dropped instinctively to his mouth, then to the Risk party behind him, as if the answer were hidden somewhere between the scattered pieces and unlabelled bottles.
He was too close. That was the problem. He smelled like leather and woodsmoke. His pupils were wide, swallowing up the blue like he'd stepped out of a memory and into a daze. He looked like he wanted to crawl under her dress and make himself useful there.
She narrowed her eyes, dropping her voice. “What did you do to him?”
“Nothing,” said everyone, far too quickly.
Alexei raised his glass like a shield. “Mr. Soldier here only wants to bond a little, eh? Have a nice ni-”
“Bucky, honey,” she said, turning back to him, her voice as gentle as her hand reaching up to fix the front of his shirt, “what did you drink? What did you take?”
“Maybe I wanna take you-,” he started, voice syrup-slow.
She pressed a finger to his lips before the rest of that sentence escaped his mouth. He went quiet instantly, grinning behind her touch like a smug idiot. His eyelashes fluttered. He looked drunk on her.
Fuck.
She spun toward the other two supersoldiers, stalked over, her heels clicking sharply across the floor. She leaned in close enough for Alexei’s eyes to widen and John to shift in his seat.
“Tell me what the hell is going on,” she whispered-hissed. “And don’t give me that ‘Asgardian ale’ crap.”
They both looked, for once, appropriately ashamed.
“Well…” Alexei rubbed the back of his neck.
John offered a shrug that could be described as some level of guilt. “Maybe… we kind of doped him?”
Her jaw dropped. “You what?!”
“Just to loosen him up!” John hissed. “Like- get him to chill a little! Maybe the combination of getting him high and drunk was a bit much, but hey- he’s smiling!”
“Oh my god,” she hissed, looking back at Bucky.
Who, by the way, was currently spinning her missing earring between his fingers like a prize he’d just won in a festival just for her, and winked when she caught him.
He Winked.
She exhaled, slowly, willing down the disappointment. Right. Of course.
He was intoxicated. That was all this was.
That’s why he’d cornered her with those warm, ruined eyes and soft, rakish confidence. It made sense now, so painfully obvious. It could’ve been her, Ava, Yelena, or a delivery person with the wrong timing. A warm body and a curious face.
She crossed the floor toward him, gently curling her hand around his wrist.
“Let’s get you some air,” she said quietly, tugging him away, ignoring how he let her lead him with that boyish smirk still playing at his lips.
She tossed a glare sharp enough to gut a man over her shoulder. The three still seated at the table winced like kids caught stealing candy.
Out on the balcony, the air was cool. Bucky leaned against the sliding glass door, running his hands through his hair, with a lazy grin stretching his mouth.
“Well, I wanted to dance,” he murmured, tilting his head toward her with a little shrug, “but I ain’t complainin’, dollface.”
“Bucky.” She kept her voice even.
“Hm?” he blinked slowly, eyes glossy and confident.
“You’re high.”
He scrunched his nose. “No, I’m not.”
“And drunk,” she added.
“Doll, you know I can’t.” His smile was crooked, defiant and soft.
“But you are,” she insisted. “So I’m going to sit with you a little, then see if I can purge it from your system. Yeah?”
“I’m not feelin’ bad.” He tipped his head back, eyes half-lidded as he looked at the sky. “In fact, I don’t remember feelin’ this good in decades.”
Her chest clenched.
That wasn’t fair. That made it worse. What was it to her if he wasn’t hurting anyone else? If he wasn’t hurting himself?
But he was. He was hurting someone. Her.
This -whatever he was doing- acting like he wanted something more with her, only now, only tonight, only when he was under some substance’s spell.
“Alright then,” she said carefully. “If you feel good… just stay with the guys, hm? I’ll go out with Yelena. Tomorrow you can tell me who won at Risk.”
He shifted visibly. His mouth fell open like he wanted to argue but couldn’t yet find the words. His brows drew together.
“If you don’t wanna go out,” he said slowly, “how ’bout a dance here?” His voice was soft again, tentative, hopeful. “Don’t make me beg, doll.”
Her heart stuttered.
“How about another day?” she said gently, stepping back just enough to put some air between them. “Trust me. You’ll thank me tomorrow.”
“For not acceptin’ a dance?” he asked. “You think I’m makin’ a fool outta myself?”
“No, it’s not that, it’s just-” she began.
“Today’s the sixth of July,” he interrupted her. His tone shifted, serious, deliberate. “This mornin’ Ava ate the last of Walker’s sugar cereal and he pissed in her apple juice's bottle outta spite. We trained after breakfast. I taught you how to shoot a movin’ target with a Beretta, and you gave me three cherry candies you swiped from Yelena’s stash ‘cause you know I like the red ones.”
He took a breath. Didn’t blink.
“We didn’t see each other at lunch,” he continued, “but I know you went out to buy heels ‘cause you don’t own a proper pair and you were nervous ‘bout tonight.”
His gaze softened again. “I ain’t impaired, doll. Just-“ he reached up, combing his fingers through his hair, tousling it further, “uninhibited.”
She froze.
“Maybe I’m sayin’ the first thing that pops in my head. Maybe I’m talkin’ like a radio host from a bygone decade ‘cause I don’t give two shakes about findin’ the modern way to tell you what’s spillin’ out.”
He stepped closer.
“Okay,” she muttered, trying to sound stern, and failing. “One dance. And that’s it. But you’ll have to guide me, because-”
She didn’t get to finish.
Bucky caught her hand like he’d been waiting all night for the excuse, and in one smooth pull, he brought her against him.
His vibranium arm slid around her waist protectively. But it was the other hand -the warm one- that pressed low on the small of her back with possessive pressure. She barely managed not to gasp.
“‘Course I was gonna guide you, sugar,” he murmured, with mischief. He grinned, a flash of something old -young- too self-assured for the Bucky she knew. She pressed her hands on his shoulders, and then he started to move.
There was no music playing on the balcony. Just city sounds. Wind. The buzz of far-off traffic. The flicker of neon on glass.
But he was hearing something. That much was obvious in the way his head tilted, his shoulders rocked, and the cadence of his steps moved like an echo from another decade. The rhythm was slow, nostalgic. Something big-band, maybe, soft horns and a crooner’s voice threading the moment together in his mind.
Through the glass behind him, John, Alexei, and Bob were stacked like dumbasses at the edge of the living room, jockeying for a better view, faces half-lit by the apartment’s glow, whisper-arguing like overgrown kids at a school dance.
She looked away from them. Looked up at Bucky instead.
He was humming now. Not to her. Not even aware he was doing it, maybe. Just lost in whatever old tune was spinning inside his head, something warm, velvet-smooth. He had a ballroom behind his closed eyelids.
“You did this often?” she managed.
“Almost all weekends,” he said, words slurred not by drink, but nostalgia. His palm shifted slightly on her back. “Used to cut a rug like nobody’s business.”
“I bet you did.”
“Won a jitterbug contest in ‘39,” he said seriously, then laughed like he surprised himself remembering that. “Didn’t even plan on enterin’. Some girl pulled me in off the floor and said, ‘You got legs, use ‘em.’”
She swallowed.
He was… different. And not just because of whatever he took.
The natural charm. The half-smirk. The way he looked at her like she was a sure thing, and he was still the kind of man who could offer something worth saying yes to.
She felt her eyes go wet. Damn.
Because tomorrow he’d wake up with a predictable headache and maybe beat the shit out of John just for sport. He’d lecture Bob with that kind exasperation he reserved for people he secretly cared about, barking something about “drugging someone without their consent isn’t quirky, it’s a felony.” And he’d ignore Alexei entirely because you could never win against that man’s stupid arguments about good intentions and “power of friendship.”
But above all, he might not remember any of this.
Or worse, he would. And it wouldn’t mean to him what it meant to her.
That part was the sharp edge. The one she couldn’t dull with a smile or a healing touch.
One thing was secretly pining for him. She could survive that. She has been surviving it. It was almost fun, in its own pathetic way, watching him when he taught her shooting, stealing hours of intimacy disguised as routine. A hand on his arm as she guided him through a breathing exercise. The quick flick of her thumb across his temple to soothe him after a flashback. Getting to touch his skin under the guise of professional concern when she healed him.
That was her safe little corner of yearning. Controlled.
This was something else. This was another tier entirely. Pressed against his chest. Held by him. Stared at like a woman and not a teammate or a responsibility.
And she knew -knew- that it was going to cost her.
Because you didn’t survive someone like Bucky Barnes looking at you like that and walked away unburned.
Their bodies moved slowly, barely more than a sway. His breath warmed her temple, and the weight of his metal hand was solid at her waist. He kept humming that soft tune that probably hadn’t been on any airwaves in eighty years, and for a moment, -God for a moment- she let herself pretend.
That they were somewhere else. Somewhen else.
Her fingers pressed gently on his shoulders.
She didn’t want it to end.
But it had to.
She drew back just enough to look up at him. His eyes were still too bright, pupils wide and swimming in the low light from the tower. His lips parted like he was going to say something devastating again, something pretty and unfiltered, something he’d never say sober.
So she shook her head softly before he could.
“We should go back in,” she said, her voice barely louder than the city breeze.
Bucky’s brow furrowed, confused. “Already?”
She nodded, squeezing his shoulders lightly before stepping back. “One dance. That was the deal.”
He followed her retreat with a small frown, stumbling half a step like he wanted to close the gap again. “I could walk you out. Or tag along. You, me, Yelena, Bob-”
A smile tugged at her mouth, bittersweet and careful. “Not tonight.”
She reached up, brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. His skin was warm beneath her fingertips.
“C’mon, sit down,” she said gently, nudging him toward the cushioned bench tucked against the balcony railing. He obeyed, blinking slowly, draping his metal arm over the backrest while his flesh hand reached to one of hers as she crouched in front of him.
“Tomorrow,” she murmured, maintaining his gaze, “you’re gonna hate them for what they did. You’re gonna yell at John, probably kick his ass. You’re gonna scold Bob. You’ll try to ignore Alexei, and fail.”
He gave a lopsided smile. “That sounds about right.”
“And, about this…” She hesitated, vaguely motioning her hand between them. “You’ll pretend that it was nothing.”
“That’s not fair to say,” he whispered.
She nodded, swallowing the ache. “No. It’s not. But it’s how this works, right?”
His fingers caressed hers. “You think I’m gonna forget?”
“No,” she murmured. “I think you’re gonna remember. And wish you hadn’t.”
She stood before he could answer, slipping her fingers from his. Her voice was quiet but firm as she added, “Stay out here a little. Cool off. I’ll go find Yelena.”
But his hand caught hers again. Not tightly, just enough to hold her there.
“What if I ask again tomorrow?” he murmured. A too sober question for someone that wasted.
She raised a brow, trying to match his tone with a smirk. “With a massive hangover and the outburst of vengeance in your heart, as Alexei would say?”
“Yeah.” He said it without blinking. He licked his bottom lip, not quite smirking now. “Even then.”
It stunned her for a second. Just a second. She held his gaze, then slipped her hand from his slowly. Didn’t step back yet. Just stood there, close enough for his knees to brush the hem of her dress. Then, with the gentlest smile on her mouth:
“If you ask tomorrow… you’ll find out.”
And then she turned, walked back toward the glass door, ignoring the frantic scramble of limbs as Bob and John tried to act casual, as if they hadn’t been spying through the window like gremlins. Alexei didn’t even pretend to feel guilty.
She didn’t care.
Bucky leant back on the bench once she disappeared, with the city wind tousling his hair, and still feeling the ghost of her touch on his skin.
He smiled. Slow and crooked.
Because it hadn’t been a no, she would’ve said so if it had.
It was a careful maybe. A thread left loose for him to pull, if he wanted to.
Because saying yes tonight would cost her if he didn’t follow through tomorrow.
a/n | yooooo, guys, ive literally been working since tues, every night closing 11:30pm😃🔫. this life is nawttt for the weak, on my soul, this job is taking years off my life, i just wanna be my teenage girl self and this life is not letting me!!!!
this is literally the first time I'm doing headcanons and I don't think I've done it right at all, but YOLO
alsoooooo im so glad my amaya papaya chose bryan and yesterday's ep made me smile so hard. anywayyyyyy pls americans vote for my girl amaya and bryan as best couple, im begginggg
y'all it's almost 3am and I'm tired af. and I'm going to sleep, i have work tomorrow at 12
taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist 🩵
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ
divider by @cafekitsune
First Coupling (Not Together) 💞
You walk into the villa confident and cracking jokes, immediately becoming a fan fave for your sass and no-BS attitude.
Bucky comes in a few days later as a bombshell — and everyone’s jaws drop. He’s flirty from the jump, but he picks another girl, one of the sweet ones who's all giggles and long lashes. You're unbothered (publicly), but the tension? PALPABLE.
You Get Played (Classic Villa Move)
You couple with this gym bro type who talks like he’s serious, but starts flirting with other girls behind your back.
The classic "I'm just keeping my options open" guy. When the truth comes out during a challenge or truth/dare night? You serve face, roll your eyes, and say, “I knew he was full of it, but I wanted to be wrong.”
Bucky sees it all. He’s been lowkey watching you the whole time, sending little comments like:
“That guy’s a fool, y’know. I wouldn’t’ve let you out of my sight.”
But he’s still with his OG girl, so you brush it off. Maybe he’s just being nice. (He’s not.)
The Twist Coupling 💞
It’s recoupling night. Everyone’s paired. You and another girl are the only ones left. You’re resigned to going home — standing there with your arms crossed and chin high, trying not to show you’re mad that your guy played you and Bucky’s still with the other girl.
But then.
“I’d like to couple up with this girl because she’s fiery, honest, and doesn’t take anyone’s crap. She’s been through it this week, and I think she deserves someone who actually sees her worth... So the girl I’d like to couple up with is—”
Cue dramatic pause. Camera on shocked faces.
When Bucky says your name, the villa goes SILENT. Literal gasps. Even the producers are gagged.
His original girl looks like she’s been slapped.
You blink. You squint. You’re convinced you heard wrong.
You walk over in pure shock, and when you stand next to him, instead of giving a sweet line, he hits you with:
“Don’t get excited, doll. I just flipped a coin.”
Confessional (cut to you, wild-eyed):
“Everyone’s lookin’ at me like I Jedi mind-fucked this man into saying my name. Meanwhile, if they took one look at my face they’d see I was just as gagged.
You're confused? I'm fucking confused, bro. I mean, I'm standing there rehearsing my ‘fuck y’all, it’s been real’ speech and then—boom. My name. From him. What the helly?”
Post-Coupling Confrontation 👀
You pull Bucky for a chat after the coupling, already skeptical.
He’s relaxed on the beanbags like he didn’t just blow up the villa dynamics.
“I didn’t pick you to be a hero, sweetheart. I picked you ‘cause I wanted her gone. Clingy’s cute for five minutes—then it’s just loud.”
You laugh, a little surprised by the honesty, and nod.
“So what, you picked me to prove a point?”
“Nah. I picked you ‘cause you’re the only one who doesn’t throw herself at me or cry when I don’t cuddle. Plus, we’d make a solid team.”
You stare at him for a moment, annoyed but impressed.
“So, we’re friends now?”
“Friends who don’t get dumped from the villa. Unless you’ve secretly been in love with me this whole time.”
You flip him off.
Platonic Coupling Agreement 🤝
You both agree to couple up "strategically" — a villa alliance. You tell each other it’s platonic while secretly spending way more time together than necessary.
You lounge together, nap together (strictly no cuddling — at first), and throw sarcastic comments from the daybeds like the villa’s own Statler and Waldorf.
“She’s doing her baby voice again,” you mutter during a convo across the pool.
“Should we start placing bets on who cries in the next 10 minutes?” Bucky adds.
But the chemistry? Dangerously high. And the longer you stay in this “platonic” couple… the blurrier the lines get.
Bucky in the confessional: “Nah, she’s just my emotional support chaos gremlin.”
You in yours: “He’s like a sexy golden retriever who talks like he’s from the 40s and can’t stop winking. It’s actually like seriously annoying.”
────────────
You and Bucky become the commentary couple. Always on the daybed, sunglasses on, whispering into each other’s ears like you’re the villa’s own messy podcast.
“Why is she acting like they’ve been married ten years? They’ve been coupled up for four days.”
“It’s the delusion for me.”
“She’s already picked out baby names and I don't even think he knows her last name.”
You have a routine: share breakfast, roll your eyes in sync, and deliver savage but accurate commentary during firepit chats. Viewers are OBSESSED.
New Bombshell Enters 🔥
Tall, charming, with perfect teeth — he immediately clocks you as the villa’s "hard to get" girl and makes a beeline. Starts flirting. You’re flattered but playfully skeptical, throwing jabs but keeping it light.
Across the villa, Bucky watches with way too much interest for a “platonic partner.” Crossed arms. Jaw ticking. He will not stop glancing over.
Later, he corners you with a smirk.
“So, Mr. Model’s your type now?”
“Didn’t know I had a type.”
“Yeah, apparently it’s ‘generic charm and hair gel.’”
You raise a brow, amused.
“Are you jealous?”
“What? No. Just saying—he’s not as funny as he thinks he is.”
Jealous. Absolutely jealous.
He Falls First ❤️
He starts doing little things bringing you coffee the way you like it, staying up late to talk about random stuff, getting defensive whenever a new guy even talks to you. But you don’t catch it. You’re convinced he’s playing the long game — riding your partnership to the finals.
You in confessional:
“Bucky’s a good partner. Strategic. Smart. Kinda hot when he’s not being annoying. But I know his game — he’s making sure he gets to that 100k. I’m not an idiot.”
Meanwhile, Bucky’s lying awake next to you, staring at the ceiling like:
“How the hell did I fall for the one girl who thinks I’m just in this for screen time?”
Casa Amor🏖️
The girls stay in the main villa, while the boys head off to Casa Amor. Before Bucky leaves, things are… weird. Tension’s been building. He’s been acting almost like he wants to say something, but never does. And you?
You in confessional:
“He’s not mine. He’s free to explore, obviously. I’m not gonna be the girl who waits around and gets played. But also… I’m not gonna pretend I don’t care.”
And yet — when temptation arrives in the form of gym-honed muscles and cologne that smells like deception, you hold your ground. Flirty convos? Sure. But when it comes time to choose, you say:
“I’m staying single. My connection with Bucky might be confusing, but I’m not ready to throw it away yet.”
Meanwhile at Casa Amor 🔥
Bucky’s spiraling. He misses you. Constantly thinking about your jokes, the way you roll your eyes, how you always call him out. But… he also believes you don’t feel the same.
Bucky in confessional:
“She’s never shown me more than friendship. And I— I need to protect myself. I can’t come back single and get humiliated on national TV.”
So, he couples up with a new girl. Not because he wants to. But because he thinks he has to.
The Recoupling — THE Scene 💔
The villa is silent as the boys walk back in. Bucky’s holding hands with his Casa Amor girl. Cocky smile. Trying to convince himself this was the right call.
And then—he sees you.
Standing alone.
Single.
Waiting.
Not even crying — just staring at him like he’s a complete stranger.
Camera cuts to everyone’s shocked faces.
Ariana: “You’ve decided to remain single. Can you explain why?”
You (calm, almost nonchalant): “Because I thought what we had was worth waiting for. (you shrug your shoulders) Guess I was wrong.”
Bucky’s face drops. He’s instantly sick. Guilt. Regret. That look of someone who just fumbled the person who was actually real.
The new girl’s smiling awkwardly. The silence is deafening.
Post-Recoupling Fallout 📽️
You’re sitting in the confessional chair, body stiff, hands clasped in your lap. Your eyes are glassy, rimmed with red — but no tears fall. You’re holding them back with everything in you.
The producers ask how you’re feeling.
You take a shaky breath, force out a laugh that sounds like it hurts, and say:
“I wanna go home. I’m actually being so for real right now. Please, someone get my suitcase. Because I don’t wanna be here anymore.”
You glance away from the camera, blinking fast. Your jaw tightens like you’re biting the inside of your cheek to keep it together.
“I stood there, alone, in front of everyone. Looking like this dumbass while he walks back holding some other chick's hand. Like I’m the fucking idiot for having feelings. Like I imagined the whole thing.”
You shake your head, voice cracking:
“And the worst part? I didn’t even expect him to come back single. I just— I thought maybe he’d show me I mattered. But I guess I’m not worth that.”
Cut to Villa 🎬
You’re sitting alone, sunglasses on at night, hoodie pulled up — doing your best to disappear on the beanbags while Bucky’s across the firepit, staring at you like he knows he ruined everything.
Bucky in confessional (head in hands):
“I thought she didn’t feel the same. I was trying to protect myself, not hurt her. But when I saw her standing there all alone… I’ve never felt more like a loser in my life.”
Confrontation Scene 💥
It’s late. Most islanders are inside. You’re sitting outside by the pool, arms crossed tight over your chest, hoodie still up, knees drawn in. Silent. Closed off.
You hear footsteps. Heavy. Familiar.
“Can we talk?”
You don’t even look at him.
“I don’t wanna talk to you.”
Pause. Tension thick in the air. He doesn’t move.
“Yeah? Well, I wanna talk to you.”
You stand up fast, like your body can’t sit through this conversation. Still not facing him.
“What, so you can make me feel even more shitty than I already do? Newsflash, Buck, you nailed that one already.”
He takes a step closer. Carefully.
“No. I’m not here to make excuses. I’m here because I need you to hear me.”
“I heard you. Loud and clear. You walked back holding her hand. That said everything.”
You try to walk past him — but his hand reaches out. Not rough, not forceful. Just… steady. He catches your wrist, and when you try to pull away, he doesn’t let go. Gently, but firmly, he keeps hold.
“Please. Just let me explain.”
“Why? So you can tell me it didn’t mean anything? That you ‘didn’t know how I felt’? You knew. You just didn’t care.”
You’re standing there, body tense, wrist still in his grasp. You’ve tried to push him away. He won’t budge. Not with force — just that stubborn, aching softness that says he’s still clinging to hope.
“Don’t do that. Don’t shut me out when I finally got the guts to admit I messed this up. I chose wrong. And I regret it every second I look at you.”
That’s when your voice drops to barely a whisper.
“Why didn’t you just pick me?”
His eyes meet yours — red-rimmed, tired, exposed. And when he answers, his voice cracks open.
“Because I didn’t think you’d pick me.”
The words hit the air like a slap.
Everything in your chest lurches forward and backward at the same time. You can’t tell if you’re about to scream or cry — maybe both.
“Are you serious?”
“You were always laughing with other guys. Saying we were just friends. I thought… I thought I was just someone you could lean on. Not someone you’d actually want.”
Your eyes well up. You take a shaky step back, pulling your wrist from his grip — and this time, he lets you go.
“You thought I wouldn’t pick you, so you didn’t pick me. And now we’re both here. Hurt. For what, Bucky?”
“For being two idiots who couldn’t say how we felt.”
You’re shaking your head now — furious, exhausted, and done holding back.
“You don’t get to stand here acting like the victim, Bucky. You chose her. You didn’t even hesitate. And I stood there — in front of everyone — like a fucking joke.”
He stays quiet. Still. Just watching you with those ocean-deep eyes, face full of regret. He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t flinch.
“You made me feel like I was nothing. Like everything we built meant nothing. And now what? You want to fix it? With what, exactly? A sad little speech and puppy blue eyes?”
Still no response. He just lets you speak.
“I was loyal to you. I waited. I trusted you. Even when I didn’t want to. Even when I told myself not to catch feelings for you, I still—”
Your voice breaks.
You turn away. Take a breath. Hands clenched at your sides.
And he still says nothing.
Not because he doesn’t have anything to say — but because he knows this moment isn’t about him. It’s about you.
“You didn’t even fight for me, Bucky. That’s what hurts the most.”
He finally steps forward, slow and cautious, like approaching a wounded animal.
“I know.”
“That’s all you’ve got? ‘I know’?”
“Yeah. Because there’s nothing I can say that makes it okay. I fucked up. I didn’t trust what we had. I thought I was protecting myself, but all I did was hurt you.”
You look at him then. Eyes still glassy. He’s not defensive. He’s not deflecting. He just stands there, open and raw, waiting for you to decide what happens next.
“You don’t owe me forgiveness. I just… I needed you to know I’m sorry. And if there’s anything I can do to make this better — I’ll do it. Even if it means walking away.”
You’re quiet now. Too quiet. Hands trembling slightly as you bring them up to your face, fingers pressing under your eyes to stop the tears from spilling over.
You don’t look at him when you speak again — your voice is soft, but it cuts sharp:
“You made me feel really fucking dumb.”
That’s the one that almost takes you out. Saying it out loud. Admitting it.
“Like I was some naïve little girl, thinking the guy I joked around with every day — the one who brought me coffee, made me laugh, looked at me like I mattered — was actually choosing me.”
You pause, breathing ragged. You wipe at your face again, but it’s useless now. A tear slips down anyway.
“I stood there thinking, ‘Don’t cry. Don’t let them see it hurt.’ But it did, Bucky. It fucking hurt.”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then:
“I know it did.”
“And I hate that I’m the reason. I hate that I made you question something that was real — something I felt every damn day.”
You finally glance up, just in time to see him take a step forward.
“I didn’t think I deserved you. But I never wanted you to feel like you weren’t enough.”
He’s closer now. Slow, careful steps. Like he’s giving you a hundred chances to pull away. But you don’t.
“You were always enough. I just... didn’t think I was.”
And when he’s close enough, he pauses for half a second — eyes searching yours, hand hovering like he’s waiting for permission.
Then he pulls you in.
Arms wrap around you, steady and strong. Not desperate — grounded. Like he’s trying to hold in all the pieces he broke.
And this time… you don’t fight him.
You bury your face in his chest, fists clinging to his shirt, and finally let yourself feel it. The ache, the betrayal, the hope you tried to kill off.
“You’re such an asshole.”
“I know. But I’m your asshole… if you’ll still have me.”
Night After the Recoupling 🌙
The villa’s quiet. Everyone’s in bed. Except you.
You can’t do it — sleep in that room while Bucky’s still sharing a bed with her. Even if nothing happens. Even if he’s trying to make things right. It still feels like betrayal just breathing the same air in that space.
So you grab your blanket, slip outside, and curl up in Soul Ties — the same place where you two used to whisper jokes and throw shade. The place that used to feel safe. Now it just feels cold.
You try to sleep.
You don’t.
Later That Night ✨
Bucky stirs. Looks across the room.
Your bed? Empty.
He checks the patio door and sees you — curled up alone, hood pulled over your head, blanket tight around you like armor.
He waits. Watches the others settle. Listens to the breathing shift from restless to deep sleep.
Then he slips out of bed.
Soft steps. Quiet hands as he opens the door.
He walks outside, crosses over towards Soul Ties, and pauses — just watching you.
Then, gently, carefully, he climbs in behind you. Doesn’t say anything. Just slides in slow, his chest pressing to your back, arm coming around your waist like it’s always belonged there.
You sighed softly, not even bothering to turn around.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“Don’t care.”
His voice is low, honest. No bravado, no teasing — just a quiet ache. His arm tightens just slightly around you. You don’t pull away. You don’t even breathe for a second.
Then, slowly, you turn in his arms.
Now you're facing him. Just inches apart. His eyes searching yours in the dark, moonlight casting soft shadows over his face.
“She’s still your girl. You’re still coupled.”
“She’s not you.”
His hand slides up, knuckles grazing your cheek. You lean into the touch before you realize it.
“I couldn’t sleep. Not with you out here thinking I didn’t mean what I said.”
“And what did you mean?”
He leans in closer — forehead almost brushing yours.
“That I’d choose you. Every time. I was just too much of a coward to do it when it counted.”
The air thickens. His gaze flicks between your eyes, then to your lips — slow and deliberate, but not assuming. Waiting. Giving you the chance to back away.
You don’t.
Instead, your fingers curl into the collar of his hoodie, anchoring yourself there. A silent yes.
He moves first — barely.
His nose brushes yours. Then his lips hover just over your mouth, not quite touching. Close enough to feel the heat, the need, the way he’s holding himself back like he’s afraid if he takes too much, he won’t be able to stop.
Then finally — finally — he closes the space.
It’s not rushed. Not rough. It’s slow, like he’s learning the shape of your mouth, like he’s memorizing you with every second. His lips part against yours in a careful pull, then press in deeper, surer, like he’s been aching for this and never let himself believe he could have it.
You respond instinctively — your hand sliding up into his hair, fingertips curling at the nape of his neck. You tilt your chin slightly, meeting him with just as much intensity.
He groans softly into your mouth — barely audible, but there. It makes your heart stutter.
The kiss turns messier for a breath, more urgent — like the both of you are falling into something you’ve been holding back for too long. But even in the tension, it never loses the softness — like you’re trying to comfort each other in the only language you both understand now.
Camera zooms in — soft lighting, silence but for the wind — the kind of moment the audience screams over.
When you finally break apart, lips swollen and foreheads pressed together, there’s no sound but the whisper of wind and the ragged way you’re both breathing.
He doesn’t let go. He just holds you tighter — like letting go now would undo all of it.
And you stay there. In that tiny, stolen piece of peace. Just you, him, and a kiss that changed everything.
oh, it's hard to leave you (when i get you everywhere!)
pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x pr manager!reader
summary: you tweet one (1) mildly unhinged critique of congressman james buchanan barnes’ pr strategy—something about ghosting the press and weaponizing cheekbones—and three hours later he’s in your dms asking if you want a job. now you manage his social media, his public image, and occasionally his existential spirals. he’s got a metal arm, a rescue cat named alpine, and the digital instincts of a dad trying to facetime from the tv remote. somehow, against all odds, he’s good. earnest. dangerously hot. you're so screwed.
word count: 10.6k
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, soft dom!bucky, sloppy make-out sesh for the win, fingering, oral (f!receiving), face riding, praise kink, unprotected sex, rough sex, size kink, creampie, use of pet names like sweetheart and pretty baby, unprecedented levels of yearning, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, unhinged tweets
You don’t mean to go viral.
You really don’t. It’s not a bit or a career move or a desperate plea to the algorithm gods. It’s just that you were in line for coffee at 8:47 a.m., hungover from exactly one and a half spicy margaritas (because you're a real adult now and your liver hates you), and the man in front of you was vaping indoors. You needed to direct your rage somewhere. That somewhere happened to be Twitter.
Well. That and the soft target of Rep. James B. Barnes.
Your actual tweet really isn't that scathing, in your opinion:
“Not to be rude before 9 a.m., but Rep. James B. Barnes has the digital strategy of a man who thinks ‘radio silence’ is the same as ‘messaging control.’ Ghosting the press isn't mysterious, it's lazy. And the Instagram? Sir, it's giving retired uncle who discovered portrait mode last week. You're hot, sure—but public goodwill isn’t built on brooding black-and-white cat photos and the occasional quote that reads like it was ripped from a thirteen year old's diary. Hire literally anyone.”
You hit post, tuck your phone away, and move on with your morning, which includes trying not to scream during a client call where a fitness influencer earnestly asks if she should “lean into a divorce arc.”
By the time you check Twitter again, it’s… carnage. In the good way.
The notifications are stacked like an avalanche. A dozen quote tweets, then a hundred, then you stop counting because your phone is hot to the touch and your Slack has stopped functioning. You’re about to text your best friend when you see it:
@RepBarnes:
Noted. Would you like to try fixing it?
You stare. Blink. Blink again. Surely not.
Surely the Winter Soldier, now U.S. House Representative for New York’s 9th Congressional District, is not quote-tweeting you like this is a casual Tuesday.
Surely the man who once jumped off a highway overpass and punched a terrorist in the face is not lurking on Twitter Dot Com past midnight, scrolling his name like a sad girl with an ex-boyfriend playlist.
You reread it.
Then again. And again. Your fingers are shaking a little, like you’ve had three too many shots of espresso, which—fine—you have.
You’re halfway through an existential crisis about how a minor PR manager can possibly be noticed by a former Avenger turned Congressman when your phone starts vibrating off the desk. Nina texts you first:
NINA
DUDE
DUDE
HE KNOWS WHO YOU ARE
do you think he read your pinned tweet where you said you’d marry Thor in a Walgreens parking lot???
You don’t answer. You’re too busy spiraling. Because now your professional website is getting hits. And your LinkedIn. And, insult to injury, your ancient Tumblr blog from college, where you once posted a 2,000-word thinkpiece on how Steve Rogers is a metaphor for millennial burnout. You know this because someone found it and tagged you with a screenshot.
You’re spiraling when your phone pings again.
This time it’s not public.
@RepBarnes has sent you a direct message.
If you’re interested, I could use someone like you.
NY/DC split. Health benefits included.
Let me know.
You read it once. Then again. Then walk away from your desk, lie down on your kitchen floor, and stare at the ceiling like it might have answers. It does not. It has a water stain from your upstairs neighbor’s failed attempt at DIY plumbing. You feel that deeply.
You, who spent three years post-grad slowly circling the corporate America drain—clutching your Communications degree like it’s a winning lottery ticket while negotiating brand partnerships for YouTubers who think “millennial” means “anyone over 26”—have just been headhunted by Bucky Barnes.
You should probably be flattered. Or terrified. Or calling your mom. Instead, you fire off the only response that makes sense:
are u joking?
His reply comes five minutes later.
No.
You’re good.
And I’m very tired of people telling me to post more cat content.
You stare at your screen.
You should absolutely say no. This is clearly a trap. At best, a weird stunt. At worst, the kind of surreal pivot that leads to you being mentioned in Politico under “questionable staffing decisions.”
But also… your rent just went up. Again. Your clients are spiraling. You haven’t had health insurance that covers dental since 2021.
And Bucky Barnes wants to hire you?
You exhale. Then type,
i'll clear my schedule. when and where?
A beat.
Meet me in D.C.
I’ll have coffee. You bring strategy.
You stare at that last part and—God help you—you start to grin.
You're pretty sure you’ve just accepted a job from the Winter Soldier.
.
Once upon a time, you had hopes.
Real, annoying ones. Back when you still believed in upward mobility and the promise of networking events with warm chardonnay. You were going to climb the ranks. Not to the top, necessarily—you were realistic, not delusional—but to a place with an actual title. "Director" maybe, or "Head of Strategy." Something crisp and important-sounding that could be printed on business cards without irony. You’d wear smart blazers and carry a leather tote that didn’t smell like stale granola bars. You’d have power lunches.
Instead, you’re three years out of grad school with an inbox full of “circling back”s, a calendar that reads like a sacrificial offering to the content gods, and a job that involves convincing lifestyle micro-influencers to stop posting QAnon-adjacent smoothie recipes.
You had dreams. Now you have bills.
Which is why the Bucky Barnes situation feels less like a win and more like a symptom. A brain glitch, maybe. You refresh your inbox. Again. You’ve been doing that for the last hour and a half. The DM is still there, as if it might disappear if you blink too hard.
You open a Google Doc. Title it “Project: Barnes?” with the tentative, quizzical punctuation of someone who is very much not okay.
And then, like any self-respecting PR person who has just been contacted by a former war hero turned sitting U.S. Representative, you type the most professional research query you can think of:
bucky barnes political platform site:gov
Then:
bucky barnes cat
And then, after five minutes of increasingly weird search results, you cave:
bucky barnes shirtless
For research purposes, obviously. To understand the optics. You are nothing if not committed to analyzing the full spectrum of a person's public persona.
(Also, look. It’s not your fault that James Buchanan Barnes is stupidly, distractingly attractive in a way that should be a federal offense. The man has the bone structure of a war-weary marble statue. The jawline of a vintage cologne ad. And don’t even get started on the arm—the arm—because that’s a whole separate thesis.)
It’s Wakandan tech, sleek and black with gold accents that catch the light like something out of myth. You’ve seen pictures of him at press conferences, sleeves pushed up, glinting like some kind of tactical Greek god. It is, objectively, an optics goldmine. Which makes it even more baffling that his current social strategy is “post like a cryptid and hope people like based on vibes.”
You learn that he’s been in Congress for just under six months. That he ran on a progressive platform with a heavy emphasis on veteran care, climate resilience, and “actually listening to the people,” which, yes, is vague—but less vague than the average politician, so that’s something. You find clips from a debate where he tells a super PAC-backed opponent, with all the calm menace of a man who once fought a Nazi on top of a train, “I didn’t survive a handful of wars to let people like you sell this country for parts.”
It’s not fair. He shouldn’t be allowed to be hot and principled and grumpy in a compelling way. That’s too many character traits. You’re fairly certain it violates some kind of congressional ethics code.
You click out of the tab. Open another.
Watch a video of him dodging a question on CNN with a non-answer so blunt it circles back around to being honest. He has a dry, clipped delivery. A little awkward. A little old. Not in a cringey, old-man way—but like he hasn’t quite caught up with the TikTokification of discourse.
You hate how much you want to fix it.
Your fingers twitch. You scroll through his feed. It’s mostly retweets of policy initiatives, local labor union updates, and cat pictures—grainy, candid shots of a very fluffy white feline with the disdainful elegance of old money and the personal boundaries of a cryptid. She’s usually perched somewhere she shouldn’t be: on top of his kitchen cabinets, wedged behind a stack of legislative binders, once half-asleep inside his empty duffel bag. Once in a while, he posts a weirdly poetic thought. Like:
Not all roads lead to war. But I remember the ones that did.
You stare at it.
It has thirty-two retweets, all from mutuals you know to be deeply online. One has responded “who’s running this account and do they need therapy.” Another has written simply: “sir.”
You breathe out a laugh.
You should be panicking. Or preparing. Or calling someone smarter than you. But instead you’re refreshing his feed and scrolling like a girl with a crush.
Which—no. Nope. Absolutely not. This is research. Professional curiosity. Intellectual rigor.
You check your calendar. Nothing but a call at four with your client who wants to rebrand herself as an “edible wellness guru” and refuses to define what that means. You sigh. Close the tab.
Then reopen it. One more scroll for the road.
In one photo, his cat is curled up in Bucky’s lap, a fluffy white loaf of judgement and chaos, her paw resting on his vibranium arm like she owns both it and the man it’s attached to. The caption reads:
She snored through my security briefing. I wish I could too.
Jesus Christ, you think. I’m in trouble.
.
You spend the next forty-eight hours overthinking everything.
Your research doc is now twenty pages long. You’ve compiled notes on his legislative record, his key voting blocs, public sentiment analysis, and—because you are fundamentally broken—a list of his most viral thirst tweets. There’s one that simply reads “he could kill me and I’d say thank you.” You are not proud to admit it made you snort.
You board the train to D.C. with your headphones in, your anxiety clutched to your chest like a carry-on, and your very best business casual. You don’t even read on the train. You just sit there and wonder what the hell you’re doing.
By the time you arrive, you’re exhausted from spiraling.
The coffee shop is in Capitol Hill—of course it is. Quiet and wood-paneled, with the kind of soft lighting that makes everyone look like they’re about to confess something.
You’re early. He’s not there yet. You order a black coffee and a croissant you won’t eat and choose the table in the back, where you can see the door.
Five minutes later, he walks in.
And yes, fine. It is a little cinematic.
James Buchanan Barnes in the flesh is not the brooding, hyper-composed figure from press photos. He’s rougher around the edges in person, like someone who never quite got used to peacetime. His hair is slicked back but starting to come undone at the edges. The navy suit jacket he’s wearing is slightly creased, like he’s been rolling up the sleeves and taking it off and putting it back on all morning. No tie. Just the white collar of his shirt open at the throat, exposing the soft brush of stubble across his neck and jaw.
God. This is so unfair.
His eyes land on you and something flickers—recognition, maybe, or skepticism. You can’t tell.
He walks over. You stand too quickly. Your chair makes a horrible screech.
“Hi,” you say, then—because you’re flustered and your brain is full of static—“I almost didn’t recognize you without the strategically vague tweets.”
His brow lifts, just slightly. The corner of his mouth pulls. Could be amusement. Could be confusion.
“You came,” he says, as if the possibility you wouldn’t had been very real.
“Of course,” you reply, forcing a half-smile. “I go where the digital crises call.”
He nods once, slowly. Watches you as you open your laptop and set your coffee down. It’s too quiet for a moment—the hum of the café, the hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of someone stirring sugar behind the counter. You pull up the notes you made at two in the morning while spiral-reading his press history, trying not to fidget.
“I figured,” you offer, “we’d start with a social audit. Clarify some core messaging, maybe put together a soft content strategy for the next two weeks. We’ll do a tone reset, pull the last six months of analytics, identify what’s actually landing—because no offense, but your engagement rates are being carried by your cat.”
A pause.
“I mean, I get it. She’s adorable. But still.”
He huffs something that could be a laugh, if it weren’t so dry. Then leans back slightly, the line between his brows easing as he studies you.
Then he says, slowly, like he’s still feeling out the words: “You actually know what you’re talking about.”
And you blink. “You thought I didn’t?”
He shrugs, glancing out the window for a beat before returning to you. “I kind of thought you were… just someone online. Making noise.”
You sip your coffee. “I mean. I am. But I also have a master’s in communication strategy and ten thousand hours of dealing with manchildren who think posting a thirst trap is a branding pivot.”
His mouth twitches. “Sounds promising.”
You smile. Tight. “So. What exactly do you really need help with?”
And just like that—you’re in it.
You expect him to start with a question. Or a joke. Or maybe something awkward and vaguely threatening, like “how do you know so much about me?” (You don’t. You just have Wi-Fi and a dangerous relationship with your search bar.)
But instead, Bucky leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, and says, “It’s just not working.”
You blink. “You’ll have to be more specific. What’s not working?”
“My comms strategy. My messaging. All of it.”
He sounds vaguely exasperated, but not angry. Just tired. You get the sense that’s his baseline. He gestures with one hand, the movement sharp and utilitarian. “I’m supposed to be building a digital presence that connects with people. Makes them trust me. Instead I’m getting tagged in memes about how hot I am.”
You nod, solemn. “To be fair, you do look like that.”
He doesn’t laugh, but he quirks an eyebrow like he’s maybe a little impressed you said it. “Thanks.”
You swallow the lump in your throat with a sip of coffee. It’s going lukewarm. “So what was the issue? Your team too old school? Too hands-off?”
He gives you a look that’s equal parts apology and confession. “I don’t really have a team.”
You blink again. “You… don’t have a team.”
“One guy. Used to run PR for a congressman from Montana. Thought hiring someone low-profile would keep things clean.”
You squint. “You’re a former Avenger. There’s no such thing as clean.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Starting to notice that.”
You press your fingers to your temples. “Okay. So let me get this straight. You have no digital strategy lead, no content calendar, no brand consultant, and you’re navigating one of the most publicly scrutinized jobs in America with a guy whose last success story was getting a local paper to stop calling his boss ‘the Beef Tariff Czar.’”
He shifts. Slightly. Doesn’t deny it.
You put your coffee down. Carefully. Deliberately. Then say, as diplomatically as you can:
“With all due respect, Mr. Barnes—this is a disaster.”
He meets your eyes. Dead-on. “That’s why I messaged you.”
It’s almost… earnest. That quiet, unflinching way he says it. Like he knows just how far in over his head he is. Like he doesn’t enjoy asking for help, but he’s smart enough to do it anyway.
That, more than anything, is what knocks you sideways.
Because the guy sitting across from you does not radiate “competent politician.” He’s stiff in the way people are when they’re always anticipating a fight. He looks like someone who’s only recently stopped treating doorknobs like potential traps.
But he also looks at you like he’s listening. Like he wants to get this right, even if he doesn’t know how.
And you hate how that pulls at you.
You fold your hands. Steady your tone. “If I take this job, I’m not just managing your Twitter. I’ll need full access—messaging, public statements, policy framing. You’ll have to be okay with me pushing back. Hard.”
He nods. “Understood.”
“And I’ll need to redo everything your current guy’s done.”
“I was hoping you would.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Including the website that looks like it was designed in 2007?”
A ghost of a smirk. “I designed that one myself.”
“Of course you did.”
A beat. Then—quietly, without the usual edge. “I didn’t expect to win. When I ran. It wasn’t about the campaign. I just thought… if I could stand up, maybe someone else would too.”
It’s not a speech. It’s not even polished. But it hits.
You sit with it for a second. Then say, “That’s the part people need to hear.”
He frowns. “What, the not-expecting-to-win part?”
“No. The rest. The standing up.” You pause. “You want to help. And that’s rare. It’s worth something. We can build on that.”
There’s a shift then, subtle but real. He straightens a little. Like your words have landed somewhere deep. Like maybe—maybe—you’re the first person who’s said that in a while.
You don’t say anything else. Neither does he.
But something’s settled between you. A quiet, unspoken agreement.
You’re in. Actually.
God help you.
.
Your first day working for Congressman James Buchanan Barnes begins with a minor existential crisis and a yogurt you eat standing up.
Capitol Hill is less glamorous than it looks on TV. A lot more beige. A lot more linoleum. Everything smells like government-grade carpet and desperation. You get stopped at security twice. First because of your laptop. Then because you muttered “kill me” under your breath in line and a very serious-looking man with an earpiece asked if you were making a threat.
You’re not. But it’s touch and go.
Bucky’s office is on the third floor of the Cannon Building. It’s functional in the same way a DMV is functional—technically operating, but held together by anxiety and one overworked assistant. The plaque outside his door reads:
REP. JAMES BARNES
New York’s 9th District
Inside, it’s… chaos.
Not loud chaos. Weird chaos. Subtle. Like someone tried to copy a normal congressional office from memory but forgot a few key details. There’s a framed photo of Brooklyn from the ‘40s. A desk with approximately forty-nine paperweights—no papers, just the weights. A bowl of wrapped Werther’s Originals. You are immediately suspicious.
Before you can process that, Bucky appears in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, tie in hand like he hasn’t figured out if he’s putting it on or strangling it.
“You made it,” he says. Deadpan.
“No thanks to Homeland Security,” you mutter, stepping inside.
He gives you the tour, if you can call it that.
There’s the bullpen (three desks, one of which has a sword leaning against it for reasons no one explains), a coffee station with a “don’t drink this, it’s poison” Post-it, and his actual office, which is larger than you expected and somehow still incredibly bare.
You spot a half-empty bookcase, a red file folder labeled “CRISIS?” and a punching bag tucked behind the door.
“Is that for stress relief or intimidation purposes?” you ask, pointing at the bag.
“Yes,” he replies.
The next hour is a whirlwind of introductions, vague directives, and increasingly unhinged email threads. His comms inbox is a minefield.
You get a badge, a desk, and a monitor that still has a Post-it from your predecessor that just says, Good luck, you’re gonna need it. You also learn that the thermostat in the office only has two settings: Arctic Military Base and Surface of the Sun.
By the end of your first day, your inbox has refreshed for the fifth time and you’ve flagged three crisis-adjacent threads—one involving a scheduling mix-up, one involving a meme account, and one involving a conspiracy theory about cyborgs in Congress.
Maybe, just maybe, this job might be more than you bargained for.
The next week is only slightly less chaotic.
Your—well, his, technically—first press briefing is scheduled for 2 p.m. sharp, but by 1:17 you’re already mentally preparing the post-mortem. You’ve seen the rehearsal footage, such as it was—him standing in front of his desk, arms crossed like a bouncer, muttering responses like they physically pained him.
When you gently suggested he try smiling, he looked at you like you’d asked him to perform open-heart surgery with a spoon.
“It’ll be fine,” An intern chirps, shoving a protein bar in your hand as they breeze past. “He does better under pressure. Like a reverse soufflé.”
“What does that mean,” you whisper, but she’s already gone.
You’re standing behind the curtain in a room that smells like too many folding chairs and not enough trust in government when he walks in, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. No tie today. He says it feels like a leash. His sleeves are rolled with military precision, though. His hair’s slicked back. He looks more like a man going to war than one about to deliver a ten-minute statement on infrastructure funding.
“You ready?” you ask, clipboard clutched like a lifeline.
“No,” he says. “But I’ll do it anyway.”
You almost smile.
The press corps is already seated, eyes trained, pens poised. He walks out with the focus of someone trained to enter dangerous rooms. You can see the shift in him—quiet alertness, head high, every movement efficient. There’s still something a little stiff in the way he grips the podium, like he doesn’t fully trust it not to fall apart under his hands.
Then he starts to speak.
And damn.
Okay.
You hadn’t expected this.
It’s not polished. He stumbles over a couple phrases. Uses “ain’t” once. Drops a note card and mutters “shit” under his breath into a hot mic.
But he knows his stuff. Not just the numbers. Not just the bill. The context. The human angle. He tells a story about the neighborhood he grew up in, back when it still had corner shops and streetcar tracks. Talks about a single mom who wrote in last week about her building’s pipes freezing every winter. Doesn’t make promises—just outlines what he’s doing and what he won’t let happen again.
And it’s good.
It’s honest.
He doesn’t charm the press. He earns them.
You see it in the way pens pause halfway through notes. Phones lowered. Eyebrows raised. There’s a moment—a beat in the middle of a sentence—where he talks about reconstruction efforts in Red Hook and says, “We don’t need heroes. We need decent plumbing and warm classrooms,” and it lands like a punch.
You feel it, too.
By the end, they’re asking thoughtful questions. Real ones. He handles them with a dry kind of grace. Doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t lie. Says “I don’t know” more than once, but follows it with “I’ll find out.”
When it’s over, he steps backstage, exhales slowly, and immediately unbuttons the top of his shirt like it’s a reward.
You hand him a bottle of water.
He takes it with a nod and says, “Well?”
You blink. “You were… actually incredible?”
He raises an eyebrow. “That so shocking?”
“Yes!” you blurt, then soften. “I mean. A little. You’re not exactly a poster child for press-friendly vibes.”
He leans against the wall, sipping. “Yeah, well. I’m not a fan of the stage.”
“But you like the mission.”
He looks at you. And for once, doesn’t deflect.
“I like helping people. I like when things are fair. And if this is what I gotta do to make that happen…” He shrugs. “Then I do it.”
You file that away. Noted: Bucky Barnes does not enjoy politics, but he endures them for the sake of something bigger.
You offer, “You want to decompress? There’s a decent café two blocks away. You’ve earned, like, three cookies.”
He tilts his head. “You buying?”
“I work for the government now. I’m broke.”
“Fair,” he says. “I’ll buy the cookies.”
You walk the few blocks in relative silence, save for the traffic and your boots scuffing against the pavement. The café is small, warm, full of people with laptops and disillusionment. You order coffee. He orders a black Americano and two oatmeal raisin cookies, like a war crime.
“Don’t judge,” he says, catching your expression. “I like raisins.”
“Of course you do,” you mutter. “You probably eat Bran Flakes and think they’re spicy.”
He gives you a look over the rim of his cup. “Didn’t realize I hired a bully.”
You grin. “Not a bully. Just aggressively helpful.”
He snorts. And you sit there, in the quiet aftermath of his first real public win, watching him pull the napkin apart like it personally wronged him. There's something calming about it—like you’re both still wound a little tight, but not as tight as before.
You let the silence stretch a beat longer before speaking. “Can I ask you something?”
He glances at you. Shrugs. “You’ve already asked me worse.”
You huff a soft laugh. “Fair.”
He waits.
You roll your cup between your palms. “Why’d you hire me?”
There’s a pause. Not the kind that makes you nervous—just one that feels like he’s actually going to answer. Eventually. When the words are ready.
When he does speak, his voice is low, deliberate. “You were honest.”
You blink. “About what?”
“That tweet,” he says. “About me ghosting the press. Most people either kiss my ass or assume I’m gonna punch them in the face. You didn’t do either.”
You snort. “I did call you hot, though.”
A small tug at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. That, too.”
Then, quieter, “You said what everyone else was thinking. But you said it like it wasn’t personal. Just... necessary.”
You don’t speak. You’re not sure he’s done.
“I’ve had a lot of people tell me who I am. What I’m supposed to be. Some of them were wrong. Some weren’t. Doesn’t mean I liked hearing it.”
His fingers tap against the cup once. Twice. “But you were right. I didn’t have a handle on any of this. The job, the people watching, the way it all gets twisted. You called it out.”
“And that worked in my favor?” you ask, half-joking.
His gaze flickers to yours. “You didn’t lie to me. That means something.”
It lands heavier than expected.
You look down at your lap. Then, after a second: “I thought you were gonna say it was because I tweeted about your cat.”
He huffs. “That helped.”
You smile, and when you glance back up, he’s watching you. Not like he’s searching for something. More like he’s found something and isn’t sure what to do with it.
“I could tell that you'd keep me grounded,” he says.
It’s simple. Uncomplicated. But your chest goes tight anyway.
“Thanks,” you say softly.
“Don’t get used to the compliments,” he mutters, sipping from his long-cold coffee. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”
You nudge his shoulder. “You mean the mysterious, broody one?”
He arches a brow. “Better than ex-assassin with a PR manager.”
“Hey,” you say, mock offended. “I'm rebranding you.”
And this time, his smile is small—but real. The kind that says you’re staying.
.
Briefings, memos, social strategy calls take up the next month. You update his official bio, overhaul his campaign site, start a new newsletter format that doesn’t look like it was designed in the throes of dial-up internet. You start drafting tweets in his voice, but you’re surprised at how often he wants to write them himself.
Sometimes he sends them to you first, via email, labeled “draft?” and rarely punctuated.
The kids who emailed about lunch debt were right.
They shouldn’t have to be the ones fixing it.
You write back:
it’s missing caps and grammar and polish
…it’s also perfect. i hate you a little
He replies ten minutes later:
Good.
Keep hating me.
Makes your edits stronger.
You start seeing him more. At first, it’s meetings. Then lunch breaks. Then you’re just… there.
In his office while he sorts through constituent letters. Sitting across from him on the Capitol steps, scrolling through your phone while he mutters about zoning regulations and offers you the second half of whatever sandwich he’s picked up from the Hill café.
One Thursday, around 6:45 p.m., you’re still at the office. Your laptop’s overheating. Your shoulders ache from the stress of trying to politely tell a PAC liaison that no, Bucky will not be attending the “Patriots for Policy” fundraiser, and no, their “Star-Spangled Selfie Station” is not an appealing incentive.
You lean back in your chair, eyes closed, and say out loud, “If one more intern sends me a Google Doc titled ‘shitposts to own the opposition,’ I’m going to walk into traffic.”
“That bad, huh?” comes Bucky’s voice from the doorway.
You open one eye. He’s holding two cups of coffee. It’s late. His sleeves are rolled again—he does that a lot, like he’s always preparing to do something with his hands. He sets a cup on your desk.
“It’s decaf,” he says. “I’m not trying to kill you.”
You sit up. “Decaf? Wow. You are learning.”
He doesn’t smile, but the corners of his mouth twitch. “Baby steps.”
You sip. It’s good. And quiet stretches out between you. The lights overhead buzz faintly. Someone’s laughing two rooms over. The city is folding in on itself outside, another day’s worth of bad traffic and moral compromises settling over D.C. like a weighted blanket.
.
Another few months pass in a rhythm that starts to feel dangerously like routine.
He insists on responding to every constituent letter about veterans’ benefits himself, even the ones written in glitter gel pen. One morning you find him on the floor of his office, surrounded by stacks of envelopes, Alpine curled up on a pile marked “urgent.”
“Just scanning,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the chaos. “She likes the important stuff.”
You start to learn things about him. Little things, dropped like breadcrumbs.
He hates cilantro. Keeps a dog-eared copy of All the King’s Men on his desk. Organizes his paperwork with military precision but leaves mugs half-finished all over the office. He’s still learning to take a break during the day. Sometimes he doesn’t.
One evening, while you’re both trying to pick a header image for the new landing page (he hates stock photos, insists they feel like “hollow propaganda”), he mutters, “I used to think if I could just disappear, I’d stop hurting people.”
You freeze. “And now?”
He doesn’t look away from the screen. “Now I’m trying to build something instead.”
Your throat tightens. You change the subject. You always do.
The tension between you simmers. Unspoken, unnamed. He starts saying your name more often. You start noticing when he does.
He always says it like it matters.
One Friday, he brings you a donut. Doesn’t mention it. Just leaves it on your desk and walks away like a man who doesn’t realize small gestures are dangerous.
You stare at it for a full minute before a staffer walks by, clocks the look on your face, and mutters, “Oh, you’re gone-gone.”
You pretend not to hear her.
One night, you find yourselves outside a community rec center after a Q&A event, both of you too wired to go home. You walk a few blocks together, hands brushing once. Neither of you acknowledges it.
“You ever think about leaving?” you ask, staring up at the streetlight.
“Sometimes,” he says. “Then I remember I already ran for almost fifty years.”
You laugh. He looks over, soft.
And then, quietly, “Not sure I’d want to go anywhere without you anyway.”
You blink. “You mean… as staff?”
He hums, like he’s choosing not to answer that.
He looks at you too long sometimes. Like he’s memorizing you. You assume it’s habit—old instincts. Soldier’s reflex. You don’t let yourself think about what else it could be.
Because it can’t be. He’s your boss. You’re his PR handler. This is all fine. Normal. Entirely professional, except for when he looks at you like that.
Which is how it builds—slow, steady, suffocating.
Until one night he’s sitting too close. You’re laughing too hard. His hand brushes your knee, and he doesn’t move it. And you still don’t realize.
Not really.
.
It’s a Tuesday night.
Well—technically Wednesday. 1:12 a.m., according to your phone. Your apartment is dark except for the glow of your laptop and the soft blue from the streetlamp outside your window. You should be sleeping. Instead, you’re re-reading policy notes and trying not to think about the email from your landlord marked “urgent.”
The city is quiet, but your mind is loud.
Your phone buzzes.
BUCKY
Are you awake
No punctuation. Of course. You stare at it. It’s not like him to text unprompted—especially not at this hour. You wonder for a second if it’s a mistake. Or if something’s wrong.
You call him.
It only rings once.
“Hey,” he says, voice rough with sleep or something that isn’t quite.
“You okay?” you ask, softly.
A pause. “Yeah. Just… couldn’t sleep.”
You settle back against your pillows. “Bad dream?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Then, quietly. “More like a bad memory.”
You let the silence stretch, but you don’t fill it. You’ve learned that about him—he’s not afraid of quiet. He just doesn’t always know what to do with it. You hear a faint rustle, like he’s sitting down, maybe at his kitchen table. Maybe the couch. Maybe the floor. He’s the kind of guy who sits on the floor without thinking about it.
“You want to talk about it?” you ask.
“Not really.”
You nod, even though he can’t see it. “Okay.”
A breath. Then, with a strange kind of gentleness: “You ever feel like you’re… still in the middle of something, but everyone else thinks you’re past it?”
You exhale, slow. “Yeah. All the time.”
Another pause. And then: “I thought when the shield went to Sam, that was it. That was my end point. Like I’d done my part and now I could just… blend into the wallpaper. Fix things. Be useful. Pay back some debt I can’t ever really name.”
He exhales.
“But I still wake up and feel like I’m waiting for orders.”
Your throat tightens.
“I’m not a soldier anymore,” he says, like he’s trying to convince himself. “I know that. But sometimes it feels like I lost the war and no one told me.”
You sit with that. It’s a kind of grief, what he’s saying. The loss of purpose. Of identity. You think about what it means to carry history in your body. To be made of violence and guilt and memory, and still try to build something from it.
“You’re not wallpaper,” you say. “And you’re not a soldier. Not unless you decide to be.”
A faint, surprised sound. “You think I can just choose who I am now?”
“I think that’s what healing is,” you say. “It’s not forgetting. It’s choosing who you are in spite of it.”
It’s quiet again. But softer, this time.
“Thank you,” he says, and he means it.
There’s a beat.
Then he says, “You want to come over?”
Your heart stumbles. “Now?”
“I just…” he trails off. “I don’t want to be alone.”
You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to. You do. Too much, maybe.
“I’m in sweatpants,” you warn.
“I don’t care,” he says. “I’m in worse.”
.
Which is—not fair.
He’s in flannel pants and a faded Brooklyn Public Library tee, hair damp like he just stepped out of a shower, like this isn’t his worst week in office or the worst day in months. He looks too human. Too close. Not like Congressman Barnes, not like the Winter Soldier—just like a man who lives here. Alone.
“Hi,” you say, because you’re a coward with a communication degree.
“Hey,” he replies, voice low.
He steps back. You step in.
You move past him. He doesn’t touch you, but he lingers close as you settle onto his couch. There’s a record playing low in the background—something instrumental. Maybe jazz. Maybe something older. He sits next to you. Not quite touching, but near enough that you feel it.
Neither of you says much at first.
You sip the tea he makes you. Let your shoulders drop. And after a while, you’re both leaning back, side by side, staring at the ceiling like maybe it’ll explain something.
“I don’t let people in here much,” he says, out of nowhere.
You glance at him. “Why not?”
He shrugs. “Used to be a habit. Kept things safe. Controlled.”
“And now?”
He looks at you. Really looks. Like he’s cataloguing something important.
“I trust you."
The silence sharpens.
You feel it—somewhere between your chest and your breath and the skin of your palms, warm where they rest against your knees.
He turns toward you, like he’s going to say something. His thigh brushes yours. Your heart skips.
You say his name. Soft.
“Bucky.”
He leans in. Slow. So slow it hurts. His eyes flicker to your mouth.
And then—
He stops.
You’re close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.
Close enough to break.
But he doesn’t kiss you.
He just sits there, tension in his jaw, fingers curling against his leg like he’s holding himself back.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” he says, barely a whisper.
You nod. You understand.
.
You don’t sleep well that night. You don't even know how you got home.
Not because anything happened—and maybe that’s the problem. Something almost did. Something close enough to taste. But close doesn’t keep you up at night. Hope does. Ambiguity. The memory of his breath near your cheek, the exact second he pulled away, and the way your name sounded in his mouth just before it.
You wake up tangled in sheets that smell like lavender detergent and stress. Your shoulder aches from the way you curled in on yourself, as if pretending sleep would solve the question of him.
It hasn’t.
So you do what you always do: you compartmentalize. Ruthlessly. Viciously. Like a goddamn professional.
You slap concealer under your eyes, burn your tongue on gas station coffee, and tell yourself that you’re not thinking about Bucky Barnes. You are not thinking about how he almost kissed you. How his hand hovered at your knee like a promise he wasn’t ready to make. How you wanted him to make it.
No. You’re thinking about agenda items. Press follow-ups. Intern drama. Your inbox, which has gone feral overnight.
You’re halfway through drafting a media roundup from your phone when your car buzzes with an intern's name.
You answer on instinct. “Hey. Yeah, I’m on my way in—”
“Have you seen the op-ed?” they cuts in.
Your fingers still on the steering wheel.
“I—what?”
They don't wait. “I’m sending it now. Check your messages.”
You pull into a spot on the shoulder, the coffee cup sloshing as you brake. Your phone dings.
The link stares back at you. Your thumb hovers.
You already know it’s going to be bad. You can feel it in their voice. In the silence after their breath. You tap anyway.
And there it is.
Is the Winter Soldier Still Lurking Beneath Congressman Barnes?
It’s from a major outlet. Not a fringe blog, not some anonymous account online. It’s written by a seasoned journalist, someone who’s covered politics for two decades. The tone is surgically polite. It doesn’t outright accuse him of anything, but the subtext is razor-sharp: can a man with his past truly be trusted with power?
There’s a pull quote in bold, center-page:
“A reformed weapon is still a weapon. No amount of legislation can erase that history.”
The rest of the article is worse.
It dredges everything. Not just his Hydra years, but the killings. The photo evidence. The old footage. The Wakandan reprogramming is mentioned—briefly, half a paragraph, like it’s a footnote in a larger narrative of violence.
The author's polite language makes it more brutal. Less a hit piece and more… a thesis. Something cold. Inarguable.
You call him. He doesn’t answer.
You call again. Still nothing.
So you go to his apartment.
Bucky answers the door in that old gray sweatshirt and a pair of worn sweatpants that could belong to any decade. His hair’s half-tied, his mouth set. No smile, but no walls up either. His eyes are dark. Tired in a way that goes bone-deep.
He steps aside and lets you in. You don’t say anything about how he looks. You just take off your coat, make yourself at home, and sit down at the kitchen table.
The place is clean, quiet. Too quiet. Alpine is curled on the armrest of the couch like she’s keeping watch.
“I didn’t read it,” he says eventually. “Didn’t need to.”
“It’s bad.”
He nods.
He doesn’t sit. Just stands there, arms crossed, head bowed like he’s waiting for a verdict.
“You’ve been through worse,” you say. “This is—politics. It’s dirty.”
“It’s not about politics,” he replies, voice flat. “It’s about who I used to be.”
He says it like a fact. Not even bitter—just exhausted.
“I spent so long trying to fix things,” he continues. “Make it right. Every day, I get up and try to be something new. Someone new. And it doesn’t matter. All it takes is one article, one photo, and suddenly I’m the fucking Winter Soldier again.”
His fists are clenched now. You can see the tension in his frame, the way he’s holding himself together like it’s a full-time job.
“They didn’t say anything that isn’t true,” he adds. “That’s the worst part.”
You stand. Cross to him slowly. Carefully. He watches you with that guarded look he gets when he’s bracing for a hit that’s already landed.
“They used the truth to tell a lie,” you say. “You’re not that person anymore.”
“Then why does everyone keep seeing him?” His voice cracks on the last word. It shatters something in you.
You don’t know what to say. Not right away. Because it’s not your job to fix what was done to him.
But maybe it’s your job to remind him what’s changed.
So you touch his arm. The metal one. He flinches—but only for a second.
“You said you didn’t read it,” you say gently. “So you didn’t see the comments.”
His brow furrows.
“Thousands of people,” you say. “Calling it a smear job. Defending you. Saying they trust you more than half the people in office. Veterans. Civilians. Kids who look up to you. People who believe in second chances because of you.”
You feel the shift before you see it. His shoulders slacken, just slightly.
“You’re allowed to be upset,” you add. “You’re allowed to be angry. But you’re not alone in this.”
He looks at you then. Really looks. And whatever wall he was holding up—whatever mask he puts on for C-SPAN and strategy meetings—it drops.
His voice is rough when he finally says, “Can you stay?”
“Yeah,” you say. “Of course."
You stay right where you are—your hand still resting on metal that hums faintly beneath your fingers, warm from him. He’s quiet, but not calm. Not really. There’s tension in the way he breathes, in the slight tremor running down his arm. Like his body still remembers how to brace for impact, even when it’s just words.
Minutes pass like that. Long enough for the quiet to settle around you. For Alpine to leap silently onto the sill and stare out like she’s keeping watch for both of you.
Then he shifts—just slightly—and the couch creaks under the movement. He leans forward, elbows on knees, head bowed. The line of his spine curved like it’s bearing more than just his weight.
“Bucky,” you say, tone softening. “Talk to me.”
He’s not looking at you. His gaze is on the floor. Like if he meets your eyes, it’ll all unravel.
“I say or do one wrong thing,” he says, “and suddenly I’m a threat again.”
That last part is barely above a whisper.
You pause. Let the silence stretch.
“Hey,” you say, carefully. “You’re not a threat. You’re a congressman.”
He lets out a dry laugh. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“I don’t know how to do this without screwing it up,” he says.
“Then let me help,” you say. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do, Bucky. Every day.”
That’s when his eyes meet yours—really meet them.
“You always come when I need you,” he says.
It’s a simple sentence.
But it lands like a match dropped in a dry field.
You stare at him. His face. The way his hair’s falling loose at the front. The soft curve of his mouth, the line between his brows, the glow of his vibranium arm in the lamplight—gold against black against skin.
You stand, like you’re going to fetch water or pace or do something, but you don’t make it far. You’re near his bookshelf—he’s got a handful of novels, mostly well-worn, a few classics. One spine is cracked down the middle. Another’s bent in half. You reach for one, just to touch something, ground yourself.
“You read a lot,” you say, just to fill the space. Just to breathe.
“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, and the sound of his voice—that low rasp, Brooklyn tugging at the edges—rakes down your spine. “Helps. When my head’s loud.”
“What’s your favorite?”
There’s a pause.
Then, quietly: “You.”
You blink.
“You,” he says slowly, “you walk into my life and it’s like someone hit the off switch on the noise. Like there’s finally room to think again. To want things.”
Your throat goes tight.
He swallows. You hear it. Feel it.
“I didn’t mean to—” he stops, drags a hand through his hair, fingers brushing over the back of his neck. “I didn’t plan on hiring you. Thought if I kept it distant, maybe I wouldn’t…”
You glance over your shoulder. He’s watching the floor like it holds answers. His jaw is tight, that line above his brow catching the lamplight. He’s flushed high on the cheeks. His hair is curling a little from the heat of the day. It softens him.
You can’t stop looking.
“Wouldn’t what?” you ask.
“Wouldn’t get attached.”
The words fall out of him, too quick, too raw. His accent thickens when he’s like this—unguarded, unraveling.
He looks up at you then. And you swear—swear—you’ve never seen anyone look more exposed.
“I think about you,” he says, voice hoarse. “All the damn time. Your voice. The way you talk when you’re excited. The way you wrinkle your nose when you read something stupid. And I try—believe me, I try—not to want any of it. Because you work with me. And you’re good. And I don’t want to drag you down with my shit.”
“Bucky—” you start, but it breaks apart in your throat.
“But you just kept coming. And you’re kind. And smart. And funny in a way that makes me feel like I’ve been asleep for years. And now I sit in meetings half-listening because I’m wondering if you’re cold. Or if you ate. Or if you still think I’m some idiot with a shiny arm and bad instincts.”
You’re already turning. Reaching for him.
His eyes are so blue. Tired. Beautiful. Like storm glass worn smooth.
And his mouth—God, his mouth—is parted, breathing shallow, like he’s already halfway to ruin.
“I don’t know how to stop,” he whispers.
You don’t want him to.
So you close the space, press your mouth to his like it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore.
He answers in kind. Gentle at first—so careful—but then hungrier, hands finally finding you, clutching like maybe you’re real after all. Like maybe he gets to keep you.
His hands find your waist, one warm, one cool. He breathes you in like it’s the first breath after surfacing. You hold onto him, to the solidness of him, to the truth in everything he just said.
When you part, you rest your forehead against his, breathless.
“I didn’t plan on you either,” you murmur. “But I want this too.”
He opens his eyes. And there’s something there—tentative, but real. Hope, maybe.
You kiss him again, slow and sure, and this time, you don’t stop.
The kiss deepens, and you feel it — the tension of months unspooling all at once. The press briefings, the late-night calls, the shared silences. It’s in the way his mouth moves against yours, all reverence and restraint barely holding.
Then restraint snaps.
He groans into your mouth, low and rough, the sound vibrating through your chest. One hand slides to your waist, the other cradling the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair with a kind of reverence that borders on desperate. You gasp when your back hits the edge of the bookshelf, books shifting and thudding behind you. His body presses close, firm and solid, muscle molded to muscle.
You don’t breathe. You inhale him—his scent, his heat, the way his tongue strokes into your mouth like he’s trying to stake a claim.
Your hands are greedy, curled into the soft cotton of his shirt before they slip under, dragging over warm skin and the defined ridges of his back. He shudders, hips pressing forward, and the answering moan that slips from your mouth is embarrassingly loud.
His mouth moves to your throat, hot and open, tongue dragging over the place your pulse stutters wildly. He kisses there once, then again, a third time just to hear the way your breath catches.
The shelves dig into your back, but you don’t care. His mouth is on your throat now, slow, deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your pulse.
“Bucky,” you whisper.
His breath stutters. His forehead rests against your jaw for a second, and his voice is rough when he speaks.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “How long I’ve wanted this.”
Your breath catches. Your hands grip his hoodie like you’re afraid the floor might drop out. There’s a pause—something delicate in the air—and then you say, just to ground yourself:
“Wow. That almost sounded like a line.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you. Eyes dark, lips kiss-bruised. And then—finally—a real smile. Crooked. Devastating.
“You think I say that to everyone I push against my bookshelf?”
You grin. “I don’t know, Barnes. You’ve got a lot of books. Could be a whole system.”
He laughs. Really laughs. And then kisses you again, harder this time, a groan low in his throat when your hands slip under the hem of his sweatshirt. Skin meets skin and he makes a sound that short-circuits your brain.
Somehow, you make it upstairs.
It’s clumsy and desperate in the best way. A trail of clothing, soft gasps, hands mapping territory that’s been off-limits for far too long. He kisses you like you’re something precious and half-forbidden, and you can feel it in every press of his mouth, every whispered praise against your skin.
"Sweetheart, you're killing me," he groans while pressing those lips, those fucking lips, against your collarbone. "Need you to tell me this isn’t a dream.”
By the time you hit the bedroom, you’re breathless. Dizzy. Grinning like an idiot.
And Bucky?
He’s looking at you like he’s just figured out the world’s best-kept secret.
You barely hit the mattress before he’s on you again, mouth dragging down your neck, hands urgent but careful. Like he’s cataloguing every inch of you, filing it away somewhere behind all the noise. His vibranium hand slips beneath your shirt, cool at first but quick to warm against your skin, gliding up your ribcage with reverence that makes you shiver.
“You okay?” he murmurs, breath warm against your cheek.
You nod, maybe too fast. “Yeah. Just—processing.”
He freezes. “Processing what?”
“That I used to mock your social media presence,” you whisper, grinning up at him. “And now I’m about to get railed by the human embodiment of a Roman statue.”
His laugh is choked and surprised. “Jesus.”
“What? You set yourself up for that.”
He drops a kiss to the hinge of your jaw, then your neck, then lower—his stubble scraping just enough to make your breath catch. “Remind me to fire you later.”
“You can’t afford me.”
“Not true,” he says, one hand sliding up the back of your thigh, warm and sure. “You’re already here.”
You open your mouth for a reply, but then his mouth is on you again—tongue tracing a line down your collarbone, fingers tugging at your waistband like he’s been waiting forever.
“Tell me if anything’s too much,” he says, voice low and serious at your ear. “Or if I—”
“You’re not,” you breathe. “You’re perfect.”
That earns you another groan, and then he’s kissing you again, deeper, tongue sliding against yours with filthy precision. You feel him smile against your mouth when you gasp, hands tangling in his hair, thighs bracketing his hips like you were built for this. Built for him.
Clothes disappear in pieces. His sweatshirt, your shirt, the rest in a tangle neither of you cares enough to untangle. And then it’s just skin. Heat. The stretch of him over you, under you, hands braced, mouth hot on your jaw, your throat, your chest. He takes his time.
"Bucky," You whisper, searching for the right words. "I want you inside me. Please."
He pushes out a sound akin to pain between his teeth. "Getting there." So impatient, goes unsaid.
The moment his hand falls in between your legs, digging past soft cotton and lace, where you're dripping and soft and needy for him, you don't think you'll ever, ever have enough of him. He's slow, at first, just bordering on exploratory. Stroking the pads of his fingers through your wetness until he finds your clit—oh, fuck—and goes to town, making you moan and clench around nothing.
"There you go. That's it," He coos. "You're doing so good."
You close your eyes, his hand pressing in deeper, harder, finding just the right rhythm to drive you insane, switching between your clit and your entrance until you're going mad. Then you hear him spit, the sound obscene and dripping against your skin—then, a slap. "Oh my god," You murmur. "Oh, fuck."
"You're so wet," His brows furrow, like he can hardly believe it. Acting like he's not sinking his fingers inside of you, stretching you open with one, two fingers. "Soaked. Like I knew you would be, god. You're so tight and I—I bet you'd feel better around my—"
He hits a spot that makes you keen, fast and rough and fucking you open. "Yes, yes, oh my god, please—"
"There?" His breath fans across your cheek. "Right there, huh?"
You nod, delirious and breathless and you black out the rest of the world, lost in the way he looks at you like you're the best damn thing in the world. You clench once, twice around his fingers until you're at the brink and—
Come on my fingers, come on, sweetheart.
And who were you to resist?
For a moment, you just lay in the aftershocks, his fingers granting you enough mercy to slip out. You think that maybe he'll give you a break, maybe just for once second, but then his whole body shifts downwards, momentarily leaving you confused, and then his breath fans across your thighs—"Just want a taste."
Those four words cause something in you to snap.
His mouth is sloppy and hot and wet, more focused on cleaning you up and licking up the remnants of your orgasm, leaving your clit sorely, sorely alone in a way that's too purposeful. In a way that has you bucking against the soft stubble of his face, desperate for any kind of stimulation.
It doesn't even seem like he's doing it for you, it's like he's doing it for himself. But then you beg and whine, the words reverberating in your throat, "Bucky, please—higher, please, baby, I need you—"
A graze of his teeth and a sharp, tugging suck around your clit then and you cum again. Shaking and sighing and falling apart in his mouth.
When you look down, you can see just how much of a mess you've made, his face glistening with you, even in the dark. And he's looking at you so earnestly, so sweetly, like you've just given him the whole entire world.
"Do you—do you think you can take more?" His eyes look at you, filled with concern, and that's all you need for your legs to start waking up again. "I didn't—I dind't bring a condom and I—"
"I'm clean and I'm on the pill," You smile, lopsided and silly until he's mirroring yours, like he didn't just wrench the two best orgasms of your life out of you. Like he's not about to do it again. Just the way you like it. "And I want you to cum inside me. I wanna feel it. Shut up and get over here."
Bucky clucks his tongue, ever the dutiful man. "Yes, ma'am."
There's a moment—and then he's slotting the head of his cock into your entrance and you try not to be overwhelmed. He's hard and heavy and thick in a way you've never really experienced before, and for a minute, your brain short-circuits, in disbelief. You're doing this. You're really doing this. And suddenly, his cock goes all the way inside you with a pained groan.
His first thrust against you is messy, his hands having to spread your legs wide until you're arching against him. "Jesus, you're so—tight."
Then he's thrusting back in, his hands solid and heavy against your hips, not necessarily like a hammer, but in a way that makes your eyes roll back, slow and steady that you can feel every vein on his cock, lighting you up and finding places that not even your vibrator's been able to reach before. It's mind-numbing, it's relentless, it's perfect.
"Good girl," He whispers, pressing kisses up your neck to soothe the pressure of him inside you. "Taking me so well."
And then, like a reward, his vibranium hand leaves its place on your hip and starts caressing your clit, large fingers made impossibly gentle and finding a rhythm that parallels the way he ruts inside you.
"You're so good to me, so sweet," His words land like a sucker punch, and it makes you clench tighter, his pace faltering just the slightest bit. But he keeps going. "Always looking at me like that, don't know what you do to me, don't know how I can go without this. So much better than my dreams. Fuck."
"Can you come again for me? Pretty baby, can you do it again?"
It takes a harsh, rough swipe against your clit until you arch off the bed, eyes clenched shut and mouth wrenched open in a whine, and you bear down, coming for the third time that night.
And he's right there behind you, it doesn't take long before he speeds up, getting more frantic and desperate, and oh—he's shoving himself inside you as deep as he can go and you can feel him pulse, aching—"God, I love you. I love you so much, take it all for me."
You collapse underneath him, spent and so, so full. So perfect.
.
You go viral again.
Not for a tweet this time, but for a thirty-second clip someone posted from a town hall two weeks later—Bucky leaning in to answer a kid’s question about public transit, earnest as ever, saying something about “freedom meaning more than just car ownership,” with Alpine meowing in the background because she’d escaped her carrier under the table.
The quote is fine. Thoughtful, even. But it’s the look he gives you afterward—off-camera, off-script, soft in a way that has no business being soft—that turns the internet into a firestorm.
The caption?
sir. control yourself. your pr manager is right there.
You wake up to three missed calls, four texts from Nina (two of which are just screaming emojis), and one from your mom:
call me when you’re up
You do. Because you are a good daughter, even when half-asleep and mostly buried in a man’s too-soft duvet that smells like cedar and coffee and very recent sex.
“Morning,” your mom says, casual, like she didn’t text you three times in a row at 6:13 a.m. “How’s the job?”
You blink. “The—job?”
“Yes, the job,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “The one you got after insulting a congressman on the internet.”
You glance over at said congressman, currently shuffling out of the bathroom shirtless and towel-damp, rubbing his head with one hand while Alpine chirps at his feet like she owns him. Which she does.
“Uh,” you say, eloquently. “It’s going… well.”
“Good,” your mom replies. “You should call your aunt. She saw him on TV and keeps asking if he’s single.”
“Mom.”
In the background, a faint beeping. “Gotta go. Someone’s coding. Love you!”
The line goes dead.
You flop back into the pillows, groaning into Bucky’s comforter like it can absorb your entire soul.
“Everything okay?” he asks, voice still rough with sleep.
“Yeah. My mom thinks we’re married now.”
He raises an eyebrow. “We’re not?”
You shoot him a look. He grins.
Then, like it’s nothing: “What are you up to today?”
Technically, he’s your boss. A sitting congressman. You manage his image, his agenda, his occasional tendency to go off-script and say things like “burn it all down and start over” to a room full of journalists.
But now he’s shirtless in grey sweatpants, handing you coffee with Alpine perched on his shoulder like a parrot, and asking you to stay.
Not just for breakfast. For the day. Maybe longer. Maybe always.
It shouldn’t hit you like it does. But it does.
“You’re assuming I can concentrate,” you say, taking the mug like it’s a peace offering. “In your bed. With you. Shirtless. Existing.”
He smiles—that rare, lopsided thing he gives you when he’s caught somewhere between amusement and something gentler. “You’ve worked through worse.”
“True,” you mutter. “Once wrote an op-ed from a TikTok house while one of my clients sobbed over a brand deal and a frat boy tried to deep-fry a toaster.”
“See?” He leans down, presses a kiss to your temple like it’s just another part of your morning routine. “You’ll be fine.”
You look at him. At the man with a metal arm, a rescue cat, and a city full of people who expect him to change the world.
And he’s looking at you like you’re the thing that matters.
You exhale. “You’re lucky I believe in workplace flexibility.”
“Is that what this is?” he says, already walking toward the kitchen, voice full of barely contained laughter. “Workplace flexibility?”
You grin into your mug.
God help you, you’re in so deep.
You open your laptop from the warmth of his bed. Bucky pads away, Alpine trailing behind him like a tiny, loyal shadow. You draft emails. Sip coffee. Watch sunlight crawl across his floors. Like this was always where you were meant to be.
Synopsis your daughter asked for a bedtime, not unusual. But she asked for yours and buckys story
Word Count 2.7k
Themes + Warnings nothing but fluff and chaos
— The prince with the metal arm a bedtime story that is based of true events
The lights in your daughter’s room were dim, her favorite star projector twinkling softly on the ceiling as Bucky tucked her in. Her tiny fists clutched her Steve Rogers plushie like it was the most important mission she’d ever had.
Bucky’s voice was low and gentle, a quiet rhythm in the glow of the projector stars spinning lazily above. Your daughter snuggled deeper into her blanket, one hand tucked under her cheek, the other wrapped tight around her Steve Rogers plushie.
“All tucked in, doll,” Bucky said with a warm smile, brushing a strand of hair from her face and leaning in to kiss her forehead.
“Story?” she whispered, eyes wide and hopeful.
He chuckled. “Of course. Want me to read Goodnight Moon again or—”
“Tell me a story,” she interrupted, “about you and Mommy.”
Bucky blinked. “Wha—Me and Mommy?”
You were leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and lips curved in a knowing smile. His eyes flicked to you, slightly panicked.
“Maybe… a different story, sweetheart,” he offered, almost pleading.
But she was your daughter—stubborn, determined, and so clearly yours. “No. That one. Now, please.”
You bit back a laugh, and Bucky gave you a mock glare before sighing in surrender. “Alright, alright. Settle in.”
He adjusted himself on the edge of her bed and cleared his throat.
“Once upon a time,” he began, his voice deep but gentle, “there was a prince.”
“A brave prince?” she asked, eyes wide.
“The bravest,” he said with a wink. “He was strong and kind, and he had the biggest heart. But one day… a wicked wizard took him away.”
You saw his jaw twitch slightly. But he continued, voice steady for her sake.
“This wizard… he cast a curse on the prince. Gave him a metal arm and locked him far, far away where no one could find him. The prince’s friends looked everywhere—Sir Steve, Lady Natasha, Sir Sam—they never gave up. But the spell was strong.”
Your daughter’s brows furrowed. “Was he scared?”
He paused. “Yeah. He was. And sad. And alone for a long, long time.”
You stepped into the room slowly, sitting on the other side of the bed. Your daughter reached for your hand without looking away from Bucky.
“So the prince sat alone in the dark tower. He didn’t know what day it was or how long he’d been there. The wizard’s curse had made him forget things—his name, his friends, even what it felt like to laugh.”
“Was he sad?” your daughter asked, voice small.
“Yeah, sweetheart. Very sad. He didn’t smile for a long, long time. And the metal arm the wizard gave him? It was heavy. Not just here—” He tapped his shoulder. “But here too.” He tapped over his chest, heart steady under his hand.
“But one night,” he said, glancing at you, his voice softening, “he heard a voice. A soft one. On the other side of the stone wall. The princess had wandered into the forest near the tower, and she didn’t know anyone was there. She was just… talking to herself. Or so she thought.”
You smiled, squeezing your daughter’s hand. You remember how you met him for real. You hadn’t known who he was back then. Just a man with sad eyes and heavy silences.
“The prince didn’t say anything at first. He just listened. Night after night, the princess came back. She talked about the birds she saw, the sun setting over her castle, the way flowers always knew how to bloom again even after winter.”
“She sounds like Mommy,” your daughter mumbled, already halfway to sleep.
Bucky smiled at you, his voice softer now.
“She didn’t know what he looked like or what he’d been through. But every night, she’d talk. About her day. About the sky. About her dreams. And it made the prince feel a little less alone.”
“She didn’t know it, but every time she spoke, she chipped away at the wall around the prince’s heart. She made him feel again. Until finally, one day, the prince found the courage to answer.”
Your daughter blinked slowly. “What did he say?”
He leaned down and whispered, “He said, ‘Are you real?’”
You swallowed against the lump in your throat. That had been almost word for word what he said the first night he’d really opened up to you. Like he didn’t think someone could love him past all he’d been through.
“And the princess said yes,” Bucky went on, brushing your daughter’s hand. “She said, ‘I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.’ And she didn’t.”
Bucky shifted “one day, the princess found a crack in the wall. And she saw him. Not the prince he once was—his hair was longer, his eyes were tired. He looked like he’d forgotten how to smile. But you know what the princess did?”
Your daughter shook her head.
He glanced at you. “She stayed. Even when he told her about the curse. Even when she saw his arm.”
“She wasn’t scared?” your daughter asked.
Bucky shook his head slowly. “No. She told him the arm was part of his story. Not something to hide. And when he tried to push her away, she just… loved him harder.”
You reached across the bed and took Bucky’s hand, your fingers curling around his metal one. He gave you a look that made your heart twist—the kind of look only a man who truly believed he’d never deserve love could give.
“She smiled. Big and bright. And opened her arms and told the prince he didn’t have to be alone anymore. So… they fought the wizard together. The princess was brave, too.”
“She fought him?” her voice was filled with awe.
“She sure did. And when the battle was over… the prince’s friends found him again. They cried happy tears because they had missed him so much.”
He looked up at you again, and for a second, it was like it wasn’t just a story.
“And when the prince was alone with the princess,” he said, brushing your daughter’s cheek, “he told her he loved her. He was scared she didn’t feel the same, that maybe she was just being kind. But then…”
“I love you too,” your daughter whispered dreamily, finishing the line.
You both smiled.
“She said it back,” Bucky said. “And the curse? It didn’t matter anymore. Because the princess didn’t care about the metal arm. She loved him for who he was. And they lived happily ever after—with a little firecracker of a princess who kept them both on their toes.”
“And the prince?” Bucky murmured. “He started to believe he wasn’t cursed anymore. Not really. Because the princess showed him he wasn’t broken. Just… healing.”
Your daughter blinked sleepily. “They get married?” She asked again to make sure
Bucky chuckled softly. “Eventually. After they fought the wicked wizard together—side by side. The princess wasn’t just loving. She was strong. Fierce. The prince wasn’t used to people fighting with him, but she did. Every battle. Every fear. She was there.”
You leaned down and kissed your daughter’s forehead. “And they lived happily ever after, right?”
Bucky nodded, his voice like velvet. “Happily ever after. With a beautiful little girl who had the princess’ fire and the prince’s heart.”
Your daughter gave a tiny yawn, blinking up at the ceiling stars. “That’s me?”
“That’s you,” you both said together.
Your daughter giggled sleepily and pulled her blanket up to her chin. “That’s the best story ever,” she mumbled.
“I think so too,” you said softly, brushing her hair as her eyes fluttered closed.
Bucky leaned down and kissed her forehead again before you both tiptoed out, gently closing the door behind you.
In the hallway, you turned to him with tear-glassy eyes and a smile.
“That was beautiful, Buck.”
He gave you a soft smirk, voice thick with emotion. “Well, she asked for a fairytale.”
You leaned up and kissed him gently, hand brushing the side of his face. “You’ll always be my brave prince.”
He wrapped his arms around you, pressing his forehead to yours. “And you’ll always be the reason I made it back.”
You and Bucky stood in the hallway, the door cracked just enough to watch her sleep. Her little face was peaceful, mouth slightly open, lashes resting on her cheeks.
“She really wanted our story,” you whispered, your head resting against his shoulder.
He nodded, still watching her, his voice full of awe. “She’s gonna grow up knowing the truth. But for now… I like that she hears it like that. A fairytale.”
You turned to look up at him. “It kind of was, wasn’t it? A little messy. A little dark. But still… magic.”
He looked at you the way he always did in quiet moments—like you’d saved him a thousand times and didn’t even realize it.
He raised your joined hands, pressed a kiss to your knuckles. “You were the magic, sweetheart.”
You smiled, heart aching in the best way.
The two of you walked quietly down the hall, your hand in his. And somewhere behind you, under a blanket of stars and soft breathing, your daughter dreamed of brave princes, fierce princesses, and a love strong enough to break any curse.
BONUS :
It’s a perfect summer evening—blue skies, golden sunlight filtering through the trees, laughter echoing across the backyard. Smoke wafts from the grill where Sam is dramatically flipping burgers like it’s a cooking show. Bucky is nearby, tongs in one hand, beer in the other, absolutely pretending he’s in charge when everyone knows Sam banned him from the grill years ago.
Wanda and Sharon are on the patio, glasses of lemonade in hand, deep in gossip. Yelena is teaching your daughter how to throw a totally unnecessary but cool dramatic knife pose with a plastic fork.
Steve? Steve is sitting peacefully on a lawn chair under a big umbrella, probably feeling like he’s finally relaxing for the first time in 80 years.
And then she stomps up to him.
Your daughter.
Five years old.
Pink shorts. Sparkly sandals. Face serious.
Plush Steve Rogers in one hand. Juice pouch in the other. Full of righteous toddler rage.
“Uncle Steve.”
Steve looks up, smiling. “Hey sweetheart. What’s up?”
She narrows her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a knight?!”
The entire backyard freezes.
Sam stops mid-burger flip. Bucky chokes on his drink. Yelena mutters “oh no” under her breath like it’s a Cold War flashback.
Steve blinks. “A knight?”
She glares. “Sir Steve! From the story! You were the knight who was trying to find the Prince! My daddy!”
And then, as if that’s not enough—she gasps.
“You didn’t save him!”
Steve’s mouth opens and closes like Windows 98 trying to reboot.
You’re across the yard, hand over your mouth, desperately trying not to fall apart laughing. Bucky is already doubled over, pointing at Steve like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen.
“Hold on, sweetheart,” Steve says, panic rising, hands up in surrender. “I tried! I looked everywhere! There was… Hydra! And ice! And—”
“BUT YOU’RE CAPTAIN AMERICA!” she yells, arms flailing. “You were supposed to go in and SLICE the wizard and get my daddy back!!”
Wanda’s cackling into her drink. Nat’s wiping tears from her eyes. Yelena is whispering, “This child has taste.”
Steve rubs a hand down his face. “Technically, your mommy helped save him—”
“BECAUSE YOU DIDN’T!” she shouts.
Bucky, nearly crying from laughter, finally scoops her up. “Alright, alright, doll. Ease up on Uncle Steve. He tried. The story just had… delays.”
She folds her arms over her chest dramatically. “He better be lucky the princess was braver than him.”
“OHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Sam yells from the grill. “SHE SAID WHAT SHE SAID!”
Steve is just sitting there, face in hands, muttering, “I fought Nazis for this…”
Bucky kisses your daughter’s cheek and looks up at Steve with a smirk. “Tough crowd, huh?”
“Your daughter just revoked my knighthood,” Steve groans.
“She’s not wrong,” you say, finally walking over with a plate of chips.
“Not you too,” Steve grumbles.
Your daughter, now smug and safe in Bucky’s arms, reaches out and boops Steve’s nose.
“I still love you. You just have to be braver next time.”
Everyone loses it.
Later that night, when the stars are out and everyone’s mellow and full of food, Steve sits next to your daughter with a juice box in one hand and a marshmallow stick in the other.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says quietly. “Just so you know… I really did try. I missed your daddy every day he was gone.”
She looks up at him, thoughtful. “It’s okay. But next time, just call the princess. She fixes everything.”
Steve smiles, eyes a little glassy now. “Yeah. She really does.”
From across the yard, Bucky wraps his arm around you and watches the two of them—his best friend and his tiny firecracker of a daughter—knowing somehow, against all odds, the story had the happiest ending of all.
The party is winding down, marshmallows have been roasted, and Steve has just barely recovered from being verbally knight-stripped by your child.
You’re curled up next to Bucky on a blanket under the fairy lights, sipping your drink, absolutely enjoying the chaos you’ve married into. Bucky is watching his daughter with the smuggest, softest expression like he still can’t believe she’s real.
Cue: your daughter, now on her second juice box and high on sugar, absolutely not done with her mission of justice.
She marches up to Natasha Romanoff, who’s lounging in a lawn chair next to Sharon, Wanda, and Yelena.
“Lady Natasha.”
Nat looks up, sunglasses on even though the sun is long gone, already smirking. “Yes, Your Highness?”
“Why didn’t you turn into a dragon to save Prince Bucky?”
Everyone freezes.
Sharon immediately chokes on her drink.
Wanda gasps theatrically. “Oh no.”
Yelena is full on grinning. “This is the best party I’ve ever been to.”
Nat leans forward slowly, like she’s preparing to give a press statement. “Well, I was going to. But I was told not to…”
She dramatically tilts her head toward Steve and Sam across the yard.
“…by Sir Steve and Sir Sam.”
“EXCUSE ME?” Sam shouts, spinning around from the grill. “I’m sorry, what now?”
“Don’t drag me into this!” Steve says, already done with this conversation.
Nat looks back down at your daughter and shrugs. “I wanted to. I had wings and everything. But Sir Steve said ‘stand down,’ and Sir Sam said I was being extra.”
Sam stomps over, flipping the spatula in his hand like a sword. “Extra?! Girl, I was the one flying around with a literal wingsuit—I was the dragon!”
“Nope,” Yelena says, popping a chip in her mouth. “You were the comedic relief.”
“EXCUSE ME?” Sam gasps, clutching his chest like he’s been mortally wounded.
Wanda’s laughing so hard she nearly drops her drink. Sharon’s already filming with her phone like it’s a reality show.
Your daughter’s eyes narrow at Sam. “You could have helped Lady Natasha become a dragon. You have wings.”
Sam throws up his hands. “I am the wings!”
“Then why didn’t you BREATHE FIRE?!” she demands, like that’s a normal question.
“Because I’m not a real dragon, baby, I’m a—wait, why am I explaining myself to a toddler??”
“You let the wizard KEEP MY DADDY!” she accuses, dramatically pointing her finger.
“I was IN THE SKY! I was—!” Sam’s sputtering now, deeply betrayed. “I FOUGHT FOR THAT MAN!”
Natasha is calmly sipping her drink now, sunglasses still on. “Mmm. Not hard enough, apparently.”
Bucky’s wheezing into your shoulder. “I’m gonna pass out. She’s grilling them harder than Hydra ever did me.”
“She’s a menace,” you whisper through your laughter, eyes shining. “Our little, justice-seeking menace.”
Your daughter crosses her arms and glares up at Sam. “You’re on probation.”
Sam gasps again. “PROBATION?! I let you steal my sunglasses! I cut the crusts off your grilled cheese!”
“And yet,” she says, voice cold, “no dragon fire.”
Yelena claps slowly. “I love her.”
Nat leans over and fist bumps your daughter. “Vengeance. I approve.”
Steve, from across the yard, to Bucky: “So… are all your family barbecues like this now?”
Bucky, proudly watching his daughter sass grown Avengers into submission: “Yeah. And it’s perfect.”
Later that night, as your daughter lays half-asleep in your lap under a blanket, she sleepily whispers:
“…next time, Lady Natasha should absolutely turn into a dragon. With red fire. And a big tail.”
Bucky runs his fingers through her hair. “You think that’d scare the wizard?”
She hums. “No. But it’d be so cool.”
(You’ve got mail!) I don’t know I had an idea it reminded me of all the bedtime stories my mommy would read to me, and I thought how cute it’d be for Bucky to read his daughter a story like this
Summary: Bucky meets his potential new roommate and is immediately smitten.
Word Count: Over 3k
Warnings: Love at first sight, bits of humor, fluff, tension, sweetness, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)
A/N: Finally sharing Stud meeting Smartie for the first time. ❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411 (and thank you for your help and cheering me on), but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @firefly-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Bucky let out a deep breath when he heard the knock at the door and looked at his watch before he went to answer it. Another potential roommate, right on time. He hadn’t initially wanted to rent out the extra room since he could’ve made it work with rent going up, but the budget would’ve been very tight and it was better not to risk it since he loved the place. It would’ve also been nice if Steve or Sam could’ve moved in, but they had their own spaces and the idea of sharing his space with a stranger wasn’t necessarily bad. He just hoped whoever ended up renting the space got along with Alpine.
“One sec!” he called out and bent down to pet his cat, the white fur soft against his calloused hand. “Try to be nice this time, okay?” he teased, reminding himself to keep his expectations low when she meowed. Alpine was a wonderful cat, but also particular with the company she kept and she chased off the last person who visited. He trusted her instincts and if she didn’t like someone then that was that.
“Here goes nothing,” he whispered, steeling himself before he opened the door.
And the world as he knew it ceased to exist.
You stood there with the sweetest smile he had ever seen and he thought his heart would beat right through his chest with how hard it pounded. The feeling only intensified when he looked into your eyes and forgot how to breathe, his stomach filled with so many butterflies that he thought he’d leave the ground. Then he felt like he was falling in slow motion before he came back to himself. It was like the world got a little brighter just because you were standing in front of him.
Is this love at first sight?
“Hi! Bucky, right?” you asked, and he knew then and there he could spend the rest of his life hearing you say his name.
“Yeah, that’s me,” he said, his voice husky. “And you must be…” He paused before he said your name, letting it settle on his tongue.
No, he couldn’t flirt with or hit on his potential roommate.
Or can I?
He heard the hitch in your breath before you nodded. “Yeah, that’s me,” you repeated, your voice soft and sugary sweet.
He wasn’t trying to stare like a creep, but he really didn’t expect to see someone so beautiful. So perfect. When you expressed interest in the room since it was close to the nearby university, he refused to look up your social media accounts. He wanted the first impression based on instinct and a face-to-face meeting and not by what was posted online. He hoped he made a good impression, too, especially since he had freshened up after work, wearing one of his many henleys and jeans.
“Would you like to come in?” he asked, stepping back to give you some room. He took up a lot of space with his size and didn’t want to crowd you.
You winced and didn’t move, making him pause, too. “Before I do that…” He raised an eyebrow when you held your phone up and dialed a number. “My friend wants to hear you say that I’m going to be perfectly safe here.”
Both eyebrows shot up. “She wants to hear me say…” He trailed off when he heard a voice on the other end.
“Hey! You at the apartment?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” you replied, biting your lip and drawing his eyes to your mouth.
Focus. Don’t think about kissing your potential roommate.
“Oh, good! Is he listening? Hey, what’s your name and what are your intentions with my friend?”
Bucky cleared his throat, unable to say what his intentions were deep down. “My name is Bucky Barnes and I’m looking for a roommate. She’ll be perfectly safe here whether she accepts or not,” he said, praying that Alpine liked you enough so you’d move in.
“I’m sorry,” you mouthed to him.
“It’s okay,” he mouthed back. He wasn’t at all offended. You never could tell with strangers and it was nice that you had someone looking out for you.
“She better be safe!” He tried not to laugh at your friend’s tone. It reminded him of Steve, caring and protective. “Is he hot? He sounds hot.”
“You’re on speaker,” you reminded her and Bucky tried to keep a neutral expression because, well, he wanted you to think he was hot. “And, yeah, he’s hot. He’s a real stud muffin. Or stud horse? I don’t know, he’s a stud,” you rambled, your eyes wide like you forgot he could hear you, too.
Silence filled the space between you and he took the opportunity to put his hand on the doorframe so you could see just how large he was. “I’m a stud?” he asked, a smile tugging at his lips. The compliment nearly had him preening like a peacock, and there was tension. No one could tell him otherwise.
Your mouth fell open and a sound came out, but nothing else.
“Ooh, he must be really hot if you’re just making noises,” your friend muttered as you stared past Bucky’s frame into the apartment, avoiding eye contact. That only made you look more endearing. “Call me when you leave so I know you’re still safe.”
“I will. Bye,” you said quickly, hanging up before your friend could say anything else. “Um…”
He tilted his head, not pushing for you to talk. He was more than content to look at you. Did you have any idea how enticing you were?
“About the stud comments, I… Well. Yeah. I mean… Look at you.” You gestured to him and finally looked his way again, making him smile all over again. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I just… say things and I feel like I just made this weird.”
“Hey, it’s fine. I appreciate the compliment,” he said easily when he was doing flips on the inside. “You didn’t make it weird,” he added. Not when he was the one staring at you like a creep.
“So, not a terrible first impression?” you asked and he hated how worried you looked.
“If anything, it’s a great impression,” he promised you, stepping aside again. He’d be thinking about that compliment and you long after you left.
“My friend wanted to come here with me so I wasn’t by myself, but I refused. The call was the next best thing,” you explained, finally stepping inside. God, you smelled sweet, too. “I appreciate you being cool with that.”
“No problem.” And he didn’t miss how quickly you changed the subject. Whatever you felt moments ago, if you felt something at all, you clearly didn’t want to dwell on it, and he didn’t want to make it uncomfortable by dragging it on. “Why do I have the feeling you’d do the same for her?”
“Oh, I would,” you said, gasping when you spotted Alpine. “Oh, my god. She’s beautiful.”
“Yeah, that’s Alpine,” Bucky said, holding his breath when you crouched down and held out a hand. You weren’t allergic to cats, he wouldn’t even entertain a potential roommate who was, so that was good. But what would she think of you?
“Hey, Alpine. I’m hopefully going to be your new roommate,” you said, waiting for her to approach. It made Bucky happy that you weren’t forcing her to go to you if she didn’t want to. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
Alpine gave your hand a sniff and bumped it with her head before she surprised you both and put her paws on your chest. “I… I think she wants you to pick her up,” Bucky said in awe.
She isn’t chasing you off. She likes you. This is good. This is really good.
You picked her up without hesitation. “Oh, my goodness. I’m already in love,” you said when she purred and nuzzled close. Was it weird to be jealous of a cat? “You want to do the tour of your home with me?”
Alpine nuzzled deeper into your hold.
“She really likes you,” Bucky said, leading you to the living room and watching you as you looked around. “It’s not much.” It wasn’t the most lavish place, but it was nice, warm, and he had made it a home.
“I like her, too,” you said, smiling as you took everything in. “Are you kidding? This place is great!”
“Yeah?” he smiled, running his metal hand through his hair. He hadn’t noticed he used that hand until your eyes followed the movement. “Oh, yeah. This…” He put his arm out to show you and felt the need to somewhat explain it. “It’s a state of the art prosthetic, in case you were wondering.”
Losing his arm wasn’t a story he was ready to tell, not today anyway. For now, he just wanted you to see the place. And the prosthetic was something he wouldn’t have normally been able to afford, but he had been lucky and was able to be part of a test group of new prosthetics.
“I think it looks pretty badass.” There was no judgement in your eyes, only openness when you added, “And I’ll argue with anyone who says otherwise.”
He swallowed the lump in his throat. Some people asked invasive questions or tried to touch it, but you put him at ease and there was something wonderful in the air between you because of it. “That means a lot,” he whispered, nodding to the space. “So, you like it so far?”
“I love it,” you answered, your eyes now on the bookshelf. “My kind of space right there.”
“Yeah? You like to read?” he asked. He had a decent collection of books.
“Oh, yeah. Probably how I ended up getting a scholarship since I usually had my face buried in them,” you teased.
“That’s right. Academic scholarship,” he said. You had mentioned in your email that you were on a scholarship and that’s why you were going to the university, but you didn’t want to live on campus. “Must be really smart.”
Smart and beautiful.
“Oh, no. No. I wouldn’t say that,” you said dismissively. That wouldn’t do.
“If you got an academic scholarship, you have to be somewhat smart. So just admit that you’re a little smartie and take the compliment,” he said, chuckling when you shook your head. “I’ll bet Alpine thinks you’re a smartie, too.”
Smartie? What the hell am I saying?
You smiled when Alpine meowed in agreement. “Okay, I’m a little smart in some areas,” you said, biting your lip again. Were you doing that on purpose? “Is that braggy? I don’t want it to sound braggy.”
“Not braggy,” he said. Adorable as hell, but not braggy.
“Thanks,” you whispered almost shyly.
Yep, you were adorable. “Kitchen?”
“Oh, yeah. The tour,” you said, following and gasping again. “This is perfect! And is that an old radio?”
He would’ve liked something bigger eventually, but the size was good and the appliances were in great condition. “Yeah, I listen to music here sometimes,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Is that going to be a problem?”
“Hey, it’s your space,” you said. It wouldn’t just be his space if you moved in. It would be yours, too. “And I like music.”
“You like pizza and movies, too?”
You stared at him like he suddenly had another head on his shoulder. “Of course, I like pizza and movies! I thought that was a prerequisite to even look at the place.”
He leaned against the counter and folded his arms with a grin. “Except I didn’t ask you about pizza and movies.”
“Touche,” you said, doing a small spin with Alpine still in your arms. Why did he suddenly want to dance with you in the kitchen? “So, you have a great living room, great kitchen. I’m going to guess the bedroom is amazing.”
He swallowed again, trying not to imagine you in his bed. “Yeah, this way.”
Bucky lifted his chin to indicate the direction of the extra bedroom. You immediately went toward it with Alpine still burrowed in your arms, leaving him a few steps behind. He took the opportunity to check you out, his eyes lingering on your ass. You were going to test his resolve if you decided to move in.
You went into the open doorway since the door across from it was closed, your jaw dropping when you looked back at him. “Wow, this is huge!”
Not the only huge thing in this place.
He barely managed to keep that thought to himself. “So, you like it?” he asked. He thought about turning it into an office or workout area or something, but there was no need.
“Yes! I can have my bed here, and put my desk there,” you said, pointing toward the corner. “I could even put a bed in for Alpine if she wanted to sleep in here,” you offered.
“That’s nice of you,” he said. It was very thoughtful.
“Well, it’s her space, too,” you said, nuzzling her before you set her down.
He nodded toward the closed door nearby. “Bathroom is right across the hall, and you won’t have to worry about sharing since my room has an en-suite attached,” he explained. He wasn’t sure how comfortable you would’ve been if you were forced to shower in his bathroom.
“I’ll have my own bathroom, too?” you asked, brushing past him so you could take a quick look inside. It took all of his strength not to push you against the wall and kiss you, which would’ve probably earned him a slap and a call to your friend. “How has no one snatched this place up yet?”
“Al hasn’t been a big fan of anyone, except for you,” he said honestly, looking you over once more.
“I’m honored that she likes me,” you said before you turned to face him, a wide smile lighting up your face. “How soon can I move in?”
He smiled back. “You want to move in?” he asked, those butterflies in his stomach again when you glanced at your feet.
“Only if you want me, too. Oh, yeah, and…” You dug into your purse and pulled out a small notebook, quickly flipping through the pages. “This is the rent price, right? And the estimated amount for the bills? Because I can give you a first and last month if I need to sign an updated lease.”
He looked over the page. Your notes were meticulous. “That’s the right price,” he confirmed, snapping his fingers. “I forgot if I mentioned it in the posting, but I didn’t even show you the washer and dryer. You don’t have to worry about going to a laundromat since I have them here.”
You put the notebook away and pinched yourself. “Nope. Not dreaming,” you said, your smile faltering a little. “But do you really want me living here? I’m boring.”
“I’ve known you for a very short time and I can tell you that you’re not boring,” he said. His life felt more exciting since you showed up today. “And I’m a mechanic, so I’m not exactly living the most exciting life.”
Bucky was proud to be a mechanic, but it was far from glamorous.
“Being a mechanic sounds pretty awesome.” You crossed your arms. “I do puzzles for fun.”
“Sounds like a great Saturday night,” he said without a hint of sarcasm, making you smile again.
“And to be clear, I won’t be bringing guys back here at 3am,” you promised, scrunching your nose. “I don’t know why I felt the need to say that.”
You mentioned in your initial contact that you weren’t seeing anyone, but he felt extra relieved that you didn’t want to bring guys here. “I won’t be bringing guys here at 3am either.”
The giggle you let out warmed his heart. “So, we’re doing this? You really want me to move in?” you asked hopefully. “Because I really will be a great roommate. I’ll clean, cook, and-”
“I want you to move in,” he assured you. He didn’t want anyone else there. “What do you think, Al?”
The feline brushed against your leg with a happy meow, giving you her approval all over again.
You bounced in place and he thought for a second you’d throw your arms around in a hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“Thank you,” he said. You were doing him a huge favor by moving in. “And just to be clear, you’re comfortable living here with me being a guy?”
Bucky had never been more attracted to anyone as quickly as he was to you, but he wasn’t going to disrespect or make you uncomfortable in what would be your new home.
“You promised I’d be perfectly safe here,” you reminded him. He did say that. “And…” The soft smile on your face was an image he wanted engraved in his mind. “I have a good feeling about you.”
He was going to fall head over heels if he wasn’t careful. Who was he kidding? It was too late. “I have a good feeling about you, too,” he said, gazing into your eyes with a soft smile of his own. “And I can’t wait for you to move in.”
God, Steve is going to come over and demand to meet my new roommate. He better not flirt or lay on his golden boy charm.
“Could you excuse me for just a second?” you asked, slipping back into the bedroom. He poked his head in and watched as you did a little jig. It was the sweetest thing he had ever seen. “If you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m a huge dork.”
“You’re far from that,” he said, leaning on the doorframe. You were perfect in his eyes.
“I just…” You turned a blinding smile his way. “I feel like I hit the jackpot!”
I’m the one who hit the jackpot.
And we know how the story goes for these two (so far). 🥰 Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
Pairing: Post-Thunderbolts!Bucky x NewAvenger!Reader
Summary: You hated him. You swore you did. Until the dick pics you’d been seeing for months turned out to belong to your mission partner—the man who barely looked at you in daylight.
Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, mutual masturbation (via FaceTime), p in v sex (unprotected), first time sex (reader), dirty talk, breastplay (nipple sucking), wet grinding (clothed and bare), edging (reader), orgasm denial (brief), praise kink, possessive!soft!Bucky vibes, intense intimacy, post-orgasm shaking, soft aftercare cuddling
Word Count: 8.7k
You hadn’t even made it halfway through your first week and you were already public enemy number one in the eyes of Bucky Barnes.
Valentina hadn’t given you much warning. One curt message, no fanfare. Just a quick relocation order and the kind of tone that made it clear you weren’t allowed to say no. You were to report to the newly restructured Watchtower—what used to be the old Avengers Tower, now stripped of its former glory and repurposed for the next wave of heroes. Or, as the media loved to call it: The New Avengers.
But the title never sat well with you.
“New Avengers” sounded like cheap branding. A desperate repackage. Like you were standing in the shadow of gods and legends, trying on their hand-me-downs and pretending they still fit. You didn’t see yourself in that lineup. You didn’t want to. So you clung to something else.
You were Thunderbolts. Raw, messy, cobbled together by circumstance and grief, yes—but still sharp around the edges. Thunderbolts sounded tougher. Grittier. Real. You liked that.
Your first day was already a disaster.
You’d overslept after flying in from a red-eye, scrambled into your navy leggings and cropped black tank, hair still damp from a rushed shower and barely twisted into a low bun. One hand juggled your phone, the other a hot, nearly-overflowing paper cup of coffee. Wedged awkwardly under your arm? A grease-stained paper bag with a very loaded chili dog inside. Extra chili. Always extra chili.
You were running toward the elevator when the doors slid open—and you didn’t realize someone was standing inside until your boot clipped the edge of the hallway runner and you were airborne.
You collided full force with a solid chest, and everything you were holding—coffee, chili, dignity—exploded across the poor bastard who’d been unlucky enough to stand in your path.
Bucky Barnes.
Your coffee soaked the front of his dark red henley. Chili smeared across his chest. A fat drop of sauce slid down the side of his neck, and by some miracle, a single black bean clung to his collarbone like a badge of shame.
His eyes snapped to you—ice-blue and narrowing fast.
You froze. “Oh shit—I’m so sorry, I didn’t see—I’ll clean it, I swear—like, personally. Or I’ll run your errands for the week. Seven days. No questions—”
He didn’t say a word.
Just a hard exhale. A glare sharp enough to slice bone. Then he turned, dripping and silent, and walked off the elevator like he hadn’t just been assaulted by caffeine and chili grease.
You stood there in stunned horror, the doors sliding closed behind him.
By the time you finally made it up to the Watchtower’s main lounge—jittery, sweating, and still slightly smelling like cumin—most of the team had already gathered.
Yelena had taken one look at your half-spilled coffee and chili-smeared shirt and declared, “You look like chaos. I like it.”
John Walker gave you a nod and a raised brow, then returned to sulking over a protein shake.
Alexei had tried to pitch you on his “secret endurance routine” within the first five minutes.
You laughed. Politely declined.
It was messy. Loud. Barely functional. But comforting in a strange way—like finding out the group project you were forced into was at least full of people who didn’t take themselves too seriously.
Then you saw him again.
Bucky entered the lounge a few minutes later, now dressed in his black compression shirt and tactical pants—his training gear. His hair was damp, brushed back behind his ears, and his jaw looked freshly clenched. You straightened up instinctively, wiping your palms on your leggings, then took a breath and stepped toward him.
You opened your mouth to greet him, maybe even introduce yourself properly this time.
He walked past you.
Didn’t look. Didn’t stop. Just kept moving like you weren’t even there.
You heard him grunt—low, sharp, and unmistakably annoyed.
You knew it was meant for you.
A warning shot.
A sign of war.
—
It didn’t end there.
Over the next few days, Bucky made it very clear you were on his shit list. Every time he assigned training rotations, you got the worst of it. Your combat drills were brutal—sparring reps that left your ribs aching and your pride in pieces. While others got to rotate partners, you were stuck running simulations against one of the Widow bots that seemed permanently set to maximum aggression.
The gym sessions? A damn death sentence. Weighted vests. Endurance drills until your lungs felt like they were trying to claw their way out of your chest. No water breaks. No mercy.
He didn’t speak to you. Barely looked at you.
Except when he did, and it was always across the room—like he could smell your failure before he saw it. Like your presence alone was a personal offense.
You tried. You really did. But by week two, your patience ran out.
One late afternoon, you were in the pantry with Yelena, peeling open a protein bar and venting under your breath.
“He’s just—ugh, he’s a grumpy old bastard,” you muttered. “Looks like he hasn’t slept since the Cold War and acts like he’s allergic to joy. Like, take a goddamn nap in a grave already.”
Yelena snorted into her coffee, half-choking.
Unfortunately, you didn’t notice John Walker stepping in through the hallway behind you.
“You know Bucky’s just next door, yeah?” he said casually, leaning against the counter with that smirk he always wore when he was about to stir up some trouble.
You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, so?”
John arched a brow. “And you do know he’s enhanced.”
“So what?”
“So…” He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling. “He can hear all that shit you’re talking. Loud and clear. Pretty sure he’s listening right now.”
You froze mid-bite, mouth still half-open, stomach dropping like a stone.
Yelena widened her eyes in faux horror and whispered, “You’re so dead.”
You considered apologizing. Maybe retreating. Maybe fleeing the country.
But the truth?
You were tired of walking on eggshells. You’d tripped once. It was an accident. You hadn’t meant to spill anything on him. And if the great Sergeant Barnes wanted to crucify you over one clumsy mistake and make your life hell over a chili dog and a coffee?
Then let him.
You swallowed the bite, turned back to your protein bar, and said with zero remorse—
“Good.”
—
You didn’t stop shit-talking Bucky Barnes after that first day.
If anything, you escalated.
Not publicly—well, not all the time. But every night, without fail, you’d unload your frustrations somewhere far safer. Somewhere faceless. Somewhere private.
You had a fling.
Not a lover. Not even a real person, as far as you could prove. You’d met him long before this whole Thunderbolts mess started, back when your life was quieter, lonelier, when everything still felt like it was just slightly out of reach. You were still moving between safe houses and temp assignments then, with no anchor point but your own reflection—and a damn dating app that promised distraction if not affection.
He caught your eye immediately. Not because of the photos—there weren’t many—but the bio. Dry. Hilarious. And oddly sad in a way that curled around your ribs and settled there.
Been cold for a while. Warming up slowly. Thought maybe someone out there had the defrost button.
It made you pause. Laugh. Swipe right.
He matched with you in less than a minute.
The first message was a joke. Obscure, borderline ridiculous, laced in some cryptic code about how hard it was to feel human again in a world that never really waited for you. You responded in kind—half sarcasm, half curiosity. It spiraled from there. Inside jokes layered like bricks. Memes, strange hypotheticals, long nights of talking in half-truths and wry honesty.
And then, somewhere along the line… things turned filthy.
It wasn’t planned. It just happened. Like a switch flipped. One voice note became two. Then came the late-night confessions. The breathy admissions. The images. Not full nudes—he never sent anything that showed his face. But the way he described things? The way he talked? It made your stomach twist and your thighs squeeze together under the sheets.
His voice was low, rough in the corners, always a little tired like he’d recorded it with his head resting on a pillow. But the words were razor-sharp. Soft growls of praise. Dirty commands. Compliments that didn’t sound like he was bluffing, like he actually meant it when he called you his “good girl” or said he’d drop to his knees for you if you just asked.
And then there were the pics.
Oh, the pics.
Awkward angles, yes. But unmistakable. He was filthy thick. Curved slightly to the right. Veiny in a way that made your mouth water. Every photo was captioned with some deadpan comment that made you laugh and ache.
This angle is 90% countertop and 10% cock. Not sorry.
Too cold for dick pics but I suffer for art.
If I die of embarrassment, bury me face down so you can sit on my shame.
You’d called him the King of Come-dick (get it? Comedic Dick?), and he told you that was going in his will.
And even without a name or a face, you felt more seen in those chats than you ever had in real life. He made you laugh. He made you beg. He made you feel good.
But lately, those voice notes had taken on a different flavor.
Because now you were venting.
Every night.
After a day of getting your lungs torched by combat drills and your pride mangled by James freaking Barnes, you’d crawl into bed, roll onto your side, and let it all pour out.
Your messages to the fling started as innocent rants.
You ever met someone who just hates you on sight? Like your existence is their 13th reason?
He’s the human version of stepping barefoot on a plug. Like I’m convinced he’s been possessed by an ancient war ghost who hates fun.
I tripped once. ONCE. Now I’m stuck doing training reps that make my organs feel like they’re auditioning for Cirque du Soleil.
And your online fling—bless him—never once dismissed you. He didn’t ask too many questions. Didn’t push for context. He just listened.
Told you you were strong. That your instincts were good. That whoever was tearing you down probably didn’t deserve to know the real you. That maybe this guy—this “grumpy dickhead on permanent PMS”—just didn’t know how to handle someone like you. Someone bright. Loud. Capable. Free.
And God, those messages always left you warm. Floating. Like he saw you, even without seeing your face.
You never told him you were a Thunderbolt. Never mentioned the Watchtower. You kept it vague—just some asshole colleague with authority issues.
And he never told you where he was either.
You didn’t need names. Didn’t need faces.
It was better this way. Safer. More honest, somehow.
Besides, it wasn’t like you were in love with the guy.
It was just sex.
Just comfort.
Just a voice in the dark whispering that you were worth more than how Bucky Barnes made you feel.
And if, sometimes, that same voice made your breath hitch and your toes curl under the covers, whispering filth that left you gasping into your pillow?
Well.
That was nobody’s business but yours.
—
By now, the tension between you and Bucky Barnes had evolved into something legendary.
It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t dignified. It was a living, breathing force that stalked every shared hallway, every joint training session, every goddamn mission briefing. You didn’t speak. He didn’t speak. But somehow, every grunt, eye-roll, sigh, and clipped command felt like it echoed through the whole goddamn Watchtower.
The others noticed.
They definitely noticed.
So much so that one morning in the lounge room—barely ten minutes into your coffee—Yelena snapped.
“For fuck’s sake,” she groaned, slamming her mug down a little too hard. “Can someone ask Bob to summon the Void again? I’m serious. Trap them in it. Lock it. Throw away the key.”
Across from her, Bob nearly choked on his protein shake.
He looked up, blinking. “You want me to… what? No. Absolutely not. Do you know how hard I’ve worked to keep that thing buried?”
She narrowed her eyes. “So don’t be the Void. Be Sentry. Throw Bucky somewhere far. Like Antarctica. That should fix it.”
You were already suppressing a laugh, staring into your bowl of cereal like it had the answers to your spiritual collapse.
Bucky, of course, was seated at the end of the long couch—tablet in hand, thumbing through mission briefs with a scowl that seemed surgically attached to his face.
“I heard that, Lena,” he muttered dryly without looking up.
Then he did look up.
Right at you.
The kind of look that scraped across your skin like ice on bare flesh. Not even anger anymore. Just a quiet, simmering disdain. A full-body ugh.
He dragged his finger across the tablet, ignoring everyone else, scrolling like you weren’t worth more than a line item in his day.
You bit the inside of your cheek, hard.
It had been days since you last messaged your fling—missions had kept you busy, bruised, mentally wiped. But today? You needed a lifeline. You needed him.
You reached for your phone under the table and typed, thumbs moving fast, tension bubbling under your skin.
Shitty day at work. Missed you a little more than usual today. Hope you’re alive and not plotting your escape from Earth.
A second later, a ding echoed across the room.
You didn’t look.
But from the corner of your eye… you saw Bucky smile.
Just the ghost of it, but it was there. Quick. Sharp. Subtle enough to vanish in a blink—but unmistakable. The corners of his mouth curved, softening his jaw, lighting up something that should’ve made him look kinder.
Instead, it pissed you off.
How could someone with a smile that beautiful act like such a piece of shit?
Your phone buzzed.
Hey babe. How bad are we talking? On a scale from paper cut to arson?
You nearly melted at the sight of the message. The nickname. The teasing tone. Like your body had been waiting to exhale.
Your fingers flew, fire in your blood as you rose from your seat and power-walked out of the lounge, phone still in hand.
You headed straight for one of the smaller mission debrief rooms—locked the door behind you and threw yourself into the nearest chair like it was a confessional booth.
Same old dickhead being a dickhead again. Just needed your voice or your cock. Either one will do.
It didn’t take long for the response to ping through.
Rough day too. Holding the world together with duct tape and a smile. My shoulders might collapse from all this weight.
You snorted softly, your anger already softening into something warmer, darker, messier. Your thighs pressed together.
Your fingers danced across the screen again.
Maybe a dick pic would help redistribute the emotional labor? 😌
You hit send.
Hot tension unfurled low in your stomach. That fuzzy, heavy pulse building behind your navel. You leaned back in your chair, the silence making your heart beat louder.
A beat passed.
Then the reply:
Not now. Mid-meeting. Bad time.
You pouted, eyes narrowing slightly.
Then your screen lit up.
Image received.
You tapped it open.
It was… tight. Somewhat zoomed in, framed awkwardly from waist down—but unmistakable. The outline of his cock straining against dark, snug tactical pants. Like it was furious to be caged. The bulge was obscene. Rude. Practically throbbing through the screen.
You blinked. Sucked in a breath.
Your pulse jumped.
Mmm, excuse me, bold and nasty? In a meeting?? Someone’s got issues 🫦
No reply.
You waited, but you weren’t upset. He disappeared like this sometimes—usually when work pulled him back under. You understood it. You respected it.
So you looked at the photo again.
Zoomed in a little.
God, it looked so good.
But then… something tugged at your brain. A weird, annoying sense of déjà vu.
The pants.
The texture of the fabric. The way they clung. The slight reinforcement at the side seams. They looked… familiar.
Too familiar.
You frowned.
Hadn’t you seen these somewhere?
But no—no, that was stupid. There were probably ten thousand pairs of pants like that in the world. You were just horny and paranoid.
And horny.
Mostly horny.
You shook the thought away, closed the image, and leaned back with a dreamy sigh.
Whoever your mystery man was… he was your safe space. Your escape.
And there was no way the guy sending you filthy bulge pics from some secret meeting was the same one currently glaring at you every day like you were a plague.
Right?
—
As if things couldn’t get any worse, Valentina had to stick her designer heel right into the wound.
She called it a “strategic adjustment.”
You called it cruel and unusual punishment.
From now on, until further notice—her favorite three words—you were to be partnered with Bucky Barnes. For missions. For sparring. For everything.
Her exact phrasing?
“For God’s sake, Barnes. You’re over a hundred years old. You’ve survived wars, Hydra, cryo, and three near-apocalypses. Fix this shenanigan already. Or I swear, I’ll fix it for you—and neither of you will like my method.”
You wanted to protest.
Bucky didn’t even blink.
Just gave her that flat, dead-eyed look that said he’d rather be in a Siberian prison than listening to this briefing.
So it began.
The first few sparring sessions were nothing short of apocalyptic. Poor coordination, missed cues, accidental hits that didn’t feel that accidental. Zero trust. Zero chemistry. Just bruises, swearing, and thick silence that felt louder than gunfire.
And finally, you snapped.
You threw your gloves across the mat, stormed toward him as he stood there like a statue, and spat the words out like venom.
“What the fuck is your problem, Barnes? Can you say something for once instead of treating me like I’m radioactive?”
His gaze lifted to meet yours. Calm. Unreadable. Stormy blue with something you couldn’t quite name hiding underneath.
He let out a breath.
“This is why,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly.
You blinked. “What the hell does that mean?”
“You’re still a kid.”
The words landed like a slap—sharp and low.
“What the fuck was that supposed to mean?” you shot back, voice rising.
He exhaled sharply, looked away like he was already done with the conversation.
“You’re not in the right headspace for this. Neither am I. Let’s call it for today. I’ll reschedule the gym session.”
He picked up his towel, unbothered, collected his things like your fury was a passing breeze. Then walked out.
Left you standing there. Burning.
You kicked the mat. “Fuck!”
It echoed. Pointless. No one heard.
Except the part of yourself you were trying desperately to ignore.
The part that kept noticing things. Soft, human things about him.
You’d been avoiding him for so long that you accidentally started watching him. Observing. Catching details you didn’t mean to.
Like the way he always knew what the team needed. Quietly. No fuss.
He gifted Bob a stack of niche self-improvement books—nothing preachy, nothing corny. Just thoughtful reads that let Bob’s mind wander somewhere better. Gave him a way out of his own head.
He remembered Yelena’s favorite protein bars. Replaced them in the kitchen when they ran out, even though no one asked.
And the chili dogs.
You didn’t eat lunch one day—too many back-to-back briefings. You hadn’t even said anything.
But there it was, sitting on your desk an hour later: a warm paper bag with a chili dog inside. Extra extra chili. No mustard.
Exactly the way you liked it.
You never told him how you liked it.
And he hated you. Didn’t he?
You laid flat on the training mat, arms spread out, chest rising and falling fast. Not from the sparring. From the confusion. The ache. The messy swirl of wanting and not wanting and wishing he’d just say what the hell he was thinking for once.
It made you miss your other one even more.
Your secret.
Your escape.
Your not-a-lover, not-a-boyfriend—your ghost between the sheets.
And it made you horny as hell.
Maybe it was the adrenaline. The sweat. The anger. Maybe it was the sound of Bucky’s voice still echoing in your ears. Maybe it was the impossible urge to burn everything down and touch yourself through the flames.
You grabbed your phone.
Your thumbs hovered for a second.
Then you typed.
Throbbing for you today. Thinking of trying something new. Facetime tonight? I want to see you. It’s time.
You stared at the message.
Then hit send.
Your heart fluttered like you just disarmed a bomb.
You’d never done it before—not live. Always voice notes. Pictures. Heavy breathing and whispered praise in the dark. But you wanted more. You needed to see him. To watch his mouth when he groaned. To show him your face when you broke.
Your phone buzzed.
One line.
Been waiting for that, babe. Can’t wait for tonight.
You closed your eyes. Smiled.
Something bloomed deep in your chest.
But then…
Bucky’s face flickered in your mind. That last glance he gave you before walking out—not cruel. Not angry.
Not… disgusted.
For the briefest second, it looked like he wanted to say something. Like he was holding back.
And that scared you more than anything.
Because what if?
What if all this time, he wasn’t just avoiding you?
What if he knew exactly what he was doing?
—
Night fell like it had been waiting all day just to wrap around you. Heavy, quiet, almost expectant. Like even the shadows knew what was about to happen.
You’d made the room exactly the way you wanted it—dim, intimate, anonymous. One small lamp by the bed, screen brightness lowered. Location off. Door locked. Twice.
He had your Apple ID now. You’d never given him your number. That felt too personal. Too dangerous. But your old burner email from when you were eight—the one that made you cringe now?
It made you feel hidden. Untouchable. Like no one could ever guess who you really were behind a name that dumb.
At exactly 9:15 p.m., your phone buzzed in your palm.
Incoming FaceTime call. From an email you’d never seen before—cryptic, strange: [email protected].
Your stomach flipped.
That was new.
You inhaled deeply, thumb hovering. Then tapped accept.
The call connected.
No faces. No hellos. Just dark screens and careful camera angles.
He had his camera angled low—blanket pooled around his hips, the lens tilted toward the rise under thin dark fabric. Boxers. Nothing else.
Yours was already aimed at your chest—lace crop top, black and barely-there, your nipples visible through the sheer. That was the rule. No real names. No faces. Just bodies and breath. Just touch without touching.
“Hey, babe.” His voice was soft tonight. Lower. Warmer. “Your room’s so dark. I can barely see anything.”
You smiled, voice light. “Same here. What are we—covert ops?”
He laughed quietly. “Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing I’ve done.”
There was a pause.
Heavy with something unsaid.
You reached over and adjusted your lamp just enough to cast a golden wash over your skin. Still cropped. Still framed. Just enough for him to see the swell of your chest.
On the screen, his hips shifted. The blanket moved slightly.
He let out a groan. “Fuck… you’re starting with that?”
You tilted your head, teasing. “What? You think I dressed like this for me?”
He chuckled. It sounded a little strangled.
You flipped the camera to the rear, aimed it lower—down your thighs, where the blanket still clung. Slowly, deliberately, you peeled it back. The cool air hit your bare cunt and made you flinch.
You didn’t need to look to know he was watching.
His voice thickened. “Jesus, baby… you’re unreal.”
You stayed quiet. Let him drink it in.
He shifted again. His hand slid down, over the bulge pressing hard against his boxers. You could see it straining—long, thick, clearly aching to be freed.
“You see that?” he murmured. “Already hard for you. Always.”
You moaned softly in response, your fingers teasing between your folds. Dipping slow. Making a mess of yourself just for him.
“God, yes,” you whispered. “You see this? So fucking wet. For you.”
His hand stroked himself through the fabric, slow at first. Measured. Like he was pacing it just for you.
Then—he dropped the phone.
Just for a moment. The screen tilted to black.
You heard a muffled shuffle of fabric. Movement. A grunt. The sound of him exhaling hard.
Then—
He picked the phone back up.
And there it was.
The cock you’d seen in pictures, now in motion. Hard. Heavy. Curved slightly to the right. Veins running along the shaft like paths you wanted to trace with your tongue.
You whimpered, breath catching. “God… your cock looks so fucking good.”
He wrapped his hand around it and stroked slowly, deliberately.
“Stroke it for me,” you begged, eyes fixed on the screen as your own fingers worked faster. “Let me hear you, baby.”
You turned off your camera for a second—adjusted your angle—then turned it back on. Still cropped. Still hidden. But now angled perfectly between your thighs. Slick. Open. Needy.
“See this?” you whispered. “See what you do to me?”
He moaned—deep, rough, just a little breathless.
The call dissolved into heat. Sound. Wetness. Praise. You whispered filth to him like prayer. He groaned your name like he was falling apart just for you. You were close. So close—
Until—
WEE-OO-WEE-OO. WEE-OO-WEE-OO.
The emergency siren shrieked through your phone like a gunshot.
You gasped and jolted upright—until you realized…
It wasn’t just coming from your phone.
It was echoing.
From his side too.
Same pitch. Same frequency.
Watchtower protocol.
Your heart seized.
You stared at the screen—just as he cursed under his breath.
“Shit.”
Then the screen went black.
Call ended. Gone.
Your breath caught in your throat. Your hands still between your legs. Your body raw with need.
But your brain?
Your brain was moving in slow, precise horror.
That siren wasn’t public. It wasn’t general Watchtower protocol.
It was specific.
Each mission pair had their own unique alert—encrypted, untraceable outside their shared comms. And that tone… that exact pitch sequence…
It was yours.
Yours and your assigned partner’s.
And your partner?
Was Bucky Barnes.
Your stomach clenched.
You stared down at your phone, pulse pounding. Your body was still humming from the aftershocks, but the rest of you was unraveling.
You blinked at the dark screen. Tried to breathe.
And then your mind began to pull—thread by thread—backward.
The voice. That low rasp that lived somewhere in his throat. Always a little tired. Always a little rough. You’d heard it in the sparring room. You’d heard it moaning your name in the dark.
The timing. The discipline. The almost militant sharpness of his replies. Always exactly on time. Always controlled.
And then—
The way he touched himself.
One hand.
Always the right.
Every picture. Every clip. Every motion you’d ever seen. Cock in his right hand. Phone in his left. You’d never seen anything else. Never thought to question it.
Until now.
Until you remembered exactly what his left hand was made of.
The vibranium.
Always gloved in daylight. Always held behind his back, or casually resting on his hip like it wasn’t worth using. Always there, but never used—not unless it had to be.
Your breath caught.
The pieces stopped falling.
They just… clicked.
The voice. The siren. The silence. The lack of left hand. The way he moved. The refusal to show his face. The email so purposefully anonymous. The instinct to keep himself hidden—just like you had.
You stared at your reflection in the black screen.
Still damp. Still trembling.
“…no fucking way.”
But there was no more room for doubt.
Because if your gut was right—and every part of you said it was—then the man who had just come for you in the dark…
…was the same man who couldn’t even stand to look at you in the light.
You weren’t just turned on.
You were completely, utterly fucked.
—
“Shit,” Bucky muttered, breath still ragged as he ended the call with a swipe of his thumb.
He was seconds from coming—already flushed, tense, his hand wrapped tight around his cock—when the emergency siren blasted through his phone.
His specific alert. High-pitched, short burst, then a long one.
And then… the echo.
The same damn siren, faint but unmistakable, bleeding through the other end of the call. His caller’s phone.
Your phone.
He froze.
Chest still rising and falling. Sweat on his neck. Mind racing.
It took him three full seconds to understand what it meant.
And when it hit—it hit hard.
You.
You.
The woman he was supposed to protect. Train. Lead. The one who spent every meeting glaring at him like he’d kicked your dog in a past life.
You were the one he’d been jerking off to for the last six months.
The one sending him voice notes at midnight. The one calling him baby and making him laugh without even trying. The one who knew exactly how to pull pleasure out of his body with just the sound of your breath.
He dragged a hand over his face. His heart was still pounding, but now it had nothing to do with arousal.
He leaned back in the chair, stared up at the ceiling, and cursed again under his breath.
He hadn’t known.
He swore he hadn’t known.
—Bucky’s POV—
The memory came back uninvited. That first day.
The elevator.
The hot splash of coffee—steaming, not just warm. It scalded straight through his henley, soaked the skin over his chest and shoulder. He bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood, just to keep from reacting.
He could’ve cursed. Could’ve snapped. But you were already panicking, mumbling rapid apologies, trying to wipe it off with your sleeve. He’d seen the horror in your eyes—wide and sincere and a little ridiculous, considering the chili dog now sliding down his shirt like it was trying to escape judgment.
So he said nothing.
Just clenched his jaw and stepped out the second those elevator doors opened, beelining to the men’s room. Cold water. Fast scrubbing. Quiet pain.
By the time he’d changed and returned to the lounge, he barely had time to scan the room before John Walker waved him over.
“Bucky,” John had said, holding out a tablet. “Priority situation in the Balkans. You’ll want eyes on this.”
Bucky was halfway across the room before he noticed you were there—standing off to the side, a coffee-stained shirt clinging to your frame, looking small but composed, like you were trying not to exist too loudly.
He hadn’t even realized he’d brushed past you until later.
To be fair, you were… small. He towered over you by nearly three and a half heads. And when his mind was in mission-mode, everything else blurred.
But from that moment on—you were cold. Icy. Guarded. Like he’d somehow declared war just by existing.
—
It wasn’t hate.
Not from his side.
Far from it.
Your file had flagged you as physically promising but slightly under-trained in stamina and real-combat conditioning. So he’d structured your simulations to push you—to meet you at the edge of your capacity.
He wasn’t trying to break you.
He was trying to build you.
And goddamn, you’d risen fast. Quicker than most.
You were smart. Sharp. Focused in a way that made him take notice. Your recovery rate improved. Your reflexes tightened. Your rhythm in combat sparring became beautiful to watch.
And yet, you never gave him anything back but sarcasm, glares, and whispered insults when you thought he wasn’t around.
He had heard you in the pantry that day—grumbling to Yelena.
“Grumpy old bastard,” you’d muttered.
He almost laughed.
Because… yeah.
He was grumpy. He was old.
He didn’t take it personally.
But it confused him.
He’d never insulted you. Never shut you down. Never raised his voice.
Even the damn chili dog—he ordered it because you skipped lunch. And because, after weeks of listening, he knew how you liked it. Extra extra chili. No mustard.
It wasn’t a peace offering. Not exactly.
He just… wanted to talk to you. Properly. Without you frowning at him like he was the plague.
But when he dropped it off at your desk, you didn’t even look up.
—
And now?
Now he couldn’t breathe.
Because the woman who shut down every attempt at conversation—the one who rolled her eyes during briefings, who sparred like she was trying to draw blood—
Was the same woman who sent him a voice note last week whispering “I wish I could ride you until we both black out.”
The same woman who tonight had parted her legs on camera, fingers working between her folds, moaning for him like it was a prayer.
And the worst part?
He liked you.
He already liked you.
Even before tonight’s accidental reveal, there was something about you that got under his skin. Your fire. Your mouth. The way you never let him off the hook.
It drove him crazy.
And now?
Now you were burned into his hands. His sheets. His bloodstream.
He groaned, dragging both hands down his face.
You were going to hate him.
You were going to find out. If you hadn’t already.
And when you did—
He wasn’t sure what would destroy him faster.
Your disgust.
Or your silence.
—POV end—
—
You got dressed fast.
That siren could’ve meant anything—civilian threat, global emergency, interdimensional chaos. You’d heard stories. One time they scrambled a team for a goose that got too close to a Stark satellite. Another time, someone joked it might be Galactus. No one laughed.
Whatever it was, you weren’t risking being the last one to show up.
You tugged on your gear, tied your hair up, and bolted for the elevator.
And then—ding.
The doors slid open.
And there he was.
Bucky.
Fully dressed in tactical gear, all buttoned up and brooding like usual. Black compression shirt, black pants, boots laced with military precision. His eyes flicked to you once—just a glance—and then back to the elevator panel. But the tension? Instant. Thick.
It had only been a few minutes since you were both naked, panting, whispering filth into your screens. You could still feel the echo of his voice in your bones. Still hear the ragged way he said “fuck, baby” like he was breaking.
You kept your eyes forward.
You meant to keep them forward.
But your gaze dipped anyway. Just for a second. A glance.
Black tactical pants.
The same ones.
The exact same fit, the same cut. The same pants from that picture. From when he said he was “in a meeting.”
Your stomach dropped.
Your eyes flicked back up—and met his.
Caught.
He saw it.
He saw you seeing it.
Your head snapped to the side, heat crawling up your neck, burning into your ears.
Shit.
The silence pressed in on all sides, humming with everything neither of you were saying.
Then you forced yourself to speak.
“Can we talk… after this? After whatever this whole thing turns out to be?”
Bucky didn’t move much. Just a slight nod, his voice low and steady.
“Sure thing.”
—
The siren turned out to be a false alarm.
A rat.
A rat had chewed through a critical cable cluster near the ops wing. Short-circuited a core and triggered multiple alerts. It was now extra crispy and mostly unrecognizable.
The debrief was short. Everyone dispersed.
You didn’t even breathe until the elevator doors closed again.
Then, his voice beside you.
“Talk in my room? Or do you want the common area?”
You looked up at him, fingers fidgeting at your side.
“Somewhere private. Your room sounds… nice.”
He nodded once. Wordless again.
You followed him down the hall. Past mission boards and storage units.
When he opened his door and let you in, you were hit with the quiet scent of aftershave and clean cotton. Dim lighting. Neat, except—
Your eyes caught it.
The bed.
Blanket slightly skewed. Pillow dented. The indent of where he’d been sitting when the call came in. Like you could trace the shape of him from the air still hanging around it.
He didn’t say anything about it. Just walked to the small kitchen island and poured a glass of water. One for you. One for him.
You sat down on the stool beside him, fingers wrapping around the glass like it could anchor you.
Silence stretched.
And then he spoke.
“So…”
You looked up. His eyes were on the counter. Then on you.
“I know you probably hate me right now. Or want to kill me. Or both. And I get it,” he said, voice low, careful. “But… I’m not gonna pretend I regret any of it. The voice notes. The pictures. That call.”
That call. The way he said it sent heat crawling up your spine.
“I never hated you,” he added, softer now. “Honestly, I never understood why you hated me.”
You blinked.
Your voice came out quieter than you expected. “What are you talking about?”
He looked at you fully now. Not like a soldier. Not like a leader. Just… Bucky.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said, the words coming quicker now. “You assigned me harsher drills than Yelena or Ava. You didn’t look at me. You didn’t talk to me. You treated me like I was on your shit list from day one.”
It wasn’t accusation this time. Just confusion. Honest and aching.
Bucky’s lips twitched—not in amusement. Just… exasperation. At himself.
“I never meant to make you feel that way,” he said. “I thought I was doing my job. Training you based on your stats. You’re… more capable than most, and I didn’t want to hold you back. That was it. And yeah, I’m not great at small talk, but I swear—I wasn’t ignoring you.”
You stared at him. Processing.
“Even the chili dog?” you asked, a faint smile threatening.
He cracked the smallest smirk. “Extra extra chili, no mustard. You looked like you were gonna pass out from hunger. Seemed like the least I could do.”
You looked down at the counter, your fingers inching closer to his. Slowly, purposefully, you touched your fingertips to the edge of his vibranium hand.
He didn’t move.
You swallowed.
“You know, Bucky,” you said, voice quieter now. “I liked what we had. That connection, when we didn’t know who we were. When it was just… voice and breath and instinct. Felt honest in a way nothing else has.”
You met his eyes again.
“I don’t want that to be ruined because I misread you. Because I let my anger get in the way. That’s on me. And I’m sorry.”
Bucky exhaled through his nose. Not annoyed—just like he’d been holding that breath for days.
“I don’t want it to be ruined either.”
There was a pause.
You felt it first.
The shift in the air.
The hum.
Your thighs clenched, your body already remembering the sound of his voice, the weight of his moan, the way he said babe like it was a promise.
You leaned in slightly, just enough.
“In all honesty,” you murmured, “I don’t want it to stop. I don’t want us to stop. I mean, if you’re done with it, I’ll get it. But…”
You tilted your head, your voice a little more playful now.
“I’ve never liked a cock this much in my life. And that cock happened to be yours.”
That did it.
Bucky froze. Blinked. Then his ears went red—just a little. His jaw tightened, but not with anger.
The tension snapped.
And the room started heating up again.
Fast.
—
Your mind could barely register what had happened.
One second, you were sitting on a stool at his kitchen island—nervous fingers tracing your water glass, heart beating louder than the silence.
The next?
You were in his arms.
Your legs wrapped around his waist. Your back against the wall. His mouth on yours—crashing, pulling, devouring.
It was messy. A little rushed. Reverent in its desperation.
Like something ancient had finally been set into motion.
Like this wasn’t just inevitable—it was fated.
You clung to him, hands clutching the collar of his shirt, your mouth parting under his as he kissed you harder, deeper. Tongue slipping past your lips like he already knew what you tasted like.
He walked you backward, blindly, the metal plates of his vibranium arm pressed firm against your thigh. You barely noticed the shift until he sat down at the edge of his bed, dragging you down with him, your thighs straddling his lap like you’d always belonged there.
The kiss never broke.
Only deepened.
Your fingers dove into his hair, tugging hard at the roots, and he groaned into your mouth. His hands were everywhere—the metal one gripping your thigh tight, anchoring you to him, while the warm flesh one came up to cradle your jaw.
His thumb stroked slow, soothing circles into your cheek, a contrast to the way his mouth devoured you.
Then his hand slid lower.
Over your neck.
Down to your chest.
And then—he cupped your breast.
You gasped into the kiss. His thumb brushed over the peak through your shirt. He pulled back just slightly, breath ragged, eyes blown black with need.
“Fuck, doll…” he rasped. “You’re so soft.”
His palm squeezed gently, reverently, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.
“No bra?” he asked, voice hoarse, lips still grazing yours.
“Non-padded,” you whispered, your fingers finding his vibranium wrist and guiding it higher, sliding it over your other breast.
“Jesus,” he muttered, gripping it with care, the cool metal pressing through your shirt as he kneaded both like they were a goddamn miracle.
You reached down, starting to unbutton your shirt from the bottom.
But he stopped you.
His hand caught yours gently. “Lemme,” he breathed, already slipping the buttons open with a surprising ease, one by one, baring more of your skin with each.
When he pushed the fabric aside and saw the bra—thin, delicate, your nipples barely hidden—he groaned.
“Goddamn,” he whispered. “Been dreaming about this… for way too long.”
He reached around you, unhooking your bra with a flick of his fingers.
And when they spilled free?
He froze for half a second. Jaw tight. Throat flexing.
“Fuck me…” he muttered, his hands sliding back up to cup you properly now—skin to skin.
You were already grinding against him. Slow, controlled, your clothed pussy pressing against the thick ridge in his pants.
He let out a low sound. A growl.
Then dipped his head.
And devoured you.
His mouth latched onto one nipple, tongue swirling, lips sucking hard enough to make you arch into him. His metal hand squeezed the other breast, thumb flicking the peak in lazy circles.
You moaned, loud, fingers gripping his shoulders, nails dragging along the fabric of his shirt.
Every flick of his tongue sent electricity down your spine. Your panties were already soaked. The pressure in your core was unbearable. The need clawing at you from the inside out.
“Bucky—fuck—” you gasped, as he moved to your other nipple, worshipping it with the same urgency, same hunger.
He moaned in response, mouth full, pulling back only to whisper, “You sound even better like this. In real life. On top of me. Falling apart.”
You whimpered.
Because it was too good.
Too perfect.
You’d never had sex—not really. The only thing that ever “took” your virginity was a purple dildo named Tomdildody that lived in a shoebox under your bed.
But this?
This was everything Tomdildody could never be.
This was hot breath and strong hands and the delicious stretch of a man who wanted all of you. Not just your body—but the sounds you made. The way you shivered. The way you whispered his name like it was your final prayer.
Your thighs clenched tighter around him, your hips rolling now, slow but shameless, as his tongue dragged one last, greedy circle around your nipple before he looked up at you.
He was wrecked. Eyes dark. Lips slick. His hands still full of you.
You were already shaking.
And it was only the beginning.
—
You slid off his lap without a word.
Your body moved on instinct now—too hot, too full, too overwhelmed to think. You stood at the edge of the bed and peeled off your pants, one leg at a time, your soaked panties clinging to your folds before you yanked them down and tossed them aside.
Bucky followed your lead, rising from the bed like a force of gravity had pulled him up behind you. He undid his belt with one sharp pull, shoved his tactical pants down, and yanked off his boxers.
You froze for a beat.
They were the exact same ones from the FaceTime. Black. Faintly stretched at the waistband. Familiar in a way that made your stomach twist and your pussy clench with anticipation.
He sat back down—legs spread, cock heavy and flushed between them. Thick. Glistening. Leaking at the tip like he’d been waiting hours for this.
You climbed into his lap again, bare skin on bare skin now, your knees pressing into the mattress as you straddled him. You sank down just enough for your soaked cunt to drag along the length of him, slow and hungry.
Wet, filthy squelches echoed in the quiet room. You both moaned—loud, ragged, desperate.
Your forehead dropped to his shoulder.
“Let me feel you, Bucky,” you begged, your voice shaking. “I need it. I need you. My pussy wants you so fucking bad…”
You rolled your hips against him again, your slick coating him, teasing him. Your walls clenched at nothing—frantic for him, aching to be filled.
His breath stuttered. Then he growled.
“Fuck, baby…”
He gripped your thighs—metal on one side, warm skin on the other—and lifted you just slightly like you weighed nothing. Then with one hand, he angled his cock and pressed the tip against your entrance.
And when he lowered you down?
Plop.
His cock slid in with ease—your body parting like it had been made to take him. Welcoming. Greedy. The stretch made your mouth fall open. He was thick, curved just right, sliding into you like a prayer answered.
Both of you moaned—loud.
Your hands flew to his shoulders, clutching him. His hands stayed firm on your hips, anchoring you, grounding you.
He pulled out slightly, then slid back in with a guttural groan. “You feel like heaven, sweetheart. Fuck.”
You barely managed a sound—just a gasp, eyes fluttering shut as your walls clenched around him involuntarily.
“God, your pussy feels so good. So fucking good,” he murmured, his forehead dropping to your chest as he rolled his hips into you. “I wanna live here.”
You let out a sob of pleasure.
Because this—this was bliss. The kind of sex that made you forget time, space, rules. The kind that made your thighs shake and your stomach tighten and your soul hum.
You bounced on his lap in slow, messy thrusts. He met every movement with a snap of his hips, driving deeper each time. His cock rubbed every right place inside you, that slight curve hitting your sweetest spot again and again, forcing sounds out of you that you didn’t know you were capable of.
“Fuckfuckfuck—Bucky—oh my god—” you cried out, hands gripping the back of his neck, pulling him close like he could stop your body from combusting.
He moaned your name.
Over and over.
Like he was tasting it. Claiming it. Like it lived in his blood.
“Say it again,” you breathed, dizzy from the rhythm. “Say my name.”
He thrust up into you with purpose—sharp, needy—and whispered it like it was holy.
“Baby…” he gasped, voice shattering at the edges. “God, you feel so fucking good—fuck, I’m not gonna last.”
And then he said it—your name.
Low. Rough. Worshipful.
Like it wasn’t just something to call you, but something etched into him. Something his. He kept saying it, over and over, like it grounded him. Like it was the only thing he could hold onto as he drowned in the feel of you.
You were unraveling.
Clit grinding into the base of his cock with every drop of your hips. Slick running down his thighs. Your body clenching tighter around him with every thrust.
You didn’t care who heard.
You didn’t care who knew.
Because this was the best thing you’d ever done.
The most right thing you’d ever felt.
You were full of him. Wrapped around him. Buried in him. And as your orgasm started to crash through your belly in pulsing, blinding waves—
You knew this was more than just sex.
This was the beginning of everything.
—
You moaned into Bucky’s ear, breath hitching, hands clawing into his back.
“Baby, I’m so fucking close—harder, baby—don’t stop.”
He didn’t.
God, he didn’t.
His grip tightened on your hips, the vibranium fingers splayed with reverent strength, anchoring you to him as he bucked up harder, faster, deeper. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room—slaps, gasps, choked curses. Heat built between your bodies like friction could burn through time.
And then—
It hit.
Your orgasm shattered through you like something sacred. A wave that cracked your spine and left your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Your body trembled, clenching around him, pulling him deeper even as your climax dragged you under.
Bucky groaned into your shoulder, one final thrust before he pulled out, gasping through his teeth as he spilled across your belly, thick ropes hitting your skin, streaking your thighs. You could feel his chest rising and falling under you, faster than usual. Ragged.
And still—you collapsed against him. Boneless. Wrecked.
He caught you instantly. Wrapped both arms around your waist and held you close like you were something he’d been fighting to protect this whole time. His breathing slowed quickly—thanks to that goddamn serum—but you could feel something different in him. Something deeper than just release.
It wasn’t just sex for him.
It hadn’t been for you either.
You stayed like that for a long while—just breathing, just tangled. Your face buried in his neck, skin warm and slick with sweat and something else you didn’t have the language for yet. Something like peace.
Eventually, your arms slid up to hook around his shoulders, and you lifted your head—only just—to find his eyes. Those steel-blue eyes that always looked like they’d seen too much. But now?
Now they were soft. Glowing. Staring at you like you were some kind of beginning.
“That was…” you started, voice raw, shaky with the aftermath.
You paused.
Then you smiled, just a little.
“That was my first time.”
Bucky blinked. Like he hadn’t heard you right. Like the Earth had tilted sideways under him.
You touched his cheek, thumbing at the stubble there.
“And it was the best,” you whispered.
His throat bobbed. He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at you, as if the words would never be enough. But you could feel it in his hands—the way he held you tighter. How he kissed your forehead, slow and reverent. Like you’d given him more than just your body.
You let him pull you under the blanket with him. Still bare. Still warm.
You curled into his chest, his arm wrapped snug around your back, your leg draped over his. One of his fingers traced circles into your spine, and he whispered things into your hair you couldn’t quite make out—murmured words like baby and you feel like heaven and can’t believe it was you.
And for once, there were no missions. No sirens. No grudge hanging heavy in the air.
Just the quiet weight of new beginnings.
You closed your eyes against his collarbone, and for the first time since joining this chaotic team, you let yourself rest.
Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, friends with benefits, smut (oral f!receiving, p in v sex), angst, light fluff, humor, no use of y/n, love confessions
Summary: Four times you broke the friends with benefits rules, and the one time you didn't.
Author's Note: A 4+1?? In this economy???? more likely than you think.
Word Count: 10.7k
You shouldn’t have let this happen. It’s not going to go anywhere good. You even know exactly how it’s going to end. The same way every other story like it ends. With nothing at all.
But at least, for a time, you will have had something. That’s what got you here in the first place.
Just needing something.
You might have taken more than you should. You might have gorged yourself on warm skin and metal fingers trailing over your waist, the smell of gunpowder and pine trees, and tiny marks littering your neck.
Proof.
They’re proof that this happened. Whether it was a good idea or not, it happened. And—because you’re a fucking fool—it’s going to happen again.
You keep playing it back in your head. All the times you could’ve just kept it down, and not walked right into this beautiful, horrible, perfectly laid trap.
When Nat texted you to go out for drinks, and you said yes. You could’ve just told her you were tired. Then you’d just be in your own bed, playing out scenarios in your head where this did happen, none the wiser to how it would actually feel. How it would ruin you in the best way, and you’d never be able to go back.
Then after Sam, Nat and Steve turned in for the night, leaving just you and Bucky, you could’ve easily left as well. Just grabbed your bag, pulled Bucky into an awkward hug you’d think about for weeks to come, and walked out into the rain. It had just been rain. It wasn’t going to kill you. But Bucky had said stay, I can drive you back once the storm clears, doll, and it was like he’d strapped you to the booth with only a small grin and smooth voice.
And when he leaned across the table you could’ve leaned away.
When his hand tangled in your hair—trying to deepen a kiss that was already spreading warmth through your whole body—you could’ve pushed him back, or kept your lips closed.
Then he’d pulled back with a lust-blown expression, and asked if you wanted that ride back to his place. You’d said yes.
You’d said yes a lot, tonight.
When he’d asked if you were sure, and you were, because you two hours ago was too drunk on Bucky, his attention and hand on your lower back and lips hovering right over yours for her to understand what this would really mean.
You’d scream yes when he’d double checked you were good with this as he played with your tits, and when his head had been between your thighs, and when he’d been sheathed deep inside of you.
You’d mumbled it after, when he’d kissed your shoulder and asked if you want a shower.
You could’ve said you’d just go home. Taken the walk of shame with all the spiraling thoughts alone, lost in the night and unsure if it had been just a dream.
But it wasn’t. You step out of the shower and sway awkwardly in the doorway, and Bucky looks up from his book—of course he reads in bed, he’s a perfect, amazing, beautiful asshole—with a small frown.
“You wanna sit down, doll?”
Doll.
You’re back to being doll. And it’s sweet, it’s always been sweet, and you’ve always loved it because Bucky said it, but God. An hour ago you’d been babydoll.
It’s sort of like you’re suspended in time. It’s moving around you, but you’re not moving with it. And it’s hitting you like the sky falling or the end of the world, what you just did. You slept with Bucky. And it wasn’t the gentle, sweet sex you’d always fantasized about having with him. It had been a little wild and feral—messy and wet and hot—and the best fucking sex of your life.
But he hadn’t whispered in your ear that he loved you. Probably because he didn’t. If there had been a time to say it, last night would’ve been the moment.
It’s all in a stasis and it’s a wonderful, technicolor nightmare, because you know what comes next and you’ve never wanted it more than anything, but you know it’s going to be your ruin.
You know.
And you still don’t leave.
Bucky says your name cautiously, and you give him a soft, winning smile. This is fine.
From where he’s sitting—comfortable, with his heart not fracturing from waiting for the future—everything is fine.
“You- Uh-“ He clears his throat as you drop at his side. “That was fun.”
You nod, forcing yourself not to stare at his hands. Or your hands. Or anything that had been involved in the night, which means the little bit of dust on the edge of the room. “Really fun.”
“Yeah. And if you’d want it, not that you gotta, I’d…” Bucky sighs, and you can’t look at him. Your heart will break right now, if you look at him and see none of your own turmoil reflected on his features. Then you’ll just fucking do this anyway. “I’d like to do it again. If you’d want that.”
There’s a little tang of blood, on the inside of your cheek.
Another moment, when you should just kill this. Right here. Again doesn’t mean a date. Doesn’t mean sunlit mornings or late, painful nights that give way to kissing on the floor and heads on shoulders.
Again means sex. Raw, primal, amazing sex.
So you should say no.
But this is worse than an addiction. An addiction you can kick. And when it has you by the neck, you need a hit more than oxygen but it’s still just a hit. One can learn to live without it, and after wading through a storm you come out the other side.
This is the oxygen.
You’re not going to crave it, or shuffle through the day just thinking about Bucky’s lips on yours, or his hands angling your hips up hit you deeper. You’re just going to keep breathing it in, because it’s the only way.
That what you tell yourself, when you nod, and say, “Okay.”
It doesn’t matter than it’s going to end. That it’s going to have a half-life, then die a quiet or explosive death.
You just have to have it, in anyway you can.
“Okay.” Bucky echoes, and you finally look at him. He’s got this wide, almost boyish grin, and it’s the one you’ve only ever seen in old black and white photos.
Maybe your heart does break here.
Maybe Bucky just bumps your shoulder and keeps smiling, and that puts it back together in the same second.
It doesn’t really matter.
The type of arrangement you’re talking about never ends well. It’ll break again.
“We should have rules,” you try to keep your voice casual, and it works. Bucky just shrugs.
There’s another break.
“Alright. I’ve never done this thing before, so you’re gonna have to tell me what rules we need. Is it like, fight club?”
You let out a soft laugh. “No, it’s- Who made you watch Fight Club?”
“Guess.”
“Nat?”
“No,” Bucky says your name with a roll of his eyes. “It was you. You said it was a brilliant movie, I just couldn’t get all man about it.”
“Oh.” You tilt your head down, trying to hide the flush of your cheeks. He watched a movie because of you. “Did you? Get all man about it?”
Bucky pauses. “Tried not to. You can be the judge of that.”
God, there’s a tiny shatter. It’s just below your ribcage this time. “I will.”
“I know, doll.” He pauses, and you try to take a deep breath. There might not be enough air in the world. “So? Rules?”
You shrug, flopping onto your back. “There are a few classic ones.”
“Classic ones?”
“Yeah, like- Rules people always follow. When they do the friends with benefits thing.”
There’s a long pause—too long, you almost push up on your elbows to look at him, which would be another thing you’d have fucked up—and then Bucky speaks, his words a little slower than before. “Got it. What’s the first one?”
Fuck. You’re doing this. And you know exactly what rules there are going to have to be, if you want the stretch this and breathe it as long as possible.
“Don’t fall in love.”
You say it like you haven’t already broken it.
Like you don’t know, deep down, that you’re going to break all the others, too. Right until it all comes crashing down.
———
Bucky raises his brows at you across the meeting table, and you give him a small nod in return. You’ll be tired after the mission, but it will give you an excuse to pass out in Bucky’s bed. And when you wake up in the morning he may not be there, but it will still smell like him. You’ll still smell like him. Maybe he’ll smell a little like you.
But you have to get through the mission first.
It’s not a rough one. Just a Hydra cell that put itself on the map, and needs to be cleaned up. Not all hands on deck, not even half hands on deck. Just you, Bucky, and Steve. It was supposed to be Tony instead of you, but then they found out it was deep, deep underground, and suddenly it was a you problem.
You can get through a mission with Bucky and Steve. It’s just Bucky and Steve. You’re pretty sure they actually moved you onto the unit not because of any powers or logistics shit, but because if it’s Bucky, Steve, and Tony barely anything will happen, but just Bucky and Steve will be worse.
The first time you’d met Bucky had been a just Bucky and Steve mission. He’d sat across from you at a table like this one, Steve standing at the head of the table and trying to sell that it was—really, when you thought about it—a victory. They hadn’t gotten the data, and they’d both almost died twice before trying to throw themselves off a mountain for each other, but that just meant the team hadn’t lost two Avengers, and everyone now knew how dangerous mountains could be.
You hadn’t been paying attention. You’d be folding a little paper bird—you were bored—and you’d felt eyes searing into the back of your head. You’d looked up and found Bucky staring at you with a small frown, and he’d been pretty. He’s always pretty.
It’s easier to think you didn’t fall for him right there. When you’d given him a smile in return before finishing the bird, and sending it over to land on his head. He’d stared at you like you were insane, then given you an awkward smile when the bird climbed into his hands—already growing tiny, colorful feathers—and you’d been a goner.
He’d looked like a wet puppy, then. And you’d wanted to keep him warm.
You sort of get to, now.
It’s amazing, and horrible, and you never want to stop.
“Everyone understand what we’re doing here?” Steve asks, and you sigh, slumping further into your seat.
“There are only two of us, Stevie,” Bucky drawls, and you’re going to have to give him a really good blowjob later. Arguing with Steve is always rough. “Everyone does understand.”
Steve just sighs, standing a little taller in his stupid Captain Posture. “I just want to make sure we’re all on the same page. It’s a small cell, but it’s Hydra, and we all have complicated history with that-“
“We do?” You let out a mock gasp, and Bucky snorts. “Gee, when you said Hydra, I didn’t know you meant that Hydra. Bucky, did you know he was talking about that Hydra?”
“Nah. Thought he was talking about the ancient octopus.”
You frown at him. “Lizard.”
Bucky blinks. “What?”
“It’s not an octopus, it’s a lizard.”
“It’s an octopus on their stupid logo-“
“That’s because it’s a stupid logo.” You cross your arms, giving him a pointed look. “It’s like, a lizard monster, right? No octopi?”
“Octopi?”
“Plural of octopus.”
“Right. Course.” Bucky gives you an amused look, and you can feel heat starting to rise to your cheeks. “Any other lessons today, teach?”
You shake your head, ripping your gaze down to the disgustingly big files dossier. “No.”
Bucky grunts, and you can distantly hear Steve talking about movements and plans again, but you can’t really take any of it in. You should’ve pushed back more. You would’ve pushed back more, a month ago. When you didn’t know this mission was going to end with Bucky using that same teasing voice as he asks you what do you want, babydoll.
Him. You want him. And you can’t have it.
It won’t get in the way of the mission. It shouldn’t get in the way of this mission.
But you keep seeing it. Whenever you look at him, or hear his voice, it’s all you can think about. How he sounds when he’s praising you or asking you to ride him faster. What those hands, fiddling with the quinjet settings, feel moving so carefully on your breasts or over your clit. How his set, stone-like face feels when it’s contorted in pleasure and grinning at you from above.
You shouldn’t think about it.
But you love him, and he’s letting you have it, and now you’re going to lose your mind.
And there’s a cold dread growing in your gut. That something you say will be the thing that makes him stop fucking you. Maybe you’ll do something, and he’ll realize that this isn’t casual for you. That you love him and want him in a way that’s soul-numbing and all consuming. That you’re just killing yourself to be with him for a second.
And Bucky’s a good friend, so he’d let you down easy. But it wouldn’t change that you’re going to be haunted by the touch of him, and you’re forgetting how to act like you don’t love him. It’s like a dam has been slowly crumbling away with every secret look and hidden touch, and it’s far too close to breaking.
You’re always too close to ruining everything.
You stare at him the whole flight. And when you land. And when he grins at you, you return it, but you also make a strange sound and look away too fast.
When you get underground—the halls and rooms illuminated by your light—and Bucky and Steve are fighting, you’re distracted. Staring at Bucky though the shimmering bubble you’ve wrapped yourself in, not paying attention to the bullets flying in your direction. They all turn into flower petals when they passed through the barrier anyway.
A Hydra goon runs at him with a knife. And he can handle it, easily. He always fights like it’s a dance and never walks away with more than a scratch, but there’s also the guy fighting Steve, and he’s raising his gun over Steve’s head, to-
You don’t think.
You always think, but this time, you just feel a white-hot fury and dread and-
Light flares through the room, and when it clears, the men are all frozen in stone, and you’re curled on the floor.
“Jesus.” Steve mutters, poking the goon with the gun. “That’s a pretty neat trick.”
Bucky grunts an agreement, but his gaze is mostly focused on you.
Fuck.
He helps you back to the quinjet. His arm looped around your waist in a way that maybe looks casual, but isn’t. To you, it’s never casual. And when you get to the jet, you just sit in complete silence, staring at him and wondering if he noticed.
You haven’t lost control like that in a really long time.
Not since Bucky started training with you.
And you’ve been in the field with him before, and he’s been in danger before, and you’ve reacted rashly but never like that. Something could’ve gone wrong. You could’ve hit Bucky and Steve, you could’ve changed the Hydra goons into something other than stone, or you could’ve missed all together and turned computers into worms. It was stupid and dangerous, and worst of all, you can’t justify it. When Bucky asks if you’re alright, you just give him a small smile and make an awkward joke you can’t even remember.
When he asks if you want to push tonight off, you almost shout no. You’re fine, and you need him, and don’t change anything because you’re fine. He’s fine, so you’re fine.
But you’re tense and off during the debrief, too. Tony asks you what made you go all bang bang on them, and you just mumble that you’re really passionate about data.
“Are you sure you’re fine?” Bucky mutters, once everyone else clears the room. “I’m not gonna take it personally if you wanna push tonight off, we live in the same building, doll, we can go again-“
“No.” You shake your head, picking at your nails. “I’m good. I’m so good. Just tired.”
Bucky frowns. “If you’re tired, you should sleep-“
“Not that kinda tired.”
“I-“ He blinks. “What other kinds of tired are there?“
“Sleepy. Emotionally.” You shrug. “You wanna watch a movie? Before we fuck?”
“Uh,” Bucky stares at you for a second, then give a small, tight now. “Sure.”
You go to leave the room, but Bucky catches your wrist, a concerned look on his face.
“Promise me you’re okay. With us, y’know- Doing this.”
You frown at him. “What?”
“You’ve just been acting off, and Steve told me you didn’t even write your post-mission reports, and I- I don’t know.” He sighs, squeezing your wrist gently. “I wanna make sure it’s not cause of this. That you’re not gettin’ stressed about it or anything.”
There’s a tension in your heartstrings that snaps.
You’ve been acting off.
Don’t make it weird. The second rule was don’t make it weird, and when you’d said it, you weren’t entirely sure what you meant, but now you do.
This.
You’re making it something Bucky has to double check with you about. Something that’s affecting how you’re talking and behaving, something weird.
“I’m not stressed about it.” You give Bucky a small smile, and he returns it nervously. “Just tired.”
Bucky lets out a slow breath, and you don’t think he believes you .
It doesn’t seem to matter either way. He still watches the movie with you, then carries you back to his room to fuck you with his hand rubbing and slapping your ass, while you grind down onto his dick with loud, sinful sounds.
Another rule broken.
A little bit closer to the end.
But you don’t stop. Bucky doesn’t either.
One day he’ll want to.
And that breaks your heart again, the very same moment Bucky kisses you and puts it back together.
——————
This doesn’t mean anything.
You’re not moving on—you don’t think you know how—but you’re doing damage control. You will be able to recover when Bucky is done with you, because you’re sort of funny and smart and pretty. Bucky Barnes might be the Sun—and the only one that’s ever given you life—but that doesn’t mean there aren’t other stars.
It’s not a date. There’s no world where this ends with you in a bed that doesn’t smell like pine trees, because you’re still going to cling to Bucky until he pries you away.
This isn’t anything.
You can’t even feel anything.
But you’re still doing it. Either as a sadistic kind of self-masochism—proving that you’re right, nobody is as good as Bucky, and nobody is ever going to be as good after him—or so that when you go back to him tonight, you can tell yourself you tried.
You are trying.
Not that hard.
But with Mark—one of Tony’s more charismatic engineers, who’s been asking you out for a year with no avail and isn’t questioning why you suddenly said yes—you’re trying.
“You know, I’m not an Avenger.” The man across the table from you chuckles to himself, and you force an amused smile. “But I get adventures. Went rock climbing, once. You ever been rock climbing?”
“Yeah, um,” you swallow, and Mark is sweet, so you have to just keep fucking trying. “I was on a mission in- the Alps, I think. It was a few years ago, now. But we had to scale a cliff.”
Mark leans forward with a grin. “How’d that go? I’m scared of heights, so for me, it sucked.”
You laugh softly. “Yeah, I didn’t love it. I got freaked out by a bird, and turned a big section of the cliff into ice. It was fine, though, Sam caught me. Then passed me off to-“
“Barnes!” Mark laughs, and you smile like you can’t feel your heart burying itself in your stomach. “Oh, I remember that one! We had to do a bunch of maintenance on Barnes’ arm after, cause some of the wiring had turned into ice but he’d kept using it. The damage was horrible, and Stark yelled at him for ten minutes, but he was super chill about it. Thanked me, after I fixed it. Even if it was just, uh,” Mark frowns into the air. “Kind of a grunt.”
“Yeah.” You sigh. “Bucky mostly talks in grunts.”
Except when he doesn’t. When he’s above you or has you pinned to a wall, and it’s all soft, smooth, so pretty, babydoll and takin’ me so well, being such a good girl, feel like heaven, sweetheart. Or after, when he asks what you want to eat like he didn’t just devour your pussy, and you didn’t just choke on his cock.
It’s not fair. It’s not fair how he does that, even though he doesn’t know how it breaks you. Not fair that he’s invading your thoughts when you’re supposed to be on a coffee date with sweet Mark, who’s got long eyelashes and is clearly emotionally available, but all you can think of is Bucky-
“It’s so crazy when you do that,” Mark chuckles, and you frown at him.
“Do what?”
“Say Sam and Bucky instead of Falcon or Barnes, and talk about turning mountains into ice.” Mark shakes his head. “You’re like, a goddess. And you’re having coffee with me.”
Oh. You might be the worst person alive. “I’m not a goddess.” You mumble. “I just drank space goo. Could’ve happened to anyone.”
“Yeah, but you’re also super cool.” Mark shrugs, and this was a horrible idea. “You make everyone brownies.”
“I only know how to make brownies.”
“Maybe,” Mark leans over the table with a small grin. “But they’re really good brownies.”
You give him a small, nervous smile. “Thanks.”
Maybe you can actually do it. Mark really wouldn’t be a bad boyfriend, and it isn’t all about sex. You might not get over Bucky, but you could see a world where you build Mark up to his height. And you’d try. It would be cruel and unfair, to keep being in love with Bucky while doing this, but there aren’t a lot of other options. And it’s not like Bucky loves you back. Like there’s a future you’d be sabotaging by letting yourself be happy with Mark.
And you know this makes you a bad person. That it’s the type of thing villains in lifetime movies do—the movies you watch with Bucky, and he always yells at the screen like it’s a sport, and you love him, and you need to stop thinking about that right now—but you’re going to do it anyway. You’ve already made a lot of bad choices to get here.
One more really isn’t all that much.
So you don’t kiss Mark goodbye, when the date ends. But you also don’t tell him no when he asks for another date.
And that’s another fucking rule, broken. You’re supposed to tell Bucky about other relationships, because the agreement had been you weren’t exclusive, but it shouldn’t be made complicated.
You’d made that rule. For your own sanity. You’d made it because if Bucky was going to maybe end it, you wanted a warning.
But now you’re breaking it, and this is so fucking unhealthy, but the entire team had voted against mandatory therapy sessions last month, so you’re stuck figuring this out alone.
You’ll tell Bucky. You’re going to tell him after the mission briefing, but then he walks out of the room without looking at you. Then you’re going to tell him on the mission, but the moment he sees your refracting off the walls, he seems to vanish into the shadows.
You have to tell him. He’s not giving you the chance to.
He could be about to end it. You could’ve made the right call, going on that date with Mark, because you’re about to lose Bucky. And given how he won’t even look you in the eyes, your friendship might be over too.
You don’t know what you did. Why he’d just suddenly flip and decide that he hates you, because you can suck—the Mark thing is blatant, painful proof of that—but he’s not perfect either. And most of your friendship has been about being not perfect together. Bucky gets angry, and you let him rant about it until you shove back with reasons he might be wrong. You get snarky or haughty, and Bucky lets you tire yourself out before reminding you that you can’t control everything. That you hate trying to control everything, you just hate incompetence more.
And he has nightmares, and you watch a movie with him.
And you get anxiety attacks, and he sits with you until you come back down.
You don’t know how you’re going to go without that. You know you’re not easy, but Bucky’s never cared. He’s always been there. And that’s why you didn’t want to fucking do it, why you knew it was a bad idea, why the moment you lose him forever you’re going to shatter on the floor. He’s your friend, and months of the most mind-blowing sex isn’t worth paying the price of your friend, but it might be too late-
“We need to talk.” Bucky grunts in your ear, walking a pace behind you to the mission debrief.
And you nod, but your heart breaks again. On the floor of the hanger, and in the debrief, and splattered behind you as you walk to Bucky’s room. You’ll be fine. His face is unreadable as he opens the door but you’ll be fine.
Bucky’s closing the door and pinning you against it, his arms caged over your head and his eyes narrowed, but this is something you’ll survive. It’s going to kill you, and bury you, and maybe your heart will turn into a flower that can grow on Bucky’s windowsill, but you’ll survive.
“You got something to tell me, doll?”
You blink at him. “I- You asked me to talk.”
His jaw ticks. “Answer my question.”
“Bucky-“
“I saw you.” He spits the words out like they’re venom, and you feel the blood drain from your face. “And I know I don’t have any sort of- You can do whatever you want. But you’re supposed to tell me.”
“It just happened.” You whisper. “Like, yesterday.”
“When did he ask you out.”
Shit. “Last week.”
“Yeah.” Bucky lets out a dry laugh. “That’s what I thought.”
That’s not fair. He can’t hold this over you like it’s some great crime, when you did break a rule, but it doesn’t mean anything to him. When your heart breaks every day, and he puts it back together, and you watch women throw themselves at him during parties, but you go on one coffee date and suddenly it’s like you cheated on him.
“I was going to tell you, Buck, but you were avoiding me- And-“ You take a shaking breath. You don’t want to fight. But you don’t know how to back down either. “I’m sorry. I promise I’m sorry, I just didn’t know how to tell you, and I didn’t want it to be a thing, and I’m really sorry-“
“You love him?”
You blink at him, the world a little blurry.
But not Bucky.
Bucky’s never blurry. He’s all shining blue eyes and sharp features you want to trace with your lips, and so much care you can sometimes feel it around you like a shield.
And he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world. It’s making you a little dizzy, and your words far too soft.
“No.” I love you. “We- It was just coffee.”
Bucky’s jaw ticks. “You gonna get more coffee with him?”
Not worth lying. “Maybe.”
You can’t read his expression. You don’t really want to. Nothing it tells you will make this better.
And Bucky’s just hanging over you, his metal hand tracing over your face before carefully grabbing your neck, and you let out a soft, needy sound.
“You still wanna do this?” He rasps, and you nod. You’ve never wanted anything more.
This rule break wasn’t the worst one, maybe. Not when it’s making Bucky kiss you like this. His tongue down your throat, his body pressed right against yours, and everything feeling a little different. His lips are molded over yours that same way as always, but he’s kissing you like he’s trying to eat you alive. Touching you like he wants to leave a mark. And when he carries you to the bed, you don’t even get a chance to palm him over his jeans before he’s all over you.
You’re drowning in him. Everywhere, it’s just Bucky touching you, it’s almost feral. Teeth almost biting your clit, a bruising grip with tight hands, powerful arms holding you to his chest like you’re going to vanish. He cums all over your chest, and smears it around with a satisfied look, before diving back between your legs.
And when he’s done, you’re a mess. You’re always a mess, but Bucky usually helps clean you up.
This time, it feels like he’s trying to pull you all the way apart. And it feels so good, but when the daze of sex clears, your head is still a little clouded.
It’s not fucking fair. None of this is fucking fair, and you have no one to blame but yourself.
You wish you could blame Bucky, but you’d broken the rule.
And he’s so soft, after. Cleaning you up and bringing you a cookie.
“You don’t even like cookies,” you mumble, and Bucky shrugs.
“Yeah. ’S why I got them for you.”
——————
This sucks. It sucks so much. It’s turning you into someone you hate and someone you’ve always wanted to be at the same time.
You don’t like lying. Sneaking around behind everyone’s backs, and telling Bucky you’re fine when he seems to understand that you’re not.
You’d called of the second date with Mark because you’re busy, and not ready for a relationship. And it fucking sucks how this has made you someone who says that kind of shit. Someone who looks a perfectly good man in the eyes and gives him a sad smile when he says, if you change your mind, he’ll be there.
Of course he will be.
But that’s not what you want, and you’ve never hated yourself more for it.
You’re driving yourself out of your mind. Beating yourself up in the dead of night with all the ways you could’ve done this differently, all the ways you could’ve avoided this, and all the ways you’d let it happen. You’ve been playing that game from the very start, and you never fucking learn your lesson.
You don’t want to.
Because the parts you want—the parts that make this worth it—are perfect.
“I’ve never had a meringue.” Bucky mutters, his chin propped on your shoulder in the kitchen, and you hum.
“I’ve never made a meringue. So we’re experimenting together.” You shoot him a glare, before his mouth can even open. “Don’t.”
He’s grinning. It’s the freest, easiest grin you’ve ever seen, and in these moments everything feels too real. It’s like toeing a very careful, thin line you’re always about to trip over. You and Bucky always did things together, before the arrangement. But he’s never stood this close to you. And he’d been this free, and you’d known how to guess everything he was about to say, but now it’s all jokes and teasing.
It hurts.
But you really must be a masochist, because you’d never want any other pain.
“I didn’t say anything.” Bucky drawls, squeezing his hand on your hip. “But I got ideas for other experiments, after you done- Shit-“
You’d flung some of the meringue whip, right at his face, and you can’t stop the giggle bubbling up in your throat at the sight of him. Stumbling back and wiping pastel yellow from his face, looking adorable and disgruntled and in the second, like yours.
“I warned you, Bucky-“
“I didn’t think you’d hit me with a fuckin’ projectile.” He grumbles, rubbing his hand over his face and spreading it everywhere. “Jesus, doll, you’re gonna kill me-“
You snort, setting down the bowl to grab him a washcloth. “You’ve been shot, I think you’ll be fine.“
“It’s an emotional wound.” He grumbles. “You got it in my beard.”
“Oh no. How ever will you survive.”
Bucky rolls his eyes. “You’re real bratty for someone who’s about to get what’s coming to her.”
You blink at him for a second, and he’s got this light dancing in his eyes that goes right to your core. It’s another thing only you get to see. Another thing that’s not fair, and makes him twice as beautiful, and makes all the agony of this more than worth it.
“No comeback, babydoll?” Bucky raises his brows, and you’re screwed. You’d never want to be anything else, with him. “Not even gonna try to defend yourself?”
“I- Um-“ Your knees are already a little weak, and you hold up the cloth pathetically. “I was gonna help you clean.”
“So good to me.” He hums, slowly walking you back against the counter. “You can help me clean, sweetheart. That what you want?”
You nod dumbly, and Bucky tips your chin back, giving you another unreadable expression.
“Open.” His voice is almost a growl, and you obey without a thought. “Good girl.”
Oh. Oh, God.
This. This is why you’re putting yourself through this. For Bucky’s smooth voice and undivided attention, and the fantasy he keeps feeding that this could, in some slightly shifted universe, be a real thing. You and him.
That when he slides his fingers between your lips and makes you clean them off, it’s not just a fevered hunger in his gaze. And when he kisses you it’s just because he wants to kiss you. That it’s this deep and passionate because he wants to stay in this moment forever too.
It really feels like he does.
And then you’re stuck in the cycle. Where you love every single second you spend with him—falling to your knees and taking him in your mouth, before being splayed on the countertop and eaten out until Bucky’s suffocating between your legs, then cleaning up and baking like nothing ever happened at all—and then loathe yourself afterward.
It’s so fucking confusing. How he’s acting like he is yours, but he’s not. How he fucks you like that then can just pretend it never happened. How he got so fucking pissed when you went for coffee with Mark, then just grunted when you told him you weren’t going on a second date.
You’re still getting distracted on missions. More distracted. It’s dangerous, and not like you.
To the point that Steve calls you into his office—the corner of the library nobody ever uses, because it smells like fucking paint—and stares at you with a deep frown, like he’s trying to outlast you into just confessing you’re on drugs or something.
It’s not working.
Bucky calls you a stubborn little thing, when he’s trying to make you beg for his cock. And even then, it can take hours.
You prefer determined. And you’re not in love with Steve, so he’s not going to get you to cave.
He breaks first.
“Okay. I know we’re not as close as you and Bucky are.” His words are so careful, and you force your face to remain neutral. “But something’s going on with you. We’re all getting… Sort of worried. Nat said she saw you turn a bo staff into a snake by accident, and last mission you turned a nuclear reactor into tree. It still had radiation,” Steve sighs your name, giving you a sad look. “And it’s going to take months to de-root properly. I’ve been advised to keep you off missions until I’m certain you won’t…” he trails off, and you offer an end to his sentence.
“Go crazy?”
“I don’t want to call it crazy.” Steve mutters. “It’s just not like you. You’ve been more removed and reckless, and I’m more worried that something’s going on.”
You let out a long breath. “Steve-“
“Bucky’s worried, too.” Steve adds quickly, and you have to bite your tongue to stop a reaction. “He asked me if I’ve noticed how you’ve been acting off, or if I’m seeing any changes in your behavior or habits-“
“Bucky doesn’t talk like that.” You mutter, and Steve sighs.
“I’m sort paraphrasing, but-“
“And we’re fucking. That’s why he asked.”
There’s a long silence, and you don’t fully realize what you said until Steve clears his throat, his eyes almost comically wide on yours.
“You- Uh- You and Bucky are sleeping together.”
Fuck.
Fuck.
You’re not supposed to tell anyone. That was another rule, don’t tell anyone, and you told Steve. Of all the people you could’ve slipped up and told, you told Steve, like a fucking idiot, why did you tell Steve-
He says your name cautiously, and it’s too late to go back now.
“Yeah. We are.”
“Ah.” Steve’s still just staring at you, and your fingers curl in your lap. “Is- Is that what’s going on?”
“No. Yes. I-“ You give him a grimacing smile. “I don’t know. I don’t really want to talk about it-“
“I can’t let you back in the field until we talk about it.”
Your eyes narrow. “That’s not fair-“
“Yeah. It isn’t.” Steve leans back in his chair, running a hand over his face. “But that’s what’s happening. If I know what’s going on with you guys, I can structure the missions so it doesn’t affect them. But I have to know.” He sighs your name, and at the very least look incredibly guilty about the whole thing. “Did you guys, uh- Have a fight-“
“No.” Your gaze drops to your hands. If you’re doing this, you can’t look him in the eyes. “I- Just- Fuck, dude, you can’t tell Bucky any of this-“
“Wasn’t going to.”
You believe him. Steve isn’t the type to lie about that, even if Bucky’s his best friend.
And he’s your friend too.
You’ve come this far. The whole thing is a mess anyway. Might as well bring it home.
“We’re not- Together.” You chose the words carefully, as if that fucking matters. “But I’m getting confused. It’s like we’re right on the edge of together, but we’re still- We’re not.”
Steve hums. “Do you want to be together?”
“I don’t see how that’s important-“
He grunts your name, and you sigh.
“I don’t want to lose him.”
You can hear the frown in Steve’s voice. “I don’t think you could lose Bucky if you tried-“
“But I’m not trying.” You whisper, digging your nails into your wrist. “And I’m going to lose him anyway.”
“You’re sure of that?”
You shake your head, and Steve sighs again.
“So just- Talk to him-“
“I don’t want to.”
“Nothing’s going to get better if you don’t talk to him-“
“Steve.” You give him a firm glare, and he’s looking at you like you’ve lost your mind. “I told you I don’t want to talk about it. Please.”
He frowns at you for another second, before he speaks. “I still think you should talk to him.”
“I’ll talk to Bucky if he talks to me.” You shrug. “But I- I don’t want to ruin things.”
Steve just stares at you for a second, and he doesn’t need to speak for you to know what he’s thinking.
You don’t have to talk to Bucky to ruin things.
You already have.
———
Bucky had heard about Her, before he met Her.
All light, is what Nat had called Her. All light and a lot of quiet anger. So much it makes everything around her harsher, sometimes. Like staring at the sun.
And that hadn’t been entirely wrong.
But the Sun would burn your eyes out, and then you’d never be able to see again.
When Bucky had looked at Her, it had been like seeing the stars for the first time. Out of reach and entirely indifferent to him, spinning in a chair in a meeting room and transfixed with the paper in Her hands. Beautiful, and made of light, but more made of wonder. Made of watching and wondering if he’d even be big enough to grab one is his hand, like his ma had told him.
He’d asked Steve, after that first meeting.
And he liked to think he’d been casual about it. But he hadn’t been casual in eighty years. He’d forgotten how. If Steve had seen it, he hadn’t said anything. He’d just raised a brow and shrugged.
“Bruce and Tony calls is transmutation.” He’d shrugged. “Way they put it, that light in her body can sort of give things life, or take them away. She’s one of Hydra’s questionable experiments, so she’s never worked combat.’
Bucky had grunted. He could help with that.
He’d trained people before.
“What does she do, if she can’t do the field?”
Steve had shaken his head. “She does the field. Just get panic attacks, and it can get out of a hand. We try to keep her out of stressful situations. She mostly works recon missions.”
Bucky could work recon.
He liked to keep out of stressful situations.
He mostly liked Her.
A lot.
The more they spoke, and She warmed up to him, the more Bucky liked Her. He help Her with combat, and it seemed to give her more control over her magic shit. Then they were partners, then they were friends, then they were close.
She’d run a hand casually through Bucky’s hair like touching him was something easy for Her to do, and it had hit him there.
He loved Her.
He’d forgotten how to love things, too. Not without breaking them.
But he’d been trying to learn. He took care of Her the best their relationship would allow, and he’d tried to be a good friend, but there were still nights. Where he didn’t have nightmares She came to his aide for, but rather dreams.
Her voice in his ear and hands on his body. Lazy morning and a long, normal life where She made him a million more paper birds, and he caught Her when she stumbled over any sort of cliff. A real one on a mission, or a metaphorical one. Stress or harder times or anything She wanted to hold Bucky through. Anything at all.
He never should’ve asked Her back to his place. He’d known, that very first night, that whatever casual sex people did these days wouldn’t work for him. That She deserved something better than a beaten, broken man, and he still didn’t know how to love enough to love Her well. That is that was all She asked of him, he’d give it until he was clawing at his organs and bones to give Her something a little more, and She turned all that life giving light to someone who could offer Her more than shadows.
She’d asked for rules.
Bucky would’ve given Her the Moon.
And he’d made a real damn effort to follow those rules. There had been no hope for that first one, because it hadn’t even been falling in love. That implied a drop. Some sort of ruin at the end. Bucky had climbed into loving Her. Long and rough and painful and ending high enough to catch a star.
But there was nowhere to go but down.
It had taken barely a day for him to break another rule. Steve had asked how his night was, and Bucky had frozen.
“Uh, Buck-“
“I fucked her, Stevie.” He’d whispered, his voice hoarse. “And she- She doesn’t know.”
Steve had frowned and said Her name, letting out a long sigh when Bucky had nodded. “Does she not know because you didn’t tell her?”
“Tried to. She wants a friends with benefits thing. Like, we fuck and nothing else.”
“Yeah, I already got that one explained to me.” Steve had given him a pitiful look. “What’d you-“
“Told her yes.”
“Bucky-“
“I don’t wanna hear it.” He’d muttered, and Steve had dropped it.
And Bucky had just kept breaking more rules.
He’d made it weird. His hands had kept fisting to stop himself from touching Her, and kept trying to get Her attention on missions. Making moves he would’ve have otherwise, all just to impress a beautiful woman.
And he’d been trying it out with a nice girl Nat had set him up with, before that night. Before he’d tasted Her and realized he’d never be hungry for anything else. He’d gone on two more dates with the girl, because he was a lonely asshole who didn’t trust that Her, in his bed, was good enough to be real. And he’d called it off without telling either of them, but still acted like a possessive asshole when She’d gone on one date with the engineer.
Bucky knew that guy. He was nice. And he’d be good to Her, too, but he’d ruined it for Her. He’d been selfish and tried to claim something that didn’t—and never would—belong to him. Cost Her a chance at normalcy, and never apologized.
He hated who this was making him. Hated how he had to dance around Her and pretend he didn’t want all of Her. And now he couldn’t even get Her to look him in the eyes, and it was going to make him fall apart. He’d been a second from strangling Stevie just a week ago, with his constant suggestions of just talking to Her.
Bucky didn’t want to talk to Her. Talking meant the end.
But She already looked a little dimmer than he’d found Her. And She’d shine so bright when She was with him, but then start to flicker the moment she walked away. She’d been taken off all missions, because of it.
Bucky was ruining Her. Breaking Her. Just like he broke everything else.
And it wasn’t fair, but life had never been fair.
At least he’d be able to keep loving Her, even when he didn’t have Her. At least he would’ve had Her for a time.
It was more than Bucky had ever had anything else.
And if he only ever got to have one thing, even just half in his hands and always slipping through his fingers, he’d always be beyond grateful it got to be Her.
———
It’s so annoying, when Steve is right. He’s going to hear about it, and give a little shrug like he didn’t mean to be right, but you know better. He’s going to bring it up, casually and airily, for the rest of your lives, and nobody’s ever going to believe you because it’s Steve.
But he is right.
You need to talk to Bucky.
You spend the week planning it out. Rehearsing it in your head, preparing for any possible response he could have. If he tries to interrupt you, there’s an exact outline for how to shut him up and make him let you finish. If he tells you h doesn’t feel the same way, there’s an elegant exit plan to walk away with your heart in the bottom of your gut, but all your dignity in one, fractured piece. If he feels the same, you’ve practiced a very normal reaction about it in the mirror.
You’re ready for anything, when you go to knock on his door.
Anything but Bucky opening it, yanking you forward, and slamming the doors behind you. His arms wrap around you in a second, his lips crashing down to yours in a brutal, unyielding kiss, and you didn’t have a plan for this. You don’t even have the oxygen for it, because Bucky’s inhaling your every sound and pulling out deep moans from your chest, holding you like you’re going to crumble in his hands.
“Bu- Bucky-“ You shove at his chest, just enough for him to pull back.
He looks desperate. For you. And god, that’s not fair, not right now-
“Sorry,” he mutters, his thumb tracing over your lower lip. “Just- I need you, babydoll. Please.”
A final moment where you should stop this. All of it.
And again, because it might be the last time, you don’t. You give Bucky a small nods, wrapping your arms around his neck, and try not to melt when his eyes soften slightly.
“You don’t have to-“
“I want to.” You whisper. “Whatever you want, Buck. I’m yours.”
His eyes flash for a second, and you want to analyze it. To pull it apart and figure out what that expression meant, because it’s one that’s going to haunt you.
But it’s too late.
Bucky’s moving over you, and now this moment is the only one that’s ever existed. Bucky’s hands holding your face so delicately as he kisses you, and the weight of it evaporating into something light and hot and wet. He’s not kissing you like he’s trying to eat you alive anymore.
This is like he has time.
His hands are everywhere, once he has you carefully pressed against the wall. Gliding under your shirt and palming at your breasts, leaving feathery kisses down your neck and toying with the band of your pants until you’re grinding up into his hand.
“Bucky-“ You mumble, letting one hand glide down to grab him over his own pants, and smiling against his lips when he lets out a low groan. “Just- touch me-“
He laughs against your neck, and you throw your head back as he rolls a nipple between his fingers. “Patience, sweetheart. Heard it’s a virtue or somethin’-“
“Bucky-“
“So needy,” he coos, and you nod, trying to tug at his jaw. To angle it up, so you can leave your own little marks wherever you can. “Think you can spread your legs for me? Let me taste how wet I make you, how good I’m makin’ you feel-“
“I- Want you to fuck me-“ Your words are already coming in soft gasps, and Bucky carefully lifts your arms up guiding you out of your shirt.
“I will,” he mutters, the metal hand tracing down the curve of your waist, sending shivers up your spine. “So pretty, babydoll. You let anyone else see you like this?”
God, he’s mean tonight. Mean and soft and perfect, kissing that perfect spot on your throat he knows is going to drive you insane before backing away and raising his brows.
You sway alone, a little stunned from the loss of his warmth, and he pulls his shirt over his head, giving you a stern look.
“Strip, baby.”
“Oh.” You mumble, sort of dumbly, but that’s something only Bucky does to you. The buzz of what if and how about fades into background noise whenever he looks at you. When he talks you it’s only a hum.
And when he touches you, it’s really only in him. Just Bucky. Giving you an approving look when you’re bare before him, then sinking to his knees.
He doesn’t give you any more warning that that easy grin—the one only you ever get to see—before he dives into you cunt.
Bucky seems to be a man on a mission. He kisses your clit gently before starting to lick you like ice cream, and groans right into your pussy when your hands fly into his hair.
“Bucky-“ You gasp, and he gives you a gentle squeeze of your ass in response. “God, that feels so good, don’t stop-“
He flicks his tongue rapidly over your clit in response, and you can feel his grin when you let out a high sound, your knees almost buckling down onto his face. You’re grinding against him, and he’s encouraging you. Guiding your movements and kneading on your ass as his beard tickles your thighs.
“Oh- I’m-“ His tongue plunges in and out of your cunt, and you gasp. “Bucky, I can’t- I’m gonna cum-“
He moans again, and your eyes flick down to see him fisting his own cock, pumping it in a steady rhythm with his every kiss and lick on your cunt. The sight, combined with the pull of your clit between his lips, sucking it like candy as his hums send perfect shivers through your body, sends you right over the edge. You cum with a yank of his hair that only makes him groan a muffled sound like your name, and Bucky’s arms shoot to your waist to hold you steady as your knees give out.
“There you are.” He mutters, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh. “Good girl, takin’ what you need.”
He’s still rock hard. Thick. Long and ready for you.
“Do,” you nod down to his problem. “I can return the favor-“
Bucky shakes his head, moving to his feet. “Want to fuck you, babydoll. You-“
You tug him up into another long deep kiss, and speak against his lips. “Yes. Please.”
He nods slowly. “Bed?”
“Bed.” You whisper an agreement, and stumble over to the mattress. Crawling onto your hands and knees and presenting you ass for him to take and touch and-
Gentle hands slide of your body, a wet kiss planted on your spine, and-
Bucky flips you over with a squeak, crashing his mouth over yours. Another long, slow kiss as he shifts you around below him, notching himself at your entrance and raising his brows. You give him a tiny nod—you’re on the pill, and you’d both gotten the routine check last month—and he slides in easily with a deep groan. His brow falls to yours as he bottoms out, ragged breaths fanning over your lips.
He’s acting… off. Usually there’s dirty talk and teasing but this is all just feel. He kisses you and starts to slowly but firmly fuck into you, and it’s like he doesn’t want to distract himself. Every sound you make earns you another hot and feverish kiss, every moan of his name gets you a deeper, harsher thrust.
This is what you’d wanted, that first night. All the pleasure of your other wild sessions, but the feeling like he wants you. Is touching you because it’s all he’s ever wanted. Is going slow because he wants to savor it.
But still fucking you.
Still really fucking you. Slow but so deep you can feel him everywhere, kissing you and grabbing anywhere he can reach, pushing a hand between your legs to rub your clit when your breathing start to get shallow, and moaning your name as you start to squeeze around him.
“Cum for me,” he hums your name over your lips, and you only make a dumb little sound in return. “That’s it, babydoll, just let go-“
It could be stars in your vision, or just the glow of your own light as your second orgasm unravels you entirely. Bucky’s breath is ragged in your ear as he fucks you through it, and you’re sore and boneless, but you need more. Just a little more.
“Where-“
“Inside,” you gasp, your back arching off the bed as he hits that spot again. “Please, Bucky, I can take it, just wanna feel you-“
He kisses you, his hips starting to piston into you, and a tiny, shuddering orgasm rips up your spine as he paints your cunt with his release.
There’s another moment, just like the first night. Where you’re suspended in time, and it’s like you’re floating and falling all at once. The only thing keeping you tethered to reality being Bucky’s warmth over your body, and the sound of his heartbeat near your ear.
You could stay here forever.
But just like that moment, this one has to come to an end.
Bucky cleans you up. He always cleans you up. While you’re still a mess on the bed he pulls away—giving you one last, almost painfully soft kiss—and going to get a warm cloth, a snack, and your clothing off the floor. And he doesn’t rush you, but he’s not speaking, either. Usually he tries to talk to you, about a movie or something annoying Sam did or how he thinks Tony is going to try and steal his arm to test on again.
Tonight, though, is dead quiet.
It’s making something twist in your gut, and when Bucky mutters your name, you want to go back.
You’ve never heard him say it like he doesn’t want to, before.
It breaks your heart before he even says what you know is coming next.
“I think that had to be the last time.”
You dig your nails into your palm, forcing the tears not to fall. “Last time?”
He lets out a deep sigh. “Of this. Our whole- Thing. We’re done. You’re free.”
You blink, the world getting blurry, and his words ring in your head.
Free.
You’re free.
He’s saying it like he’s opening a door to let out of a cage, rather than locking you out of the safest place you’ve ever dared to wander. Like he’s been keeping you hostage, when you’d made the choice to trip and stumble and collapse right into his arms when you fucking knew better. And if he’s done, he’s done. You can’t keep him longer than he wants you, and you’ve always known that, but-
“We’re- I still wanna be friends.” He mutters, and you might be drawing blood. You can see little bits of your light, leaking out from under your finger nails, and there’s a heavy lump in your throat that’s going to strangle you.
But, though all the hurt, you still manage to push out words. “You still want to be friends?”
“Yeah.”
You look up at him, the movement sharp, and he seems to flinch. “You’re just fucking ending it, without a warning or reason, and you want to be friends?”
He frowns. “We said we could end it whenever.”
“I- I know-“ Fuck. Another rule, broken. “But I just want a reason, Bucky.”
“I-“
“God, you were balls deep in me twenty minutes ago and you’re just done? Just- I-“ You’re going to cry. You’ve been promising yourself you wouldn’t cry. “I- don’t understand, Buck-“
“We said we wouldn’t let it change things.” He snaps, his hand flexing at his sides. “That was the most important rule, you said it was the most important rule. But it has.“
“No, it-“
“It has.” He sighs your name, giving you a defeated look. “We both knew it would, doll. I sure as shit knew.”
You sniff, wiping at your cheeks, and Bucky looks like it’s physically straining to not touch you.
This isn’t fucking fair. You really have no one to blame but yourself.
“Why’d you agree to it, then.” Your voice is barely a mumble, but Bucky tenses. He can hear you. “If you knew it was going to end so bad, why ever bother.”
He stares at you for a long, tight moment, and you can feel the pressure of his gaze. Right on your heart. Pressing on all those fracture, making them start to snap in a way that’s going to take so long to repair-
“Because I wanted you.” He mutters. “And I didn’t care how.”
The room is sort of spinning. “You- You wanted me?”
He lets out a dry chuckle, hanging his head. “Yeah. Loved you, too. Got selfish about it, and I- I’m sorry. You should date the engineer guy. He’ll treat you well.”
You stare at him, and he looks like a painting. Shining metal and shadows, and you- you can’t-
“Do you love me now?”
Bucky frowns at you like you’re insane. “‘Course I love you now-“
“But you’re ending it-“
“You’re not happy, doll.” He says it like he’s pleading with you. “I can see it, everyone can see it, and I know it’s my fault. I’ll give you space, if that’s what you want-“
You shake your head, cutting him off with soft words. “I don’t want space, Bucky. I want you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do-“
“You like the sex, sweetheart. That’s not wanting me-“
“Stop arguing with me about what I want!” Your voice raises slightly, and Bucky’s mouth snaps shut. “I- I want you, Bucky! And there’s no fucking reason for me to lie, and I- I said yes because I love you. I never wanted to just fuck, I thought it was the only way I get to have you.”
Bucky blinks at you, your words hanging in the hair for a long moment before he says, “You said you wanted friends with benefits. It was your idea.”
You shrug weakly. “I thought you didn’t want anything else. And you agreed to it.”
He huffs a weak laugh. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, doll, but I have a real hard time tellin’ you no.”
“You’re telling me no right now.”
His eyes flash, and when he leans a little bit forward, it’s gravitational, and you lean with him. You can feel the warmth from his body. Light is leaking from your fingers, and little flowers are blooming as they curl on the sheets.
“You want me to tell you yes?” He asks cautiously, and you give him a tiny nod. “Can you-“
“I do.” You whisper. “I want you to tell me yes.”
He nods slowly, and reaches carefully for your hand. He doesn’t turn to flowers or stone when he takes it, but you don’t think you’ve ever come in danger of that.
You like him just the way he is.
And you’d never, ever want to change it.
So instead, you just glow as Bucky pulls you into his lap and holds you in a gentle, tender kiss. It’s as if he’s never kissed you before, and he’s afraid he could possibly do it wrong. He’s holding you the same way. And all it takes is nip of his lower lip and sigh of his name, and you’re being pulled closer, the kiss deepening without speeding up.
Bucky pulls away, when he starts to get hard against you, and you start to tug at his hair. Watches you with an awestruck look before muttering your name, and taking your hand into his, holding it between your chests.
“Bucky.” You repeat in a similar tone, and he gives you that smile. It’s perfect.
“Can we try again?” He says carefully, playing with your fingers between his. “Start over? Go on dates and out to dinner with no rules, just-“
“Me and you?” You offer, and he nods.
“Yeah. Me and you.”
“I’d like that.” You lean down, your lips hovering over his, and you’re going to do this right. “I’d like that a lot.”
It won’t hurt. There won’t be an end, or a dread of it, because this can, really, only get better. And as Bucky tugs you back into a kiss and high giggle leaves your lips, you feel high and soft and light.
“Good.” Bucky mutters, grinning against your lips, and you’re never going to let him frown again. “Me too.”
End Note: This one is dedicated to all my homies who get consumed by emotions and relationships. Sorry guys. Me too.
If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3
Part of the 20s Challenge
Character: Bucky Barnes
Quote: "I love you. You know that, right?"
Trope: Fake Dating + Only One Bed
Not beta'd. I do not give permission for my work to be reposted, copied, translated or put through an AI machine.
Tags/warnings: 18+ because of Nat's shenanigans FLUFF and SMUT (not described in detail but it happens), mutual pining, idiots in love, love confessions, fake dating, everyone wingmanning Bucky and reader lol, awkward situations because of only one bed, confessions
Summary: While on a mission, pretending to be a couple, you and Bucky are forced to admit that things between you are as simple as it seems.
Word count: 2.3k
Dividers by @/cafekitsune
A/N: this has been in my drafts since DECEMBER. I forgot about it. Found it 90% written. and yes... maybe a part 2 is squirreled away. Enjoy!
You didn't want to be paired with Bucky on this mission. You'd secretly pleaded with Natasha to swap with you, who'd staunchly rejected the idea.
"You get to kiss and hold hands with your crush!" She argued, laughing as your cheeks brightened with heat.
"That's the problem!" You say, becoming more panicked. "I am so worried, Nat. This isn't funny!"
You throw a pair of socks at her when she laughs harder. You were already stressing about what to pack on your mission, more so now that you knew one Bucky Barnes would be your ride along. Long time crush, first time mission-partner.
No Hello Kitty pyjamas for you.
"You'll be fine." Natasha assures you, peeking into a drawer and pulling out a silk camisole, raising an eyebrow. "Especially if you take this."
"Get out!" You shriek, snatching the camisole from her and pushing her towards the door. "You are no help!"
The first part of the mission had gone swimmingly. You managed to hold it together when Bucky had grabbed your hand and held it tight when you walked into the restaurant and sat beside your targets and even managed to muster up the courage to press a quick kiss to his cheek as you stood from the dinner table to excuse yourself to powder your nose (aka placing bugs in the bathrooms and kitchen).
The moment your hotel room door had closed, however, you both broke apart like opposite ends of a magnet. Your heartbeat was erratic, excitable, and you knew it shouldn't be.
It wasn't real. Just a mission.
"First night was a success." Bucky says awkwardly, loosening his tie. "Well done."
"Thanks, you too." You give him a smile, taking the stupidly heavy earrings from your ears, padding towards where you believe the bathroom of the suite is. You can't wait to take your dress off, your heels, your make up and crawl into your own-
Your eyes befall a king-size bed with soft Egyptian-cotton covers. There's another door which must be an en-suite bathroom but you can't recall seeing another door in the suite.
"Bucky?" You call.
"Yeah?" Bucky's head peers around the door and he sighs. "Dammit. I'll call Sam. Take a shower, doll, I'll sort it."
Bucky had pleaded with both Sam and Steve about going on this mission alone. He didn't want you in the line of fire at all, not that you weren't capable, but because he didn't want you getting hurt.
He'd begrudgingly accepted his fate when Joaquín offered to go in his stead. You were, in Bucky's mind, ineffable. Beauty, brains, benevolent and so much more.
And now, after speaking with the receptionist of the hotel, he was stuck in the same bed as you.
He had a feeling Steve and Sam were behind this but he couldn't breathe a word of it to you. Only awkwardly offer to sleep on the couch in the suite that was too small for him.
"Don't be stupid." You huff, towel drying your hair with one of the smaller towels the hotel offered. "I'm smaller, I can take the couch."
"I need to be you be alert and ready," Bucky argues back. "I've slept in worse conditions."
It was meant to convince you but your frown deepens as you pad back to your suitcase in your towel, kneeling before it and rummaging through your clothes. Bucky studies the spectacle before him. It's almost domestic.
"We will just have to share." You say, hands on hips, cheeks red as you try to smile at him. You're putting on a brave face and Bucky can see it, and his heart aches with longing. "I'm going to get my pj's on."
You get to your feet and pad to the bathroom flashing Bucky a smile as he stands from his place on the bed. "I should put mine on too."
You close the door behind you, gripping the silk camisole tightly.
"Natasha you bitch." You mutter to yourself, unwrapping your towel and stepping into it. There was no robe in any of the rooms, so you were stuck wearing it until tomorrow, if you could jump into a department store.
The cups of the camisole had a thin lace frill as it cupped your breasts. The same lace frill sat in a V-shape from your hips where the camisole split. It was a lot shorter than you remembered.
You wanted to cry. This was embarrassing. You needed to explain to Bucky that you definitely were not trying right come onto him, even though you would really like to.
Adjusting your straps slightly, you open the bathroom door and step out. Your breath catches when you see Bucky stood in his plaid pyjama pants, his pyjama top between his palms. His whole body is well built but your brain ceases all function when you see just how well built. His chest is broad and toned, and there's a thin line of dark hair situated between his abs that disappears below the waistband of his pants. Bucky lifts his head as you open the door, smiling softly as he catches your eyes before you watch in horror as his eyes drop downward.
"Woah." You can see his body (his beautiful body!) stiffen and you panic.
"I promise I'm not a sexual predator!" You blurt suddenly, throwing your hands to your face. That was... not the right thing to say.
"Okay."
You can hear the smile in Bucky's voice and you want to curl into a ball. "Natasha took out my pyjamas and- and replaced it with this!"
"Why would she do that?"
"Because-" you catch yourself, pulling the hem of your camisole down a little, slowly dropping your hands. You swallow thickly. "She thought it would be funny. Look, I'm just gonna..."
You slide under the covers of the bed, pulling them all the way up to your neck. Bucky watches you before pulling his shirt over his head. His face is equally red as he flicks the light off and crawls in next to you.
"I could still go to the sofa." He murmurs.
"No it's... it's fine."
"Alright, well... goodnight."
"Goodnight, Bucky."
Bucky couldn't sleep.
Images of you in your camisole were etched into his mind forever more and now he had an issue that wouldn't go away.
He tried to think of Steve, coughing fits and all from before the serum, being iced, being in the same room as Sam, all of the death and destruction he had both caused and encountered in his lifetime. Yet, every time he thought he was free of you, you'd appear like a spectre at the edges of his mind, calling to him so sweetly.
You were right there. In bed next to him, sleeping soundly. Bucky could hear your soft breaths and his mind wandered, imagining what you'd sound like in other ways.
He felt awful. You were his friend and current mission partner. He knew having a crush on you was a terrible, bad, God-forsaken idea but he couldn't help it. His metal hand gripped his thigh so hard he almost tore the muscle out. He couldn't, wouldn't, touch himself in your presence. That's sick and twisted. But his issue wouldn't go away and was desperately begging for relief.
Bucky turns his back to you, biting down on his lips as his eyes squeeze shut. Had you done it on purpose to tease him? Stood looking so coy, so innocently cute, in possibly the sexiest negligé he'd ever laid his eyes upon. Your embarrassment had been real though, so perhaps Natasha was the one to thank for that.
Steve, Sam and Joaquín were to blame for the room.
Bucky's brain begins to fill with conspiracy. Was Nat working with the three musketeers? Were you? As he tries to piece together the puzzle, he eventually drifts off to sleep.
You wake suddenly. Despite the embarrassment of the night before, you slept well. The bed was cosy and soft thanks to SHIELD budget but the warmth from Bucky made your eyes flutter shut and shift in his arms. Then, realising what you're doing, realising Bucky's organic arm is weighted on your hip, fingers occasionally dancing against your navel, realising your legs are intertwined; your eyes flare open, heart in your throat.
Realising that you aren't the only thing awake.
Embarrassment creeps up your neck, heat rushing between your thighs too.
Oh, God.
Bucky mumbles incoherently but tugs you backwards so you're pressed against his hips, your camisole having risen slightly. You want to die. You knew this mission would be a living nightmare.
Bucky makes another sound, this making your flesh goosepimple, and shifts his head into your shoulder crease his lips brushing against your skin.
It's another twenty minutes before Bucky wakes up properly and you feel like you've lived in your own personal hell for eons. Every gentle roll of his hips or shift of his legs, every brush of his lips fuels your longing for him, your crush becoming something bigger and indescribable with each passing second.
The moment he's a awake, you pretend to have just woken as he practically throws himself from you with a quiet curse. You don't need him to feel embarrassed too.
"Morning." You murmur sleepily as Bucky disappears into the bathroom, heaving a sigh of relief.
"Morning!" He calls from the bathroom. "Sorry I... I didn't mean to cuddle you."
"It's just a cuddle." You say, hoping you sound nonchalant and perky instead of devastated. '"I'll get coffee and we can figure out next steps."
"Good idea."
"I, um, yeah. I'll be back." You quickly dress and sprint from the room, taking more time than needed before heading back to the suite. You don't know how you'll survive the next few days.
Strangely, acting like a couple was much easier after sharing a bed. Maybe because there were far more nerve-wracking and embarrassing things than giving Bucky a quick peck or holding his hand. The banter you both usually shared had made a comeback, and it seemed like your targets had fallen for the ruse, one of which commented how cute you both were.
"You've been together for years, I can tell." She nodded at you.
"Really?" You'd pressed with a smile. "How so?"
"The way you look at each other." She shrugged. "There's so much love in your eyes."
You'd both blushed and played coy but you hated that she was right. At least about you. Bucky was good at this sort of thing. A professional. You felt like a love sick puppy following him around, more comfortable (and eager) to touch his arms, his chest now after last night.
Getting into bed again was a lot easier now. For the next two nights you both chatted about the mission and endless nonsense, lying beside each other under the covers before falling asleep and waking up in each others embrace; each time less and less awkward.
By the fifth day of the mission, you're both climbing into bed at the same time and while you don't cuddle per se, you come as close to it without calling it cuddling.
"I have to admit," you murmur to him through the darkness. "I'm having a lot of fun."
"Really?" Bucky laughs.
"I... I kinda like being your fake girlfriend." You giggle nervously. You hear Bucky swallow next to you.
"I'd prefer to take you on a real date sometime. Rather than all of this... fearing for our life stuff." Bucky murmurs and you turn to face his silhouette next to you.
"You mean that?" You ask quietly.
"Wouldn't say it if I didn't." You can feel the bed creak as Bucky turns onto his side. Through the dark, his face begins to come into view; handsome and sincere. "I would have asked under different circumstances too. I just-"
He sighs and you shuffle closer, breathing against his chest, basking in his warmth but still not touching.
Bucky breaks first. His arm slings around your waist and tugs you closer. Your noses touch. Then your lips. Tentative turns tenacious, shy to self-confident as your bodies tangle together in the darkness.
You don't worry about what comes next. It's obvious from the way he clings to you in the afterglow that you're on the same page. Whatever was between you, whatever connection that had been brewing for months behind stolen glances and lingering touches, would last longer than a mission.
One week later, your mission is drawing to a close.
Almost two weeks of pretending, and then being, Bucky’s girlfriend had left you elated. However, the mission had taken a turn for the worse when Natasha had called you the night before with intel and new mission objective.
The intel? There was a rat amongst your new found "friends" and they had planned a shoot out at the restaurant you were supposed to attend - God-father style - to ensure no member or associate the the rival gang would be able to continue business; thereby creating a power vacuum and an opportunity to quadruple profits with the new businesses, properties and areas acquired.
Your mission was simply to stay alive.
You blinked up at Bucky the following afternoon, your hand hovering over the door handle of the sleek black SUV that had driven you to the restaurant. The next moments, maybe minutes, maybe hours could be your last and you had to get something off of your chest.
"Hey," you say softly. "I love you. You know that, right?"
Bucky's eyes widen as he looks down at you. There's a faint blush under your make up and your eyes glisten with worry for the next, possibly last, moments you will have together and your soul is bared to him. You're not lying. The words rolled off your tongue so naturally, Bucky could only wonder how long you'd been wanting to say it.
"I need you to know that." Your voice is quiet and you tear your gaze away from his, looking at the door and steeling your nerves.
He swallows, throat uncomfortably tight. "Yeah. I know. I love you too, doll."
Your face cracks as you try to hide a smile behind a nod. "Let's get this over with, then you can take me on a real date."
"I don't think I could afford such a luxurious hotel or car for after the successful date." Bucky smirks and you chuckle quietly.
He hopes, that whatever happens next, that the last thing his mind is your face lit up with a smile. With one last deep breath and a sweet kiss farewell, you both step out of the car.
Pairing | New Avengers!Bucky Barnes x New Avengers!Reader
Summary | After a mission goes horribly wrong, the team ends up stewing in their own anger on the car ride home. You try to lighten the mood, but instead it makes everyone angrier. When you're down, Bucky’s there to comfort you.
Warnings/tags | Thunderbolts* spoilers?? Tower fic, fluff, friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, yearning, cursing, nsfw, MDNI (18+), smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, praise kink, soft dom!Bucky, kissing, protective!Bucky, breast play, oral (f receiving), fingering, your honor Bucky’s obsessed with reader, no use of y/n.
Word Count | 12.3k
A/N | Baby's first fanfic!! I’ve been wanting to write for some time and how fitting that my first one is about my husband. Please have mercy on me, I write for fun. It’s not great, but I had a blast writing it. I hope you enjoy!! And if you did let me know:))
It’s a cold day. The kind of cold that sits deep in your bones, chilling you to your very core. No snow is on the ground, but it’s getting close to that time of year. You shiver in your seat, wrapping your arms tightly around your middle to bring warmth back into your system.
The car sways slightly with the intense winds, but Bucky has a firm handle on the wheel, keeping it steady. Silence settles over the car; only the occasional groan, sigh, and low engine rumble break the quiet.
The team just completed a mission, and though everything worked out in the end, it didn’t seem to matter. Many things had gone wrong. The intel you had gathered was bad, the plan was thrown out the window, and the whole team was out of sync. All of that caused a rift between the members in the car.
Bucky’s driving, grip so tight on the wheel that his knuckles are white. You’re not sure if it’s from anger that the team had entirely ignored the meticulous plan you and Bucky had put together hours before you left, or if the uncomfortable silence is eating at him like it is you.
Yelena is in the passenger seat, feet propped up on the dash, picking at the chipped polish on her nails. Her face says everything. She’s pissed. At everyone, but specifically Walker.
During the mission, he went to throw a punch, and instead of hitting his original target, he clocked Yelena right in the jaw. You don’t think she meant to get in the way, but she was just so occupied with getting the mission done that she wasn’t too keen on her surroundings. Now, a purple bloom of color is setting into her skin, along with other marks littered across her face and body, not unlike the others sitting in the car.
Walker is sitting in the bench seat ahead of you, closest to the window. He’s rubbing at his jaw, where Yelena punched him as “payback” on the walk back to the car. When Walker hit her, it was an accident. She didn’t see it that way; no one could convince her otherwise. You had to stifle a laugh when it happened because it was so abrupt, but also because of the clear shock on John’s face.
Ava’s next to him, arms crossed over her chest, and her brows drawn together. She occasionally bumps Walker with her elbow when the car drifts off its straight path, causing grunts and a string of low curses from the blonde man’s mouth.
Alexei’s eyes are closed, no doubt sleeping, next to Ava, who paid him no mind. You don’t think he’s upset with anyone, but the stillness lulled him to sleep, and you’re envious that he can nap at a time like this. But he can doze off at any time, no matter the circumstance. One time, you found him snoring upright while waiting for the microwave to beep, notifying him that his ramen was finished.
Bob is to your left on the second bench seat. You can feel the anxiety radiating off of him. Though he hadn’t helped out on the mission, he decided to come along for the ride. But he most likely regrets his decision now because he hates seeing the team like this. Bob always tries to lighten the mood, but he knows it’s useless this time.
You, on the other hand, don’t share everyone else’s sentiments. Yeah, every single thing was fucked from the start. But at least the job is done, and no one has any serious injuries, which is a win in your book.
Your head is swimming with ways to get everyone to stop sulking, but you don’t want to make an already bad situation worse. So, you settle on breaking the silence and suffering the consequences.
“Still on for movie night?” You say almost sheepishly, but there’s a hint of amusement in your tone. You’re met with silence. Only Bob looks your way briefly before his head drops between his shoulders, eyeing the floor. Instead of letting that deter you, you continue your pursuit.
“John picked last time, so it’s someone else’s turn. And I don’t think I can sit through another shit action movie. It’s just an excuse for men to blow shit up at this point.” That earns a strained laugh from the man beside you, but he doesn’t lift his head.
”Hell no.” Yelena grumbles from the front seat. “After this car ride, I am not sitting next to any of you.”
”I second that notion.” Walker pipes up, rolling his eyes in the process.
”At least there’s something we can agree on.” Ava ‘accidentally’ knocks her elbow into Walker’s arm again, and he looks like he’s seconds away from losing it.
You sit up in your seat, trying to draw their attention. “Oh, come on. We always watch a movie every other Friday. It’s tradition.”
John shakes his head. “Not happening.”
”I made homemade brownies, and I’ll make popcorn.” You put on your best smile, even if it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Your smile quickly fades when no one answers. You glance around the car, and not a single soul is looking your way.
You lock eyes with Bucky in the rearview mirror. He loosens his grip on the steering wheel and gives you an almost apologetic expression. Your heart stutters in your chest. It’s a simple gesture but still melts some tension away from your shoulders.
You and Bucky have become friends over the last few months, or at least that’s what you’d like to think. When you first met the super soldier, he was closed off, grumpy, and didn’t talk much outside of a mission. But if you were lucky, you’d earn a stiff nod or grunt in response.
You strangely saw him as some sort of challenge. And you never backed down from a challenge. He didn’t have to like you, but you at least wanted to get more than a gruff sound from deep in his chest.
You started to memorize his schedule. Not like a creep, you just noticed the little things he did throughout the day. He wasn’t a morning person, so you avoided him until he finished his early workout. Usually, that changed his mood drastically; his posture was less guarded, and his expression had softened slightly.
He’d come to the kitchen after exercising, and you’d always have coffee ready, offering him a cup. Plain black coffee, just the way he likes it. You’d slide the mug near him with some sweet treat you had made prior that week. He would nod as a thanks, which had already been a small victory.
The common room was a safe place for him to gather intel or scope out potential missions. Pieces of paper were sprawled out on the table, and a soft glow illuminated his face from the screen on his laptop.
You caught on pretty quickly to what he was doing and started asking if he needed help. He always looked up from his work, stormy blue eyes meeting yours, and shook his head, no. Unfortunately for him, you were persistent.
You flopped down in the seat next to him with your laptop. His dark eyebrows knit together in confusion as he stared at you from behind his screen. You propped your head in your hand while the other was busy scrolling through articles, news reports, and random findings online.
You turned your screen around, giving him the vital information you found. Soon after, you began working together as a team, granting you much more than his usual guttural noises. From then on, everything was a breeze. Well, not exactly a breeze, but you considered him your friend.
Bucky made small talk in the morning over coffee, complementing you on whatever pastry, muffin, or dessert you made. He asked you to spar with him after John had slept in one morning. You were giddy with excitement that he chose you, but that feeling disappeared when he kicked your ass that day. Your chest heaved with exertion as your body slumped down on the mat, sore and aching. You knew he wouldn’t go easy on you, which was okay with you. You just had to step up your game.
It became easier to spar with Bucky after learning his tells. He would give you a few helpful pointers, which your original sparring partner, Yelena, hadn’t cared to do.
There were plenty of late nights between the two of you. You and Bucky hunched over a laptop, leaning into each other's space while researching and losing sleep.
But, if you’re being honest, you didn’t mind being sleep-deprived because you liked being next to him. Breathing in his scent, a mix of sandalwood, musk, and a hint of spearmint. Hearing the snort he let out when you made a joke. Seeing the corner of his lip turn up when you get animated about certain information.
It had turned from friends in your head to perhaps…more. You developed a crush on the tall, dark-haired man. Of course, you knew he was handsome; you weren’t blind. But you thought maybe the butterflies dancing in your stomach from his laugh or smile would go away. Then, his metal hand brushed against your skin. You’d feel like your world was turned on its axis and knew your attraction to him wouldn’t go away anytime soon.
As you sit in the car, gaze locked on Bucky’s blue irises, you must force yourself to look away so your heart doesn’t beat out of your chest. You tell yourself to try again to shake the team out of their irritated state. Maybe that will take your mind off your intense feelings for Bucky.
”We can order in Chinese. That’s always a comfort food of mine.” You offer.
Yelena turns entirely in her seat, shooting daggers at you. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”
Your back hits the seat as if she stabbed you. Yelena never raises her voice at you, not even when angry, because she’s never angry at you.
You consider Yelena more of a friend than anyone in the car. You connect more deeply with her, for which you are genuinely grateful. But now, as she stares you down, you feel a sense of dread putting down roots in the pit of your stomach.
“What?” It comes out smaller than you intended, and you can hear the hurt in your voice. Bucky hears it and immediately tries to meet your gaze in the mirror, but your eyes are directly on Yelena’s. They’re usually deeply warming, but there’s only a raging fire right now.
“Not everything is a puzzle you can assemble and force the pieces to fit. You can’t make everything better. You don’t make anything better.” Yelena’s voice is booming in your ears, loud and harsh. You feel too vulnerable. Too seen. You don’t know whether to scream or cry. You decide to stay silent instead, letting the anger boil beneath the surface.
”Knock it off, Yelena.” Bucky speaks up. His jaw is clenched, as if he could say more, but he chooses not to. You’re glad he doesn’t, though, because you might just let yourself cry in front of the team. All anyone will see is just how broken and raw you feel on the inside. But the others in the car don’t seem to be paying too much attention. Either they’re trying their hardest to ignore it, or they’re determined not to get involved.
Yelena’s eyes haven’t left yours, completely ignoring Bucky’s warning. “I’m sick of you trying to fix everything. Just let it be broken for once.” The anger threatens to bubble up, but you keep it at bay.
”Enough!” Bucky seethes at Yelena, whipping his head in her direction. Yelena finally settles back into her seat, satisfied with releasing her wrath on you.
You take a deep breath in before you say a word. ”Got it. Loud and fucking clear.” Your voice is steady, firm even. You're not going to let everyone see the raw and bleeding parts of you. Not now. Not ever. You glance out the window, a storm brewing behind your eyes, focusing on how the buildings pass by in a flash.
You hear a soft groan in front of you, but you don’t look for the source of the sound, too busy stewing in your irritation. “Did I fall asleep?” You recognize the voice as Alexei’s. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and pats his thighs, sitting up in his seat. “Well, what did I miss?”
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
Everyone breaks off in different directions once they’re back at the Tower. No one has said a word. Maybe it’s better that way so that everyone can cool down. Bucky follows behind you, keeping just enough distance for it not to be noticeable. He wants to check on you but isn’t quite sure how.
You’re quiet, and your muscles are taut, which is unlike you. Bucky knows all your intricate details, and you are far from a quiet person. Sure, there’s a gentleness about you, but you’re also lively. Especially when it comes to you talking about your passions. Your face lights up, and it’s as if the colors around you are suddenly brighter.
One of his favorite things is to catch you in the kitchen, hips swaying to the smooth music drifting through the speakers. You always seem in your element when baking and humming along to the song while your hands are whisking. Bucky would be embarrassed if anyone caught him, but it’s addicting. You’re addicting.
When the gentle parts of you come to the surface, it’s like watching a butterfly float through the air. There’s something so delicate about that side of you, like you're made of glass.
You’re constantly checking up on the team. You make sure they’ve eaten or drank enough water, or if they need a person to talk to. You’re always there. And now, no one is there for you when you need it most, which kills Bucky.
You’re speed walking to your room, arms tucked against your chest as if you’re closing in on yourself. Bucky practically trips over his feet, trying to catch up to you. He calls your name, but you don’t seem to hear. He finally gets close enough to grab hold of your arm. Not forcefully, just a light touch against your skin to pull you out of your daze.
Your breath hitches in your throat at the sudden contact, and you stop dead in your tracks. You glance down at where his flesh hand is and then up at his eyes. He drops his hand to rest at his side when he has your attention. His fingertips tingle from touching your skin, and it feels like tiny jolts of electricity.
There’s a beat of silence as he clenches and unclenches his fist before he clears his throat. “So, no movie night?”
”You heard them, it’s not happening.” You mumble, your voice is so soft. He might've missed it if he hadn’t been beside you.
“Right,” Bucky murmurs back, matching your tone so he doesn’t scare you away. He wants to say he’s still up for it, but then it’ll just be the two of you. Then again, is that so bad? You stare at each other without speaking. He opens his mouth to say something, but you cut him off.
”Look, I’m pretty tired. I’m gonna go to bed. It’s been a long day.” You rub a hand over your arm, where he touched you, and now he’s spiraling. Maybe she didn’t want to be touched, and now she’s trying to rid her skin of any trace of me. He shakes the thought away and gives you a stiff nod.
“Of course, you must be exhausted. Goodnight, I’ll see you in the morning.”
”Night.” You give him a tight-lipped smile before turning away and heading to your room, disappearing into the hallway's darkness.
Bucky stands there, one hand on his forehead, as he rubs at the growing headache. His mind is racing. He should have said so many things and asked if you were okay or wanted to talk about it. But Bucky was never truly good with feelings. He’d rather cram them deep down inside than open that Pandora’s box of issues.
He’s getting better, though, revealing the dark parts of himself. The nightmares, the memories that make his muscles tense, Hydra. Not to everyone, just to you. And you always listen. You make it your purpose to give him all your attention; he knows he doesn’t deserve that. But you give that part of yourself so freely.
He can’t just stand idly by while you’re hurting. So, he turns from his spot and wanders around the Tower to find Yelena. She’s not too hard to find. She’s standing in the kitchen watching her mug rotate around in the microwave with a cookie in her mouth. Bucky stands right behind her, hands on his hips.
”Apologize.”
Yelena spins around, clutching the spot on her chest right over her heart with her eyebrows raised. “Fuck, James. Give a girl some warning.” Her voice comes out muffled from her mouth full of crumbs.
“You’re an ex-assassin. You’re supposed to hear me coming from a mile away.” Bucky deadpans.
Yelena swallows down what’s in her mouth before speaking. ”I am off the clock. My guard is down.” She shrugs her shoulders, then points a finger at the super soldier as if scolding him. “Plus, I was chewing. I could have choked.”
Bucky ignores her dramatics and repeats himself. “Apologize.”
”No.” She whirls around as the microwave beeps and takes out the cup of hot water, placing it on the counter.
”Why?”
Yelena grabs a white packet from the cupboard, ripping off the top and shaking the contents into her mug. “Because I’m sick of her being so positive all the time.” She grabs a spoon from the drawer to stir the rich chocolate liquid.
“And? What’s wrong with that? This team needs a little fucking positivity.” Bucky snaps.
She twists to face Bucky, leaning against the counter and bringing the cup of hot chocolate to her lips. “Seems like you need a little positivity.”
“Yeah, maybe I do.” Bucky lowers his voice; his mind flicks to you and how content you make him when you’re around. “Listen, without her, this team would be nothing.”
Yelena tilts her head; her voice is thick with faux pity. “Are you saying she’s the glue that holds us together?”
“Yes,” Bucky says simply. Even if she doesn’t mean what she says, that’s precisely what he meant. You’re the glue.
Yelena quirks a brow. “Have you gone soft, Barnes?
He disregards her question and continues. “Just apologize.”
“Fine, fine. Don’t get your panties in a twist. I will…tomorrow.” She takes another swig of the dark liquid.
“No, right now.”
Yelena rolls her eyes and begins walking out of the kitchen, Bucky hot on her heels. “I’m tired. I’ll do it bright and early tomorrow so you can see her beautiful smile.” He pauses for a moment, caught off guard by her statement. She smirks at him over her shoulder as she strides to her room. He recovers quickly, following her again.
She snorts when he doesn’t answer. “That is what this is about, right? You can’t stand to see her sad. It’s breaking you. Making you have all kinds of feelings. Your little heart can’t take it.” Yelena opens her door, getting ready to close it behind her.
“No, that’s not-.” Before he can deny her revelation, she interrupts him.
“Goodnight, Barnes. Or should I say loverboy?” Yelena gives him a smug look, wiggling her eyebrows before closing the door in his face.
Great, he thinks, that’s what I get for prying.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
It’s been a couple of hours, and you're still lying in bed, wide awake, to your dismay. You spent about an hour tossing and turning, then another hour staring at the ceiling. Now, you can’t decide between a blanket or no blanket. Maybe you need a glass of water, but no, scratch that; you need a drink.
You can’t help but play the day's events over in your head: the mission, Yelena’s words, Bucky. Your skin still prickles where he touched your arm. He was so gentle with you, as if you were fragile.
Of course, he knows you're not. You’ve tripped him up a few times while sparring, knocking him flat on his ass. That shouldn’t give you as much thrill as it does, but who can blame you?
Still, you think about his hand gingerly placed on your arm as he examined you with concern etched on his face. And, you had pushed him away. Not because you didn’t want him. Fuck, you wanted him. But you knew if you opened up and let him see how wounded you were, that would leave you more exposed than you already felt. You’re wishing you had stayed. Let him take your mind off everything, but it’s too late.
You kick your feet over the side of the bed and amble over to your bedroom door, neglecting to put on your slippers. You pad through the hallway, and a figure in the living room snags your attention.
Bucky is on the couch, a quilt draped over his legs as colors dance across his form, and he’s taking you in. You note how his shoulders drop and his features soften, almost as if he were waiting for you. But that’s absurd. You rid the thought immediately.
He pulls you out of your daze as his voice cuts through the air. “You alright?”
You shrug, gesturing to him on the sofa. “I could ask you the same question.”
His gaze flicks down as if noticing where he is and what he’s doing. “Oh, yeah, I couldn’t sleep.” He focuses back on you, no doubt wanting you to answer his question.
“Me either.” You tip your thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “You want a drink?”
“Sure, sounds good to me.”
You go to the bar, rummaging through the liquor cabinet until you find what you are searching for—a clear glass bottle with dark amber liquid. You couldn’t care less about how much it cost, but you can tell by the ornate design of the bottle that it had to cost half a fortune. It's not something you have the money for, especially before this job, but Valentina always supplied the best for appearance's sake.
You take two short whiskey glasses from the shelf, setting them on the counter before detaching the glass stopper from the geometric bottle. You fill both glasses halfway and head back to the living room.
You step around the couch and hand Bucky his. He nods in appreciation as you sink into the spot next to him. You’re close enough to feel his warmth, but there’s still some distance between you.
You take a sip of the liquid. A smooth, smoky, and vanilla flavor hits your taste buds and floods your senses—a welcoming contrast to distract from how shitty you feel.
You already feel a thousand times better, Bucky next to you, the liquor calming you, and the steady sound of the TV playing in the background. You tip your head toward the TV as you get comfortable.
You turn towards him as your arm rests on the back of the couch, elbow bent so your hand can support your head. “Having movie night without me?”
He shakes his head. ”No, never. It just happened to be on.” The corner of your lip lifts, and your chest warms. You can’t tell if it’s from the whisky heating your body temperature or the way he said never, and you think you might believe him.
”Well, you are watching a movie on movie night, so that’s a little suspicious.” You tease.
”Shit, I guess I am.” There’s amusement in his voice as a faint smile appears. He rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry, doll. I would’ve invited you but thought you wanted to be alone.”
You hum in response. “I thought I did, too, but I was wrong.”
Bucky’s tone turns serious as he scans your face. “Do you wanna talk about it?”
”Hell no. Distract me, please.”
“Anything for you.” He says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You swear your heart skips a beat, and your cheeks flush slightly. Somehow, you know he’s not just saying that to make you feel better. You feel like you can breathe easier knowing that.
“Anything, huh?”
”Just say the words, sweetheart.”
“Care to share that blanket?” You think the whisky is calming you and giving you hidden confidence you didn’t know you had.
”I s’pose.” He drawls with a smirk on his face. You scoot closer, and he lifts the quilt, covering your legs. It was never about needing warmth, just an excuse to be near him.
“Much better.” You mumble.
Bucky stares at you, blue eyes flicking between your features like he’s trying to memorize you, and a shiver runs through you under his gaze. He clears his throat, running his metal hand through his hair.
“Right, distraction.” He leans his head back against the couch, examining the ceiling as he sifts through his brain for a topic of discussion. All you can think of is how distracted you already are.
“Oh, got it.” He locks his eyes with yours once again. “Alexei was riding the elevator this morning.”
Your eyebrows draw together, utterly confused. “That’s usually what happens.”
”For half an hour.”
You giggle at how strange that sounds. “Wait, why?”
”I don’t know. When I asked him about it, he said he was testing a theory and then swore me to secrecy. So, you can’t say anything.” He arches a brow. “I’m pretty sure he just pressed all the buttons, though.”
Laughter bubbles out of your mouth, exactly what you need. You’re hurt, and anger is a distant feeling.
“I have one.” Bucky nods his head for you to continue. “Ava phased through the bathroom the other day, and I was completely naked.”
His jaw drops, and then he proceeds to bust out laughing. It’s a sound you never get tired of hearing, probably because it’s so rare, but also from the way it makes your stomach do somersaults. “That’s the one place you shouldn’t phase into. Is she ever going to learn how to knock?”
”I wouldn’t hold out hope. She apologized profusely, but I know she won’t stop doing it.” You put your glass on the coffee table to give him your attention.
“I don’t know how to top that one.” There’s still a lingering grin fixed on his lips as he thinks for a moment. “I caught Walker watching Titanic. He kept telling me it was already on when he sat down.”
”I knew he was a sucker for romance.” You pause, tilting your head and narrowing your eyes at him. “Wait, that means you’ve watched Titanic.”
”Of course, I have. People say it’s one of the classics.”
“And, what did you think?”
“It was good.” You can hear the reluctance in his tone. You give him a look to carry on. Bucky rolls his eyes, but there’s no malice behind it. “Jack clearly could have fit on that door.”
“Right?” Your voice goes up an octave, and you're grinning from ear to ear like a lovesick fool. “Yelena and I had a whole conversation about how they could've made it work.” Your face drops immediately after you realize what you said.
You let out a long breath, and suddenly, whatever is on the TV is extremely interesting. Your eyes are directly on the person on the screen, but you’re not paying much attention because your head is spinning again.
Why are Yelena’s words affecting you so much? You’ve never truly cared what other people think. But, then again, she’s your friend. Perhaps your best friend. Shouldn’t her opinion matter?
Bucky breaks your train of thought, not easily deceived by your sudden intrigue in the television. “She’s wrong, y’know?”
“Hmm?”
“You do make everything better.” His words are like silk, soft and comforting. You whip your head to meet his gaze. There’s a slight smile on his lips; the color in his eyes is swirling and shifting. It’s like a tide pulling you in and telling you, you’re safe. You fully trust that he will keep you safe, and you won’t overlook that.
You return his smile, and the light reaches your eyes. He parts his lips and sucks in a breath—it’s subtle, but you notice. You don’t know what to say, but settle on, “Thank you, Bucky.”
“Sure thing, doll.”
You turn your attention to the TV to hide the blush crawling up your cheeks. Then, because that liquid courage is coursing through your veins, you rest your head on his shoulder. Bucky tenses beneath you, and you internally kick yourself for making him uncomfortable. You almost pick your head up. As if he’s reading your thoughts, he relaxes, and his breathing becomes lighter.
You stay like that for a while, enjoying each other’s company as you watch the movie. Your lids feel heavy, and before you know it, they flutter shut. You’re sleeping on Bucky’s arm like you belong there.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
Bucky noticed your breathing even out about twenty minutes ago, but he’s still watching you like you're a masterpiece in the Louvre. He’s scrutinizing every aspect of your person as if he’ll be quizzed on it later. He wants to pull you into his arms and tuck your head under his chin as you lie on his chest, but he doesn’t want to overstep a boundary.
He doesn’t think he’s ever been this calm; it’s refreshing. To forget about any piece of his past for a second and drown in you. There’s no promise of nightmares or bad memories taking shape at the forefront of his mind.
Bucky yawns and leans his head against the back of the sofa. Maybe I’ll rest my eyes for a moment, he thinks before closing them and drifting off to sleep.
The sun peeking through the curtains stirs him awake, and he reluctantly opens his eyes. Your head is still a gentle weight on his arm, which brings a sleepy smirk to his face.
It dawns on him how this must look, and he realizes he should get up before any team member sees. Yelena’s already hinting at his crush on you. He can’t have everyone on him about how dopey he must look, staring at you like you hung the stars.
Bucky slowly moves from his spot on the couch, careful not to rouse you. He takes your head in one hand and shifts to stand up. Bending over, he grabs a pillow and maneuvers it under you. He delicately pulls your legs and sets them on the couch, draping the blanket's full length over your shape. Your body twitches slightly as you settle into the new position.
He steals one last glance at your peaceful demeanor as he stretches. He groans at the sharp pain in his upper back and neck, no doubt from the way he fell asleep. But he honestly doesn’t care. He’d do it all over again to feel any part of you on him. Bucky leaves you to get some much-needed rest as he starts his morning.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
You rise from sleep to the sound of clattering and blink a few times to adjust to the light. There’s a pillow under your head that you don’t remember putting there, and the quilt from last night covers the expanse of your body. You must have fallen asleep.
The recollection of last night hits you like a tidal wave. You were cuddled up on Bucky’s arm last night, which lulled you to sleep. He must have adjusted you before he went to bed. The thought gives you a fuzzy sensation in your brain.
The smell of coffee fills your nostrils, and you finally get off the couch. You drift into the kitchen. You spot Yelena and Walker talking by the counter. At least someone made up.
Walker detects you instantly. “Hey, sleepy head. How was the couch?” Yelena’s eyes dart up to meet you.
You shrug, stepping into the room. “Surprisingly, not bad.” Yelena turns around and opens the cupboard, reaching for a mug.
John nods and clears his throat. “Sorry for yesterday. Our dumb asses ruined movie night.”
You wave him off. “Don’t worry about it.” You watch Yelena bring the coffee pot to the mouth of the cup, pouring the dark liquid as steam wafts into the air.
”No, movie night is important to you. We should have sucked it up and watched it.” He reiterates.
”It’s no big deal. That just means we're watching two next Friday night.” You jokingly add.
Walker chuckles. “It’s only fair.”
Yelena turns around and hands you the cup. You must have missed her putting cream in because now it’s a swirl of tan and white. You give her a look of gratitude before bringing the warm drink to your lips.
“Can we talk?” Yelena asks with a soft expression. You can almost see her guilt on display.
”Yeah.” You murmur as your hands wrap around the mug, soaking up the heat.
”Alone, dipshit.” She adds, shooting Walker a glare over her shoulder.
He frowns, his eyebrows scrunching together. ”I was literally in here before both of you.”
It’s your turn to glare at the blonde man. He raises his hands in surrender and wanders out of the kitchen, mumbling something about women under his breath.
Yelena flicks her gaze to you and begins. “I apologize for what I said yesterday. I regretted it as soon as the words left my mouth. If I could take them back, I would.”
Yelena glances around the room, trying to find the words to convey her feelings. “I wanted to stay mad, but you were changing my mind about being mad, making me more mad. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, though.”
You sigh, shaking your head. ”It’s okay. I should have read the room instead of pushing everyone to feel a certain way.”
“No, you were right. It was a stupid reason to be upset with each other. Although there’s always a good reason to be angry at Walker.” She tilts her head in the direction John went. You let out a soft chuckle. “Do you forgive me? You can punch the other side of my jaw if that makes you feel better.”
You snort. “Tempting, but no. I forgive you.”
”That’s a relief. I thought I was going to have to replace you with one of the boys, and that makes me want to vomit.”
Your jaw drops in mock horror as you clutch your chest. “You would replace me? You wound me.”
”I’m kidding. No one could replace you.” Yelena hums as a thought pops into her head. “Barnes was right; you are the glue.”
You quirk a brow. “Huh?”
”We were talking last night. He was the one who told me to apologize.” She pauses, raising a hand. “To be clear, I was going to anyway. Plus, I never let a man tell me what to do.”
That causes you to giggle, and then you gesture for her to continue. “Go on.”
”Anyways, he implied that you’re the glue that holds this team together, and I couldn’t agree more.” She softly nudges you with her elbow. You feel your cheeks warm, and you sip at your coffee to hide how those words affect you.
Yelena rolls her eyes playfully. “Man, you two are ridiculous. Just kiss already.”
”What are you talking about?” You don’t even know why you’re trying to deny it; she caught you red-handed.
”Don’t get me started. How you look at each other, and Barnes is so protective of you. I also found you both cuddled up on the couch this morning when I was on my way to apologize to you.” Yelena gives you a look that says, Don’t you dare try to gaslight me.
Cuddled up on the couch this morning? That means Bucky didn’t leave in the middle of the night like you thought. He stayed. You bite your lip to suppress a smile, but how ecstatic you are is no secret.
”Ugh, you’re so weird. Remind me never to talk about him around you again.” She turns on her heels and heads out of the room, leaving you with a mess of feelings to sort out in your head.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
It’s late afternoon when you eventually get the courage to talk to Bucky. You’ve been avoiding all the usual places he goes throughout the day because you're afraid you’ll tell him how you feel. Gosh, you feel like a foolish teenager.
You want this more than anything. You want him more than anything. But there are a lot of what-ifs to consider. What if he doesn’t feel the same, and then you feel awkward? What if you do test this out and it doesn’t work out? Now you’ve ruined your friendship. And worst, what if he has feelings for you and wants you just as badly? You won’t know how to act with that last one.
You ultimately said to hell with all those questions because you need answers, and the only person who can answer them is Bucky. You won’t beat around the bush any longer; if there are consequences, so be it. You can live with whatever outcome, even if it hurts.
When you arrive at his bedroom, the door is already open a crack. You softly knock on it, causing it to swing open more. His gravelly voice comes through the door. “Come in.”
You push the door to proceed forward into his space before closing the door behind you. Bucky is leaning against the headboard, one leg crossed over the other with his laptop on his thigh. “Hey.” You mutter as you step closer to his bed.
He straightens instantly, placing his laptop next to him. “Hi.” As he moves to sit on the edge of his bed, he sucks air through his teeth and his face contorts into one of discomfort. He tries to hide how sore he is, but fails miserably. “What’s up?” His voice comes out strained.
Concern is written on your face as you examine him. “You’re in pain.” You cross the room to stand before him.
Bucky tries to brush off your worries. ”It’s nothing. I must’ve pulled something while training.”
You give him an unimpressed look and motion for him to turn. “May I?”
“Really, I’m fine.” He shrugs, but even that gesture seems to cause him more pain.
“Can I touch you or not, James?” Your tone relays a sense of authority, but your voice remains soft.
He lets out a deep sigh and reluctantly turns to the side, so you have access to his back. “Yes, ma’am. You can go ahead and touch me.”
You’ve never been one for formalities, but the way he says ma’am has you reeling. You recover, though, positioning yourself behind him, a knee propped on the bed for leverage.
You place your hands on his shoulders, lightly squeezing his muscles and working your way down his arms. He’s stiff beneath your touch, so you gently coax him by whispering in his ear.
“Relax for me.” As if you commanded him, he drops his shoulders and lets his head fall forward. You increase the pressure and start to massage the knots in his neck, eliciting a low groan from deep within his chest. You continue to knead his upper back, neck, and shoulder muscles until you can feel the tension melting.
”Training, huh?” You ask as you carry on with your task.
”That’s what I said.” Bucky mumbles, evidently lost in the relief you’re giving him.
”Yes, but you’re lying.”
You hear him swallow hard. “What?”
”I know you fell asleep with me on the couch last night.”
Bucky picks his head up, though he hasn’t turned to meet your gaze. “Were you awake?”
”No, Yelena told me.” You pause, rubbing at a stubborn knot in his back. “You could have gone to bed, y’know?”
He nods once. “Yeah, I know, but,” the super soldier wavers slightly, “I didn’t want to.”
The confession hits like a punch to the gut. You want to press the matter, but as your hands journey back up to his shoulders, he rests a hand over yours, and you freeze.
He pivots to face you, his flesh hand still over yours. As he turns, your other hand falls to your side, and you pick your knee off the bed. “Thank you, but why did you actually come here? Because I know you didn’t come here to take care of me, sweetheart.”
Suddenly, you’re incredibly nervous. His eyes are locked on you, and his hand's warmth causes your heart to race. “Uh…it’s something Yelena said.”
Bucky grabs your hand off his shoulder, taking it in both of his—flesh and metal. He starts to rub soothing circles into the skin. “You two made up then?”
“Yeah,” the word seems to get caught in your throat from how he’s massaging your hand.
”Good, I’m glad.” He rotates your hand, palm up, and repeats the action to that side. “So, what did she say?”
You swallow hard to regain your composure, but your heart is still rapidly beating. “She said I’m the glue that holds this team together. She mentioned that she may have gotten that from someone else.” You give him a knowing look.
Bucky halts his actions and releases your hand. Then, he moves to the other one and starts massaging it. “I wonder who.” You arch a brow, and he sighs, conceding in his efforts to deny it.
“Fine, I said it and I meant it.” He adds emphasis to the last part. “You do a lot for this team; we don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve you.” You quietly gasp, but he still hears it.
He drops your hand and proceeds. “You’re kind, caring, and you always listen. Even if it’s not worthy of your attention. I mean how many times have you listened to the same damn story from Alexei’s ‘glory days’?”
You giggle, light and breathy. You flush a deep red color, and there’s no use in hiding it. “I don’t mind.”
”See, that’s what I’m talking about.” Bucky braces his hands on his knees and hauls himself up to stand before you. “You care so much about everyone else, but don’t let anyone do the same for you.”
He leans in, and you sharply inhale. Your eyes dart between both his eyes before your attention dips to his parted lips briefly. He notices, because of course he does, and the corner of his lip lifts into a sly smirk. He glances down at your lips in return.
Did you die and go to heaven? Because there is no way this is happening. Are you reading this wrong, or did he honestly look at your lips? You want to close the distance, but it’s not that simple. You have to leave before you do something stupid.
You step around him and begin to book it to his door, but he’s much quicker than you. “Where are you going?” Bucky snatches your arm before you can get too far. He spins you around to scan your face.
Your eyes flick up to meet his, and you’re sure he’s going to drive you wild. ”I think I might do something reckless if I stay.” You murmur.
”Then, let me do it instead, doll.” Bucky’s voice is low and rough, sending shivers down your spine.
He inspects you for any sign of hesitation, but there is none. His flesh hand moves to brush your hair out of your face and tuck it behind your ear. Bucky lets his touch drag down your jaw, tracing the skin there. Then, he takes a firm hold of it and brings you closer, capturing your lips.
The kiss is soft and slow at first, lips moving against each other like you have all the time in the world. Bucky’s other hand finds your waist, and he pulls you closer until there’s not an inch of space between you. You melt into him, and one of your arms wraps around him as your other hand cups the back of his neck, deepening the kiss.
It quickly turns hungry, your lips moving with his in a desperate dance of passion. As it starts to get heated, his tongue runs along your bottom lip, requesting access.
You part your lips immediately, and his tongue slips into your mouth. He lets out a satisfied hum when he finds your tongue. He’s completely immersed in you. His tongue explores your mouth like it’s a personal mission to taste every inch of you. Your knees buckle slightly, and his hand leaves your jaw to grab your hip, granting you stability.
Your tongues slide and swirl with one another as your hand snakes up and under his shirt, feeling his bare skin. Bucky positions his leg between your thighs, and you moan into the kiss at the contact.
He breaks the kiss and gazes down at you. You’re flushed and trembling with desire. You're both trying to slow your breathing, but it’s pointless. He dips his head to attach his lips to your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your collarbone. You grind against his leg, needing some friction. “Bucky,” you breathe.
He growls against your skin, sending vibrations through you. He tightens his grip on your hip and begins to help guide your movement. Then, he moves to your ear, taking your earlobe between his teeth and licking its shell. “Tell me what you need, doll.” His tone is raspy in your ear.
Your breathing turns erratic at all the sensations, and your knees threaten to give out, but you know he has you. “I…I need you.”
“Fuck,” he drawls in your ear before pulling back to get a glimpse of you. “That’s all I want to hear. Are you going to let me take care of you?”
You open your mouth to speak, but the words won’t come. You nod in response, and he doesn’t waste any time.
“Good girl.” Bucky picks you up by your thighs effortlessly as if you weigh nothing. You realize you’ve always wanted to witness that super soldier strength firsthand, and now you have a front row seat to the show.
Bucky carries you the short distance to the bed and lays you down gingerly. He crawls onto the mattress after you and nudges your legs apart with his knee so that he can situate himself between your thighs. He braces his arm next to your head, hovering over you. You bite your lip at the sight of his bicep on full display. He lets out a low chuckle as his other hand slips under your shirt.
He lets his fingers dance across your flesh, reveling in the way you shiver. Bucky takes the hem of your shirt in both hands and pulls it over your head, tossing it somewhere in the room. He hums at the sight of you before making quick work of your bra. He reaches around you and unclasps it as he lowers the straps off your shoulders.
He drinks you in, naked from the waist up. “Damn, you’re gorgeous.” Bucky plunges to kiss along your sternum while his hand wanders up to cup your breast. He trails kisses to your other breast before his tongue darts out to tease your nipple.
His eyes flick up to you as he wraps his lips around your nipple, sucking and swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud. His hand gently squeezes and massages your other breast. You arch your back and you let out a soft whimper. You feel a heat pool in your lower stomach as the tension builds in your aching body.
“Bucky, please.” You beg while you buck your hips up into him to relieve some of that growing pressure.
He releases your nipple with a soft pop. “Shh…patience, doll. Let me take my time with this beautiful body of yours.”
Bucky switches to the other, giving each breast equal attention. You grunt in frustration, and he laughs against your skin. You begin to protest, but he bites your nipple, causing a new wave of pleasure to crash over you. You silence yourself and let him work his magic.
As he languidly kisses and sucks the opposite breast, his fingers toy with your other one. Bucky’s thumb rubs and flicks over your nipple, drawing a moan from your lips.
Once he’s satisfied, his mouth moves further down. He kisses and nips at your skin as he travels to your lower stomach. Bucky licks along the spot above your waistband, and you squirm underneath him.
“Lift your hips for me, doll.” He pats your thigh and glances up at you; his blue eyes are dark. You obey, digging your heels into the mattress to lift the lower half of your body. He hooks his thumbs into your shorts and peels them off, leaving you in just your panties.
He’s breathless as he admires the way you’re sporting those black, lace panties. Bucky licks his bottom lip before taking it between his teeth. You’re thrumming with anticipation from how he’s examining you like you’re his next meal and he’s starving. He traces the outline of your underwear with a single digit. Then, runs his finger over your core, his touch feather-light, but it still causes you to twitch.
“Mmm…so wet for me.” Bucky plants a soft kiss to your underwear clad clit. He takes the lace band and drags it down your thighs. You raise your legs, and he slips them off and stuffs them in the back pocket of his jeans. You playfully roll your eyes, and he smirks at you.
“What, I can’t have a little souvenir of our first time?” He grabs the underside of your knee and hooks it over his shoulder as he kisses your inner thigh.
“I didn’t say you couldn’t, I just kinda like that pair.” You jest.
”I can see why.” Bucky looks up through his lashes and winks at you. You giggle, and you’re sure that this man is going to be the death of you. “But, I gotta say, I prefer you in nothing.” He fans his hot breath across you as his mouth gets closer to where you need him most. “Such a pretty pussy.”
Yep, he’s going to kill you, and if it isn’t from that handsome face, then it will be from that filthy mouth. You smooth his hair back and out of his face, taking a moment to appreciate the sight of him. He looks like a dream. Maybe this is a dream because he’s too damn perfect.
Bucky leans into your touch as you run your fingers through his long hair. His expression softens, and he presses a lingering kiss to your thigh.
“Can I taste you, babydoll?” His voice goes deep and husky. Your breathing stutters at the nickname; he can tell you like it.
“Yes, please.” Your eyes are pleading, like you can’t wait a second longer.
”Anything for you.” He lowers his mouth to lick a strip up your center. You whine and grip his dark strands. Bucky’s tongue dives back in, devouring you. His tongue works expertly on your wet heat, licking up your juices and teasing your entrance.
You writhe and squirm under him as erotic sounds exit your wide-open mouth. “Fuck, that feels so good. Your mouth is perfection.”
Bucky groans against your pussy hearing your sounds and praises. His metal hand rises to rest on your lower stomach as the other one grabs your hip, holding you still. He flicks his tongue over your clit before lightly sucking on it. He swirls his tongue around you in tight circles. You tip your head back, letting out a loud, throaty moan.
He lets go of your hip and traces a finger around your entrance as he continues to suck and lick your bundle of nerves. Bucky dips his finger into you and steadily pumps it in and out.
You whimper at the sudden intrusion, and your free hand searches for something to grab onto. You find Bucky’s metal hand on your stomach and grasp the back of it, trying to ground yourself. He flips his hand over, holding your hand in his as he works at your cunt.
He slides a second finger in, stretching you out and pumping deeper into you. Bucky breaks away from your clit, his teeth faintly grazing it, as he comes up for air. Now that you can see his whole face, you notice the way his mouth and chin are covered in your juices. It only adds to the intense pleasure you feel from his skilled fingers.
”You’re doing so well, sweetheart.” He squeezes your hand and brings it to his lips, kissing your knuckles before resting your clasped hands on your abdomen again.
You can feel the pressure building inside you with every stroke of his fingers, and it’s overwhelming. You don’t think anyone has ever made you feel this incredible, and you never want the pleasure to end.
He curls his digits inside you, caressing your walls. You squeeze around his fingers, and he picks up the pace, wanting to bring you to the edge. Your thighs begin to quiver as moans and whimpers fill the room. “Bucky…I’m so close. Please, don’t stop.”
”Wasn’t plannin’ on it.” He drops his head down, mouth pushing between your slick folds. Bucky doubles down on his efforts. His fingers thrust faster while he sucks on your clit hard, then his tongue starts to move with even more purpose—swirling, flicking, and teasing.
Without warning, your orgasm wracks through your body. Wave after wave of pleasure crashing down upon you. You come undone with a strangled cry as your eyes squeeze shut. Your hand instinctively pulls on Bucky’s hair as you ride out your climax. He helps you prolong your orgasm by keeping up with his ministrations.
He slows his movements to a stop and lets you catch your breath. You shudder with aftershocks of pleasure as you come down from your high.
He unhooks your leg from his shoulder and begins to kiss and nip up the expanse of your body. He inches up your form until he’s level with your face. Your eyes are still closed, and he chuckles low at your blissed out state. He plants kisses on your forehead, cheeks, and nose, making you release a breathy laugh. He finally places a soft, sweet kiss on your lips before leaning back to inspect you.
“You still with me, doll?” Bucky brushes a stray damp hair out of your face. You open your eyes, giving him a soft grin. “Ah, there’s my pretty girl. You doin’ okay?”
Your smile grows wider because he looks like an angel above you and has the nerve to call you pretty. “Better than okay. That was unreal.” You grab the back of his neck as your thumb caresses the skin. “Do you eat pussy for a living?” You jokingly add.
He gives you an amused look. “I can eat your pussy for a living. Keep me down there between your thighs and I’ll be a happy man.” He pinches your thigh to emphasize his words.
You giggle and wish time would stop for a minute because you want to stay in this moment forever. You snap yourself out of your daze and gesture between the two of you. “This isn’t fair.”
”What’s not fair, doll?” He gives you a quizzical expression.
”You’re wearing too many clothes.”
He shakes his head, grinning. “I can fix that.”
Bucky climbs off the bed and reaches behind him, pulling at the collar of his black shirt until it's off. You’re faced with sharp lines and toned muscles like a fucking ancient Greek sculpture. It’s absurd how sexy he is. You don’t know if you’ve met a more attractive person.
You lean on your forearms to better view him as he continues the show. Bucky unbuckles his belt; just the clang of the metal makes a fire light within your very bones. He slips it out of the belt loops of his dark-washed jeans before tugging them and his boxers down his legs.
You cast your eyes down at where the material pools at his feet, then slowly let them glide up his figure. Fuck. You don’t know where to look. His thighs, chest, biceps, abs, dick-
He’s huge, and he looks painfully hard. Forget what you said before about his handsome face and filthy mouth, his dick will be the death of you. You’re sure that’s the best way to go, though, so you can’t find it in your heart to care much.
Bucky crawls back over top of you, settling into his original place. Your hands are instantly on him, tracing his dips and contours. His stomach muscles flex beneath your touch.
“Stunning.” You mutter. You lift your head to kiss along the spot where skin meets metal, and he quivers above you.
“Doll-“ His voice is sweet and warm like honey in your ear. You register that his cock is hard against your thigh as you trail kisses to his neck. You grip him firmly in your hand, carefully stroking his leaky cock.
He gasps softly at the feel of your soft hand on him. Bucky’s forehead falls to your shoulder, and his breathing is ragged in your ear as you continue your movements. Your thumb swipes at the precum that beads at the slit, spreading it to give you more purchase.
”Oh, sweetheart.” He growls, low and rough. “Fuck, I need to be inside you.”
You hum in agreement as you free him from your grasp. “Well then,” you move your mouth to hover beside his ear and whisper. ”Take me, baby.”
Bucky grunts and pecks your shoulder before pulling away to gaze into your eyes. His eyes are dark with desire, matching your own. He takes his dick in his hand and positions himself between your thighs. He runs the head through your slick and teases your entrance with his tip.
“Are you ready for me?”
Your free hand finds a place on his bicep in preparation, knowing you’ll need stability from his sheer size. “Yes, Bucky.”
He slides inside of you, nice and slow, taking his time to stretch you out on his cock. His entire body stiffens as he feels how tight you are. Bucky groans and his jaw clenches as if it’s taking every bit of control not to slam into you. You suck in breath and tilt your head back. He instantly takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger, gently forcing your gaze back on him.
“Eyes on me, doll. I want to watch you as it goes in.”
Fuck. You’re so turned on that you can’t even respond to him; you just obey. Your eyes are locked on his as he pushes inside you at an achingly slow pace like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you.
He bottoms out inside you, and you feel impossibly full. You’re just staring at each other now, your rapid breaths mingling in the space between you. Bucky’s giving you a moment to adjust before he even thinks about moving. He also wants to take a moment to feel you surrounding him; it’s overwhelming.
You have to remind yourself to breathe. The stretch of your pussy around him is intense. His dick is buried so far into your tight warmth it’s like he’s drowning in it, but instead you're the one losing oxygen.
He moves his hand from the spot on your chin to cup your cheek, stroking the flushed skin. He leans down and captures your lips in a hungry kiss, hot and desperate, like he needs to taste you. You reciprocate with equal fervor, your hand snaking up into his hair to deepen the kiss as your tongues merge.
He moves both his hands to grab your thighs and hikes them up to wrap your legs around his waist. Bucky’s metal hand settles on your hip as the other searches for your hand on the back of his head. He wraps his fingers around your wrist and pulls it from its place in his hair. He breaks the kiss and brings your palm to his lips, before pinning it above your head.
He leisurely starts to ease in and out of you while trying to get a read on your expression. He wants to make sure you’re feeling good or if you need more time to adjust. But, instead, you softly moan, giving him the reassurance he needs to speed up.
“Atta girl, taking me so well.” Bucky praises. It only seems to make your core wetter, making it easier for him to thrust into you. You tighten your grip on his bicep as he snaps his hips into you. His grip on your hip is bruising as he sets a rhythmic pace, steady and deep.
His hand on your wrist lets go before his fingers glide across your palm to interlock your hands, holding it against the mattress as if to say, I’m here, I’ve got you. You squeeze his hand in a silent reply to remind him that you’re here and not going anywhere.
Bucky adjusts himself as his thrusts turn erratic and sloppy as his pace quickens, slamming deeper into you. He wants to see you completely fall apart under him. You moan loudly at the new angle he’s providing you. He begins to hit that sweet spot deep inside you over and over. The tension rises sharply and quickly, like you might explode at any minute.
”Yes, Bucky. Just like that. So fucking good.” The words spew from your lips like an erupting volcano, and you can’t help the sounds you’re making, loud moans and strained whimpers.
”You sound so pretty, babydoll. Don’t hold back. Let me hear you.” He reaches between your bodies with his metal hand to rub your aching, sensitive clit with his thumb.
You arch your back into him and your hand finds purchase on the carved lines of his back, nails digging into the flesh, leaving behind little crescent moon shapes. The flood of sensations washing over you causes you to clench hard around him as you cry out in pleasure.
”Bucky, I-I’m…” You cut yourself off with a groan as he hits your cervix again.
”I know, sweetheart. I can feel you squeezin’ me.” He rubs your clit faster, applying more pressure, his thumb moving in tight circles. “Let go, doll. Come for me. I want to feel you come on my cock.”
That’s all the motivation you need as you scream his name while your pussy flutters around him. Your body is trembling as you orgasm for the second time tonight. Your vision blurs, and you’re seeing stars. The feeling is euphoric. It’s as if you’re on cloud nine, floating on ecstasy. It’s a struggle to keep your eyes open, but you need to watch him come undone.
He lets out a strangled moan as he feels you come. It’s the best feeling in the world, and he knows he could easily get addicted to it. He eases off your clit and returns his hold on your hip, firm as if he’s afraid to let go.
Bucky thrusts in once, twice, three times before spilling deep inside you. Hot ropes of cum filling you and coating your walls as he grunts your name, throwing his head back in pure bliss. He clutches your intertwined hands like a lifeline.
You watch in awe as he releases into you. Your mind is still in the clouds as you cup his jaw and force his head down. He opens his eyes, adoration swimming in his soft blues. He presses his forehead to yours as he works you both through your climax, pushing his cum deeper into you.
He ceases his movement, but stays buried to the hilt deep inside you. He wants to keep that connection for a bit longer. You can feel cum leaking out of you as your body goes limp. Bucky rests his weight on top of you, and you welcome it.
He nuzzles his face into your neck as you both come down from your highs, chests rising and falling rapidly. Your hand moves into his hair as you lightly scratch his scalp with your nails. Bucky groans in appreciation, and his lips brush against your neck with lazy kisses.
“Damn,” you breathe into the air. “Is it going to be like that every time?”
He chuckles into the side of your neck, vibrating your body. Bucky inclines his head back, letting go of your hand to lean on his forearm over you. His face has a soft expression, a mix of arrogance and amusement.
“I’m pretty sure it only gets better, doll. I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.” He pinches your side, and you huff air out of your nose in laughter.
“Oh, really? You’re quite cocky, aren’t you?”
“I’m only confident in my ability to please you.” He shoots you a look like he knows how good he made you feel.
Bucky pulls out of you, causing you to softly gasp from how sensitive you are. He rolls over into the spot beside you and takes you with him, cradling you into his warm chest. He places a lingering kiss on your forehead and then tucks your head under his chin. It’s as if you belong there.
You practically melt into him, wrapping your arms around his waist and burrowing the side of your face into his chest. Bucky hums and starts playing with your hair while his metal fingers draw meaningless patterns into your back.
”I’ll clean us up in a bit. Maybe run a bath,” he thinks out loud, making a soft smile grow on your lips. “But right now, I just want to hold my pretty girl.”
You let your eyes flutter closed, reveling in the moment and his soothing actions on your back and hair. “You won’t hear any complaints from me, handsome.”
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
You’re in the kitchen, three different pans heating on the stove. This could potentially be a fire hazard, but it isn’t much of a concern for you. You’re cooking pancakes, eggs, and sausage as you hum to one of the songs blasting from your phone.
Your hips sway to the music, gently, because it seems every time you move, pain surges between your thighs. You don’t mind, though. It’s a reminder of Bucky and the long night you spent together. But, fuck, you’re sore.
You didn’t realize how much stamina a super soldier has, but now you are acutely aware. You thought it would be a nice, relaxing bath after your first round, but someone got a little too handsy. And as you were drying, the towel wrapped snugly around you, Bucky tore it off and had his way with you again. Hence, why you’re hurting this morning, this kind of pain is something you can and will get used to, though.
You decided to make breakfast for him as soon as the sun woke you up, and you couldn’t stop admiring his sweet, sleepy expression. Half the reason is to thank him for rocking your world last night, and the other half is for much-needed sustenance.
You use your spatula to push at the edges of your fluffy pancake to flip it eventually. As you're flipping it, warm hands envelope your waist. You jump slightly, the sudden contact startling you. Bucky rests his chin on your shoulder and whispers in your ear.
”Sorry, doll. Didn’t mean to scare you.“ His voice is still thick with sleep; he must have just woken up.
You grin as you continue with your task. “You’re fine, I just didn’t hear you come in.”
”You left me.” Bucky murmurs against your skin as he kisses a trail down your neck to your shoulder.
”I was making you breakfast in bed, but now that you’re not in bed, it’s just breakfast.” You tease him as you check on your eggs.
He hums, clearly amused by your teasing. “Mmm…I missed you.” Bucky squeezes your torso, and you giggle. “I thought it was all a dream when I didn’t see you next to me.”
”No, not a dream. Very real. The throbbing between my legs is proof of that.”
Bucky snorts as his hands glide down your figure. “I would apologize, but I’m not that sorry. You know I can’t get enough of you.”
He dips his fingers under the hem of your oversized shirt and starts to massage your thighs as he mumbles in your ear. “I can’t keep my hands off of you.”
“Bucky,” You softly moan, enjoying the sensations he’s giving you. “You’re distracting me.” Your spatula drops to the counter as you reach up to rest a hand on his cheek, keeping him close to your ear.
He lightly laughs in your ear as he pulls you by your hips, your ass flush against his growing erection. His fingers dig into your flesh, gripping and rubbing at your thighs.
”A good distraction?” Bucky nibbles on your ear.
You bite your lip to suppress another moan. You take a firm hold of his jaw and turn your head, angling your lips inches from his.
”You know it.” You mutter against his mouth before pressing your lips to his.
It’s soft and tender, lips moving unhurriedly like you're learning from every brush of each other's mouth. His teeth graze your bottom lip, and he gently bites it, tugging on it before letting go.
Bucky dives back in, kissing you deeply as his tongue pushes its way past the seam of your lips. As he slides his tongue against yours, his fingertips trace your inner thighs. Your skin dots with goosebumps from his touch. You start grinding your ass on him until-
“Ah! What the fuck?” A voice cuts through the air, and you instantly break away from Bucky’s mouth to see the source of the words.
Yelena is shielding her eyes with a repulsed expression on her face. Bucky moves away from you, adjusting himself in his sweatpants. You straighten out your oversized shirt, bunched around your torso, even though you’re wearing shorts underneath.
“Is your dick out or can I open my eyes now?” Yelena can barely get out the words because she’s gagging.
Bucky groans, rubbing at his forehead, so you answer for him. ”Holy shit, Yelena. No! We’re not animals.” You glance over to Bucky, and he shrugs with a mischievous grin as if to say, Well…
You shake your head at him. “Not helping.” You whisper.
You turn back to Yelena, and her eyes are still squeezed shut. “You can open your eyes now.”
She hesitantly peels her eyes open, peeking behind her hand. Once she knows you’re both decent, she drops her hand to her side.
”Now, I have to wash my eyes with bleach to get that image out of my head.” Yelena grumbles, advancing further into the kitchen to the coffee pot.
”We were just kissing.” You insist, though you’re blushing.
”It looked like a lot more than kissing to me.” Yelena mutters as she begins to pour herself a cup.
Bucky steps around you, a hand on the small of your back as he kisses your cheek. “Sorry, that was my fault.” He murmurs. “Guess I should have stayed in bed. I’ll see you there?” He offers you an apologetic look.
You give him a soft smile. “Yeah, I’ll bring you breakfast in bed like I originally planned.”
He nods, giving you one last kiss on the cheek like he can’t resist you. “Alright, babydoll.” The nickname melts you, and you’re beaming at him before you know it.
Bucky begins to wander out of the kitchen, but pauses to glance over his shoulder. “Smells delicious, by the way. I meant to say that, but got a little…distracted.” You giggle, and he veers right and out of the room.
You return to your cooking and notice the pancake is slightly burnt. You scoop it onto a plate with an easy grin, like it doesn’t matter to you, because Bucky’s lips were on yours as it burned.
“Cute.” Yelena's voice breaks you from your trance, and when you glance at her, she’s slanted against the counter, sipping her coffee as she stares at you.
“Sickeningly cute, but I suppose cute nonetheless.” She mutters into the mouth of her mug.
You snort as you begin to assemble the breakfast on your dishes. As you're plating the food, you catch Yelena from the corner of your eye. She’s still studying you, and it’s starting to make you uncomfortable. You turn your body towards her.
”What is it?” You cross your arms over your chest, waiting for her to spit it out.
”Although I never want to see that again,” she gestures to the air around you, referring to the make-out session she just witnessed. “I’m happy for you two.”
Her words cause you to stagger briefly. That’s not what you thought she would say, but you are pleasantly surprised. “Thanks, Yelena.”
You consider Yelena’s statement for a second. You have this weightless feeling that you’ve never had in the morning. You seem to walk with a bounce to your step. There’s a constant fluttering in your stomach. You’re happy. And it’s all because of Bucky. Even though this is new and fresh, you somehow know that feeling will never disappear.
summary | you thought you were spiraling over a situationship—meanwhile, bucky barnes had been acting like your very committed, very oblivious boyfriend the entire time. one public meltdown, a congressional office full of witnesses, and a very intense kiss later… you're officially his girl (and he never doubted it).
tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v, established situationship, mutual pining (but one of them doesn't know), miscommunication, public confession, soft!bucky, domestic chaos, comedy & angst, bucky barnes is your boyfriend (he just forgot to tell you), reader is unhinged (affectionate), FLUFF & SMUT, friends to lovers (but they skipped the "friends" and the "lovers" just happened), poor congressional staff, possessive!reader, love confession, bucky is so in love it hurts
a/n | based on this request. i love writing chaotic reader
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ
divider by @cafekitsune
Your back hit the mattress in a blur of limbs and low groans, Bucky’s mouth never leaving yours, his hands already sliding under the hem of your shirt like he needed to feel skin, all of it, immediately.
“Fuck, I missed you,” he breathed against your lips, voice rough from hours of holding back everything but this.
You barely managed to smile before his teeth grazed your jaw, his scruff dragging just enough to make you shiver. His body blanketed yours, warm and solid, pressing you down in the most intoxicating way.
“You saw me this morning,” you murmured, fingers curling into his hair.
“Not like this.”
The shirt came off.
Then his.
You didn’t stop him.
You never did.
Because being under Bucky Barnes like this—held like something he didn’t want to let go of—was the only time you felt whole. His touch, his mouth, his breath in your ear as he whispered how good you felt, how fucking perfect you were when you were under him like this.
It was all consuming.
He kissed his way down your chest, every inch of skin worshiped like he didn’t just want you—he needed you. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down, slow, like he loved the way you sounded when you gasped just from anticipation.
You watched him from above, chest heaving, skin flushed—and in that moment, something tight twisted in your stomach that had nothing to do with arousal.
It was the ache.
The quiet question in the back of your head that always came right before you let him *n.
What are we?
You didn’t ask.
You just let your legs fall open, let his body settle between them, and swallowed the question whole.
He looked down at you once more, eyes so soft they burned.
“You want me?” he asked, voice hushed, reverent.
You nodded.
“Say it,” he whispered, leaning down, lips brushing your collarbone.
“I want you,” you breathed.
He groaned, low and wrecked, and then he was inside you.
One thrust.
Slow. Deep.
Your back arched, your mouth parting in a gasp as he bottomed out, hands gripping your hips like he was anchoring himself in you.
He didn’t move at first.
Just breathed.
Pressed his forehead to yours.
“Fuck,” he murmured. “You always feel like home.”
You blinked.
Your heart stopped.
But then he started moving—hips rolling slow, dragging pleasure from your core in waves. Every stroke was measured, precise, like he wanted you to feel every inch of him. Like he wasn’t just fucking you—he was holding you, claiming you without a single word about what it meant.
You let your nails scrape down his back, your thighs tightening around his waist, chasing every thrust like it could answer the questions you didn’t dare ask.
He kissed you again.
Not hungrily.
Not possessively.
Just soft.
Like a man who thought you already belonged to him.
His pace stayed slow at first—torturously so. Each thrust sank deep, dragging friction that had your nails pressing harder into his skin, a soft whimper caught at the back of your throat.
He was watching you now.
Eyes dark, focused, mouth parted like he was trying to memorize the way you looked when he was buried inside you.
“You feel so fucking good,” he murmured, and the way he said it—it was too soft. Too real. Like it meant something. Like you meant something.
You arched up to meet him, hips rising into each roll of his body, chasing that dizzying edge as the room dissolved around you. The only thing real was the heat building between your bodies, the slick slide of his skin against yours, the way he groaned every time your walls clenched around him.
You could feel your release winding tight, breath ragged, body shaking.
And then—
His hand cupped your cheek.
His lips found yours again, tender and aching as he whispered into your mouth, “That’s it. Let go. I’ve got you.”
It hit you like a wave.
You shattered underneath him, crying out as your body clamped down, orgasm tearing through you with a sharp, wet sound of skin against skin and your name on his tongue like it was sacred.
He fucked you through it, his thrusts faltering, rougher now, deeper, desperate.
“I can’t—baby, I’m gonna—fuck—” he groaned.
You wrapped your legs around him, pulled him tighter, wanted him closer.
“Inside,” you whispered, dazed.
His eyes locked on yours—wide, vulnerable, wrecked.
Then he was coming—hot and hard and raw, his whole body shaking as he buried his face in your neck and let himself fall apart in you.
His voice cracked.
“I love you,” he gasped, barely more than breath.
And you heard it.
Your body was still trembling. Your mind was still fogged.
But your heart?
It snapped to attention.
Because he said it like it was obvious.
Like he’d said it before. Like you knew.
His breathing had slowed.
His body lay heavy over yours, arms curled protectively around your waist, lips pressed to your collarbone in a lazy, half-conscious kiss. You could feel the weight of his affection in every touch—adoring, familiar, like this was just another Thursday night in the life of Bucky Barnes, the man who clearly thought you were his.
Because he said it.
He said I love you.
And not like it slipped.
Not like it was some heat-of-the-moment moan tangled in a climax.
He said it like he meant it.
Like he’d said it before.
Like he thought you already knew.
Your hand twitched on his back.
Your heartbeat, which had only just settled, started racing again—but not with pleasure. With full-blown panic.
Because—
What the actual fuck?
You stared up at the ceiling, body still bare, skin still warm from him, and yet—
Your brain screamed: WHAT ARE WE?
He shifted slightly, nuzzling closer, mumbling something incoherent as he pressed a kiss to your chest.
Meanwhile, your soul was clawing its way out of your skin.
Because if he thought this was that—you being his, this being real—then you’d missed a crucial piece of the plot somewhere back in act one.
He never asked.
There was never a “will you be my girlfriend?” conversation. No official status talk. No expectations. Just great sex, unholy chemistry, soft sleepovers, texts that made your stomach flip, and a drawer at his place you never questioned.
You suddenly wanted to sit up and scream.
But instead, you lay there frozen, blinking at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed you.
His hand rubbed slow circles on your hip.
You resisted the urge to launch yourself across the room.
What the fuck is going on.
Are we dating?
Is this real?
He sighed against your skin, content and sleepy.
You swallowed hard.
One Week Later
Your phone buzzed beside you on the kitchen counter.
It lit up with his name, the one you still hadn’t changed in your contacts—just “James 🇺🇸” with a dumb little flag emoji he’d added himself the first week you started… whatever this was.
James 🇺🇸:
On my way back—what do you want for takeout?
You stared at the screen for a second too long.
The question was simple. Casual. Routine.
And that’s what made your stomach twist.
Because it was routine.
The texts. The keys to your place. The way he dropped his jacket over your chair like he lived here. The way he smiled when he saw you, like everything else melted away.
You typed, deleted, typed again.
Finally, you sent:
You:
thai? the dumpling place. y'know the one.
Your phone buzzed two seconds later.
James 🇺🇸:
Already reading my mind, huh?
I’ll be there in 30.
Got you extra peanut sauce because I know you hoard it like a gremlin.
You huffed a small laugh, despite the weight still coiled in your chest.
Then you stared at that thread a little too long.
The little hearts you’d sent last week.
The blurry selfie he sent you from his office at midnight, captioned "Thinking about you and losing a vote at the same time 🫡”
The I love you that still echoed in your ears like a gunshot.
You set the phone down.
Walked into the bathroom.
And stared at yourself in the mirror.
You’d never called him your boyfriend.
He’d never asked.
But he acted like he was yours.
And the scary part?
You wanted him to be.
You just didn’t know if he knew that mattered.
The door creaked open with a familiar scrape—he still hadn’t fixed the hinge.
You turned from the couch, face carefully neutral.
He stepped inside in that unbuttoned suit jacket, tie half-loosened, hair tousled from a long day of pretending not to want to strangle half of Congress.
And he was smiling.
“Hey, baby,” he murmured, like it was the most normal thing in the world, setting the takeout bags down on your kitchen counter without even looking.
Baby.
You froze.
Okay, he calls you that all the time.
Maybe he calls everyone that.
Does he call Sam that?
“Place was packed,” he continued, toeing off his shoes. “Some guy tried to skip the line and the little lady behind the counter threatened to beat him with a ladle. Reminded me of you.”
You stared.
He wandered to the fridge, pulled out your favorite seltzer—your specific lemon one—and cracked it open before sliding it your way.
You caught it on instinct, fingers brushing the condensation.
He hadn’t even asked.
Just knew.
Then, casually, he took off his jacket, draped it over the chair, and loosened his tie more, tossing it with a sigh. His white dress shirt stretched a little at the biceps. He was still talking—something about a subcommittee vote gone to hell—but you were barely hearing it.
Because now?
You were tracking everything.
The way he set down two sets of chopsticks like it was automatic. The way he separated the sauces—your peanut ones on your side, his spicier one near him. The way he snagged the remote and flopped down beside you like he lived here.
Like this was his couch.
Was it his couch?
Was he paying your utilities?
“I don’t know why I let them keep putting me in these budget meetings,” he muttered, cracking open a box of dumplings. “Every time I try to talk, someone from Indiana gives me a migraine.”
You nodded slowly.
Then: “Do you… have a toothbrush here?”
He blinked at you mid-chew.
“Yeah?” He swallowed. “Under the sink. Next to yours. Why?”
Your eye twitched.
“Do you… always leave a change of clothes here?”
He nodded again, popping another dumpling in his mouth. “Babe, half my henleys are in your closet. You know that.”
You did.
You just didn’t process it.
You turned toward him fully, food forgotten.
His arm was already around your shoulders, pulling you in.
You didn’t resist. You leaned in.
And then you stared blankly at the TV as he rested his chin on your head, warm and soft and so stupidly comfortable.
He sighed.
“I missed you today,” he murmured. “It was shit at the office.”
Your heart did a weird thing in your chest—flipped, twisted, frowned.
You blinked slowly.
“…Do you keep anything at anyone else’s place?” you asked, very casually. Too casually.
He snorted. “What?”
“Just wondering.”
He reached for a spring roll. “No? Why would I?”
“Just wondering,” you repeated, mechanically.
He made a soft mhmm noise and handed you a dumpling without looking, already distracted by the TV again, thumb grazing lazy circles against your arm like his body just knew where you were supposed to be.
Meanwhile, your brain was screaming.
Are we dating?
ARE WE DATING?!
And he just sat there, all warm and sleepy and Thai-food-happy beside you, like the man absolutely not at the center of an existential relationship spiral.
You chewed your dumpling, eyes narrow.
You were going to lose your mind.
A Few Days Later
The sky over Washington was a thick stretch of slate.
Fine rain fell in that soft, insistent way that made everything damp without ever fully raining. The streets were quiet, the air cool against your cheeks, and your lungs ached just enough to make you feel alive as your sneakers slapped against the wet pavement.
Beside you, Rachel kept pace effortlessly.
Of course she did.
She looked like she’d been born doing yoga on a yacht.
“I still don’t get how you convinced me to jog in this weather,” she said, breath easy, ponytail bouncing behind her. “You’re getting fit for a reason or just embracing the sad girl cardio?”
You huffed a laugh through your nose, ignoring the sting in your ribs. “Trying to keep up with a guy who’s genetically engineered and built like a statue.”
She smirked. “Oh, right. The Bucky Barnes. Still a thing?”
You didn’t answer right away.
Your feet hit a puddle, splashing your ankles.
Rachel didn’t wait.
“I mean… it’s cute. Really. Him bringing you coffee, showing up to all your little gallery events, texting you like a golden retriever with a crush.”
You squinted through the mist. “Is there a ‘but’ coming?”
She gave a mock innocent look. “No ‘but.’ I just think if he hasn’t made it official by now, he’s probably just riding the comfort wave. You know?”
Your stomach dropped—quiet, slow—like something sliding off a ledge in the dark.
“He’s… not like that,” you muttered.
Rachel made a noncommittal sound, the kind that sounded like “maybe” but meant “absolutely.”
“Sure,” she said lightly. “But a guy like that? Everyone wants him. Powerful, polished, and hot—but still gives off that ‘I could destroy you emotionally if I wanted’ vibe. It’s catnip.”
You bit your tongue.
She went on, like she didn’t just lob a grenade at your chest.
“I’m just saying. If I were dating him, I’d make damn sure everyone knew it. Otherwise…” She shrugged, smiling sweetly. “Kind of feels like letting a limited edition slip through your fingers.”
You slowed slightly, blinking rain from your lashes.
Rachel picked up her pace, unaware—or pretending to be.
Or maybe that was the point.
The worst part?
You didn’t even know what to say.
Because in your head, you were screaming: I don’t know if I’m dating him either.
You didn’t answer her.
You just picked up speed.
One second, you were jogging beside her—lungs aching, mind heavy—and the next, your legs were moving, not with purpose but with sheer emotional combustion.
“Wait—what the hell?” Rachel’s voice snapped from behind you, sharp with confusion. “Where are you going?”
You shouted over your shoulder, breath shallow, “Forgot—I left the oven on!”
It was a terrible excuse.
You hadn’t even used the oven that morning.
And Rachel, in all her smug, sculpted glory, definitely knew it.
But you didn’t care.
You turned down a side street without looking back, rain misting against your skin, hair sticking to your neck as you ran harder, faster, legs burning. You were vaguely aware of your own ridiculousness. You were sprinting through Capitol Hill in soaked leggings and adrenaline—not because of a fire, but because your chest was burning.
Because the words still a thing were still ringing in your ears.
Because her little smile made you want to scream.
And because deep down, you didn’t know how to answer her.
You didn’t know.
Your lungs ached, your sneakers skidded slightly on wet pavement as you turned a corner, and still—you kept going.
Toward the tall glass building you knew by heart now. The security desk that always smiled when you came in. The floor where the man who may or may not be your boyfriend spent hours arguing policy and quietly doodling in his tiny notebook between meetings.
You didn’t know what you were going to say when you got there.
You didn’t know what you wanted him to say.
But you knew this:
You couldn’t keep playing house in your head while the floor beneath it kept shifting.
You needed an answer.
Even if it hurt.
Even if Rachel ended up being right.
You just prayed she got splashed by a Metro bus on the way home.
The doors of the administrative wing slammed open with a bang.
You stumbled in, soaked from drizzle, cheeks flushed, ribs on fire, and about three seconds from a full cardiac event. Your leggings were clinging to your thighs, your hoodie had definitely seen better days, and your lungs were currently staging a mutiny.
Several staffers at their desks froze mid-keystroke.
Someone dropped a pen.
Bucky looked up from where he was speaking with a few of his aides, a file in one hand, coffee in the other—and blinked at you like you’d just teleported in from an alternate timeline.
“Hey—what—?”
“Do you want to be my boyfriend?”
Silence.
Every single head in the room turned.
Bucky’s coffee cup paused halfway to his lips.
You pointed at him, panting. “Because—I think it’s time. I want to be your girlfriend. Officially. Like—not just sleepovers and emotional eye contact over takeout—I mean actual, real-life, ‘we’re together’ kind of thing.”
You sucked in another breath and barreled on before you lost your nerve.
“I know you’re busy, and, like, technically running half of Congress with your jawline, but I just—I need clarity, okay? Because I was jogging with Rachel, who’s a menace to society, and she said some stuff and I started spiraling and I just—I ran here. I ran. Here. For this.”
There was a beat of complete silence.
Bucky’s eyes were wide.
His aides?
They were riveted.
One woman actually had her hand over her mouth like this was her favorite telenovela.
You blinked at the room.
Your mouth opened. Closed. You slowly lowered your arm.
“Okay,” you said, breathless. “So clearly, that was… too much.”
You looked around at the awkward stares, then back at Bucky, your voice flattening with pure, defeated embarrassment.
“So maybe I was delusional. Maybe this isn’t what I thought. And that’s fine.”
You nodded to yourself, a slow descent into insanity.
“If I’m just some situationship moron who caught feelings and made a public scene at a congressional office,” you continued dryly, “I’m going to kill myself and take everyone in this room with me.”
You made eye contact with one aide near the door.
He flinched.
Then you sighed heavily and scanned the room, noting every wide-eyed aide pretending desperately to become one with their laptops.
Then you snapped.
“Show’s over, folks. Go home. Or back to your unpaid Excel spreadsheets or whatever.”
No one moved.
One intern coughed.
You groaned, dragging both hands over your face in slow, mortified defeat, mumbling through your fingers, “This is literally my villain origin story.”
You barely heard his footsteps as Bucky approached, but you felt him—warmth, presence, tall and steady as he stopped just a few feet in front of you.
“Hey,” he said gently, “can you look at me?”
You shook your head without moving your hands. “I’ll die.”
“No you won’t.”
“I might.”
He chuckled quietly, and something about it made your heart twist. Like this wasn’t the end of the world. Like maybe it wasn’t even close.
You slowly peeked between your fingers.
He smiled softly, eyes full of that same calm patience he used when trying to explain to you how Medicare reform worked.
He stepped closer, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. “It’s 2 o’clock,” he said, glancing around the room. “They all get off at five.”
You stared up at him.
“Oh,” you said blankly. “Cool.”
A pause.
Then, softly—almost hesitantly—he added, “I thought we were already dating.”
Your arms dropped from your face as your expression completely short-circuited.
“…What.”
He tilted his head, confused. “Yeah. For, like… a while now?”
You just stared at him.
Unmoving.
Mouth parted.
One eyebrow quirked in silent disbelief.
“…What.”
He blinked again.
Now he looked confused.
“You… didn’t think we were?”
“…No?”
He gave you the most innocent, baffled look known to man.
“I brought you to Sam's birthday party. You met his nephews. You wear my boxers. What part of this didn’t scream boyfriend to you?”
You opened your mouth.
Then closed it.
Then opened it again.
“I—You never asked me!” you accused, voice pitching.
“I didn’t think I had to!” he exclaimed.
You stared at him, absolutely scandalized. “How was I supposed to know then?”
Bucky blinked. “I—what do you mean? Everything I do is—”
“You’re from the 40s, James!” you snapped, throwing your hands up. “You guys used to, like, wear suits and give flowers and do grand declarations and ask girls to go steady in a diner over milkshakes! I was waiting for that!”
His jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”
“I watched Grease with you last week!” you cried. “You don’t get to act brand new!”
He dragged a hand over his face, groaning. “Okay, no more old movies for you.”
You crossed your arms, still damp and out of breath, glaring at him like he’d personally invented confusion.
Then he stepped back.
Took a slow, deep breath.
Straightened his posture.
And said, “Okay. Fine.”
He cleared his throat, eyes locked with yours, serious as a heart attack. Then he said your name—your full name.
“Will you do me the incredible honor of officially being my girlfriend?”
The room went so quiet you could hear someone’s chair creak.
You stared at him.
Then slowly, a dumb smile spread across your face.
“Wow,” you said, blinking. “This is… so sudden.”
Bucky paused, squinting
You pressed a hand to your chest. “I mean… we’ve only been sleeping together, sharing hoodies, texting nonstop, and eating Thai food three times a week for a few months. You barely know me.”
His jaw clenched.
“Don’t.”
“I mean, I barely know me, James. Are you sure about this? How could I possibly say—?”
He said your name—a low, gravelly warning that made your smile bloom full force.
You grinned.
“Yes,” you said. “I’ll be your girlfriend.”
And before he could react—before he could breathe—you launched yourself into his arms, hands gripping his shoulders, mouth crashing into his with every ounce of pent-up emotion and leftover adrenaline.
His arms instinctively caught you—one around your waist, the other beneath your thighs as your legs wrapped around him like you’d done this a hundred times before.
He kissed you back, hard and fast, like he’d been waiting for this moment—like maybe he needed it as badly as you did.
Somewhere behind you, someone definitely muttered, “What the fuck.”
Another staffer fumbled their phone like they were torn between reporting this to H.R. and posting this on the internet.
Bucky didn’t care.
He just kissed you deeper, right there in the middle of his office, as if the whole damn building hadn’t just watched him get emotionally hijacked by the woman he thought was already his.
Eventually, you pulled back, breath a little ragged, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, arms still looped lazily around his neck.
Bucky was wrecked—eyes dazed, mouth parted, chest rising and falling under you like he’d just run a marathon and won.
You leaned in once more, planted a sweet, casual kiss on his cheek, and whispered, “See you at home.”
You slid off his lap and smoothed your hoodie like you hadn’t just climbed him like a tree in front of half his professional staff.
Bucky blinked. “Wait—what? I was just about to go on break—”
You turned at the door, already tugging your hood up. “Yeah, no, I gotta find Rachel.”
He frowned, still catching up. “Why?”
“To tell her to her face that you’re mine now,” you said flatly. “And so hopefully, she dies of jealousy in front of my eyes.”
You opened the door and strode out like a woman on a mission.
Bucky watched you go, completely speechless, still half-hard in his slacks, shirt wrinkled from where you’d yanked on him like you were trying to break his will to serve.
His aides were frozen, stunned, borderline traumatized.
And then, slowly, that grin started to grow on his face.
┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: bucky can’t sleep, and neither can you. the both of you wind up christening the kitchen.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: post!thunderbolts bucky x fem!reader.
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.5K.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), porn with very little plot, semi-public sex, risk of getting caught, making out, hair-pulling, kitchen counter sex, cunnilingus, oral sex (fem!rec), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, fingering (fem!rec), mild praise kink. suggestive ending.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: someone sedate me ngl 🧍 that’s all I gotta say! I hope y’all enjoy! ❤️
Through the hush of your bedroom, you’re wired awake, gaze flickering toward the pale light of the bathroom, pooling over your blanket.
The mattress feels considerably lighter without his weight, without the heat that wafts from his skin. Ruffled sheets carry his scent, faint traces of cologne intermingled with something natural.
A soft groan pulls from your throat, a low hum marked by a stretch of limbs as you sit up in bed, tugging at the hem of your shirt.
Bucky’s shirt, more specifically.
Twisting over, your hand closes around your phone, greeted by the low, bluish glow of the screen and a time that seems mildly concerning.
2:13AM.
Slipping out of bed, his shirt kisses the middle of your thighs, an old Henley that’s seen better days. He isn’t in the bathroom, and so you follow his metaphorical trail, bare feet ghosting over smooth, cold tile.
The Watchtower is eerily silent at this time of night, inky dusk swirling beyond tinted window panes, stars glittering overhead. Your feet carry you to the kitchen, rounding the corner with a gentle hum.
Bucky stands at the end of the island, lights dim, producing a sienna glow that curls around him, softens his features. Brunette tresses are mussed, framing his face, brows creased together.
A coffee mug sits next to him, half-consumed and bearing a cheesy saying. Must’ve been one of Yelena’s, you discern, a smile tugging at either corner of your mouth.
“Hey,” You chime, coming to stand across from him, spotting the newspaper he has sprawled out on his left. “Couldn’t sleep?” The cadence of your voice is soothing, something tender.
The warmth that emanates from you snares within him, curling around his bones, putting him at-ease. Bucky still has nightmares sometimes; not as severe, but they linger like moss growing on old stone.
“Tried to go back, and I couldn’t,” His smile is threadbare, still fringed with slivers of exhaustion. “I didn’t want to wake you up.” He takes a sip of coffee, vibranium hand closed around the ceramic.
“It’s okay. I can’t sleep, either,” Quiet footfalls dance over the tile until you take a seat in the stool next to him, tucking a hand beneath your chin. “You okay?”
With a brief nod, his eyes travel over you, clad in his Henley, sleeves a touch too long for your arms. It takes his breath away; you’re beautiful, prettiest thing he’s ever seen.
“Yeah,” Perching a palm over the marble countertop, his smile lingers, blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “You don’t have to stay up with me, sweetheart.” Bucky murmurs, lashes fluttering.
“I can’t sleep,” A placating groan tumbles from your mouth as you stretch within the stool, elbows resting on the counter. “I might get a snack or something.”
“There’s those ice-cream bars you like in the freezer.” Bucky chimes, eyes darting between the newspaper and you. He’s more focused on the shape of your face, the curve of your jaw.
“Really?” Perking up, you hop out of the chair, padding toward the massive refrigerator. Flinging open the door, you’re greeted by a brightly-colored cardboard box.
His chuckle resonates from behind you, something gentle, comforting; it feels like home, a sanctuary you’ve forged within him.
“Maybe later,” Turning on your heel, you join him at the island, loosely draping an arm over his back, hand massaging at his spine. “You’re reading the newspaper?”
Bucky laughs when he hears the amusement in your tone, giving a nonchalant shrug. “Yeah,” He chortles, and there’s something wonderfully husky that vibrates in the back of his throat. “Old habit.”
He’s handsome like this, in the element of domesticity; comfortable, healed, and content. A compression shirt clings to his musculature, biceps on partial display, beard growing shaggier.
“Are you judging me?” Bucky interjects, gaze teasing and playful as he takes another sip of his coffee. It pulls a soft laugh from your mouth, and he savors the sound.
“No,” Clicking your tongue, you lean over to glimpse at what he’s reading. There’s an article about stocks, something political, and then one regarding the Avengers. “I think it’s cute.”
With a roll of his eyes, he flashes a pearly smile in your direction. “Cute, huh?” He parrots, stopping down until his lips press against yours.
The kiss takes you by surprise, but you’re leaning into him, reveling in the scratch of his beard against your mouth. A drawn-out exhale leaves through your nose, lips nudging closer.
He tastes smoky, swirling with coffee and comfort that makes your brain fuzzy. A charged passion lingers beneath the surface, threatening to simmer through.
Silken fingertips brush over his jaw, eliciting an unsteady exhale as he tilts forward. The kiss deepens, crackling with electricity as you cup his cheek, thumb tracing across his cheek.
Hands find their way to your hips, abandoning both his mug and the newspaper. Urgency seeps into his grasp, palms massaging your skin through your shirt, daring to dip lower.
“Now you’re getting bold.” You mumble into his mouth, feeling his chest shake with a gentle noise. He kisses you again, a sly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Something hot dances within his eyes, a flash of desire that bristles to the surface. “Can you blame me, doll?” Gravel-soft and affectionate, Bucky presses a slow kiss to your jaw.
Wandering fingers continue to snake lower, ghosting over the hem of your shirt, where fabric kisses your thighs. He moves underneath, cold metal and flesh holding your waist.
Grasping at his collar, you coax him in for another kiss, hotter this time, climbing with a twinge of desperation. You tilt closer, frame nudging into his as he sucks in a subtle sigh.
The low whisper of the kitchen light makes for something atmospheric, bodies wedged together against the counter. He caresses circles into your flesh, teasing the waistband of your panties.
A small noise emerged from your throat, lashes fluttering, heartbeat climbing beneath your breast. “Bucky,” You sigh, knowing that he wants something. “We should …”
“Here,” Bucky’s tone bites with something gruff, and the huskiness of it makes you press your thighs together. Molten heat swirls languidly within the bottom of your belly. “You’re so perfect.”
As he seizes your hips, he lifts you onto the kitchen counter. It isn’t much of a change or shift in distance, but it lets him stand between your legs, mouth traveling over the slope of your jaw.
“Bucky.” A low whine simmers from your lips, hands shifting to trace over muscled shoulders, holding steadfastly to the nape of his neck. He kisses you reverently, the center of everything.
Each kiss sends shivers through your spine, excitement mounting as your fingers gently tug at his hair. It’s soft within your hands, carding through as you tilt your head, deepening your entanglement.
Warm digits massage over the base of your spine, splayed just above your panties, metal palm tracing along your thigh. A sweet moan snares within your throat, lost within the labyrinth of your kiss.
“I wanna taste you,” Bucky husks, listening to the hitch that snags on your voice, lips parting incredulously. “Can I?” He hums politely, but you’re already prepared to beg him for it, if you have to.
“Right here on the counter?” You whisper, surprised by his boldness. It’s ridiculously attractive, heat swirling avidly within your stomach, seeping between your thighs.
His mouth peppers over your jaw, traveling lower to your neck. “If you’ll let me, sweetheart.” He murmurs, gentle and considerate as he pinches the hem of your shirt between his fingers.
“Yeah,” Instantaneous, you’re parting your legs further and he’s on you, mouth voraciously passionate. He’s so perfect — never rough, never demanding. “Buck, please.” You sigh excitedly.
The kiss he plants against your mouth is inherently needy, and he doesn’t try masking how much he wants you. He used to dance around it, still adjusting to intimacy; now, he’s more adept.
Vibranium digits skirt toward the warmth coalescing between your thighs, ice to fire, finding the elastic waistband with ease. “So beautiful,” He utters, beard prickling your lips. “You’re my girl.”
Preening beneath his words, you let him touch you, keening into him with enthusiasm. “I’m yours.” You sigh, breath snagging within your chest as his hands curl into your panties.
It’s disarmingly gentle, rapturous as he eases the garment down, cotton soft over your knees, and he’s crouching down without protest.
Warm lips brand themselves to your calf, vibranium like ice as he cradles your leg, letting it perch against his shoulder.
Blue hues burn from below, never wavering from you. Bucky kisses along your leg, to the crook of your knee, settling over the silky flesh of your thigh. An excitable noise hums within your throat.
The flat of your palm sits against his crown, nails idly raking through his scalp, pulling a subtle grunt from his mouth.
Your surroundings become little more than a blur, and you’re reminded that this is the kitchen; anyone could walk in. It gives you some excitable thrill, belly churning with anticipation as he kisses your thighs.
Careworn palms caressed circles into your thighs, dragging from your haunches toward your knees, and then back again. He holds you firmly, hot breath pluming near your pelvis.
Sweet kisses buried themselves along delicate skin, inching closer toward the slick warmth of your cunt. “Gotta be quiet for me, doll.” Bucky croons, hoping that you won’t alert anyone to your midnight escapades.
“‘Kay, okay,” Fumbling, you give a swift nod of your head, biting at your cheek when he mouths at your pussy. It’s an instant ripple of fire, one that shoots through you like a hot knife. “Bucky.”
With a broad stroke of his tongue, he raked hot embers over your core, hands steadying you, eager to please without an ounce of hesitation. His nose ghosts over your slick folds, causing you to shiver.
Lurching forward, your hips jolted, urging yourself onto his mouth with a twinge of desperation. “Oh god,” You stifle another moan. “Feels so good.” The volume of your tone remains hushed, strained.
His tongue continued to greedily lap at your slit, briefly teasing your entrance. Bucky wants you, craves you, needs you more than air.
There’s something deeply intimate about the way he kisses your cunt; reverent, methodical, and adoring.
Bucky’s eyes don’t leave your face, gauging every little reaction you give him, transfixed. His mouth showers your sensitive core in a barrage of kisses, intermingling with his tongue.
His beard burns ragged over your skin, raw and real, the sensation sending tremors through your spine. Each lap of his tongue blurs your brain with a white static.
Mouthing at your pussy, he slows to a crawl, taking his time to savor every inch of you, feeling your hand tighten against his scalp. He grunts, musculature shaking, gaze shadowed with desire.
The taste of you was intoxicating, ambrosial; it was something he’d never get tired of, wanting you over and over again. His heart stammered within his chest, and you were the cause of it.
Through the kitchen’s dim shimmer, you’re stunning — gorgeous, beautiful beyond compare. As he’s ogling you from between your thighs, he thinks about how lucky he is to have this, have you.
Cool vibranium draws patterns over your hip, snaking down to your thigh, repeating the pattern. His other hand keeps you steady, rooting you over the edge of the counter.
Absentmindedly, your hips urge into his mouth; he welcomes it, treating you to another needy barrage of perfectly-timed laps. You moan, and he’s quick to soothe you, kissing along your cunt.
The taste of your pussy permeates his tongue, and he wants more, lapping at your core as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.
He kisses along your slit, gesture mingling with soft, passionate laps of his tongue. Bucky slows when a noise rustles through the corridor, but it’s fleeting, dissipating.
“God, you’re so pretty,” He purrs, timbre vibrating against your core, sending shockwaves through your stomach. “How’s it feel, sweetheart?” Bucky husks, lips returning to your cunt.
“G—Good, so good,” You whine, hips jerking again as he steadies you, gaze incendiary as his lips wrap around your clit. “Shit, shit — Bucky!” The sudden ripple of bliss hits you hard.
The wet sheen of your arousal glistens against his chin, and he licks his lips before sucking on your clit. Metal fingers caress over your hip, dipping into your waist.
It makes you see stars, blissed-out and struck by a thrumming buzz that rips through your body. Electricity sears your veins, pulsing through your cunt as he toys with your clit.
A spasm courses through your thighs, legs curling on either side of his head. His shoulders keep your legs somewhat aloft, broad and corded with muscle. As he laps at your pearl, you have to bite your knuckles to keep from crying out.
“That’s my girl.” Bucky grunts between pleasuring your pussy and planting kisses over your inner thigh. The beard burn you’ll receive from it is something you won’t forget anytime soon.
“M’close,” You huff, grinding forward into his mouth. A groan catches within his throat, pulling from the depths of his chest, jostling through your body. “There, there — keep going.”
Bucky keeps pressure against your clit, mouthing at the clutch of nerves, interchanging with laps of his tongue. He’s thoroughly razed, glassy-eyed and aching for you in every way imaginable.
He’s devastatingly handsome like this, wedged between your thighs, kissing your pussy as if he owns you, and he does.
All it takes is another swirl of his tongue over your clit before you’re collapsing, unraveling on his mouth. It’s one of his favorite things, knowing how well he can please you; it instills confidence in him.
White-hot ecstasy shakes your body, heat curling around your bones, arousal honey-thick and wet between your thighs.
The bunched cotton of your panties are still on the floor, and he neglects to collect them. He takes his time with you as he works you through your orgasm.
Digits slack against his crown as you caress over his temples instead, labored breaths shaking your frame. After kissing your cunt, he plants a string of kisses to your thighs, too.
Your composure is threadbare, and Bucky stands again, licking his lips as if he’s had something delectable. He looks pleased, a man willing to do anything for you.
A feverish heat clings to you, flustered and riddled with a thin layer of perspiration. Bucky smooths a hand through his hair, staring at you as if you’ve hung the moon and stars themselves.
Wordlessly, he kisses you, and you can taste yourself on his tongue, the bittersweet amalgamation of your arousal and faint traces of coffee.
Icy metal traces over your inner thigh, daring to tease you further, mouth passionate and tender against yours. Lost within your lips, he feels the hitch in your throat when he slides a digit over your pussy.
“Think you can give me one more, doll?” Bucky hums, and he can hear the exhilaration flood into your breathing. It becomes excitedly ragged, pupils blown-out with desire.
With a nod, you’re staring at him through your lashes, skin smoldering and sensitive as vibranium fingers caress over your slit. You shiver, gripping onto his forearm, nails digging crescents into taut muscle.
“Please,” Your plea is met with enthusiasm as he kisses you again, bleeding want and deliciously needy. As lips collide, two fingers split past your soaked folds, grinding into your core. “S—Shit, Bucky!”
“Shh, shh.” He soothes, lips covering yours again as you moan into his mouth. It snares within your throat, body rolling into his hand, desperate for any scrap of friction.
Your cunt twitches, throbs with a screaming ache that shoots through your nerves. Already having gotten one orgasm from you, everything feels heightened, sensitive — your thighs spasm in response.
Bucky cradles your thigh with one hand, kissing you hard as his fingers snake toward your entrance, teasing you with light prodding. Another shockwave of bliss ripples violently through your spine.
There isn’t any protest as you writhe closer, lips molded together, bound by spit and adoration. His hand glides over your leg, diving beneath your shirt to cup your breast.
The sudden jolt of pleasure curls around your spine, pulling a needy whine from your throat, legs squeezing at Bucky’s hips. His thumb brushes over your clit, causing you to gasp.
Ecstasy rips through you in heated waves, already burning with a white-hot fever. The edge between bliss and overstimulation begins to blur, and you’re desperate, grinding yourself into his hand.
Warm digits knead at your breast, feeling you keen into his embrace, back arched and mouth slack. “Bucky, please.” Little more than a strained moan, you fight to stay quiet, feeling his fingers caress your pussy.
Thighs shake, tremor with aftershocks as he nudges two fingers into your cunt, tight around him as he kisses your jaw. “So pretty for me, sweetheart.” He gruffs, hot breath pluming across your skin.
The kitchen counter is christened, no longer somewhere pure as he falls into a rhythm, pushing and pulling with his fingers. You grip at his chest, hands fisted into the tight spandex.
You’re like heaven to him, picturesque and gorgeous as he gently rocks two digits into your pussy, glistening with a sheen of your arousal.
His other hand palms at your chest still, affectionate and exceedingly tender, rolling over your nipple. The stimulation makes you jolt, moaning his name beside his face, lashes fluttering.
He makes you feel incredible, loved — like you’re the only girl in the world worth his time.
The cool metal of Bucky’s thumb circles around your already-throbbing clit, and the waves of overwhelming bliss hit you hard. It’s as if you’ve been scorched, mouth agape, body trembling.
“God, mm — m’close, Buck.” You pant, rattling like a leaf as he finger-fucks you, treating you to a barrage of kisses. Each one feels like droplets of fire, the burn pleasant, something you crave.
Coaxing another orgasm from you, he works diligently, never slowing or increasing his pace; he keeps it even. Lips lavish your throat in attention, tonguing over a string of smaller hickeys.
Everything feels hazy, a buzzing static humming within your brain, making you feel as if you might collapse then and there.
He’s unraveling you, slick-coated digits rutting in and out of your cunt at a sluggish, desirous pace, blue eyes eclipsed by something wanton.
Bucky grunts, feeling your pussy clench around his digits, tighter as the metal draws back and forth, thumb toying with your clit. Set ablaze, you continue to squirm, clawing for him, something to anchor onto and hold tightly to.
“Bu—Bucky, shit —” Sputtering, something primal unfurls within you, that white-hot coil snapping again, snapping violently. When you cum, it’s messy and he’s enthralled, digits slowing to a crawl.
A thrumming surge courses through your body, gripped by an incessant trembling when you come apart on his hand, jaw slack, head rolled back.
Moans rip through your throat, and he has to kiss you to make sure you’re quiet. The overstimulation is almost blinding, something heavy and burning as it slithers over your bones.
“I’ve got you doll, let go,” Bucky murmurs beside your ear, kissing across your face as you try to cling to any shred of composure. “Beautiful.” He hums, drawing his fingers from your cunt.
A placated smile spreads over your features, gaze half-lidded and dazzled as you cling to him, watching as he retrieves your panties.
Your legs shake, muscles feeling like molten liquid, and you wonder if you’ll be able to stand. He licks his fingers without any commentary, and the sight makes you flustered.
Quiet, he slides the cotton on over your calves, hitching them up around your thighs until you do the rest, legs pressed together. You’re obscenely soaked, and he guides you from the counter.
Wobbling on unsteady legs, he holds you close, a playful gleam dancing within his eyes. “Might have to carry you,” He teases, and you aren’t about to protest. “You’re so pretty.”
“I won’t say no to that,” Batting your eyelashes, you clean up the mess on the kitchen counter, ensuring that it’s spotless. “You’re perfect, Bucky — stunningly perfect.”
Bucky preens subtly, a warm huff of laughter escaping him before he scoops you up, bicep thick and taut over your back, other arm hitched beneath your knees.
“Stunningly, huh?” He husks, feeling you drape your arms around the back of his neck, toying with soft waves of brunette.
“Mm-hm,” Planting a kiss against his mouth, you can feel the passion bleed from his lips, kissing you as if you’re the sun itself. Sly, you pull away enough for a lascivious remark. “Want to christen the briefing room, next?”
A hitch forms within his throat, Adam's apple bobbing, eyes shadowed by both devotion and desire. Bucky clicks his tongue, detouring elsewhere with you in his arms.
