you sent filthy, anonymous letters and nudes to the drummer of your favourite band, never expecting he’d read them. never expecting he’d keep them. never expecting he’d show up at your diner one night, more than eager to fulfil your fantasies.
Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, multiple orgasms, forced orgasm (consentual), oral (f receiving), fingering, p n v, unprotected sex, praise kink, explicit consent, aftercare, reader is horny lol, daydreaming smut scenarios, beefy bucky, band au, diner au, love letters, fangirl/obsession, lowkey depressed/sad reader, bucky is a menace, bucky matches reader's freak levels, use of the petname sweetheart, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything
Word Count: 6.4k
A/N: hi, thank you for 5k followers! as a treat, have this absolute filth. i think this is the closest you'll ever get to smut w no plot from me lmao, i went through every stage of grief writing this. inspired by dinner in america + spun my prompt wheel and got band au / beefy - not proof read.
main masterlist
You were starting to think your obsession with the Winter Soldier wasn’t just unhealthy, it was pathological.
Two hours into your shift at Sal’s Diner, buried in the itch of your polyester uniform and the reek of burnt coffee, you’d already drifted off into fantasy more times than you could count on both hands. Daydreams clawed at the edge of your attention like static, buzzing louder with every second you spent beneath the flickering fluorescents. You’d nearly poured hot coffee straight into a trucker’s lap. His barked ‘watch it!’ still rang in your ears as you’d scrambled with a rag, your hands shaking as liquid pooled across the table. You’d forgotten table four’s extra side of bacon, missed table six’s banana smoothie with extra whip.
You hated this place. Hated the chipped pink tiles, the dusty jukebox that hadn’t worked in years, the scent of grease that soaked into your skin no matter how many showers you took. But more than anything, you hated the sameness of it all, the way this town never changed, never grew. How every face that passed through the diner was one you recognised, and worse, how they all recognised you.
You were twenty-something, with nothing to show for it except a minimum-wage job and a slowly decaying sense of purpose. Your apartment was a shoebox with paper-thin walls and a view of a brick wall. Every night, like clockwork, the baby next door shrieked, the couple upstairs screamed and stomped, and the couple across the hall fucked like they were being paid for it. You’d eat something microwaved and vaguely beige, drink cold coffee you forgot you poured, and zone out to reality TV you weren’t really watching. Housewives screamed through muffled speakers while your brain quietly rotted.
Everyone else’s lives were in motion—marriages, babies, master’s degrees, weekend getaways with friends and Instagram sunsets. Yours was stuck on pause, the buffer wheel spinning endlessly. You kept saying yes when Sal asked you to cover a double, because what else did you have to do? You had no plans. No passions. No clue what you even wanted.
You had tried. God, you had tried. College ended in a quiet breakdown and a withdrawal form. Relationships fizzled before they even warmed. Nothing stuck. You felt like you were wading through a fog that everyone else seemed immune to, like they all had a compass pointing to some clear, shining future, and you were just circling in the dark.
If anything still lit you up, it was music.
It was the only thing that made you feel. You were always listening, earbuds in as soon as you left work, blasting bass-heavy playlists on your way home, tapping your fingers to invisible rhythms behind the counter. You hummed under your breath while restocking napkin holders and scrubbing dishes to the beat of crashing drums. Music drowned out the ache, the boredom, of everything you didn’t want to think about. It was the closest you got to peace.
And your salvation came in the form of one band: The Howling Commandos.
They were everything you weren’t—loud, chaotic, unapologetic. All raw vocals and snarling guitars, like rebellion captured in sound. You clung to their music like a lifeline. Their songs made you feel invincible, if only for three minutes and forty-two seconds at a time. You stalked their socials like a religion, hoping they'd announce a show in your town. Underground gigs, secret venues, cryptic posts…the mystery only made you want them more.
And they were hot. Unbelievably so. You didn’t even know what they looked like. They performed in ski masks, their identities always hidden, but that just added to the appeal. They were anonymous, untouchable. A fantasy you could project anything onto. Big, muscled silhouettes thrashing under stage lights, voices full of rage and sorrow.
And the Winter Soldier, the drummer—he was your favourite delusion of all.
He was the biggest, a towering shadow behind the drum kit, all brute force and brooding stillness. Maybe it was just the size of him that drove you wild, the thick bands of muscle in his arms, the way his thighs flexed as he worked the bass pedal. His hands were massive, wrapped tight around his drumsticks like they could break bones just by holding on too hard. You’d close your eyes when one of their songs hit its peak, feel the rhythm pounding in your chest, and imagine those hands wrapped around your waist. Pressing down your hips. Spreading your thighs. Keeping you still while he—
The shrill clang of the service bell sliced through your fantasy.
“Oi, girl!” Sal’s voice barked from the kitchen, all gravel and phlegm. “Plates for table three! Move it!”
You blinked hard, swallowing the heat that had risen to your cheeks. “Sorry, Sal,” you muttered, forcing your legs to move, dragging yourself away from the milkshake machine with the weight of a thousand unmet fantasies.
Because the truth was... yeah, you were obsessed.
Not just a fangirl. Not just a casual listener with a couple of favourite tracks. You were consumed by the Winter Soldier. The mystery, the sound, the brutal power behind the drum kit. You had no musical talent yourself, no rhythm in your bones, no dreams of making it big. But still, music was your only lifeline. And him? He was the rope you clung to when it felt like you might finally let go.
So, you found your own way to contribute. Your own warped form of expression. Your own art.
Love letters.
It had started innocently enough. Just a few pages of breathless admiration, scrawled out after long shifts while your brain buzzed from caffeine and exhaustion. You confessed your devotion to the band, to the music, to him. You wrote about how their songs made the world feel bearable. You poured out thoughts like they were diary entries, lyrics from a girl whose life was anything but lyrical. You didn’t expect a reply, you weren’t stupid. You imagined he probably received plenty of letters from fans. But the act of writing? It helped, it made the loneliness less loud.
But the longer you went without hearing back, the longer you worked the closing shift in a sweatbox diner and watched your life go nowhere, the more unhinged the letters became.
Passion turned to desire. Pages and pages of filthy, desperate confessions. You wrote about how you wanted him to bend you over your shitty couch, how you’d beg if he made you. You described exactly how his hands would feel gripping your hair, how his voice would sound in your ear as he pushed into you. You stopped holding back. The words poured out of you like something exorcised.
And then came the photos.
You’d found an old thrift-store polaroid camera, the kind that spat out little grainy prints with bad lighting. On your braver days—the lonely, horny, bored out of your fucking mind days—you’d strip down in your bedroom, the blinds barely tilted shut. You never showed your face. That wouldn’t be on brand, you gave him anonymity right back.
Your body became the message. Lace underwear clinging to your hips, the curved lines of your thighs spread wide. Some days you kept it tasteful, just the bare suggestion of skin. Other times, when the ache got too strong and the fantasy too vivid, you’d pose with your fingers between your legs, soaked and aching, back arched.
You’d kiss the pages with bright red lipstick, spray your favourite perfume, and seal them tight in mismatched envelopes.
You called them Letters of Devotion.
And maybe, deep down, beneath the layers of lust and delusion, you still hoped he’d reply. That he’d see your letters—your alias, your handwriting, your stories—and feel something. Anything.
Maybe you were a little crazy.
Or maybe it was the only thing keeping you sane.
—
It was late.
The kind of late where the world outside the diner windows had gone completely black, where the parking lot was empty save for a few tired trucks and one lone streetlamp flickering. Your feet ached in your shoes, cheap sneakers with soles worn thin from double shifts and the way you dragged yourself around this place like a ghost. You’d been on your feet for nearly eleven hours, fueled by lukewarm coffee and pure spite. Even the radio had given up playing its same old loops and was spitting static.
The bell above the door jingled, and you glanced up from the counter, expecting maybe the regular who came in late for grilled cheese and three cups of black coffee. But instead, four men walked in.
You blinked. Then blinked again.
They didn’t look like locals. Not the usual crowd of truckers or farmers passing through. No, these guys were something else. All broad shoulders and heavy steps, tattoos trailing up their forearms and necks, worn boots and dark jackets dusted with road dirt. One of them had a scar splitting through his eyebrow. Another had arms so thick he barely fit into the booth.
Your gaze snagged on one in particular.
He slid into the booth facing you, his leather jacket creaking as he settled in, and you swore the breath stalled in your lungs for a beat too long. He was massive. Broad through the chest and shoulders, thighs spread wide like he didn’t know how to sit small. His jaw was covered in dark stubble, his mouth pulled into a neutral line—neither a frown nor a smile. Serious. Watchful. His hair was dark and thick, ruffled like he had dragged his hand through it a few too many times.
You forced yourself to move, grabbing your notepad and approaching with a practised smile that felt barely glued to your face.
“Welcome to Sal’s,” you said, as cheerily as you could force. “Kitchen’s closing soon, so if you want something hot, order now.”
One of them, the one with the scar, grinned and cracked a joke about ‘always liking it hot’, but you barely registered it. You were still stealing glances at him. He didn’t say anything, just looked up at you with those cool eyes, and nodded toward the menu.
“Burger and fries. Black coffee.”
“Sure thing,” you managed. You scribbled it down, turned before they could see the way your cheeks flushed.
Behind the counter, you leaned against the milkshake machine, heart still thudding, mind absolutely not on the order. You watched them from the corner of your eye. They spoke in low voices, murmuring to each other, intense and focused
And all you could think about was him.
You didn’t know why. Maybe it was the size of him, the stoic vibe, the fact that his shape reminded you of The Winter Soldier. Maybe it was the way he didn’t talk unless he needed to, the way he moved like his body was too powerful to be casual. Or maybe you were just so sleep-deprived that your brain was automatically generating pornographic content to keep itself entertained. You could imagine him behind the drum kit, imagine his face behind the ski mask. Maybe you would hold onto this memory, think of his stormy blue eyes when your core was hot and wet, fingers already scrabbling for your polaroid, ready for another Letter of Devotion as you came and came again at your own hand—
Your eyes drifted back to the booth.
You imagined what it would feel like to be pressed against that chest, what it would sound like if he whispered in your ear with that voice. What it would feel like to have his hand sliding up your thigh beneath your diner uniform. You imagined him fisting your hair, guiding your head as he fucked your mouth slow and deep, until the cheap linoleum beneath your knees squeaked—
You were so deep in the fantasy that when you blinked, he was looking at you.
Direct. Curious. Like he knew.
Your heart skipped. You jerked your gaze away so fast you nearly knocked over the salt shaker. You busied yourself behind the counter, wiping an already clean surface, trying not to combust.
—
Eventually, the guys finished eating. Paid in cash, left a decent tip. One of them winked at you on the way out. He just gave you one last lingering glance as the bell over the door jingled again, then disappeared into the night.
You exhaled, a little dazed. Tried not to think about the heat still curling in your stomach.
And then you noticed it.
In the booth, the one they’d just vacated, sat a black backpack. Left behind, half-tucked beneath the table like someone forgot it in a rush.
You looked out the window. Their taillights were already gone.
Somehow…it felt like a sign.
You rounded the counter on instinct, hands moving on autopilot as you stacked plates and wiped down the booth, the backpack heavy in your peripheral vision. You slipped into the kitchen, scraping leftovers into one of the giant bins, trying to look busy while Sal shouted down the phone near the walk-in freezer. Something about plumbing. Something about the hot water. You weren’t really listening. Not with your thoughts spinning like a carousel.
Your fingers twitched with anticipation.
Had he left it behind on purpose?
Maybe it was nothing, an honest mistake. Just a man in a hurry, too focused on the road ahead to notice what he’d forgotten. Or maybe, just maybe, he had been distracted. By you. Had you gotten into his head the same way he’d buried himself in yours? Had he been sneaking glances the way you had? Imagining things?
God, the possibilities curled hot between your legs.
You were elbow-deep in soapy water when Sal came stomping back in, muttering curses.
“Dahla’s moanin’ that the hot water ain’t workin’,” he barked, grabbing his keys off the hook. “I gotta run. You good to lock up?”
You nodded, barely looking up. “No problem.”
He grunted in the barest minimum of thanks and was gone within the minute. You waited, counting the seconds until the crunch of his boots on gravel faded, until the cough of his truck engine roared and peeled off down the road.
You all but bolted to the front of the diner, heart hammering in your throat. You hadn’t even locked the front door. The open sign still glowed in the window like a forgotten thought. You didn’t care. Your hands were still damp from the sink as you reached for the bag, tugging it up onto the counter with a soft thud.
It sat there, plain and unassuming. Black canvas, one shoulder strap fraying. Just a backpack.
You stared for a second.
You weren’t sure what you expected. A note? An ID with a name you could finally put to that face? A number scrawled on a napkin meant only for you?
Your lip caught between your teeth as you slowly tugged the zipper down.
The contents were disappointing at first. A couple of old t-shirts, faded and smelling faintly of smoke and sweat. Crumpled food wrappers. A phone charger. Some receipts. Nothing extraordinary. Nothing romantic. Your heart dipped—
Then froze.
Nestled at the bottom, slightly bent at the corners, was a thick bundle of envelopes. Cream-colored. Handwritten. Lightly smudged ink. It wouldn’t have been that strange if it weren’t for the fact that you recognised them.
It was the smell of the perfumed paper that hit you immediately. You knew that smell. The faint trail of your favourite perfume, sweet and smoky. The red lipstick stain pressed into the corner, your shade. That was your kiss. Your handwriting.
Your fingers moved with nervous urgency, fumbling as you grabbed the stack and rifled through it.
Your letters.
At least a dozen of them. All opened.
You seized one at random, and your hand trembled as you pulled the page free. A small clatter followed as a polaroid slipped loose and hit the countertop face-up.
You felt the heat rush to your face like a punch.
You.
It was you.
One of the more explicit ones. Black lace panties, expensive, a splurge from when you were still clinging to the idea of romance. Your thighs spread wide. Your hand, barely hidden behind delicate fabric, buried between your folds, caught mid-motion. Your other hand was out of frame, probably holding the camera. You remembered that night vividly. Remembered how worked up you'd been, how starved. You hadn’t just been horny, you’d been aching, lonely.
Your pulse roared in your ears as you slowly unfolded the letter, the edges soft from wear. Like it had been regularly reread. Your cursive spilt across the page, desperate and messy. A confession. A fantasy—
I had a dream about you last night.
Or maybe it wasn’t a dream. Maybe it was a memory from some other life. One where you knew me, touched me, ruined me like you were meant to.
You bent me over the arm of my couch. One hand flat on my back, keeping me down, keeping me still. The other between my legs. You didn’t tease. Didn’t waste time. You slid your fingers through my pussy and hummed like you liked what you felt. Then you pressed two fingers inside me, slow at first, then rougher, curling them just right until my legs shook and I moaned like I’d break apart.
You didn’t stop. Not when I came. Not even when I begged. You made me take it, over and over, until I was soaked and shaking, face pressed to the cushion, drooling into the fabric while you watched. While you owned me.
And only then did you unzip your jeans.
You didn’t say anything. Just dragged the tip of your cock through the mess you’d made of me and pushed in, inch by inch, nice and slow. I remember crying out, legs spreading wider like my body already knew what to do, like it wanted to be ruined by you. You fucked me deep. Kept me bent over. Kept that hand wrapped around my throat when I tried to lift my head.
And when I finally looked back at you, barely able to keep my eyes open, you grabbed my jaw and made me say it.
‘Tell me who you belong to.’
And I did. Over and over.
I woke up soaked through my sheets, hand still between my thighs, still aching. I’ve been thinking about it all day. I can’t stop imagining this. Wanting this. Needing it—
“Why are you going through my stuff?” A deep, gravelly voice jolted you back to reality. The letter slipped from your fingers and fluttered back onto the counter
You hadn’t heard the bell.
Hadn’t heard the door open.
Hadn’t realised the man you’d spent the last hour wet and restless for was standing just a few feet away. Arms crossed over his broad chest, head tilted, expression somewhere between amused and dangerous.
You pressed a hand to your chest, trying to breathe through the thick, electric panic that was blooming behind your ribs.
“I—”
You fumbled for words, your voice catching and unravelling as heat rushed up your neck. “You left it behind. I thought maybe I could find ID or a name or—I wasn’t trying to—”
Your voice faded as he took a single step forward. Just one. He was already towering above you. You stood frozen behind the counter, gripping the edge. You weren’t sure if you wanted to run or drop to your knees.
And then, against all your better judgment, the words tumbled out.
“Why do you—how do you have these?! I didn’t write them for you, I wrote them for—”
You cut yourself off. Because you were watching it happen in real time, the slow curl of understanding at the edge of his mouth, the glint of something unholy blooming in those stormy eyes. A smile pulled at his lips, knowing and wicked.
Your voice dropped to a whisper, half-horrified, half-aroused. “Unless… unless you’re him. The Winter Soldier—”
He stepped closer, until the edge of the counter was the only thing between you and the solid heat of his body. His gaze dragged down your face, your throat, like he was memorising you.
Then he leaned in, just slightly, and spoke, low and lethal.
“I read every single one.”
Your entire body flushed hot.
Every. Single. One.
Your lips parted, but no sound came out, just the soft stutter of your breath as your brain struggled to catch up. You were painfully aware of your appearance. The grease-slicked apron, your hair pulled back in a lazy bun, the sweat still drying at your temples from a long shift. You were supposed to be invisible here.
But now he was here. Standing over you. Real. Breathing the same air. And he’d read it. All of it. All the filthy, aching, needy things you’d never even said out loud.
“You…” you rasped. “You read them?”
He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “You think I just collect random strangers’ letters full of desperate, pretty little fantasies?”
His voice was quieter now, just above a whisper. It curled around your throat like a hand.
“I started reading the first one on tour,” he went on. “Thought it’d be funny, another obsessed fan. But then I kept reading…kept waiting for more to arrive.” His eyes dropped to your lips. “You don’t hold back, sweetheart. Not even a little.”
You swallowed thickly. “I didn’t think—I never thought anyone would actually—”
“—read it?” he finished, one brow raising. “Come on. You write shit like that and don’t expect it to crawl into someone’s brain? The way you describe it, how you want it… fuck.” He leaned closer, his mouth nearly brushing your ear. “You got no idea what you’ve been doing to me. You’re like some kinda genius, some kinda fuckin’ succubus. Do you know how many songs I’ve tried to write about you, about those fuckin’ photos?”
Your knees went weak, pulse thudding behind your ribs like a warning bell.
“Which one was your favourite?” you asked before you could stop yourself, breathless and reckless.
His grin returned, dark, indulgent. “The one where I make you cum over and over again,” he murmured. “And you beg for it, like a good girl. And you beg until you're so fucked out you can’t even speak, just moan and take every last inch of me.”
Your breath hitched.
He studied your face, then slowly, very slowly, reached out and picked up the polaroid you’d dropped. He held it between two fingers, glancing down at it with a hum of approval.
“You still have these panties?” he asked casually, like he was asking for a drink recommendation.
You blinked. “What?”
He looked up from the photo, and his expression turned serious in a way that made your stomach flip.
“What’s your address, sweetheart?” He asked.
You stared at him. Speechless.
“I’ll come by after you close up,” he added, voice low, fingers tapping on the counter. “You let me in and I’ll do everything you wrote about, hell, I’m ready to beg for it just lookin’ at you.”
—
You weren’t sure how you made it home without crashing your car.
Your hands shook the whole drive, knuckles white around the wheel, still sticky from the milkshake syrup you’d forgotten to wash off. The radio played something mindless, but you couldn’t hear it over the sound of your own heartbeat thudding behind your ribs like a fist.
You didn’t even turn the lights on when you burst through your apartment door. Just kicked it shut behind you, peeled off your apron, and headed straight for the shower. The water was too hot, scalding your skin, but you welcomed it. You scrubbed with your nicest soap, dragging the loofah hard over your flesh. Like you could wash off the diner grease, the lingering smell of cheap coffee.
You towelled off in a hurry, slipping on lotion while your skin was still damp.
The panties were easy, the black lace ones from the photo. No bra. Just a thin cotton tank top, the kind that clung to every curve.
You paced your apartment like a storm was coming.
Checked your reflection.
Then checked it again.
Clean sheets. Dim light. The curtain pulled just enough. You caught yourself reaching to tidy the bookshelf, then stopped. What the fuck were you doing?
He didn’t care if your books were alphabetised. He was going to ruin you.
The knock came just after midnight.
You froze.
Your feet carried you to the door before your mind could catch up. You stared through the peephole, breath caught.
Still in that worn leather jacket, shoulders broad enough to fill the frame. His eyes were darker in the hallway light, but they still found the peephole like he knew you were watching.
Your fingers curled around the doorknob and tugged it open.
He looked at you, eyes dragging down your bare legs, the hem of your tank top, the curve of your breasts beneath it. His jaw tensed like he was trying not to say something filthy right there in the hallway.
“You wore them,” he said at last, voice rough.
You swallowed. “You said you liked them.”
He stepped inside without another word, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. You stood barefoot on the rug, heart hammering in your chest as you looked up at him, your fingers twitching at your sides.
You parted your lips to speak, to say something, but you never got the chance.
Because he was on you in a second.
He crossed the room in two steps, grabbed you by the waist, and lifted you clean off the ground. You gasped, legs instinctively wrapping around his hips as he shoved you against the wall. His mouth crashed down on yours, tongue sliding past your lips.
You melted into him instantly, fingers curling into the collar of his jacket, back arching to press yourself closer. When he finally pulled back, you were panting, dazed, lips wet and parted.
He carried you to the bedroom without asking and dropped you onto the bed, stepping back just enough to shrug off his jacket.
You whimpered. You didn’t mean to. It slipped out, needy and desperate, before you could stop it.
“Take off your shirt.”
Your hands trembled as you obeyed. You pulled the tank top over your head, exposing your bare chest to the warm lamplight. He watched you like a man starved, his eyes dragging slowly from your flushed face down to the curve of your breasts. You could feel the heat pooling between your thighs already, the lace of your panties damp and sticking to you.
He stripped his own shirt next. “Lie down.”
You sank into the sheets, heart pounding, legs already falling open.
He crawled over you, his face right above yours. His fingers brushed your cheek, your jaw, then slid down to wrap gently around your throat.
“You want this, sweetheart?” he murmured.
You whimpered again, nodding, thighs instinctively rubbing together.
“Words,” he growled. “Say it.”
“Yes,” you breathed. “Please, I want this.”
He smirked, and then he dropped his mouth to your chest, biting softly at your nipple, soothing the sting with his tongue before moving lower. He kissed your ribs, your stomach, licking and dragging his teeth along every inch of skin until he reached your panties.
He hooked a finger under the waistband, met your gaze, and then ripped them off.
“Still my favourite pair,” he muttered, tossing the ruined lace aside.
And then his mouth was on you.
Tongue hot, thorough, relentless, he licked into you like a man on a mission. His hands gripped your thighs hard, spreading you wide, keeping you in place as you writhed beneath him. You sobbed, fingers digging into the sheets, your hips lifting off the mattress before his hand came down hard and held you still.
Your first orgasm crashed into you fast, so fast it stole your breath, tore the sound from your throat. You choked on it, body arching, tears prickling at your lashes.
But he didn’t stop.
Not even when you whimpered, not even when you trembled.
“I said over and over again,” he reminded you, dragging his tongue up your slit with obscene precision. “Beg for the next one.”
“Please—fuck, please—” you sobbed.
“That’s better, good girl.” The praise scraped low from his throat, barely audible over the wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy.
You were already shaking, thighs trembling against his shoulders, your hands fisted in the sheets. But he didn’t slow, didn’t let up. His tongue worked you ruthlessly, slow when you needed fast, fast when you couldn’t take it. He read your body like a song he’d memorised, like he was playing you just to see how many ways he could make you fall apart.
He licked deep, flat and hard, then flicked his tongue tight against your clit until your hips jerked. Every time you gasped or moaned or bucked against his mouth, he made a low, satisfied sound in the back of his throat.
“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he muttered between strokes, his voice ragged.
You choked on a moan, your back arching off the mattress, but his hands clamped down and held you there.
“I can feel it,” he said, breath hot against you. “You’re close again, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” you sobbed. “Fuck—please—”
“Not yet.”
He pulled back just enough to slide two fingers into you, thick and unforgiving. Your whole body snapped. He hooked them expertly, rubbing against that perfect spot deep inside, his mouth still latched to your clit, and your orgasm hit so violently you couldn’t even speak. Your cry caught in your throat, your thighs shook uncontrollably, and your eyes rolled back as white-hot pleasure splintered through you.
You collapsed against the bed, panting, twitching, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t even pause.
He licked through the aftershocks, fingers still curling inside you like he was searching for more.
“Please—please, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he growled. “You said you wanted this. Said you wanted me to ruin you. That I could fuck you until you couldn’t speak.”
“I did—I do—fuck—I do!”
“Then take it.”
He leant back on his knees just enough to watch what he was doing, his fingers fucking in and out of you, soaked to the knuckle. Your juices dripped down the insides of your thighs, your pussy glistening in the warm light, flushed and swollen. He looked wrecked watching you, his cock straining hard against his pants.
“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he muttered, sliding his fingers out with a slow, slick pull that made you whimper. “Look at this fucking mess. You’re dripping, sweetheart.”
Your breath hitched, a sob tearing loose from your throat.
“I want it,” you gasped. “I want you. Please. I need you inside me—please—”
He moved fast.
One hand on his belt, jerking the buckle loose. The clink of metal echoed through the room, followed by the sound of fabric hitting the floor.
He stood at the edge of the bed, fully naked now. His cock was thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip, the veins along the shaft standing out as he wrapped his fist around it and stroked once with a tight grunt.
You couldn’t look away.
“I’ve been hard since the diner,” he said hoarsely, eyes locked on your wrecked body sprawled across the sheets. “Sat in the truck reading that last letter again, just thinking about how wet you’d be for me. How sweet you’d sound when you begged. How I’m gonna write that fuckin’ song about you, how I’ll write a whole fuckin’ album about you—”
You mewled again, tears slipping down your cheeks now, your thighs twitching open wider on instinct.
“Please,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I’ll say it. I’ll say anything. Just give it to me.”
He climbed over you slowly, bracing himself on his elbows as he lined up at your entrance.
“Yeah,” he murmured, voice dark with hunger. “You’re gonna take every inch.”
And then he pushed in.
You cried out as the head of his cock stretched you open. Your back arched off the bed, fingers scrambling at the sheets, your body twitching from overstimulation. Your pussy clenched tight around him on instinct.
“Shhh,” He murmured, his voice ragged as he held himself still. “You can take it. I know you can.”
He slid in another inch, slow, dragging, splitting you open around him.
You keened, helpless. The stretch burned, but the pressure—the way he filled you so deeply, so perfectly—made your toes curl. Your walls clamped down around him, greedy, desperate, already milking him without meaning to.
“Fuck,” he hissed through his teeth, head dropping to your shoulder. “You’re tight. So fuckin’ tight, sweetheart.”
Your hands flew to his back, clawing at his skin, dragging down his spine. He was heavy and solid, his cock thick and pulsing as he fed you more inch by inch.
“Please,” you gasped, legs trembling on either side of his hips. “Please, fuck me—just do it—”
He let out a rough groan.
And then he sank the rest of the way in, bottoming out with a hard, final thrust that knocked the air from your lungs.
Your body spasmed beneath his as he filled you to the hilt.
He moaned above you, one arm sliding under your back, pulling you tighter against him, locking your bodies together.
“You feel that?” he whispered, voice shaking. “How perfect you take me?”
You nodded frantically, tears slipping free, your hips rolling up to meet him before you even realised.
And then he started to move. Each thrust dragged the full length of him through your soaked pussy, grinding against that perfect spot inside you with unrelenting precision. You cried, legs wrapping tighter around his waist, trying to keep him as deep as possible.
“You’re already squeezing me,” he groaned, fucking into you harder now. “Already so fucked out, sweetheart. Look at you.”
You couldn’t. Your eyes were glassy, lips parted, hands slipping uselessly across his slick back as he took you. His pace built, thrusts snapping forward faster, harder, making the headboard bang softly against the wall.
“Beg for it again,” he panted against your throat, teeth grazing your skin. “Let me hear you say it.”
“Fuck—please—don’t stop—need it—need you—”
“That’s it.”
He shifted, changing the angle, sliding one hand beneath your ass and lifting you to meet his thrusts. The new position had you screaming, your body jerking, clenching tight as your orgasm slammed into you so hard it felt like falling. You convulsed around him, sobbing, your nails digging into his shoulders, your whole body begging without words.
But he didn’t stop.
He fucked you through it, through your crying, through the way your body trembled and tried to curl in on itself. He held you open, held you down, every thrust bruising and perfect.
Your vision blurred. Your voice broke.
And still he kept going.
“You said you’d let me,” he growled. “Said I could fuck you until you couldn’t think straight.”
“You can,” you cried. “Please—just don’t stop—please—”
His mouth crashed down on yours, swallowing your scream as he finally lost his rhythm, his thrusts turning sloppy, urgent, his cock twitching inside you.
And then he came.
Hot and relentless, spilling inside you with a groan so wrecked it made you see god. He buried himself, grinding in as he filled you, a string of curses a rough whisper in your ear.
You didn’t even realise you were crying again until he brushed the tears from your cheek.
“Atta girl,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You took it all. Just like I knew you would.”
You didn’t know how long you lay there, trembling and spent, your body still flushed and twitching in the aftermath. You couldn’t move. Could barely think. You were splayed across the mattress, your skin slick with sweat, your thighs sticky and sore, your pussy still aching from the stretch of him.
A large hand brushed damp strands of hair away from your forehead, gentle fingers stroking through your hair with surprising care. “There she is,” he murmured.
You blinked up at him, bleary-eyed, lips parted but no words came. You were too fucked out to string together a thought, let alone a sentence. Your body was heavy, bones turned to syrup, and you felt the flutter of tears threaten again.
He leant over you, his skin warm where it pressed against yours, and kissed the side of your temple. A lingering kiss, soft and steady. One that said, I’m not in a hurry.
“You did so well,” he murmured against your skin.
You exhaled shakily, eyes fluttering closed. “You know, I never even asked your name.” Your voice was hoarse, practically gravel from all the screaming and moaning.
You felt him smirk softly. “It’s James, but all my friends call me Bucky.”
“Bucky…” you sighed, almost dreamily. “Suits you.”
Silence fell over both of you as you nuzzled his shoulder, dazed.
He stayed close, his hand never leaving your body, sliding down your arm, over your hip, then back up again. A slow, idle rhythm that kept you tethered to reality.
“I wasn’t lying when I said I read every word you wrote.” He finally whispered, enough to jolt you back to full consciousness.
Your breath caught, eyes opening, but he kept going.
“I tried to write back, wanted to...” His thumb swept over your cheekbone. “I’m just no good with words, not in the way you are. Different from writing songs, I don’t know why. Was scared I’d fuck it up somehow, scare you off.”
He watched your face, his tone softening even more.
“I think I’ve spent this last year looking for you, whether I realised it or not. Like I knew I’d find you.”
Your chest ached. Your lips moved, trying to speak, but you only managed a faint, broken sound, a gasp, a sob, maybe a laugh. You weren’t sure. You were too far gone, too full of him, too unravelled.
“And now that I’ve found you?” he said, voice dropping low. “I’m not letting you go.”
With a shaking hand, you brushed a few fingers across his forehead, down his temple to the stubble of his jaw. His breath caught at the motion. “Yeah? You’ll take me away from this place? Make me happy like in my letters?”
A huff of laughter escaped his nose. “If that’s what you want, sweetheart.”
---
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summary — past assassin. nowadays congressman. and yet, his most important business is home with his girls.
warnings — lots of fluff, sexual tension
wordcount — 1.373 words
authors note — bucky as girl dad, just has my heart.
The moment the keys land on the small shelf in your hallway, you count backwards with a smile plastered on your face.
Three.
Silence. For a moment, but you know it only needs a few more seconds before your house is filled with noises like you're taking care of a whole football team.
Two.
You get off the couch, making your way over to the door of the living room to see the scene unfolding.
One.
Your husband stands with his arms wide open in the hallway. His shoes and jacket still on, waiting. Just like you, with a wide grin on his face.
Zero.
“Papa!” The high-pitched, excited voice of your daughter comes from her room. He shouts, echoing through the hallway as she runs with heavy, thundering steps toward the stairs.
“Slow, trouble,” Bucky says, loud enough for her to hear. But she doesn’t care, her feet carrying her down the stairs as fast as possible while she giggles loudly. “Hi, trouble, we don’t want ya to get hurt.”
She huffs.
She got that from her daddy. And he knows.
Whenever you scold him for anything — playfully — he’s huffing. Just like your little daughter. A troublemaker through and through.
“Papa! I draws,” she tells him, her small arms stretched out as she jumps down the last few steps to land safely in his strong arms.
Every day when he comes home after work, you get to see the same sweet scene.
Since your little girl can walk, she runs to her daddy the moment she notices he’s home. And by now, she doesn’t even need long to find out if it was you doing dishes or him coming home.
“You were drawing, baby?” He mutters, kneeling down to put her down but still staying at one height with her.
She nods proudly while her small hands tangle into some of his long strands that fall into his hands and face.
You lean in the doorframe, your heart fluttering in your chest. Seeing your husband so happy, so carefree and full of love causes that tingling feeling in your stomach every single time.
A few years back, when you met Bucky, you wouldn't have thought he could look that happy and full of light. But there he is.
You never tried to fix him. You never will because you can't. But you also don’t want to fix him.
He's not some device that's broken and needs a repair. Bucky is a human being, with his past, with his scars — on body and soul. And though some nights his past is still haunting him and some nights he’s panting and shaking next to you, you never tried to do anything else but just be there for him.
To hold him in his darkest moments. To kiss away the tears. To let him listen to your breathing and your steady heartbeat.
Bucky never wanted someone to fix him. He just wanted someone to stay. And that someone is you, his beautiful and sweet wife and mother of the energy bungle that’s keeping him grounded.
“Draws mama ‘n you, papa,” she says proudly, wiggling out of his arms to run upstairs so she can get her drawings and show them to her dad.
Bucky chuckles softly, his ocean blue eyes trained on the girl before he looks around. His eyes catching you still standing in the doorframe with the beautiful smile all over your lips.
A smile he falls for. Every single day.
“Hi, mama,” he mutters, slipping out of his shoes before he takes a step closer and reaches out to bring his calloused hands to your waist.
A sigh escapes his lips when he pulls you close again to his firm chest. Your arms curling around his neck, playing with the long strands that curl slightly in his neck.
“Hey, handsome,” you chuckle, pecking his plump lips.
His sandalwood scent surrounds you just like his warmth.
“How was your day?” He asks, pecking your lips once more before he looks deep into your eyes.
His gaze is soft and loving, and you can’t help but smile even more. He really is the most beautiful man — gentleman. And he’s all yours.
“Good, little trouble kept re-watching your interviews until I got her to draw something for you,” you chuckle.
Your daughter was sitting excitedly in front of the television, following every one of her dad's movements. She even started to do some moves he always does, repeating his words even if she doesn’t really understand all of them.
“Just like her daddy,” Bucky mutters, turning his head to the stairs when he hears your daughter running through the floor once more. “I love you, pretty mama.”
With that he kisses your forehead and pulls back slightly. Just a moment after, your daughter jumps right back into his arms, showing him proudly the pictures she drew.
One of her running away with Bucky’s metal arm. One of them is standing in front of people and talking about ponies — at least that's what she tells him.
Bucky praises her for every drawing she shows him. The light in her eyes and the happiness written all over her face that her daddy loves her drawings so much make your heart flutter in your chest.
“Now, c’mon, let’s make dinner, trouble,” Bucky says, stroking her hair back before he gets up from where he was kneeling. “Hear your little tummy growling at me already.”
Trouble giggles, hugging his legs to step onto his feet. Bucky smirks, his strong arms wrapping around her shoulders as he walks with her toward the kitchen.
He doesn’t bother to change into a t-shirt, no, he stands with his suit pants and shirt in the kitchen. Making dinner with your daughter, not caring about some stains on his shirt.
Unfortunately, it makes him look even more sexy. Handsome. Beautiful. And all yours.
Bucky lifts your little girl up and sits her down on the counter, standing next to her while he looks over her shoulder at you.
You know you will get all the attention from him after dinner. Once the little girl is in bed, he’s all yours.
“What’s your tummy demanding, baby?” Bucky asks, his calloused fingers tickling over her small belly until she’s wiggling and trying to get away from his moving fingers. “Mhm, maybe some pizza. Or pasta. Or does that little belly of yours want veggies?”
“Nooooo, no veggies, papa,” she shakes her head. “I no like veggies. And mama likes no veggies.”
What a lie. You love vegetables. But your daughter just loves to pull you into everything she doesn’t like, so she’s not alone. Just like her daddy.
“Mama doesn’t like veggies?” Bucky grins, looking at you with a knowing smirk on his lips.
He's making you vegetable plates in the evenings because you prefer them over some sweets when you’re watching movies together. You adore vegetables, so you’re definitely the last one who would say no to them.
“Mhm, pizza it is then?” Bucky suggests, even if you already planned on having pizza anyway. But to see the bright smile on her face because you're making her favourite food makes his day.
She squeals when Bucky gets everything ready to make the pizza with her. Or put all the ingredients on top of it, even if it’s a whole mess of every food she likes.
Chicken. Salami. Surprisingly, some pepper.
“What about some cucumber?” Bucky suggests playfully as he cuts a slice and holds it in front of her mouth. Sneaking some pieces of food into her mouth is the most important part of making food together.
“Nu! I no like veggies, papa,” she shakes her head, pushing his hand away.
Bucky chuckles, offering you the little cucumber heart he cut. He knows she doesn’t like it. But he knows you do.
You smile, taking it and putting it between your lips, suckling softly at it until Bucky is groaning under his breath. His eyes darken for a moment before he tries to focus on making the food again.
“You’re in for trouble, mama,” he whispers, leaning toward you to bite into your earlobe. “Gonna have so much fun with my sweet and mighty wife.
summary | congressman barnes thought he had control—over his office, his image, and especially his no-nonsense assistant. That illusion ends the moment you hit a man's head against a table, ruin your blazer, and ride him across a random desk like you're the one running the country.
tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v, desk sex, semi-public sex, rough sex, lowkey dom!reader, subtly-subby!bucky, smut with feelings, workplace romance (technically), power imbalance (handled), public speaking anxiety, reader handles everything, mild violence, sexual tension so thick it pays rent
a/n | based on this request, and ooooh I loved writing them
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ
Sometimes, Bucky still couldn’t figure out how he ended up here.
Not in the existential way—he'd dealt with plenty of that in therapy. No, this was more of a literal confusion.
Because somehow, in the span of a two years, he’d gone from military black-ops missions with Sam to sitting behind a government-issued desk in D.C., wearing suits that cost more than his first apartment, and debating tax reform with men who’d never touched grass.
Being a congressman wasn’t the weird part.
Doing it well was.
And if he was being honest, that was probably 95% thanks to her.
You.
His assistant. His handler. His chaos manager. And, if he was being really honest—which he rarely was—you were probably the best part of the job. Even if you drove him insane.
You were brilliant. Unshakeable. The only person on staff who could tell him he was being an idiot and still have a coffee waiting for him after. You kept his schedule running like a military op and shut down press rumors before they could start trending.
And you were only thirty. Or—wait, no. Your birthday was in November, so you were still twenty-nine. He remembered because you'd corrected him with the driest look possible and said, “Do not age me prematurely, Barnes, I will unionize this building and have you replaced by a TikTok intern.”
He smiled at the memory as he walked down the hallway toward the bullpen, nodding at staffers, pausing only to fake-laugh at a joke he didn’t quite hear from someone in comms.
Then he saw you.
You walked in like you owned the building—which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely untrue. Blazer cinched, hair flawless, phone in hand, nails sharp, heels unapologetically loud. And everyone noticed. Everyone always noticed.
So did the IT guy—Trevor? Tyler? Something with a “T” and too much Axe body spray—who popped his head out from behind his desk the second he saw you walk in.
“Hey, uh—wow. You look great today,” he said, grinning like a freshman talking to the hottest senior.
You didn’t even slow down. Barely spared him a glance.
“It would be breaking news if I didn’t,” you said with a scoff, breezing past without missing a beat.
Bucky bit back a snort.
God help him, you were a menace.
And he was in so much trouble.
You didn’t stop walking until you were right in front of him, flipping through the sleek black tablet in your hand with the focus of someone already mentally ten steps ahead.
“Okay,” you said, tapping your screen like it personally offended you. “We need to talk about your last interview.”
Bucky raised an eyebrow, following you as you turned and started walking again—because you never stood still for these things. You moved. You commanded. People got out of your way like it was instinct.
“I thought it went okay,” he said, already bracing himself.
You shot him a look over your shoulder. “You said ‘worrying’ five times in two minutes. This is worrying, that’s worrying, the whole country is apparently on the verge of a panic attack because you don’t own a thesaurus.”
“I didn’t realize I was repeating myself that much,” he muttered.
You stopped short, turning on a heel so sharply the assistant from admin nearly dropped her coffee trying to dodge you.
“You are a congressman,” you said slowly, like he was the one who needed phonics help. “Not a Tumblr doomer post. Use a new word. I am begging.”
He smirked. “I’ll add ‘thesaurus’ to the list.”
You pointed at him. “Matter of fact, expedite ‘worrying’ from your vocabulary. Evacuate it. Execute it. Eject it from the goddamn building.”
Bucky couldn’t help the laugh that broke out. “You always this dramatic before 9 a.m.?”
You turned and started walking again, this time toward his office.
“I’m not dramatic. I’m effective. You know what’s dramatic? Your public approval rating when you accidentally sound like the world’s ending every time you open your mouth.”
“Okay, that’s fair,” he admitted, trailing behind you.
You pushed the door to his office open with your shoulder and turned back to face him, standing in the doorway with that terrifyingly calm look you got when you were about to change lives and ruin someone’s whole day.
“Now sit down, sip your over-priced oat milk latte, and go over these updated talking points like a big boy while I do everything else required to keep this administration from crumbling.”
You handed him a folder.
He took it.
You turned on your heel again.
And Bucky just stood there, folder in hand, still trying to figure out how someone so casually cruel could also make his heart beat like he’d been running up stairs.
He was totally, completely screwed.
The office was, for once, quiet.
A miracle.
You were perched on the edge of his desk, scrolling your phone with one leg crossed over the other, lip gloss freshly reapplied, looking more like a fashion editorial than someone juggling fifteen constituent emails, three policy briefs, and a senator’s ego on speakerphone.
Bucky watched you from his seat, pretending to read the speech notes you’d revised. Which meant he was reading the same paragraph three times and thinking about the shape of your mouth every time you sipped your iced coffee.
You snorted suddenly at something on your screen.
He raised an eyebrow. “What now?”
“Someone edited your last speech over that one TikTok audio—‘girl, be for real,’” you said, showing him the screen. “Honestly? Accurate.”
He rolled his eyes. “Back in my day, people just read the paper if they wanted to roast politicians.”
You didn’t even look up.
“And back in your day, people thought lobotomies cured headaches.”
He stared at you, face blank. “...Wow.”
You glanced up with a smug little look. “You brought the ‘back in my day’ energy. I just matched it.”
He blinked again. “That was brutal.”
“You survived Hydra, Barnes. You’ll live.”
You hopped off the desk, still scrolling, already halfway out of the room like nothing had happened.
Bucky sat there, mind blank, trying to decide if he should be offended or more in love.
It was a toss-up.
The moment Bucky stepped onto the sidewalk outside the education committee hearing, he knew it was a mistake.
Cameras flashed like strobe lights. Microphones thrust forward like weapons. Reporters shouted over each other with that gleeful, rabid tone they got when they smelled blood in the water—and this morning’s article about his “alarming silence on key policy points” had put them into a frenzy.
He barely got a foot down before—
“Congressman Barnes, are you avoiding questions about your defense budget stance?”
“Why did you cancel your Pittsburgh appearance, is it true there was internal conflict?”
“Do you still consider yourself aligned with Captain America’s legacy?”
The barrage came fast. Bucky blinked, stunned into silence, his brain caught between fight-or-flight and turn-on-your-heel-and-run-to-therapy.
He opened his mouth. Closed it again.
Where the hell were you—
And then.
The crowd parted.
Like God herself said let there be chaos management.
You came storming through the press like a thunderclap in heels—perfect blouse tucked into razor-sharp slacks, tablet in hand, hair slicked, expression set to absolutely fucking done. The press instinctively stepped back, some startled, some frightened, all curious.
Your voice rang out, clear, sharp, and lethal.
“I’m sorry—do y’all even brief before you yell Or is the strategy just ‘shout over each other and hope something sticks’?”
Every camera swung to you.
You didn't flinch.
“First of all—he’s not avoiding questions. He’s walking. Because he has a job. Wild concept, I know.”
One of the bolder reporters started, “We just need—”
You raised a hand, and he actually stopped talking.
“Second,” you continued, flipping your tablet open with the dramatic flair of a magician about to pull a dove out of her sleeve, “if any of you had bothered to read the full statement instead of the chopped-up quotes getting passed around like a sad little rumor chain, you’d know the Pittsburgh visit was postponed, not canceled. And yes, we’re still going. Next Thursday. Bring sunscreen. And better sources.”
A collective murmur. One woman lowered her camera entirely.
You weren’t done.
“As for the Captain America legacy? I’m sorry—do you want him to punch a Nazi on live TV just to keep the branding tight? Because he can, but I promise you’ll cry about that too.”
The air crackled.
Silence.
Actual, stunned silence.
You finally turned to Bucky, handed him a neatly folded schedule, and said—without looking up, without a single ounce of visible emotion,
“Try not to look like a hostage. You’re polling in Gen Z now.”
He blinked. “Right.”
You glanced back once at the press, offered a professional, poisonous smile, and added, “Any follow-ups can go to our press contact. Or the trash. Whichever comes first.”
Then you turned and walked toward the car like you hadn’t just verbally burned down a crowd of trained professionals in under ninety seconds.
Bucky followed, somehow still holding the schedule like it was a lifeline, his pulse in his throat.
“You… good?” you asked over your shoulder, casual as hell.
He stared at you like you’d just walked out of a superhero movie.
“I think I need a minute.”
You raised a brow. “Too bad. You’ve got a budget subcommittee call in ten.”
And that was that.
You slid into the car. He followed. Speechless. Spinning. Aroused.
Definitely aroused.
He was completely, completely gone.
The door to the black SUV slammed shut behind him, but Bucky still hadn’t caught his breath.
You were already typing away on your phone, thumbs flying across the screen like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t just verbally suplexed a half-dozen members of the national press with the poise of a Vogue editor and the accuracy of a sniper.
He stared at you.
“You, uh…” he started, then stopped.
You didn’t look up. “Spit it out, Barnes. I’ve got a senator on hold and a lunch order to bully through Postmates.”
He cleared his throat, tugging at the collar of his shirt, still slightly warm from adrenaline. “That was… something.”
You paused, glanced up, one perfectly arched brow rising like a challenge.
“Something?”
He floundered. “I mean, it was… damn. You were like. I don’t even—”
“Again I ask… you good?” you asked, deadpan. “You short-circuiting mid-sentence or just trying to say thank you in the least efficient way possible?”
Bucky blinked, mouth opening, then closing again.
Because the truth was he’d watched you take on that crowd like a one-woman PR army, and somewhere between do y’all even brief before you yell? and he will punch a Nazi, something in his brain fried.
You looked hot when you were angry. Not just pretty—intimidating. Like your words could disarm bombs and rewrite legislation at the same time. Like you didn’t need backup, just better lighting.
He wanted to say all of that.
Instead, he muttered: “You, uh… you ever thought about running for office?”
You snorted. “Why? So I can spend my life getting asked what I was wearing when I dismantled a reporter?”
He smiled despite himself. “I’d vote for you.”
“You’re contractually obligated to,” you said, already turning back to your phone. “I handle your calendar. Don’t get cute.”
He stared at you for another second, heart still hammering like he’d been dropped into a mission zone.
You didn’t look at him again.
But you smirked.
Just slightly.
Like you knew.
The green room smelled like nerves, burnt coffee, and the slow, suffocating panic of public office.
Bucky Barnes was pacing like he was back in a mission briefing—except instead of tactical gear and threat maps, it was a podium, two network cameras, and a press corps that could ruin a man’s legacy with the wrong pull quote.
You, on the other hand, looked like you’d been born in this room just to dominate it.
Sitting on a velvet chair in the corner, you had one leg crossed over the other, heels off, full glam, phone in hand, scrolling through TikTok like it was your lifeblood. Nails fresh. Lashes sharp. Unbothered. Entirely immune to the political stress leaking from the walls.
Bucky looked over for the third time in sixty seconds.
“I don’t think I should open with the tax credit line,” he said, voice low and tight. “It feels... forced. Like I’m trying too hard.”
You didn’t glance up. “You are trying too hard. It’s giving ‘read directly from the pamphlet.’ It’s giving post office PSA.”
He frowned. “What does that even mean?”
You sighed, the kind that said you’d dealt with enough of his old-man questions for one day. Finally, you looked up, setting your phone in your lap.
“It means stop being stiff. Loosen your shoulders. Drop your voice an octave. Talk like you're not addressing a room full of mannequins. You’re not a WWII poster anymore—you’re a congressman with a decaf dependency and a wildly underpaid assistant.”
He blinked, caught between laughing and sulking. “I—”
“Uh-uh.” You raised one finger. “Don’t speak. Reset.”
He inhaled, tried again. “Americans deserve relief that doesn’t require three jobs and a miracle to get by—”
You nodded, finally satisfied. “Better. Less ‘Captain America,’ more ‘guy who teared up at the coffee commercial last week.’ They like when you sound human.”
“That coffee commercial was sad,” he muttered, defensively.
“And that’s exactly why they trust you,” you said, standing and slipping back into your heels like it was part of your battle armor. “You’re not fake. You’re just emotionally constipated and afraid of disappointing everyone. That’s what I’m here for.”
He paused. “You make it sound like I’m broken.”
“You’re not broken.” You fixed the collar of his jacket. “You’re rebranded.”
Bucky opened his mouth. Closed it.
Because you looked incredible. Hair sleek. Dress hugging you like it was custom-cut. That slit was illegal in at least three counties. But before he could blurt something pathetic—like You smell like vanilla and ruthlessness—you were already moving.
You shoved his speech notes into his hand, then offered him a bottle of water like he didn’t just forget how to breathe every time you touched him.
“Sip slowly. No weird throat noises at the mic. And don’t stare at the interpreter this time, she filed a complaint.”
“She did not—”
“She did. I covered it.” You were halfway to the hallway, heels clacking like a countdown clock. “Five minutes. Please try not to become a meme this time.”
He followed, dazed, heart thudding, trying not to stare at the back of your skirt like a man starved.
The event was packed. Too packed.
The press conference had just wrapped, the applause still echoing as staffers ushered attendees toward the exit. Bucky had stepped down from the stage, tie slightly loosened, head turned toward you across the room.
You were checking your phone, clipboard under one arm, lips pursed in that way that said, Yes, I heard everything you said, and no, I still think it was weak.
Then it happened.
The shouting started at the back.
At first, it sounded like heckling. Normal. Predictable.
Then it grew louder.
Angrier.
A man shoved past the security barrier, red-faced and screaming. Another climbed onto a chair, holding a megaphone, spitting vitriol.
“Traitor!”
“HYDRA plant!”
“You’re not American, you’re a puppet!”
Bucky’s blood ran cold.
Then came the movement—too fast to be random. Three more men, surging forward through the crowd, coordinated. Too aggressive. Too armed.
The moment his instincts flared, he snapped into gear.
“Everyone out!” he barked, shoving a staffer behind a column, scanning for entry points, exit routes. “Move, move!”
His hand reached instinctively for a weapon that wasn’t there—not since the uniform, not since the missions. But he didn’t need it.
He just needed you.
“Where’s—” he turned, scanning, heart hammering, trying to spot your blazer in the chaos.
And then he froze.
You weren’t hiding.
You weren’t running.
You were standing over a man twice your size with your heel planted between his shoulder blades, one hand gripping his collar, the other fisting the back of his belt as you slammed his face into a table.
BANG.
“I am not the one to mess with,” you shouted, your voice feral, electric, alive. “You redneck motherfucker!”
BANG.
“Keep talkin’. I got time today.”
BANG.
The man made a sound like a dying goose and crumpled.
The others paused. One backed off. The last one raised a fist—only to get elbowed in the throat by you so fast Bucky couldn’t even process it.
You turned, breath heaving, hair half undone, lip gloss smudged, looking like war.
And Bucky?
He stood frozen, surrounded by chaos, heart pounding in his ears—and all he could think was:
Holy. Shit.
You were beautiful. And terrifying.
And he was completely, catastrophically in love.
The second the last attacker hit the floor, Bucky was on you.
You were standing over the man you’d just dropped, breathing hard, blood trickling from a gash on your forearm. Your blazer was ripped at the seam, silk blouse stained.
Your eyes met his, and your face twisted—not in pain.
In indignation.
“This was Valentino!” you snapped, holding up the torn sleeve like it personally betrayed you. “I paid rent money for this blazer!”
Bucky didn’t hear any of it. Not really.
He was already reaching for your wrist, inspecting the bleeding cut. “Come on—we need to get you cleaned up.”
“I’m fine,” you said, trying to wave him off, but he was already dragging you toward the nearest exit, weaving through stunned staffers and security guards who were still trying to make sense of what had just happened.
He shoved open the door to a small conference room and guided you inside. Closed the door.
Then turned on you, jaw tight. “What the hell was that?”
You blinked at him, incredulous. “I was handling it.”
“You are bleeding!”
“I got grazed. Calm down—”
“You think this is about a scratch?” His voice rose. “You could’ve been killed, and I just—damn it, I should’ve protected you.”
You stared at him like he’d grown two heads. “You what?”
“I should’ve been there—should’ve kept you safe—”
“Oh, shut up, Barnes.”
He froze.
“Seriously? You wanted me to wait for you? Let those assholes dogpile me so you could come in all noble and traumatized? I don’t need to be protected.”
“That’s not—!”
“It’s 2027. Women don’t need men to jump in swinging just to feel relevant.”
His mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again, lost in the sputter of a man who’d just been emotionally bitch-slapped with logic.
You let out a slow, tight exhale. “I’m not your mission. I’m not your PR problem. I’m your assistant, and I’m a New Yorker, and if you’d grown up where I did, you’d understand why waiting around to be saved is a luxury some of us never had.”
He said nothing, still stunned.
You held your arm out. “Bandage me if you’re gonna be useful.”
Wordless, still trying to recalibrate, he opened the first aid kit on the wall and started wrapping the cut with more care than necessary. His hands were gentle, precise.
“You scared the hell out of me.”
You blinked. That you’re being ridiculous blink that always made him want to throw things and kiss you at the same time.
Then, calmer now, quieter, he asked, “How do you know how to fight like that?”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
And then you said, like it was obvious, like it was as much a part of you as your name:
“You say you’re from Brooklyn—but it’s clear you never grew up in Brownsville.”
Your eyes held his, fierce and dark and unapologetic.
And Bucky?
He’d never wanted to kiss someone more in his life.
Silence settled between you, heavy and frayed at the edges.
You were still perched on the edge of the table, your wounded arm now wrapped with neat gauze, your ripped blazer folded beside you like a casualty of war. Bucky stood in front of you, breathing uneven, heart pounding like it was trying to escape his chest.
He didn’t know how to say what was building up inside him.
So he didn’t.
He just leaned in.
His hand hovered near your face. No command. No pressure. Just need.
And then he kissed you.
Soft. Careful. Like the world might shatter if he rushed it.
For one breath, it was perfect.
Then your brow furrowed.
Your palm pressed flat against his chest.
Bucky’s heart bottomed out.
“What the hell are you doing?” you asked, voice cool, sharp, dangerously unreadable.
He froze.
“I—” he stepped back slightly, hand dropping. “I thought—God, I’m sorry. I just—”
Your eyes didn’t soften. If anything, they sharpened.
“I’m your assistant,” you said. “You’re my boss. You’re violating, like, four ethics codes right now. Five if you count how many times you’ve stared at my legs in budget meetings.”
He blinked. “I haven’t—okay, that happened once.”
You raised a brow.
“Twice.”
Your mouth twitched, but you weren’t done.
“I could report you to HR,” you said, calm as ever. “Get you removed for sexual misconduct. Sue you.”
He stumbled back, eyes wide, a pit forming in his gut so deep he nearly doubled over.
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable—shit, I swear I wasn’t trying to cross a line—”
You tilted your head, watching him spiral.
Then you murmured, almost thoughtfully, “Your term’s almost over anyway.”
His breath caught. “What?”
And then?
You grabbed him by the collar, yanked him back toward you, and smashed your lips against his.
The kiss was nothing like before.
It was hungry. Commanding. Yours.
Your other hand slid into his hair, tugging him closer, and he groaned into your mouth like he’d been holding that sound back for months. His hands found your waist, gripping tight, anchoring himself to your body like he was afraid you’d vanish.
You kissed him like you were mad about it.
And Bucky kissed you back like he was never going to recover.
There was no hesitation. No slow build. No questioning what this was.
It was you, claiming him.
Your fingers were in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him gasp. Your other hand slid down his chest, nails dragging over the buttons of his dress shirt as you kissed him like you’d been planning to ruin him for weeks.
Maybe you had.
Bucky groaned into your mouth, deep and guttural, pulling you closer, hands gripping your waist so tight he thought he might leave fingerprints. You tasted like gloss and adrenaline, like sweat and something he couldn’t name—something real.
You broke the kiss just long enough to bite his lower lip—hard.
He shuddered.
“Still think I’m gonna file an HR report?” you whispered, voice low, teasing, lethal.
Bucky laughed—breathless, dizzy. “I’m not even sure I can spell HR right now.”
You pushed him back until his legs hit the edge of the conference table.
Then you shoved him.
Not hard. Just enough.
He landed on the tabletop with a soft grunt, eyes wide, hands bracing behind him.
“Off,” you said, fingers already at his tie.
“Jesus,” he muttered, letting you yank it loose.
“Not quite.”
His blazer hit the floor.
Then the shirt. Button by button, you peeled it off like you were unwrapping a problem you planned to solve with your teeth.
He was hard beneath his slacks. Painfully. Obscenely.
You noticed.
“Oh,” you said softly, eyes flicking down. “So you do like a woman in charge.”
“Have you met you?” he rasped.
You climbed onto his lap, straddling him right there on the table, grinding down slow and firm. His head fell back with a groan, hands flying to your hips, gripping like he was drowning.
“Touch me,” you said.
He did.
Everywhere.
And he was so gone for you.
You ground down on him again, slower this time, your hands planted on his chest, dress hiked up, his belt digging into your thigh. His hands gripped your hips like he wasn’t sure if he was guiding you or just hanging on.
Bucky's breath came in ragged pulls. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Maybe,” you whispered, lips brushing his. “But you’ll die happy.”
You kissed him again—slower, deeper, tongue sliding into his mouth with a confidence that made his spine arch. He felt like he was melting, hands skimming up your sides, over your back, desperate to touch, to anchor.
And then you pulled back.
Stood up between his knees.
Hiked your skirt up higher.
No underwear.
He made a sound—low, guttural, almost a prayer.
You grinned.
Then you undid his belt. Slow. Deliberate. Let the metal clink open, dragged his zipper down with one nail, and reached into his briefs to free him.
He hissed through his teeth when your hand wrapped around him, stroking once, then again, firm and slow and utterly in control. You looked down at him like you were studying something you planned to break and rebuild better.
“You been hard for me since the press room?”
“Since our briefing,” he groaned.
You climbed back into his lap and lined him up with your entrance, teasing the tip against your folds, dragging it through your slick with a roll of your hips.
“You’re so lucky I like older guys.”
And then you sank down.
Slow.
Deep.
All of him.
He choked on a gasp, head falling forward against your shoulder, arms wrapping around you like his whole body had just been plugged into a power grid.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “You feel so good—so fucking tight.”
You rolled your hips once—hard—and he whined.
“Look at me,” you said.
He did.
And the look on your face?
Smug. Wild. Unapologetic.
You started to move.
Up and down, grinding, hips snapping, thighs strong as you rode him like you owned him—and maybe you did. His mouth parted, hands clutching your ass, eyes locked on your face as you took him faster, harder, moaning softly every time he hit just right.
“You gonna come, congressman?” you teased, voice breathy. “Gonna fall apart for your assistant like a cliché?”
He laughed—barely. “Already did.”
And when your nails dug into his shoulders and your rhythm stuttered, when your moan turned breathless and high and he felt you clench around him—
He lost it.
He groaned loud and long, spilling inside you as his vision blurred, body shaking beneath your grip.
You kissed him through it, slow and deep, hips still rocking until his hands went limp and his head dropped to your shoulder.
Synopsis: Bucky is a man from a different time. It shows when you start ‘going steady’ and honestly, you love it. Alternatively; Bucky uses 40’s dating etiquette to woo you, and surprises you with a modern turn of phrase.
cw: it’s set in a vague timeline where it’s just before cabnw but also during fatws so no thunderbolts spoilers! Bucky is a FLIRT, reader is a little shy, anxiety representation, lots of casual getting to know you, going on a date flirting, Bucky’s serious about reader tho!
word count: 4.4k
Bucky Barnes prides himself on being able to court a woman. He really does. He knows all the rules, knows all the things to say, and it doesn’t hurt that he can flirt his way through any conversation.
You and Bucky met at the Smithsonian when Bucky was missing Steve a little too much and popped in just to get a glimpse of his best friend again.
You were by the Isaiah Bradley display, reading through before murmuring under your breath, “Those poor men.”
Bucky hadn’t meant to eavesdrop like that, but there was so much concern in your voice and he had to say something lest you think they all suffered — looking back, maybe he wasn’t the best person to break that news to you.
“We didn’t all suffer so bad.”
You had gasped when you noticed him, hand to your chest. “You’re Bucky Barnes,” you weigh your words before adding, “Steve’s best friend.”
That alone had won him over. You didn’t bring up the Winter Soldier, or that Bucky was as traumatised as super soldiers went. Just that he was Steve’s best friend.
“Yeah,” he nodded, “This your first time at the Smithsonian?”
You shake your head, a little heat flushing up your cheeks. “I come every couple of weeks, to see if they have any new stuff to add to your plaques. It’s kinda messed up what they did to all of you.”
Bucky smiles, shaking his head. It is messed up, he knows that. All the super soldiers besides John Walker know how messed up it was. “We came out alright, made it to the 21st century after all.”
You tilt your head to the side, “I guess that’s true.”
Bucky’s eyes light up. “Made it this far to meet pretty girls too.”
Your cheeks flame and Bucky chuckles, you chat a bit more before he gives you his number.
It takes you two days to text him. You’d been overthinking it, if you should or shouldn’t. In the end, if he ignored you at least you’d have tried.
It turns out Bucky didn’t give you his number just to be polite, because he answered your text immediately.
The first time he had used his courting experience was when he’d made it a point to establish the fact that he wanted to take you out every second Friday of the month.
He had it in his head that the effort had to be shown and then followed through the entire time and after two days, he was determined to show you that he was serious.
‘I’m free every other Friday, if that’s good with you doll.’
You had responded four minutes later after looking at your phone in shock and a little bit of bewilderment, when was the last time a man was so forward but not in a pushy way?
‘It’s perfect as long as work doesn’t bleed into my weekends’
From there Bucky had planned three of the dates meticulously, going over places and ideas in his head until he’d settled on the best three according to himself.
The first date was at a new diner near his apartment, one that Sam said did really good milkshakes and Bucky hadn’t been able to let the idea go.
“It’s nothing too fancy, but Sam said it’s a good spot.”
You’d worn a pretty skirt and blouse, and Bucky had worn a grey henley and jeans.
“You look gorgeous,” Bucky was full of compliments as you’d learn as the afternoon went on. He dished them out easily and most of the time you pretended not to hear him because he had a sort of pleased look on his face every time you stammered to keep the conversation going, and that in itself had in your stomach in knots.
He even brought you a bouquet of red tulips which had sat beside you on the sticky diner table all day.
“Oh they have milkshakes!” You say excitedly when you catch a server walking past.
Bucky’s heart sores. God bless the forties for making that a thing.
“Wanna try one?”
You look up at him, eyes brimming with hopefulness, “Will we do the cheesy sharing from the same cup?”
Bucky leans back in the booth seat, blue eyes boring into you. “And the same straw if you really want to, doll.”
He’s so fucking smooth, because you can’t do anything but nod now that his gaze is fixed on you.
Deciding what milkshake had taken nearly five minutes, back and forth between what was a classic flavor and why strawberry was definitely not good (Bucky was very offended) and then settling on a Shamrock Shake even though St. Patrick’s day had long passed.
Sharing the milkshake sitting across from each other was more intimate than you had expected it to be, (you hadn’t ended up using one straw but just the eye contact was enough to fluster you). Bucky walked you to your car after paying for dinner, very offended that you tried to pay half of the bill, and opened the door for you. When you had gotten in, he leant a little into your space, “Did you have a good time, doll?”
Your heart pounds. You had a great time, Bucky was easy to be around, even with your shyness.
“I did, thank you Bucky. Did you?”
He smiled, “Don’t see how I couldn’t with you as company.” In your sputtering for an answer Bucky’s heart beat a little faster, you were the cutest thing ever.
“Any opposition to a gala for our next date?”
You raise your eyebrows. “I’m not the biggest fan of crowds but I don’t see why it couldn’t be fun. Is it for the new Captain America thing?”
Bucky smiles, “I’ll text you the details. Drive safe, doll.”
The gala was fun even if a little anxiety inducing when you note the number of people there.
Bucky’s good though, he doesn’t give you a moment alone to feel that anxiety or have anyone come up to you to ask you a million questions.
It’s a veteran gala and Bucky didn’t want to go through that alone because he was getting another medal post Thanos; not that he really wanted it.
That night, as you sat beside him at one of the tables, it was hard to ignore the feel of his hand grasping your ankle and stroking it.
His palm is warm against your skin but you can feel the twitch in his fingers.
“We can leave early if you really don’t want to get it, Bucky.”
He turns to you with a smile, his cheeks a little warm when you meet his eyes. “No, I can handle it, doll.”
You tut, shaking your head. “Yeah but you look like you’re gonna pass out waiting for them to call your name.”
He rolls his eyes, “I do not.” He can actually feel the acid churning in his stomach.
In the end, the ‘medal’ is Bucky partially funding a veteran support group in honor of his friend Sam Wilson, who’s the new Captain America, and Steve Rogers. He much prefers that sort of medal.
It was only after Bucky had gotten you home from the gala that you noticed the slip of paper in your clutch.
It had the name of the diner you and Bucky had gone to a week and a half ago, but on the backside of the paper was his semi messy scrawl.
You looked gorgeous tonight. Purple’s definitely your colour, doll. I know it’s only the second date, but you’re all I think about most days. I wanna see you again, but I know tonight was a lot with all those people. Sleep well, doll. Dream of me if you’d like.
Yours,
James.
That had made you smile so hard your cheeks ached. He signed it with his actual name, not the cute nickname he got so many years ago, his real, government name and that was not something that went unnoticed by you.
Immediately you changed his name in your phone to James with a little heart next to it.
You’re not really sure you’re sold on Bucky’s affections towards you, till the third date when Bucky pulls up to your apartment with another bouquet of flowers, peonies this time in pretty pinks and soft yellows.
“Bucky, these are gorgeous!” You had rushed back into your house to add them to the vase with the other flowers he had dropped off for you on your doorstep last week.
You can hear him chuckling in your doorway as you flit about.
“Was there any traffic?” you asked over the sound of your tap filling the vase.
“Not too much, but it is lunchtime on a Saturday.”
You had mentioned to Bucky a little bit ago that there was a perfect spot in the park near your house for a picnic now that New York had finally warmed up, and the next text you had received was Bucky asking if you had any nut allergies.
It wasn’t your usual date day, but Bucky had pleaded and begged just a little (although he really hadn’t had to), and had even sent you a photo of the most gorgeous picnic blanket and you were agreeing faster than anything.
“I’m ready to go now.” Seeing Bucky there leaning in the archway of your kitchen makes you feel so many things that you can’t help it when you lean up and kiss just under his jaw before walking towards your door after snagging your picnic basket from on the counter.
“Coming, Bucky?”
He only shakes his head, some of his hair falling into his eyes as he follows behind you. You swear you hear him mutter, “Not a shy thing at all,” but you don’t say anything because your nerve has worn off and you actually can’t believe you really kissed his cheek.
Bucky hadn’t spared an expense on your picnic. He had gotten peaches, plums, two different cheeses, apples, grapes (black ones; your favourite) and even a bottle of sparkling wine.
You had brought sandwiches and salt and vinegar potato chips (those became Bucky’s new favourites), a sketchbook and your camera.
“Were picnics something you did a lot?” you ask Bucky as he makes you a plate - crackers, cheese, some of the fruit and half the sandwich you packets.
Bucky squints at you as he slices a wedge of the plum free from the stone. “If it was, would you be jealous, doll?”
You shake your head, some of the peach juice dribbling down your wrist. Bucky’s quick but gentle as he thumbs it away and presses his thumb to his lips. You’re so grateful that his hands aren’t on you to feel how fast your pulse hammers.
“I’m just curious what the dating customs of the 40’s looked like.” It’s a miracle your voice remains even.
Bucky nods like he doesn’t really believe you. “I think I went on one, but there was never really a good time for more.”
You wince, you had forgotten that he’d gotten drafted.
Your reaction makes Bucky laugh, “I’m glad I get to find out if I really like them now though. There’s a lot more to enjoy about picnics now without all the smog.”
His teeth snap through the wedge of the plum before he continues, “I can see my date better, which feels like an incredible plus.”
Damn Bucky’s flirting.
You spend all evening at the park, and it’s so fun because Bucky poses for some of your pictures and then takes some of you and when you pose for a few together and Bucky stares at you there’s a sort of stillness that overcomes you.
His eyes bore into yours, the blue of them stopping you where your finger is poised over the button to snap the photo.
“Take the photo doll,” he whispers, his lips hovering near yours as he reaches up and presses your finger down just before leaning all the way in, pressing your lips together.
Bucky’s quick to take the camera from your hand after, setting it on the blanket and cupping your cheek to deepen the kiss.
It’s not too long, but it’s more than a peck and when he pulls away you can barely open your eyes.
“Was that okay?” Bucky whispers, the hand still cupping your face warm where it rests.
“Where did you learn to kiss like that?” his laugh rocks you as you press your forehead into his shoulder. “I don’t think you were really frozen in ice all that time, James Barnes.”
Bucky cups the back of your head as his laughs die down. “Whatever you want to believe, honey.”
Bucky gets to your house just after sunset, and you let him walk you to your front door. You don’t really want the date to end, but you’re tired and you have to imagine so is he.
“I had a really nice evening, Bucky.”
He smiles, a hand on your lower back as he stands in front of you. “So did I,” you turn to open the door but he stops you.
“I’ve gotta go out of town for a little bit, so we’re gonna have to rain check next Friday’s date.”
You hold onto the sleeve of his Henley before he can step back, “Is everything alright?”
Bucky nods, “Yeah just some stuff I have to deal with.”
“Winter soldier stuff?” You nearly whisper the words, not wanting to upset Bucky. He only nods with a soft smile. “Be careful okay?”
“You don’t want to be my nurse if I get hurt, doll? That’s harsh.”
You laugh, shaking your head at him. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
Bucky’s chest aches at your care for him. It’s been a long while since he’s been given that kind of affection.
“I’ll be careful, doll.”
“Good.”
Bucky leans in and presses a kiss just at the corner of your mouth, “Goodnight doll, lock your doors.” He reminds you like you’re not a woman in New York City, but it still makes you smile and your chest goes a little gooey.
Bucky doesn’t move from your doorstep till he hears your locks click into place.
-
Bucky’s been gone for a week and a half already and you can’t help but miss him.
You’ve been chatting back and forth and you’ve even started sending him songs to listen to. He’s got a very limited list of favourites that you’ve made it your mission to resolve.
You find another note in your handbag when you decided against texting Bucky and cleaned your cupboards instead.
It was in your bag from the picnic date, and you smiled when you noticed his handwriting on another receipt from the grocery where he got the cheese.
I hope you find this when I’m gone and you’re missing me; I know you are, doll, it’s okay.
I miss you too and I haven’t left yet.
When I get back I’ll make it up to you, I swear. Maybe we’ll go somewhere quiet again? Or I saw they’re reopening one of those antique places with all those retro trinkets; I could show what I used to have at home. Show you what I prefer now.
Keep locking your doors, honey. I should send you new flowers, the old ones will be dead soon.
Yours,
James.
Bucky’s very good at these, these little notes that leave you smiling and giddy like a fool.
You pull out your phone, you have to text him now.
I got your note. What was your favourite ‘trinket’?
Bucky answers only three minutes later.
My sister used to have a silver jewellery box that I had the pleasure of filling every month.
You smile at that, he’s always been a provider it seems.
Another chime comes from your phone.
We also had a gramophone that played the clearest music I’ve ever heard.
You roll your eyes.
You’re such an old man.
I’m not offended, doll. A pretty girl I’m seeing told me recently I’m not old at all.
Even miles away he’s got you grinning like an idiot with a racing pulse.
You can’t say anything to that and your thoughts take you to what a perfect gentleman he’s been to you. Bucky opens your doors, drives you home and waits till you get into your house before driving off. You think you might be falling for him, and rapidly.
He’s still gone by Monday and you’re missing him hard, only for the girls you work with to giggle before coming to find you.
“These were dropped for you,” they hand you a huge bouquet of red and white tube roses and a card.
It’s not Bucky’s handwriting but it’s from him,
Sorry I’m still not back, doll. I should just be gone for another day. Don’t miss me too much, yeah? I need a few kisses when I get back to make up for all this time away. I listened to that song you recommended, it was good. How do I make a playlist?
Yours,
James.
The note had you blushing and extremely flustered. Your coworkers noticed it immediately.
“Are you two going steady?”
You regret telling them who you’d been going out with. When they leave, you’re stuck with the realisation of how different Bucky is to the men you’ve dated before.
It’s a small thing, but you hardly think any of them got you flowers as consistently as he does, and you don’t think you’ve ever received such thoughtful bouquets.
You called Bucky when you got home, happy to hear his voice.
“Thank you for the flowers, Bucky.”
“You’re welcome, doll.”
You have the bouquet from today on your bedside table and smile when you spot it after changing into your pajamas.
“You caused quite a scene when they got delivered.”
You can hear the amusement in his words. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, the girls I work with brought them to me. They were very impressed by the size of the bouquet, Barnes.”
“I’m just concerned about what you think of me.” Was his answer and after that you couldn’t get a full sentence out of you.
He’s so open with his feelings towards you it’s scary, it makes your heart race but you also know he’s not just saying it. He means it and that makes you fall just a little more for Bucky.
“You’re sweet.” Is all you can manage, your face heated with a blush.
“Sam and I are finishing this up tonight, so I should be able to see you when we get back.”
You don’t know if you’re reading into his words, but Bucky sounds relieved at the prospect of seeing you soon.
“Isn’t it going to be a day’s long flight?”
“And I can see you right after I land, honey. So long as it’s not midnight or while you’re gonna be sleeping.”
Bucky Barnes isn’t good for your heart with the way he just wholly shows you how much he wants to spend time with you.
“Do you still need help with your playlist?”
He huffs, “Sam showed me. He’s not a good teacher though, was snippy the whole time; you’d think he’d remember I was in ice.”
You laugh, “I’ll show you when you get back, babe.”
Bucky doesn’t say anything about the pet name, but for the rest of the phone call he doesn’t respond unless you use it.
It’s two days before he’s back and Bucky drives straight over to see you.
He’s at your door a few hours after you get home from work, and when you open the door to see him, he’s there with a single rose in his hand and a tired smile on his face.
“Is it possible you got prettier while I was gone?” He leans against your doorway.
“You look dead on your feet, Bucky. Come inside.” you lead him to your sofa, watching him move with heavy but careful steps all the way through your living room.
Bucky’s movements are measured, not a single action wasted as he takes off his boots and socks and detaches his metal arm.
“I really missed you,” he sighs as he lays on your sofa, eyes shut as he takes a long breath.
“I really missed you too,” you brush back some hair from his face. “You could’ve gone home to sleep first, you know?”
Bucky opens his eyes and it takes great effort to do so, the whites of his eyes shot through with streaks of intense red.
“I wanted to see you,” he yawns. “But you’ve trapped me into laying on your sofa.”
You laugh, your fingers still knotted in his hair. “You can take a nap Bucky, or you can sleep the night here. I’m not really excited by the idea of you driving back tired.”
“I won’t doll,” he shuts his eyes again, the feel of your fingers on his scalp lulling him into a peacefulness he’s missed. “Tell me what you got up to while I was gone. I know you weren’t just counting down the days till I got back.”
You roll your eyes as you recount the last two weeks of your life, Bucky’s not even awake to hear what you did on the second day of him being gone.
You cover him up with your throw blanket and dim the lights of your living room. You make the playlist for him while he sleeps, putting all the songs you’ve sent him on the memory stick so he can leave with it.
Bucky doesn’t spend the night, but as he’s leaving he holds your cheek, “I didn’t come with an ulterior motive, just to see you. If you want, we can go have dinner tomorrow. I have something I want to ask you, doll.”
“That’s ominous,” you’re a little nervous by that phrase. No one likes being told that someone has ‘something to ask them’ in a day. There’s anxiety crawling up your chest before Bucky kisses your lips.
“It’s a good question baby, don’t overthink it. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
You grab the memory stick off the table before you could forget, “Here, I put all the songs I’ve sent on here.” Bucky kisses you again.
“You’re an angel,” you steal a kiss before he pulls away. “Lock your doors.”
“Sir yes sir.”
You hear him laugh all the way to his car.
Despite Bucky’s well meaning, ‘Don’t overthink it.’ That’s all you did when you woke up and started sifting through dresses to wear.
You’re ready at six and that makes you even more anxious. There’s too much time to do nothing but sit and overthink it.
You’re working yourself up to outright calling Bucky when there’s a knock at your door.
A quick peek at the clock on your stove let’s you know you’ve been overthinking it for forty five minutes.
When you open the door, Bucky’s standing in front of you in a pretty blue shirt that makes his eyes pop, and black dress pants.
He’s not got flowers this time, but he is holding a box of what you think are chocolates.
“Oh my god,” he breathes as he takes you in. You’re in a pretty pale purple dress, white heels and your hair is down in loose curls. You hadn’t gone for heavy makeup but just enough where there’s purple glitter on your eyelids and your lips are a deep red.
“You look handsome.” You say as you fight the blush creeping up your chest at the way Bucky’ stares at you.
“You look,” he trails off like he really can’t find the right words. “Breathtaking.”
You feel as though the blush explodes in your chest and heats your entire face.
Bucky hands you the box of chocolates, “They’re all dark chocolate.” You smile as you take it; that’s another thing Bucky’s remembered you like.
“Do I get to know where we’re going?”
You ask as you slip the chocolates into your purse and shut your door.
Bucky smiles as he watches you lock your door before turning to him. Immediately he links his hand with yours.
“We’re going for dinner somewhere nice,” the entire ride to the car Bucky has you talking. About the last book you read, work, if you think about him every night before bed (the last one was just to make you laugh, but the truth is you do.)
“What about you Bucky? Do you think about me before bed?”
You ask as he parks and he turns to you.
“Oh yeah,” that’s all he says before coming out of the car to open your door. “Think about you more than I think about anything else, doll.”
You manage to hold back your question just before dessert, “Can you please ask me? I’m freaking out and I think my heart might explode from the anxiety.”
There’s a laugh that bubbles from you and Bucky tuts.
“Honey,” you press a hand to your chest. Your anxiety really is at an all time high. You have so many questions rattling around your head that Bucky could want to ask you and you may throw up the lovely pasta you just had if he doesn’t ask you soon.
He leans across the table and holds onto your wrist, feeling the erratic beat of your pulse.
“I’ve been torturing you, haven’t I doll?”
You nod as you try to calm your racing heart.
“I didn’t mean to,” Bucky’s thumb strokes short lines across your wrist. “I had it all set up to come with dessert but I’ll put you out of your misery.”
“Thanks,” you mutter and he smiles.
“I know we’re only going steady,” that gets a smile out of you. He really is an old man, “but I wanted to ask you if I could be yours? Saying boyfriend makes me feel older so I won’t say it.”
You laugh, letting your head fall on his hand where it holds yours.
“Not the other way around?” You ask and Bucky huffs.
“You’re not property, honey.”
You look up with a smile and Bucky’s smile gets a little brighter. “Yeah you can be mine.”
“C’mere,” he tilts your chin a little higher and kisses you; slow and just long enough for it not to be a full make out. “You really missed out on the whole cheesecake with chocolate drizzle writing.”
He says as he pulls away and you laugh.
“Oh, are they not bringing it anymore?”
Bucky shakes his head, mischief in his eyes. “After you just latched onto me in the middle of their establishment? I don’t know, doll.”
“You’re ridiculous.” They still bring the cheesecake and Bucky feeds you the first bite, and like the flirt and menace he is, he gets a little just to the corner of your mouth.
“Let me get it for you,” and steals another kiss, ‘cleaning it off.’
A group of obscenely rich, horrifically powerful, and sex-addicted individuals share more than one dark secret - but their favorite secret is you. The pretty little thing they've got living in the lavish penthouse they bought together, where they can escape to when they need a break from their families.
Series Warning: Multiple Characters x Reader, adultery, hard drug use, smut, depiction of rough sex, dark kinks (specified in each part).
1: Ragdoll ARI LEVINSON
2: Seductress STEVE ROGERS
3: Special STEVE KEMP
4: Mommy RANSOM DRYSDALE
5: Soother BUCKY BARNES
6: Santa's Baby BUCKY BARNES, ARI LEVINSON, THOR ODINSON, STEVE ROGERS
summary: bucky is protective over reader, the new lab assistant and resident doctor at the compound
wc: 2k
pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader
a/n: no warnings (lmk if i missed anything). barely proof read. requests are open!
═══════════ ⋆★⋆ ═══════════
the first time he met you, he was expecting dr. cho’s usual lab assistant. it was meant to be a brief check in after his latest mission with sam, just a minor tweak to a piece of tech on his uniform.
“hey, do you thin-” bucky strides in to dr. miller’s office, full tactical suit still on. he’d came straight from the quinjet, but glancing up from his arm holster he notices that dr. miller’s office is now replaced by your office.
you look up from your lab report, a pile of open wires laying beside it as you twiddle with the machinery. “oh, i’m sorry. i think dr. banner forgot to notify you: dr. miller transferred to shield co-op missions. i’m his replacement.” you wipe the sweat from your hand onto your white lab coat and stand from your chair. “i’m y/n.”
bucky reads the nametag on your labcoat, dr. l/n. “oh.” his eyes move from the tag to your eyes. “sorry.”
your smile immediately shifts whatever emotions he just had about the situation. your expression is soft and for a moment, bucky thinks you’re too innocent to be working in a business surrounded by violence. it provokes something deep in his stomach, something he can’t quite place.
“i’d be happy to assist you with whatever you need, though!” you smile again, this one giving bucky an even warmer feeling through his chest. “i already read all of dr. miller’s previous lab reports, and i’m just as good with needles as i am with technology.” you shift your head towards the mutilated hardware on your desk, then smile back at bucky.
he almost chuckles. almost. instead, he adorns a smirk, so subtle you might not have caught it had you not been staring at him, waiting for a reply. hesitantly, he steps forward, holding his arm out to show you what he needs changed.
that was four months ago. now, bucky looks for any excuse to head to your office, whether it be a slightly twisted wrist, a broken button on his suit, or even a question about a new weapon for his next mission.
“what can i do for you today, james?” your back is turned to him. you’re busy fiddling with a microscope, but bucky can hear the smile on your face.
“bucky,” he corrects. “are you going to tony’s gala this saturday?”
you stop squinting and stand upright, turning to face him. you have a quizzical look on your face. “do doctors usually go to those sorts of things?”
bucky shrugs. “i think dr. cho has before.”
you hum, turning back to the microscope. “well, i do need to catch up with natasha…” you turn the knob for the lens. “is that why you came to see me?”
he pauses. you hear his feet shuffling and smile to yourself. “i just wanted to ask about… my… belt.”
you suppress a laugh and face him again “really?” you grin. “your belt?”
he hums, a tint spreading on his cheeks.
“well, i haven’t had lunch yet, if you would like to get something for us, we can talk about your belt during my break.”
his head perks up at that. “okay, i’ll be back in twenty.”
he’s out of the room so quick and it makes you smile again. as you turn back to the microscope, somebody else enters.
“back alread- oh.”
john walker.
you have never been particularly fond of him, especially after a heated argument he had with sam and steve a couple months back. he works for shield, but sometimes they send him to the avenger’s compound to retrieve specific types of upgrades or get intel about an overlapping mission.
“aw, don’t seem too disappointed, sweets.” he smiles, the image disgusting you.
you walk away from the microscope towards a centrifuge sitting on the opposite counter.
“what can i help you with?”
“what, i come all this way and i can’t just talk to you?”
you bite your lip. “i’m afraid i don’t understand.”
he laughs. “i want to get to know you.”
“like right now?”
“right now… over dinner…” he smiles again, the same disgusting one. “whichever you prefer.”
unsure on how to reply, you turn back to the machine. “i don’t know if that’s appropriate.”
“but it’s okay if you do it with bucky?”
“what about me?” bucky steps through the door with a bag of food in one hand. once noticing john, his jaw clicks. “what are you doing here?”
“just wanted to talk to the lady, that’s all.” he shrugs his shoulders. “is that against the law?”
“it is if she doesn’t want that.”
your gaze shifts to bucky. his blue eyes are piercing, and his gaze is colder than any he’s ever given you. you sense the tension growing the longer he stares at john.
john interrupts the silence. “what’s the issue, man?” he steps towards bucky. it’s a small step, but it has bucky rigid. “it’s not like she’s taken. she’s free game.”
bucky scoffs. “if you speak about women like they’re prizes to win then you don’t deserve to speak to them.”
your heart flutters. after all he’s been through, bucky still chooses to be an amazing guy. your admiration for him only grows.
“nobody said anything about that.” john raises his hands in surrender. “don’t get jealous… it’s not like she’s yours…”
his jaw clenches again. you can see his hands are balled into fists at his side. faintly, you hear the whirring of the metal plates in his arm.
“i think you should leave.”
bucky steps aside, clearing a space for john to walk out the door. reluctantly, he leaves, but not before sparring you another glance and whispering a “call me.”
when he’s finally left the room, you exhale, glancing back to bucky and his tense shoulders.
“thank you… for that.”
he blinks. his eyes finally find you and he blinks away the tension.
“of course. you shouldn’t have to put up with that, especially in your place of work.”
you nod and a shy smile takes over your face. you move a strand of hair to behind your ear and turn back to the machine so bucky doesn’t notice your face. he does anyway.
“so, lunch?”
═══════════ ⋆★⋆ ═══════════
saturday evening rolls around and, after having double checked with tony and natasha about the validity of your invitation, you get dressed for the gala. the dress fits your form and drapes down to just below your knees. you pair it with a simple pair of heels and your favorite necklace.
you hope bucky likes it.
stop. that’s inappropriate. we’re work colleagues. he would’ve helped out any girl that needed it, he-
oh fuck.
you notice him immediately. he’s sat at the bar talking to steve, legs draped off the bar seat, thighs thick even in his dress pants. his long hair is neatly swept back, and the glass of bourbon in his metal hand clinks from the ice.
natasha spots you first. she was just by the entrance, and she immediately greets you.
“how are you?”
you smile at her, happy to be with her after having not had the chance lately. “good, busy in the lab as always.”
she chuckles understandingly. “seems like tony has everyone working overtime.”
she goes on about one thing or another, but at some point you tune her out because bucky has finally noticed you. you can tell he’s tuned steve out too.
he can’t stop staring. granted, he always stares at everyone, but the way he looks at you differs from that so much. it has your knees weak and you can feel your heart pound a little harder in your chest. his tongue darts out to wet his lips and the faintest smirk appears on his face.
steve turns around to see what his best friend is staring at. noticing you, he leans his head back at the sudden enlightenment and faces bucky. he speaks lowly, “why don’t you ask her out?”
bucky jerks his head towards steve. “what?” he’s defensive at having just been caught. “why would i do that?”
steve rolls his eyes. “because visiting her office everyday is totally normal…” his tone is laced with sarcasm.
you’ve been spending too much time with sam.
“shut up.”
“so you don’t like her, then?”
“i-” bucky huffs. “i never said that.”
“well, i’d act fast.”
his brows furrow. “Why?”
steve points towards you and bucky’s gaze shifts from his best friend to you. there, john walker attempts to offer you a drink, and bucky can tell even from his distant spot at the bar that you’re smiling to be polite.
he doesn’t reply to steve, abandoning his drink and his friend at the bar as he makes his way over to you.
“can i help you?”
john has to turn to look at bucky, his smile dropping. you can tell he’s aggravated by the presence of the former winter soldier.
“no, i think we’re good.” he doesn’t even attempt to make his smile look genuine.
“i don’t think we are.” bucky steps closer to you. his head dips down, lips close to your ear as he speaks in a low whisper. “you okay, peaches?”
you smile, giddy at the sudden pet name. you nod gently, grateful for bucky’s care, and try not to bite your lip from the interaction.
“why don’t you go somewhere else?” bucky’s gentle tone is replaced with a stoic one, his annoyance for john returning.
“why can’t i just talk to the girl?” he looks at you expecting your defense.
bucky’s left hand wraps around your waist. his fingers rub your side softly, gracing your hip. your stomach flips in a fit of butterflies. the sudden act of affection has your knees buckling. you want him to pull you closer in case you collapse.
“she’s not interested.”
john’s eyes widen slightly and he backs away, muttering something under his breath. you feel bucky’s metal fingers squeeze your side slightly. he turns to look at you.
“i’m sorry about him.”
you can barely hold eye contact. “it’s not your fault.” a sudden boost in courage has you pulling your hand up to smooth out the lapel of his suit. “besides, you’re my hero.”
his eyes flicker with appreciation at having been called that. “yeah?”
you hum in agreement. his other hand reaches towards your face, tracing the hair that sits behind your ear, pinned up in the updo you’ve done for the gala. another stomach flip.
“in that case, does your hero get any reward?” he has a playful smirk, his tone light.
“i suppose…” you smile back. “got anything in mind?”
he pulls you until you're facing him directly. his other hand sits at your waist, too. now you can’t look away, forced to look into his eyes as he undresses you with them. he hums as if the answer sits on his tongue. his metal hand pulls you forward, forcing you to take a step closer to him. his flesh hand moves from your waist to your cheek, nose brushing against yours, delicate, like a dance. his breath fans against your face and your eyelids flutter shut. you exhale, a bundle of nerves leaving too.
his lips ghost against yours, waiting to see if you’d pull back or say you’re crossing a line. you don’t dare stop him. you feel his lips curve slightly; he’s smirking against you. before it grows anymore, his lips connect with yours, warm and supple and tender. he kisses you like every second is a promise, like he wants the world to know you’ll never be anyone else’s.
and now, you know it’s a promise he’ll never break.
Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> You and Bucky have been through a lot together. So what happens when you surprise him with something he wasn't expecting?
Disclaimer: descriptions of bullet/stab wounds from a mission, hurt/comfort, Bucky tends to Reader's wounds and worries about her, some swearing. Not proof read.
“I’m gonna put you down. Just stay there.”
“It’s not like I can go anywhere.” You slumped onto the floor, holding your side, trying your best to breath through the pain. But even breathing was starting to hurt.
Bucky had carried you to the safe house. You were on a mission just outside of Prague. You’d been prepared for the worst, and told to hope for the best. But you hadn’t been prepared for this worst. One of the enemy agents having it out for you.
They’d dived right past Bucky and three other Shield agents in order to reach you. And they’d sure as hell made sure they got to you.
You could hear Bucky rummaging around in the bathroom, piling things up in order to bring them into you. A few seconds later, he appeared and started moving around, locking all the windows and shutting the curtains.
“Can I look?”
You nodded, a small whimper leaving you as your clothes caught your wound.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
Bucky helped lift your shirt the rest of the way but then he frowned. “I can’t clean it like this. I’m gonna need to cut-”
“No. Don’t-don’t cut it.” Pushing yourself to sit up, you reached for the hem of your t-shirt. “Buck, I’m gonna need your help.”
“It’s gonna be easier to just cut it.”
You shook your head. “I’m not wearing one of the tiny fucking t-shirts kept here. Now, help me.”
Bucky did as he was told, helping you pull the t-shirt up your body and over your head, leaving your top half in your sports bra.
“This is gonna hurt-”
“I know it’s gonna fucking hurt. Just do it.” You took in a few breaths before shaking your head, your tone softening. “I’m sorry-”
“You’ve been shot and stabbed. Swear as much as you like.”
A weak, breathy laugh left you. “Thanks.”
Bucky gave you a quick countdown before pouring the wound cleaning solution over your wound. Your body reached, crunching up, trying your best to push yourself away from Bucky and the bottle he was pouring over your gaping wound. Your hand landed on his right arm, squeezing him as tight as you were squeezing your eyes shut.
“It’s okay, you’re okay.”
“Ugh, god.” You looked up, your head banging gently against the kitchen cabinet behind you. “I hate this.”
“You’re gonna hate it even more in a minute. You need stitches.”
“Oh, fuck.”
“I need to do them now. We don’t have time-”
“It’s okay, it’s okay.” You took in a deep breath before finally looking at him. “I trust you.”
“Do you?”
“Do I really have any choice?”
“No, I guess not.”
After fifteen minutes, you started to feel yourself succumbing to sleep. “Whoa, hey, no, no, no. Stay awake. Y/n! Don’t you dare pass out on me now!”
You continued to breathe, feeling the needle curl through your skin as he stitched you up.
“I’m almost done, doll. I promise. Just stay. Awake. You hear me?”
You nodded, though it was weak. However, whatever essence of sleep you were falling into was suddenly gone when a deafening sting ripped through your wound and you shot up from where you’d laid down on the floor.
“All done. It’s all done now. But I’m gonna need to wrap it.”
“Couldn’t you have warned me?”
“I did. I told you not to fall asleep.”
“I’ve lost a lot of blood. Don’t blame me.”
“Think you can stay awake long enough for me to let Sam know where we are?”
You nodded. “I can try.”
Bucky smiled a little with relief. “Good. Stay awake.”
You didn’t know how long had passed but it couldn’t have been long. Bucky was standing somewhere in the corner of the room, his voice repeating his badge number and coordinates until Sam’s voice finally replied. Then his voice slowly slipped away.
“She’s lost a lot of blood, Sam.”
“We’re on our way now. Just keep her awake.” Sam told him and when Bucky didn’t reply, he spoke again. “She’ll be okay, Buck. You’ve got her to safety and patched her up, right?”
“Yeah,” Bucky’s voice broke over the radio.
“She’ll be okay. I’ve got Cho on board with me so she’ll be in safe hands. Just sit tight. We’ll be there soon.”
“Thanks, Sam.”
“Keep her awake, Buck.”
The radio crackled away and Bucky turned back to you. “Y/n!”
You didn’t open your eyes, but you did speak. “I can’t keep 'em’ open, Buck.”
“You’ve gotta. I need to know you’re awake.”
You forced them open but not for long.
“Just save your energy. Sam’s not too far.”
Then he sat beside you, pulling you into his side. “Just stay awake with me, doll.”
“I’ll try, Buck.”
Bucky tried his best to keep you awake but eventually you passed out. For a moment, you woke up and found yourself wrapped in a pair of familiar arms. But then you passed out again.
Bucky laid you down on the bed inside the jet before stepping away, being pulled into a tight hug by Sam as Cho started to inspect your wound and start a blood transfusion.
Bucky explained everything as best as he could to both Sam and Helen until eventually all there was left to do was for him to sit by your side and hold onto your hand.
And he did that for three days.
By your side in the jet, by your side in your hospital bed and, not too far from your side when you were pulled into surgery.
When you finally woke up, your hand was in his as he lay hunched over the edge of your bed, fast asleep.
“He’s been awake for two days.”
You turned and looked at the door. Sam was standing there, a soft smile on his face as he walked inside, his voice quiet. “I did try and make him go home but he didn’t want to leave you.”
“How long have I been out?”
“Almost a week.” Sam told you before he sat himself down in the chair on the other side of your bed. “After three, they took you in for surgery. Some lesions from where the knife had cut through your bullet wound. He did a good job at fixin’ you up, though.” Sam explained. “You’ve been asleep ever since.”
“And him?”
“Never left your side.”
You turned and looked back at the sleeping Bucky and your hand reached out. Softly, you brushed the hair back from his eyes, repeating the movement until you saw a soft, sleepy smile appear on his face.
“You have been shot and stabbed. You’ve both survived through a lot.” Sam told you, bringing your attention back to him for a moment, you hand softly landing on top of Bucky’s.
“I think maybe it’s time you two took some time alone together. Maybe a nice vacation.” Sam offered. “Just think about it.”
Then he sat up, leaned over and pressed a light kiss to your head. “I’ll see you later.”
As he got to the door, you called out to him. “Sam?”
He looked around.
“Thank you.”
Sam just smiled and closed the door behind him, leaving you and Bucky inside. He remained asleep for a while and each time you gently pushed your fingers through his hair, that soft smile would appear on his face.
Then he finally opened his eyes. His eyelashes fluttered open and closed until his brain finally registered what had woken him up.
He shot up, but your hand came to his face.
“You’re awake- you’re awake!” Bucky turned, ready to call for a nurse but with your hand on his face and shoulder, he sat himself back down before sitting on your bed, facing you.
“Hey, hey, no, don’t call them. Not yet.”
“You’re awake. How long have you- are you okay?”
You smiled, holding onto him to make sure he stayed still long enough to hear you. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? They had to rush you into surgery and-”
Bucky then reached out, his fingers holding onto the ends of your hair before his eyes tracked back up towards your own eyes. And for a moment, the last time you’d looked at him like this flashed before your eyes.
Laying on the floor, a white-hot pain spread through your side as Bucky skidded to his knees beside you. The panicked look in his eyes, the slight shake in his hand as it quickly reached out for you, and his voice…the recovered panic…
But the way he was looking at you now…
No danger. Just pure relief.
And without thinking, you took the plunge.
Leaning forward, you kissed him.
His breath hitched for a moment, and his body stilled. But then he kissed back. His hand firm against your face, his fingers lightly digging into the back of your hair.
Pulling away, if in a little need of catching your breath, Bucky’s head remained against yours for a moment, his eyes closed, soaking up every last moment.
You’d both been surprised a lot in the last seven days alone. But he had to admit, you kissing him was his favourite one yet.
Warnings: 18+. Slight Angst. Fluff. Possible Smut in the future. Neurological Damage. Depiction of Symptoms (Bucky).
Summary: Bucky is doing his best to build a stable life for his newfound son, rescued from the guts of a Hydra facility. As he struggles with unexpected fatherhood and his own circumstances, he meets someone who slowly becomes part of their lives, establishing a connection he never saw coming.
Word Count: 6.9.k.
note: In this universe Steve didn't leave, Tony doesn't know that the Winter Soldier killed his parents, and everything is relatively ok.
Previous Chapter
The coffee shop wasn’t too crowded when he arrived, and he was grateful for that. He was early, of course. Old habits die hard. But he also wanted a moment to compose himself, to get his head straight before she arrived. After everything that had transpired at Steve’s, he figured that meeting on neutral ground to discuss their arrangement's details was the right call. He didn’t want any more misunderstandings. Also, some things were better said in person than over the phone.
He chose a booth at the back end, right next to the emergency door. A spot where no one could come up from behind him, and he could see the entire room with just a glance. Five minutes ticked by, and his fingers started drumming lightly against the table while his gaze drifted to the door every few seconds.
The door swung open, and he straightened his posture.
She stepped inside, with her hair slightly tousled from the breeze outside. When her gaze landed on him, her lips curved into a small, almost hesitant smile, and she lifted her hand in a quick wave. He felt his body relax and found himself smiling back just a little, raising his own hand in return, curling his fingers awkwardly.
She walked toward the booth and sat across him, setting her bag down at her side. “Hey”
“Hey.” He settled back in his spot, and his fingers started drumming lightly against the table before he caught himself, folding his hands together to keep them still. “Thanks for meeting me.”
“Of course,” she said, flicking up her eyes to meet his before quickly shifting to the side. “I figured it was better to talk things out in person.”
“Yeah. Exactly.” He nodded, relaxing his shoulders just slightly. “Wanted to… keep things clear. No misunderstandings.”
Before the silence could stretch, the waiter approached swiftly, with his notepad already out. “Ready to order?”
Bucky’s fingers twitched, his eyes shifting to the man. “Yeah. Black coffee.”
She glanced up, her voice softer. “Milk coffee, please.”
The waiter nodded, scribbling down the order before heading off.
Bucky cleared his throat, starting all over, leaning forward and resting his forearms on the table. “I… uh… thanks for coming. And for agreeing to be Thomas’s nanny.”
She smiled again. “Thanks for offering. I’m glad we could work something out.”
He nodded as he looked down at his hands, unconsciously tapping his fingers against the table again. He stopped himself, shoving his hands under the table.
“Look, I want to be upfront about everything.” He took a breath, flicking his gaze to hers before quickly dropping away. “I talked to Steve. He… helped me figure out what I actually need.”
Her brows lifted, and she also leaned forward a little in a curious gesture.
Bucky’s jaw worked, and his fingers clenched under the table. “I need someone to pick up Thomas from school. Stay with him until I get back.” He hesitated, then continued. “If possible… make him dinner.”
She tilted her head. “Do you want me to make dinner for both of you?”
His eyes snapped up in surprise. “No. But… you’d do that?”
She shrugged, curving her lips into a faint smile. “The work’s the same. Just a little more ingredients.”
Bucky blinked, opening his mouth before quickly snapping it shut. Home-cooked meals. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had that. Aside from the things he’d taught himself to make for Thomas, it was all takeout and quick fixes. He cleared his throat, nodding stiffly. “Yeah… yeah, that’d be good. Thanks.”
She smiled, easing her posture. “Alright. Consider it done.”
Bucky swallowed, tensing his shoulders again. “I, uh… I also need someone to watch him when I’m… away.”
Her expression grew serious. “Right. When you’re on missions.”
He nodded, dropping his gaze again. “Yeah. I try to pick things that can be done in a day. But… sometimes that’s not possible.” He hesitated. “And the people I trust to watch him… they’re usually in the field with me.”
His fingers started tapping again, faster, while his shoulders hunched. “I know it’s a lot to ask. It’s… It’s not fair to you. It’s complicated and messy, and I-”
“I’ll do it.”
His head snapped up, and his gaze widened in surprise. “You… will?”
She smiled softly. “I agreed to this knowing who you are, Bucky. Knowing what you do.” Her voice was gentle. “I wouldn’t have said yes if I couldn’t handle it.” She offered him a reassuring smile, but then it faded a little. “That being said, I told you my fee per hour. Given that you’re hiring me for a high amount of time, I could lower the number a bit, but… are you sure-”
“Don’t worry about that.” His response was firm and immediate.
She hesitated, dropping her gaze, fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve with her fingers. He didn’t exactly look like the kind of man who could afford this sort of service: military pension, single dad, worn jackets and fraying jeans.
And maybe he saw the flicker of doubt in her expression because his jaw clenched, and his posture shifted. “Don’t- This won’t put me in a tight spot.” His voice was low and rough, his eyes locked on hers.
She wanted to believe him. She opened her mouth to argue, to offer a lower price, but something about his expression stopped her. The hard set of his jaw. The tension in his shoulders. This was about pride.
So she nodded, letting it drop. “…Alright.”
He relaxed just a little, uncurling his fingers from the fist they’d been clenched in under the table. The reality was that he didn’t have to worry about money. Not now. Not since Steve had stuck his nose where it didn’t belong like it was his favorite sport.
Knowing Bucky’s situation, knowing that he’d never ask for help even if he was drowning, Steve had gone behind his back -again- and talked to Tony. He could still remember the conversation, the smug look on Steve’s face as he relayed Tony’s response. The last time I go behind your back, Buck. Promise.
Tony had been… agreeable. Hadn’t even hesitated, according to Steve. Just asked for her bank information and handed it off to his accountants, calling it “pocket change” and making some joke about how much more than that his dry-cleaning cost every month.
All for the kiddo, Tony had said. Anything he needs.
Bucky’s stomach churned with shame as he gritted out his thanks. But Steve had only shrugged “We all promised to help with Thomas, Buck. And you know the one thing Tony has in spades is money. Let him do this.”
Bucky swallowed hard, This is for Thomas. For the boy he was trying so damn hard to take care of. And if accepting Stark’s “cents” meant giving Thomas stability… then Bucky would swallow his pride. Just this once.
Now that the elephant in the room was addressed, it was time to come clean about… the other things.
“There are some things I need to warn you about,” Bucky started, tightening his fingers around his coffee cup. “It wouldn’t be fair to let you take this job without knowing certain aspects of our daily life.”
She straightened, knitting her brows together as her hands folded neatly on the table. “…Okay. Shoot.”
Bucky’s lips twitched. Damn. Not the best choice of words for someone like him. He looked away, flexing his fingers around the cup again before he released it, running his hand through his hair as he took a deep breath. “Because of… past experiences, I have certain… neurological sequelae.”
He didn’t look at her, just fixed his eyes on the dark liquid in his cup, watching the faint ripple as his fingers drummed against the ceramic as he grabbed it again. “I don’t expect you to do anything about it. I just… I don’t want you to freak out if you’re at the house and I… have an episode.”
Her hands tightened together, but she didn’t say a word. She just… watched him. Listened.
He let go of the cup and curled his fingers into fists before he forced them to relax. “Also… I get it if you rethink taking the job after I tell this.”
Her brows furrowed, her lips pressing together, but she didn’t interrupt.
He looked away, stiffening his posture. This was something only a handful of people knew. Hell, even he tried to forget about it most days. But she deserved to know. Especially if she was going to be in his house, around his kid. He took a breath. “Sometimes I have seizures.”
Her eyes widened, but she quickly schooled her expression, straightening her shoulders. “Oh.”
Bucky swallowed. “You don’t have to worry about it. I don’t… I don’t need help or anything. Just… if it happens and you’re there, just… roll me on my side.” He hesitated. “So I don’t…”
Choke on my damn vomit while I’m a twisting vegetable.
His lips pressed into a thin line. “Thomas tries to help, but… I’m heavy, and enhanced. So…” He trailed off, with his eyes fixed on the table, unable to look at her.
She was silent for a moment, but her features softened, flicking her eyes over his tense posture and hunched shoulders. Then she let out a breath, curving her lips into a gentle, almost comforting smile.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I had students with epilepsy before. I know what to do in case of seizures.”
His head snapped up in surprise. “…You did?”
She nodded, relaxing her hands. “Yeah. I know how to keep you safe until it passes. Do you have any meds I should know about? Anything I need to give you after an episode?”
He shook his head. “No. No meds.” He let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “My metabolism eats them up before they do any good.” His eyes dropped, “I just… have to suck it up.”
And live with the fact that my brain’s fried beyond repair. Some things aren’t going to get better.
Her expression softened, but she didn’t comment on the matter. “Alright.”
He looked up, narrowing his eyes. “That’s it? No… questions?”
She shrugged, with a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You told me what I need to know and do.”
Bucky’s posture eased, but his eyes dropped again, working his jaw as he forced himself to continue. Might as well get everything out now.
“Alright. In addition to that, there’s something else.” His fingers tightened around the ceramic again. “Sometimes I go… idle.”
Her brows knitted together. “Idle?”
“Yeah. It’s like… I zone out. Completely. Like I’m… not there.”
She leaned in just slightly, curling her fingers together on the table. “And… what should I do if that happens?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly, his shoulders stiffening. “Nothing, really. It doesn’t happen often. But if you see me sitting on the couch or… anywhere, really, and I seem far away, not blinking, and not responding at all… that’s what’s happening.”
He looked up then, his eyes locking on hers. “I’ve been told it lasts at most ten minutes. It’s not dangerous. Just… weird.”
Her gaze softened.
He swallowed. “I’m telling you this because it’s fair for you to know. Not because I expect you to take care of me. That’s not… that’s not why you’re going to be at my house.”
“Alright. I get it.” Her voice was calm as she looked at him, not with pity or discomfort, just acceptance. “Anything else?”
Bucky hesitated, flexing his fingers around the cup. “No. That’s all.”
He left out the phantom pain that flared up in his arm, the twisting, burning sensation that ghosted through the limb that wasn’t there. He left out the swelling in the scarred tissue where the prosthesis met his skin, the raw ache after straining his vibranium arm. Those were things he’d learned to mask, just more pinches on the pile of crap that made his nights restless. Nothing she needed to worry about.
He looked down, waiting for her to hesitate, to show something that would prove he’d made a mistake by being this honest. Instead, she looked at him. “In case you’re wondering, what you’ve told me doesn’t change my intention to work under you. At all.”
He lifted his gaze, relieved “…Really?”
Her lips curved into a faint smile, tilting her head just slightly. “Really.”
Her gaze dropped to his hands, and she almost reached for him, almost moved to squeeze his hand, to offer some physical reassurance. But she caught herself, tightening her fingers around her own cup instead, keeping the gesture to herself.
The silence stretched between them until she cleared her throat. “Um… how’s your finger?”
He blinked, jerking back his head, caught off guard. “My…?”
Her lips curved into a more pronounced smile. “Your finger. The one that I…” She nodded toward his flesh hand, her gaze flicking down.
“Oh.” Bucky lifted it, flexing his fingers as he examined the faint pink line where the wound had been. “Well, I removed the stitches.” He tilted his hand, appreciating the neatness of the scar. “You did a really good job. It’ll be pretty much gone in a day or two.”
She watched, almost transfixed.
In just a couple of days, the once-mangled finger had already smoothed over with pinkish new skin, as if weeks had passed instead of mere days. It was fascinating in a way she hadn’t expected.
Without really thinking, she stretched out her hand. “Can I…?”
Bucky blinked, startled.
She hadn’t actually planned to touch him, but she’d stitched that skin together with her own hands, and now it looked like it had never even happened. It was mesmerizing. He hesitated, and his body tensed, then he nodded, clearing his throat. “Uh… um, yeah. It’s your work of art, after all.”
She huffed out a soft laugh, stopping her fingers just short of grazing his, hovering close enough that she could see every healed stitch. “Kind of gory art.”
Bucky smirked, and the tension in his shoulders eased just slightly. “Art’s still art.”
Her lips quirked, her fingertips almost brushing his skin before she pulled back, curling them into her palm. The moment passed, but the air between them felt different. Lighter. Warmer.
She glanced down at their empty cups, at the remnants of foam and coffee rings marking the ceramic. There wasn’t much left to say, at least, professionally speaking. The important things had been discussed and the terms understood.
And she knew he had to pick up Thomas soon.
Still, she lingered, drifting her gaze back to him. His beautiful, tired eyes. The way the exhaustion softened the sharpness of his features, making him look…
“When do you need me to start?”
Bucky let out a dry chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Tomorrow too soon?”
She grinned. “Well, it’s either that or staying at home vacuuming the floor in my old cotton nightdress. I guess I choose the first one.”
She laughed at her own joke.
He didn’t.
Because the second she said nightdress, his brain latched onto it immediately, spinning off into a reel of images he definitely shouldn’t be thinking about.
Cozy, homey images. Innocent ones, at first: she padding around the apartment, with her hair tousled, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as Thomas babbled about cartoons.
And then… not so innocent ones. Soft fabric skimming over bare legs. The window light revealing her figure under the fabric as she moved. The idea of coming home late, finding her curled up on his couch, half-asleep, wrapped in the blanket that smelled like his home.
Fuck.
Bucky cleared his throat, blinking hard as if that would clear his head. He shifted his body slightly, drumming his fingers against the table again.
“Yeah. Tomorrow works.”
If she noticed his sudden lack of eye contact or the color he knew tinted his cheeks, she had the decency of not hinting about it.
She just smiled. Bright. Oblivious.
And Bucky took a slow breath, willing his damn brain to focus.
Apparently, in addition to the already fucked-up parts of his grey matter, the portion that still functioned was now traitorously overloaded with pathetic, touch-starved innuendos.
Fantastic.
----
The doorbell rang, and Bucky pushed himself up, heading for the entry phone. If they were going to do this, he’d eventually have to make her a copy of the keys. Eventually.
He pressed the button to buzz her in, then opened the door. The moment she stepped inside, Thomas bolted toward him, nearly crashing into his legs in his excitement.
“Papa! She brought strawberries!” The kid’s voice was bubbling with happiness, and his little hands lifted the plastic container proudly, as if it were some kind of treasure.
Bucky huffed a chuckle, ruffling his son’s hair before stepping aside to make room for her. “Welcome to our home,” he mumbled.
She smiled as she stepped inside, sweeping her gaze subtly over the space. The apartment was modest but well-kept, two bedrooms, a bathroom, an open-concept kitchen and dining area, with a small space for a couch and TV tucked into the corner. The walls were mostly bare, save for a couple of Thomas’ drawings stuck up with tape and an old framed picture on the bookshelf that she couldn’t quite make out from where she stood.
“Can I show her the apartment?” Thomas asked excitedly.
Bucky exhaled through his nose, nodding. “Yeah, go ahead.”
He didn’t waste a second, grabbing her hand and tugging her along like an eager tour guide. She let him lead, and her soft laughter filled the space as he enthusiastically pointed things out.
When they reached the kitchen, her eyes lingered on the vintage cabinets, at how smooth and well-restored the polished wood was. She reached out, grazing her fingertips on the counter lightly. “It’s really pretty,” she commented, taking in the careful work.
“Daddy did it,” Thomas chimed in proudly. “He fixes everything at home.”
Bucky shifted slightly, moving his weight from one foot to the other, suddenly uncomfortable with the attention. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Needed some work, that’s all.”
She tilted her head slightly, watching him before a small smile tugged at her lips. “You’ve got really skilled hands.”
Bucky stilled.
His hand froze mid-motion against the nape of his neck, and for a second, his brain just… stopped working.
It made sense, of course. Men from his era had been raised to fix things, woodwork, electrical circuits, even their own cars. Bucky had learned early, growing up in a home where hiring someone for repairs wasn’t an option. These days, people needed a specialist for almost everything, since it seemed the knowledge was lost at some point.
He knew what she meant, but his traitorous brain took those words and ran with them, and suddenly, he needed to find something else to focus on.
Before he could come up with a response that didn’t make him sound like an idiot, Thomas was already tugging her toward his bedroom, babbling about his favorite toys.
The child’s room was small but cozy, with a collection of toy cars lined up neatly on a shelf, a well-loved Captain America plush tucked on his bed -courtesy of Steve- and crayon drawings taped to the walls. She listened attentively, nodding and asking little questions.
After that, he dragged her to the bathroom for a brief look before moving toward the final stop.
“Thomas,” she laughed, digging her heels in slightly. “I don’t need to see-”
Too late. He was already pushing open the door to Bucky’s bedroom, revealing a neatly made bed, a simple dresser, and -predictably- not much else.
Bucky exhaled sharply, crossing his arms as he leaned against the hallway wall. “Alright, kid, I think she gets the picture.”
Thomas hummed, scanning the room as if double-checking that he hadn’t forgotten anything. Then, suddenly, his eyes widened. “Oh!”
Before either of them could ask, he bolted across the living room, yanking back a curtain near the kitchen with a dramatic flourish.
“Here’s where we dry our laundry!”
He gestured proudly toward the small balcony beyond, where a drying rack full of underwear was receiving the sun rays.
Bucky sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Alright, now that I’ve been properly familiarized with the space, can I…?” She waved her hand in a vague gesture, asking for permission to do what she was here for.
Bucky huffed. “By all means.” He seemed to think about something. “I, uh… I’ll be in the bedroom for a while,” he added, rubbing a hand down his face.
She nodded without question, already turning to Thomas with a smile. “Alright, kiddo, wanna wash the strawberries and then eat them as we play?”
Thomas practically beamed. “Can I wash them? I have a wooden box to step on when I do the dishes!”
“Oh yeah?” She arched a brow, intrigued. “And what exactly do you do with it?”
“I wash my plastic plate and cup! And the veggies.” His little chest puffed up with pride.
She grinned, giving him a playful nudge. “Wow, sounds like Papa’s got a real helper.”
Bucky heard her words as he retreated into the bedroom, listening to the soft, delighted chatter that followed, and smiled.
It was nice.
He exhaled deeply as he shut the door behind him, rolling his shoulders as he flopped onto the bed. Just an hour, he told himself. He probably wasn’t going to sleep, but a quick rest before he had to be up again would be awesome.
Or so he thought.
The soft knock at his door roused him, pulling him from the depths of sleep. His body felt heavy and his limbs sluggish as he blinked against the dim light filtering through the blinds.
“Yeah?” His voice was rough, still thick with sleep.
“Dinner’s ready,” came her muffled voice from behind the door.
Dinner? So early?
His brows knitted together as he reached for his phone, flipping it open. His eyes darted to the screen.
Damn.
He’d dropped dead for five fucking hours.
More tired than he wanted to admit. More exhausted than he’d let himself believe.
Bucky sighed, rubbing a hand over his face as he pushed himself upright.
The moment he opened the door, the scent of roasted meat and potatoes invaded his nose. His enhanced senses dialed it up to eleven, and for a second, just a second, he nearly moaned.
Dragging his feet toward the bathroom, he rubbed a hand over his face, already knowing what kind of disaster awaited him in the mirror. And sure enough, his hair was a damn mess too, tousled and curving in every direction. With a tired sigh, he splashed cold water on his face, smoothing a hand down his beard before grabbing a comb and pulling his hair back into a ponytail. Presentable enough.
The pull of hunger led him straight to the source of that heavenly scent.
The table was set with two places arranged neatly, one with an adult set of cutlery, the other with a plastic fork and spoon for Thomas. At the center, the food was sliced and presented, and the steam rose gently from the roasted potatoes and perfectly seared meat.
His eyes flicked to her just as she was hanging the timeworn apron on the oven handle, and he felt something in his chest, something warm, something dangerously close to comfort.
“You’re not staying to eat?” The question slipped out before he could think better of it.
She turned, shaking her head with a small, polite smile. “No, it’s time for me to go. I need to catch the bus.”
Bucky felt a faint flicker of disappointment but shoved it down. She was right. This was her job, nothing more. He nodded, exhaling softly. “Alright.”
Without thinking much about it, he walked her to the building door, standing there for a moment as she stepped out into the evening air. She gave him a final nod, a quiet see you tomorrow before heading off.
Back inside, he sank into his chair at the table, rubbing his face before finally digging in.
The first bite had him pausing.
The flavors hit him all at once and God -perfectly seasoned, tender meat, crispy, golden potatoes. He chewed slowly, then took another bite, and another, eating more than he had in days. Damn. He hadn’t realized how much he missed a home-cooked meal.
Thomas, sitting across from him, happily munched on his food, swinging his legs under the chair. Between bites, Bucky glanced at him. “So… you like having her here?”
Thomas nodded enthusiastically, a little bit of mashed potato on his cheek. “Yeah! We washed the strawberries, and then we made a fort with the couch cushions, and she read me a story about a dragon that was actually nice but everyone was scared of him anyway -oh! And we played hide and seek, but she wasn’t very good at it.”
Bucky smirked, scooping up another bite. “Yeah?”
The kid nodded again, happily stuffing his face.
Bucky leaned back slightly, tapping his fork against the plate as he mulled it over.
It was just the first day but maybe, this could work.
----
One afternoon, Bucky found himself at the grocery store, scanning a list that wasn’t his. Well, not entirely.
She had written it up, a much more heterogeneous version of his usual one. Where his consisted of the bare essentials -milk, eggs, bread, whatever Thomas needed- hers had an actual structure. Ingredients for meals, fresh produce, spices he hadn’t thought to stock in years. It reminded him of when his mother used to send him on errands as a teenager. He could still remember himself at fifteen, rolling his eyes when she handed him a list for the general store. Complaining that it was a woman’s chore, that Rebecca could go instead. His mother’s brow had shot up so high he thought it might touch the ceiling. Oh, really? she’d said, arms crossed. And what happens when you’re out on your own, James Buchanan? You gonna starve?
Now here he was, decades later, buying groceries for his home, for his kid.
Life had a funny way of proving his ma right.
Shaking his head, he adjusted the bags in his arms as he made his way upstairs.
When he stepped into the apartment, he found them sitting on the kitchen floor in front of one of the lower cabinets. He was listening attentively, nodding along as they discussed something that had the kid completely engaged.
“-and that way, it’ll be easier for you to grab your plate and cup when it’s time to eat. What do you think?”
Thomas nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah! And for snacks, too!”
Bucky set the grocery bags on the counter. “What’s going on?”
She glanced over her shoulder, tilting her head toward the open cabinet space. “If it’s not a problem, I was thinking about putting Thomas’ dishes down here so he can reach them himself. Just to give him a little more responsibility, you know?”
Bucky’s brows lifted slightly. He hadn’t really thought about it, had just always grabbed the kid’s stuff himself, not minding. But it made sense.
His gaze flicked to Thomas, who looked so damn pleased at the idea of having his own designated spot in the kitchen, resting his small hands proudly on the cabinet door like it was his.
He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Sounds good.”
Thomas beamed, already reaching for the dishes she had stacked nearby, and Bucky let out a slow breath, watching the familiar way they worked together.
He wasn’t sure when exactly it had happened, when the apartment started feeling less like a place they were just occupying and more like a home. But he suspected it had to do with her.
----
After more than a month of having her there, things ran smoothly for Bucky in a way he hadn’t experienced in maybe… ever.
He could go to training and briefing without constantly checking the clock, leave for short missions without scrambling to find someone to watch Thomas, and -perhaps the strangest luxury of all- he finally had time for himself.
For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, he could sit down with a book and actually read instead of skimming a few pages before the exhaustion won out or Thomas claimed his attention. He caught up with some of the series people kept referencing, finally understanding half the memes Sam sent him. He ran just for the sake of it, without a schedule pressing down on him.
And… he napped.
He hadn’t realized how much he needed it until it started happening. Maybe because he knew Thomas would be accompanied if he drifted, maybe because his body had been running on fumes for too long, but the afternoon sleep became a petty compensation for his restless nights. Not perfect, not enough to erase the years of exhaustion, but it helped.
And he felt it.
His body ached a little less. The tension in his shoulders wasn’t as unbearable. His mind wasn’t always running on edge, he was less moody.
Apparently, everyone else noticed it too.
“Damn, you seem younger,” Sam had quipped one day, eyeing him suspiciously over a coffee. “What the hell happened? You finally discovered moisturizer?”
Clint, never one to let an opportunity pass, smirked. “Nah, man. He’s finally getting laid.”
Bucky had rolled his eyes, flipping them both off before taking a sip of his coffee.
Well, he was getting laid.
Not in the way they meant it, obviously. But honestly? Right now, that was just as good, if not better than the other option.
Unfortunately, his face must have betrayed that stupid thought because the next thing he heard was-
“Oh my God, he is!!!”
Bucky’s head snapped up, catching the way Sam’s eyes widened in delighted horror, while Clint nearly choked on his drink, already laughing.
His first instinct was to shut it down immediately.
But then… the pride.
Not the normal kind. The stupid, old-fashioned, masculine kind.
Because really, what was worse? Proclaiming to the entire room that his sex life was less than pathetic, or letting them assume he was in fact, as Sam kept saying, getting some?
He scoffed, shaking his head, neither confirming nor denying it, leaving the door wide open to interpretation.
Sam gaped at him, looking downright offended. “Oh, hell no. Who?!”
Bucky just took another sip of coffee, smirking behind the rim.
----
It was late, and the kitchen was warm with the scent of a simmering sauce and freshly made gnocchi. She stood at the counter, rolling out the dough, guiding Thomas' small hands as he pressed the tines of a fork into each piece to create the signature curl. His face was scrunched in concentration, tongue peeking out at the effort, and she laughed softly, brushing a stray bit of flour from his cheek.
Bucky had convinced her to stay for dinner, mentioning -almost offhandedly- that he remembered her saying gnocchi was her favorite dish. She hadn’t expected him to remember that, but the thoughtfulness of his words had convinced her. And the gnocchi, of course.
Everything was fine. Comfortable.
Until it wasn’t.
A sudden, sharp thud sounded behind her. She turned quickly, and Bucky was on the floor.
His body jerked violently, and his muscles locked and released in uncontrollable spasms. His metal arm flexed sporadically, twitching his fingers like a misfiring machine, while his flesh hand curled into a claw, grasping at nothing. His jaw was clenched too tight, and the veins in his neck were straining against the skin.
“Daddy!” Thomas’ voice was small, panicked.
She barely heard him over the rush of blood in her ears.
Without thinking, she moved, dropping to her knees beside Bucky, reaching-
The moment she touched him, his forearm snapped outward. She wasn’t prepared for the force of the hit. The solid weight of his arm collided with her ribs, sending her sprawling onto the floor with a startled gasp. Pain bloomed through her side as she coughed, trying to suck in air, mind scrambling to process what had just happened.
Right. Enhanced strength.
Her pulse pounded, but she shoved down the shock, forcing herself up. This wasn’t about her.
“Thomas.” Her voice was firmer now. “I need a cushion. Fast.” The boy hesitated for only a second before bolting to the couch, with his little feet pattering across the floor.
She turned back to Bucky, this time more carefully, waiting for the next jerking movement before reaching in again. His body was still seizing, his back bowing slightly before slamming back down, rolling and tugging on the hard floor.
Ignoring the dull ache in her ribs, she braced his shoulder with one hand and pressed the other against his side, using her full weight to turn him onto his side. Thomas returned, shoving a small pillow into her hands, his eyes wide, scared.
“Good job, sweetheart.” She slid it under Bucky’s head, adjusting his position just enough to keep his airway clear.
She quickly moved behind Bucky instead of beside him, in case he turned. The last thing she needed was another hit or for Thomas to get too close and get hurt. The boy was still hovering nearby, shifting anxiously on his feet, hands curled into little fists. She forced her voice to stay calm. “Hey, sweetheart, listen to me.” She reached out, gently guiding him away from his father’s reach. “Daddy’s going to be fine. But I need you to do something for me, okay?”
Thomas nodded quickly, still darting his eyes between her and Bucky.
“Go to the kitchen and turn off the burners. Can you do that for me?”
Another small nod, and then Thomas ran off, his tiny hands fumbling with the knobs until the soft clicks echoed through the space.
She exhaled, turning her attention back to Bucky. His body was still tense, and small tremors were running through his limbs, but the worst of it was fading. His muscles slowly uncoiled, and his breathing evened out into deep, ragged inhales.
A long minute passed, and then, a heavy exhale. His body stilled.
He rolled onto his back with a groan, dragging his flesh hand up to press against his temple, pinching his brows as if trying to chase away the lingering haze.
“Daddy!”
Thomas bolted back to him, dropping to his knees and wrapping small arms around his torso, burying his little face against Bucky’s side.
He let out a shaky breath, closing his eyes for a moment before his arm came up weakly but still managing to rest a hand against his son’s back.
A gentle but firm hand pressed onto his shoulder. “Are you alright? What can I do for you?” she asked.
Bucky tried to answer, but his tongue felt like lead in his mouth. His body still wasn’t fully cooperating, so he just shook his head, signaling no.
He lay there for a while, with his eyes half-lidded, waiting for the heavy fog in his head to clear. The worst had passed, but the usual exhaustion that accompanied these episodes clung to his body, weighing down every limb.
She noticed it, obviously.
“Why don’t you go to bed until you feel better?” Her voice was soft, careful. “Thomas and I will finish dinner, hm?”
Bucky’s jaw tensed as he tried to push himself upright. “I’m fine-”
She cut him off. “Bucky, you just had a seizure.” Her tone was firm now, brooking no argument. “You are not an Avenger here. You’re just a dad who has nothing to prove inside these walls.”
His nostrils flared, and the instinct to argue bubbled up, even as his body betrayed him. But she wasn’t done. “Go rest while I stay with him. That’s why I’m here. To help in these scenarios, too, remember?”
His lips pressed into a thin line.
He hated this. The weakness. The way his body forced him to stop when all he wanted to do was push through. But… she was right.
So he swallowed the lump in his throat and gave her a slow, reluctant nod. “Thanks.”
She returned the nod, shifting closer and helping him as he struggled to sit up, with her hand firmly pressed against his back.
It took him too much effort to stand, but with her help, he finally did it.
Thomas looked up at him, worried but trying to be brave, and Bucky ruffled his hair with a tired half-smile. “Be good, alright?”
The boy nodded eagerly. “I will! We’re gonna make the best gnocchi ever!”
He let out a breath, glancing back at her before mumbling, “Wake me if you need anything.” And then, finally, he forced himself toward the bedroom, with his body impossibly heavy, and his mind already sinking into exhaustion.
-----
She stayed in the kitchen with Thomas, finishing the gnocchi together. By the time they cooked them, the whole apartment was filled with the rich scent of home-cooked food. She made sure to set aside a large tupperware for Bucky, either for tomorrow or for when he inevitably woke up in the small hours of the night. He would be hungry.
She and Thomas ate together, and she kept the conversation light, gently steering it toward fun topics to keep his mind occupied. The kid was resilient, but she could tell the evening had rattled him, the way his eyes flicked toward the hallway every so often, as if expecting his father to appear.
After dinner, they washed the dishes together, and when everything was clean and put away, she checked the time. She should have left already.
But she didn’t.
As expected, Bucky succumbed to sleep, and she let him.
She stayed in the kitchen with Thomas, finishing the gnocchi together, rolling and shaping the dough, pressing tiny curls into each one with a fork. By the time they cooked them, the whole apartment was filled with the rich, warm scent of home-cooked food. She made sure to set aside a large Tupperware for Bucky—either for tomorrow or for when he inevitably woke up in the small hours of the night. He would be hungry.
She and Thomas ate together, and she kept the conversation light, gently steering it toward fun topics to keep his mind occupied. The kid was resilient, but she could tell the evening had rattled him, the way his eyes flicked toward the hallway every so often, as if expecting his father to appear.
After dinner, they washed the dishes together, and when everything was clean and put away, she checked the time. She should have left already.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she peeked toward Bucky’s bedroom since the door was slightly ajar. The room was dark, but she could hear it, a heavy, soft snoring, the unmistakable sound of sleep. He was out.
She sighed, running a hand through her hair before making a decision.
“Alright, kiddo,” she said, turning to Thomas. “Go put on your pajamas.”
His face lit up. “You’re staying a little longer?”
“Yeah, just a little,” she smiled. “How about two rounds of Avengers memory tiles?”
The game was familiar and easy territory. They sat on the floor, flipping over cards, matching faces, some of which she had actually seen in real life, which still blew her mind.
When they finished the second round, she patted the child’s knee. “Alright, time for teeth brushing.”
He groaned but obeyed, dragging himself to the bathroom.
By the time they settled into his room, he was already yawning, curling up under his blanket as she pulled a book from his small shelf. She read to him, but he barely lasted five pages before his breathing evened out, his little body completely relaxed. Satisfied, she tucked the blanket around him and quietly stepped out, closing the door halfway.
The apartment was silent now. Peaceful.
She wandered into the main area, glancing toward the hallway. She hesitated, glancing toward the door. She should leave. It was already past the time she normally did. But the thought of stepping out into the cold night, of leaving Thomas alone with only his sleeping father after everything that happened—it didn’t sit right with her.
Her eyes flickered toward the bookshelf, scanning the spines. Bucky didn’t have many books, he had an interesting mix. War accounts, history, and fantasy novels. She pulled one out, flipping through a few pages before exhaling softly.
Grabbing the blanket draped over the back of the couch, she settled, curling herself up against the cushions, with the book resting on her lap. She’d just stay for a little while. Read a few chapters. Make sure everything was truly settled.
But as the warmth of the blanket that smelled like him wrapped around her, her eyelids grew heavier, and her body relaxed against the couch. She blinked slowly, trying to focus on the words in front of her, but they blurred together as her brain slipped into that hazy space between wakefulness and sleep. The apartment was too quiet, too comfortable, and the exhaustion of the evening’s unexpected events finally caught up to her.
She shifted slightly, curling deeper into the cushions, inhaling the scent of clean soap and something distinctly Bucky lingering in the fabric.
Summary: Bucky joins you grocery shopping to everyone’s surprise.
Word Count: 3.7k
Warnings: Bucky hovering; Bucky knowing his favorite people; little bit of protective!Bucky
Author’s Note: I don’t know what this is but I was in need of some silly fluff. Hope you enjoy! ♡
Masterlist
He’s been trailing after you since you left the tower, stuck to your side.
Not in an obvious way, not in a manner that would draw stares or second glances, but in that ever-present way of his - like a second shadow or an old instinct that never really shuts off.
You’ve barely gone five blocks to the nearest grocery store, and Bucky has stuck close the whole time, keeping pace without a word.
It caught everyone off guard when he volunteered to come with you.
He had been slouched in his usual spot at the kitchen counter, cradling a cup of coffee he never seemed to finish, and looking like he had nowhere in particular to be. So when he had straightened, eyes trained on how you pulled on your shoes and muttered a gruff “I’ll come with you,” there was a moment of pause in the conversation between Natasha, Steve, Clint and Sam lounging on the couch in the common room.
Even you had blinked at him, thrown off by the suddenness of it.
Still, you didn’t argue.
Normally, grocery shopping isn’t something that interests anyone in the tower. It is a mundane, civilian thing - something of a life most of you had long since left behind.
There are people who handle it, services that deliver whatever you need at the touch of a button. But you aren’t looking for efficiency. You are looking for something real - something that can make you feel like a human being again.
You’d just gotten back yesterday from a month-long solo mission in Vorkuta, Russia. It was rather harsh. You spent those weeks in the cold, in silence, every step a deliberate calculation, every breath rationed as if you weren’t entirely sure when you’d be allowed another. You operated alone, only allowed to talk to Tony once a week for updates. It was the kind of quiet that made a person feel less like a person and more like an echo.
So you need something normal now. Something unremarkable.
No mission, no intel, no carefully rehearsed exit strategies.
Just a trip to the store, because you want to pick out your own food instead of eating whatever shows up in the tower’s stocked fridge. You want to grab things impulsively - maybe a bag of chips you don’t need or a carton of juice just because it looks good.
You want the simple, stupid pleasure of choosing something, just because. Of standing under the fluorescent hum of grocery store lights and deciding between brands of cereal and coffee creamers like it actually matters.
And Bucky, for all his presence, says nothing.
He just walks with you, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes darting between the sidewalk and the people passing by. He is relaxed, but only just. There is tension in the way he moves, like he is running an assessment every few steps, tracking details of things you don’t care about at the moment.
The doors to the store slide open with a mechanical hiss, spilling warm, artificial air onto the street.
Inside, there is that familiar smell of waxed floors and cold produce, the sounds of shoppers, the beeping of registers.
A cart squeaks somewhere to your left. A child giggles near the bakery section. A bored-looking cashier stares blankly at the register screen. A tired-locking employee is restocking shelves.
It’s nothing special. But it feels real and humane in a way you need.
Bucky steps in behind you, scanning the store out of habit, then looking at you as if waiting for direction.
You grab a basket and move forward.
He follows without a word.
You walk through fruits and vegetables in bright, and glassy colors, stacked in neat abundance. The air smells like citrus, earth, the scent of misted greens, and something fairly plastic all slightly overwhelming your senses after a month of smelling mostly cold air.
You extend a hand toward the lemons, fingers brushing the textured skin of one when you feel the weight of the basket shift.
Bucky’s hand curls around the handle, pulling it from your grip and holding it himself.
Your gaze snaps up to him, but he isn’t looking at you. Not directly. His eyes are fixed on the rows of produce in front of you, his brows drawn together just slightly, his mouth set in that endearing little frown.
He stands close. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. Close enough that, if you shifted just an inch, the fabric of his sleeve would brush against yours.
It’s not intentional, this proximity - it’s more like a habit. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it, doesn’t notice the way his presence expands to fill the space between you until there’s almost nothing left.
He exhales through his nose, shifting his weight slightly, eyes sweeping the fruit display as if it’s something to be figured out rather than casually shopping through.
His metal fingers whir slightly as he flexes his grip around the basket handle.
“This is a lot,” he murmurs, almost absently.
You keep glancing at him. It takes you a second to realize he is speaking at all, his voice being so quiet, a thought that accidentally made its way out.
“What?” you ask softly.
His eyes fall to you briefly, then back to the fruit. His mouth tightens, jaw working, debating whether to explain it or just let it drop.
“Back then,” he says, still not quite looking at you. His eyes scan the apples, the oranges, the rows of neatly stacked avocados and kiwis and papayas flown in from places he never got to see. “You had your basics. Apples. Pears. Some oranges, if you were lucky. But this?” He tilts his head slightly. “This is a lot.”
He doesn’t say it with wonder. He says it with assessment, categorizing this excess, measuring it against whatever memory of the past lingers in the spaces of his mind. Like he is trying to decide if this abundance is a good thing or just another shift in the world that changed without him.
For a second you wonder, if he is talking to you at all - or just thinking out loud, caught between time periods, a man stretched across decades that won’t quite line up.
Your fingers brush the lemons again, grabbing one and carefully putting it in the basket Bucky is holding. “Well,” you mumble, keeping your voice light. “You should see the cereal aisle.”
Bucky huffs out something that’s almost a laugh, something genuine and his eyes land on you again.
You move and pluck what you need. Apples, zucchini, a handful of bright bell peppers. A bundle of fresh basil, its scent still on your fingertips - something Wanda has been asking for. Some mangoes, ripe and golden, the kind Sam offhandedly mentioned craving the other day.
Bucky watches.
He doesn’t reach for anything himself, just keeps his grip on the basket as you fill it and trails closely after you.
His eyes track every motion - the way your fingers test the hardness of an avocado, the way you turn a tomato in your palm, the way you pause just a second before deciding on a bunch of grapes.
He simply observes.
You step over to the plums.
Their deep purple skins glisten under the lights, some nearly black, some streaked with dusky red. You pick one up, pressing it lightly with your thumb, feeling the faint give beneath your touch. Satisfied, you reach for more, slipping them into a paper bag one by one.
Bucky doesn’t say anything.
But you feel him.
The attention he gives you.
His face is unreadable, expression carefully neutral, but there is something behind his eyes - something considering, something caught between memory and recognition.
You don’t know if he realizes you are getting them for him.
You don’t know if he remembers, or if it is just something subconscious, some buried instinct nudging at him in a way he can’t understand.
But you remember. You remember the way he stared at the heap of plums on the kitchen counter weeks ago, the way his fingers had twitched with a want to take one, but he hadn’t. And the way he watched Wanda as she used them to make a pie he didn’t end up eating.
“Do you want some more?” Your voice is casual, warm. And when you glance up at him, he is already looking at you.
Then, almost abruptly, he clears his throat, dropping his gaze. The fingers of his metal hand flex once around the basket handle. He shifts his stance slightly but does not move away from you. When he speaks, his voice is low, almost careful, almost bashful.
“S’ fine.”
But you catch the almost-question in the way his eyes move around, how his fingers tighten and release.
So you grab a handful more and drop them into the bag without a word. Then you fold the top down and place it into the basket.
Bucky doesn’t look away this time.
And he continues wandering along with you through the aisles.
The plums sit among other products and you catch him glancing at them once or twice.
You reach for a carton of eggs when there is a shift.
Not in the air, not in the store itself, but in Bucky.
His posture tightens, his grip on the basket adjusts slightly. You don’t immediately know why, but then you turn your head and see a man standing a few feet away, watching you.
It’s not overtly threatening, not enough to draw attention, but something about his gaze lingers too long, too deliberate. His eyes trace the shape of you, moving slow, assessing. He isn’t leering, isn’t smirking, but the way he looks makes your skin prickle.
He seems to debate if he should say something. Waiting for an opportunity.
You barely have time to move away before Bucky does.
He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t say a word, just shifts seamlessly into place - between you and the man.
It’s not a dramatic gesture. No sudden motions, no confrontational stance. Just his presence - him planting himself in the way, broad shoulders squaring, jaw setting, scowling.
That man takes his brown eyes away from you and meets Bucky’s gaze, and whatever he sees there - whatever lives behind those icy blue eyes - is enough to make him rethink his interest. He looks away, scratching the back of his head, shuffling back a step, and seems suddenly far more interested in bread.
You exhale softly. Bucky doesn’t move.
He stays right where he is, a silent wall between you and whatever attention you haven’t wanted. His scowl lingers for a second longer before he glances back at you, eyes sweeping over your face as if he is making sure you are fine.
You tilt your head, offering a small, gentle smile. “Everything good?”
His lips twitch, almost like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how to form those words.
“Yeah,” he mutters, swallowing.
But his stance is still slightly stiff, his fingers can’t stay calm around the basket handle. And he glances, just once, in the man’s direction - making sure he stays gone.
Something warm fills your chest.
You missed him, while you were gone.
He’s always such a grounding presence at your side.
You missed his dry, reluctant commentary whenever the team does something ridiculous.
You missed walking into the common area with him brooding in his usual chair, pretending not to listen to conversations he’d eventually grumble his way into.
He was there when you stepped off the jet yesterday.
It wasn’t necessary for him to be there, it was six in the morning, after all, but he was.
He hadn’t said much - he never says much - but his eyes ran over you in a way that told you he had been waiting. That there was something heavy underneath that furrowed brow and the almost too casual nod he gave you. Something like relief. Satisfaction. And something much more profound.
You remember how he was when you left.
Standing off to the side of the hangar, arms crossed, jaw pressed tight as you made your final checks. It also wasn’t necessary for him to be there, but, again, he was.
He said goodbye briefly, wished you luck, but in the way you felt him watch you board the jet it seemed there was more he wanted to tell you.
And when the engines had roared to life, when the ground beneath you had begun to shrink, you caught the last glimpse of him - standing stiff, pensive, his mouth pressed into a thin line.
Now, he walks beside you, trailing just a half-step behind, his grip steady around the basket that should be in your hands, watching you more than anything you’re planning to buy.
Maybe that’s why he came with you.
Maybe that’s why he hasn’t strayed, why he hovers close, why his eyes find you like he is memorizing something he doesn’t want to lose track of again.
Maybe he missed you, too.
He is not grumpy, but there is still a tension in him. Something wound too tight in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, in the way he glances at you like he wants to say something and then doesn’t.
You can’t have that.
Your eyes scan the shelves as you walk further along, knowing that Bucky will follow.
“What kind of soup does Steve eat?”
Bucky’s brows pull together at your casual question, as if he can’t believe that’s what you asked. “Soup?”
You nod, dead serious. “Yeah. I mean, does he have a favorite? Chicken noodle? Tomato? Something tragic, like plain broth?”
Bucky exhales sharply, almost a laugh and something in him relaxes ever so slightly. He tilts his head back a little as if this is the most absurd thing anyone has ever asked him, but he humors you.
“Steve doesn’t eat plain broth,” he says in that low rasp that sometimes sends a shiver down your spine. Now is sometimes. “He’s got more sense than that.”
You hum thoughtfully, reaching for a can on the shelf, inspecting it like it holds the answer to some great mystery.
“So what is it, then? Something classic? Or does he secretly go for the weird gourmet stuff?”
Bucky steps closer, peering over your shoulder. The fabric of his jacket brushes against your back.
You glance up at him, arching your brow.
“You don’t know, do you?”
Bucky rolls his eyes, but his face is soft. The scowl has faded. There is a tug at the corner of his mouth. “Of course, I know.”
“Uh-huh.”
He huffs, reaching past you to grab a can from the shelf, fingers brushing yours briefly. “Clam chowder,” he utters. “There. Happy?”
You blink, genuinely caught off guard. “Wait. Really?”
Bucky smirks, just a little, just enough to be real.
“Yeah,” he says, voice a bit quieter. “Really.”
“Well, then,” you quip, taking the can off his hands and putting it in the basket. “He shall have it.”
Bucky huffs out an amused laugh.
You walk a little slower now, Bucky falls into step beside you. He seems lighter now, his face softened as he watches a little boy excitedly run off to a certain aisle while his mother calls out for him.
You plan on keeping him that way.
You spot a ridiculously, colorful display stacked high with an array of different kinds of peanut butter.
“Creamy or crunchy?”
Bucky blinks, turning to look at you. “What?”
You gesture toward the display like it’s obvious. “Steve. What kind of peanut butter does he eat? Creamy or crunchy?”
There is a beat of silence. Then, something seems to turn alive in Bucky’s expression. His lips twitch as if he suppresses a smirk and doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction.
“You serious?”
“Deadly.” You fold your arms, tilting your head. “I feel like he’s a creamy peanut butter guy, but I could be wrong.”
Bucky is hovering again, looking at the shelves like this is suddenly a debate worth considering. His arm brushes against your side, but he doesn’t move away.
“You’re wrong.”
You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “Oh?”
“He’s a crunchy guy,” Bucky says, reaching for a jar with his flesh hand and inspecting it like proof. “Says the creamy stuff’s got no texture. No character.”
You snort.
Bucky hums, still holding the jar, rolling it absently in his hand. He looks at ease. The basket dangles from his metal fingers as if it weighs nothing, even though it is filled with products.
You watch him.
The tension in his shoulders is practically gone and you know you should probably leave it there, but you don’t.
Because you want more.
More of this, more of him, more of that unguarded space where he forgets to be closed off.
So, you bite your lip and tilt your head at him before asking carefully. “What about you?”
Bucky glances at you, a small crease forming between his brows. “What about me?”
You gesture vaguely. “What kind of peanut butter do you like?”
For a moment, he just stares at you, like the question has never occurred to him before. Like no one’s ever bothered to ask.
You can almost see the gears turning in his head, his fingers tightening slightly around the jar. The hesitation is there. He doesn’t know how to answer. Perhaps he doesn’t know if he has a preference. Or it’s just been a long, long time since someone cared enough to ask.
You wait, patiently.
Finally, he lets out a cough, looking back at the display as if searching for an answer among the shelves. “…Crunchy,” he mutters. “I guess.”
You gin. “Yeah?”
He shifts his weight, looking rather uncomfortable but not in a bad way. Just unsure. This is unfamiliar ground for him, not knowing what to do with the attention.
You reach forward and pluck the jar from his hand before he can second-guess himself.
“Alright,” you say, dropping it into the basket with a decisive little thud. “Crunchy it is.”
Bucky observes you do it, something shimmering in his expression - something soft, a little hesitant, but warm. Like this tiny, seemingly meaningless choice holds a weight to him.
His jaw flexes slightly, as if he is about to say something, but he just exhales through his nose and shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.”
But there is no bite to it.
And this time, he is the one to start walking, making sure you come along, staying just a little closer than before.
You are nearing the checkout registers when Bucky suddenly stops walking. It’s so abrupt that you almost keep going, but the absence of him beside you makes you pause.
You turn, finding him standing in front of a shelf, scanning its contents with a strange kind of focus, considering something.
You wait, watching the way his eyes search the options, his brows furrowing slightly. There is no tension in his posture, no obvious reason for the sudden stop - just deliberation.
Then, without a word, he reaches out, grasps a familiar-looking package, and drops it into the basket.
A soft thud.
Your gaze falls down, and your stomach does something strange when you realize what it is.
Chocolate-covered almonds.
The ones you always grab when you’re wandering the tower’s kitchen late at night, mind still wired from a mission, too awake to sleep but too tired to focus on anything real.
The ones you mindlessly snack on when you’re curled up on the couch, half-listening to, half-joining a conversation, or watching a movie.
The ones you didn’t even realize you had a thing for until you see them sitting in the basket between his plums, Steve’s soup, and the peanut butter Bucky prefers.
Your lips part slightly, surprised, searching his face. “You- Why’d you grab these?”
Bucky doesn’t even hesitate.
“Because you like them.”
Matter-of-fact. Simple. As if it’s obvious.
Just a fact.
Like it’s something he has known all along, something he has cataloged somewhere deep in that careful, quiet mind of his without ever making a big deal of it.
The realization unsettles you - not in a bad way, but in the kind of way that makes your chest feel suddenly too full.
You swallow, the corners of your lips twitching slightly, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck.
“How do you know that?”
The words leave your lips lightly, bright with curiosity, playful in their demand. But beneath it, there is something you don’t quite let slip.
Something about the fact that he’s been watching.
That he’s noticed.
That he has paid attention in a way you didn’t think anyone has.
His grip on the basket adjusts for the hundredth time, but not because it’s heavy, he just seems to need something to do with his hands.
He schools his expression into something nonchalant, something careless, but it’s betrayed by the hint of warmth dusting across his cheekbones.
“You’re always munchin’ on ‘em,” he says, a teasing edge lacing his voice. He tries to sound smug, like it is an observation, just a simple fact, but there is something softer beneath it. Something like fondness.
You don’t even know if it’s been that obvious. If you truly eat these things out in the open that often.
Or if he just really is that observant.
That realization settles deep in your chest, warm and startling all at once.
So you just huff, pretending like your heart isn’t skipping beats, like his answer isn’t winding around something tender inside you.
“Well,” you remark, nudging his arm as you start walking again, “now I feel self-conscious about my snacking habits.”
Bucky lets out a soft chuckle. And when he falls into step beside you, he leans in slightly, voice just low enough for you to hear.
“Don’t.”
“The most sincere compliment we can pay is attention.”
no offense but I feel like youre writing the same thing constantly always smut and nothing interesting can you write a different more thought provoking story
Sure thing! I wrote this one just for you, bud. I hope that it’s sufficiently thought-provoking and suited to your superior tastes. Remember, I mean no offense at all!
The Stupid Fucking Anon Chronicles
Pairing: Joel Miller x Stupid Fucking Anon
Summary: You decide to be a gigantic asshole.
Warnings: 18+. NO SMUT. SOMETHING INTERESTING! A tale so wildly thought-provoking and erudite that even its most vocal detractors must admit…it’s real different.
You were sick of seeing sex.
All the fanfiction you’d read of late? Perfunctory. Uninspired. Never mind the fact that these stories were being shared with you completely free of charge, at the writers’ own leisure, on a platform that didn’t pay in any way, shape, or form. Did I mention this shit cost $0.00?
Anyway, you’d decided to take it upon yourself that day to be a gigantic fucking asshole to one lowly writer in particular, so you pulled out your laptop and got to work.
Joel strolled into the room, sipping his beer.
“What’cha doin’, sweetheart?” he asked.
He leaned in to greet you with a kiss on the cheek, but you just swatted his touch away, too focused on the task at hand—How to be a Gigantic Fucking Asshole 101.
“Go away. I’m being insufferable online,” you snapped.
“Well, damn,” Joel said, scratching the back of his neck. “That sucks. What’s pissing you off so much, anyway?”
“This writer writes smut. Just…smut! So monotonous.”
“What, you don’t like to see us fuck?” Joel smirked.
“Well, I do, but…” you began to say, only to trail off into a blank, inane stare. You shook your head as if to clear it of the stupidity, but it was a fruitless endeavor. You were dumb as shit. “I just think their writing’s boring! There’s nothing thought-provoking to it! Just sex, sex, sex, sex!”
“Have you ever considered getting a job?” Joel asked.
“No, I enjoy being a spineless sack of shit who airs my grievances through anonymous mediums too much!”
“Oh, that makes sense,” he said. “What else?”
“And…and it’s not fair to me to read boring stuff!”
“Have you tried scrolling past their stories, maybe?”
“No. Again, I’m too fucking stupid to give that one a try. I’d much rather speak my piece to the writers online!”
Joel nodded in understanding. He heaved a sigh.
“Well, in that case…” he started, sitting down to place a hand on your shoulder and give you a firm, fuck-you look. “Maybe you should save the energy it took to type out a message to this writer, take your head out of your ass, and remember that these people owe you nothing. It makes you look like a gigantic fucking asshole when you send messages like these, denigrating the work they’ve decided to share online for free. I can assure you, the sentiment you’ve expressed in these lines will serve only to alienate the person whose writing you’re targeting. It’ll piss them off and discourage them from ever wanting to share a story online again. So before you get to typing out another one of these stupid fucking messages again, ask yourself: Am I being a Gigantic Fucking Asshole?”
╰┈➤ 18+ none of these stories belong to me! this is a masterlist of all the fanfics i’ve read and reblogged! just thought it would be nice to have them all in one spot! (if your fic is on here and you wish not to be, please let me know!) some will have summaries if provided <3
ᡣ𐭩 how you can help palestine . fic recs m.list . m.list one
@amethystarachnid
⭒ Bet
When Bucky Barnes suddenly starts talking to you you don't think much of it and when he asks you out on a date you couldn't be happier, Bucky truly is everything you could ever want in a man, a man that really loves you...At least that's what you thought until you discovered that it was real all just a bet.
@embbarnes
⭒ Roasted Chestnuts
Bucky takes to sleeping in the living room, you comfort him with hot cocoa.
⭒ Sugar Plums
The soldier has an attachment to you.
@brunchable
⭒ My Neighbor Is A Pornstar
part one | Your coworker peer pressured you to look up SergeantBarnes in Pornhub, reason? Because apparently you're missing out.
part two | Though you've become oddly close to SergeantBarnes, it's still difficult to act normal around him.
⭒ I Don't Want You Like A Best Friend
part one | Bucky can't decide if the universe loves him or hates him. Maybe it loves to hate him. Maybe it's mischievous. Because he’s in love. He’s madly, deeply, painfully in love with a girl that he knows he’ll never have. Because the heavens created arguably the most perfect creature in their repertoire, dangled you in front of him for his entire life, and chose to rip you away before he had the chance to tell you how he felt.
part two | It's only been a few hours since you've become official and Bucky want to show you just how much you mean to him.
@rinasauruss
⭒ Magnetic Mishap
you bought magnets for Bucky's arm, forgetting that vibranium is not magnetic
@lanabuckybarnes
⭒ Secrets That Bite Back
For the longest time America’s star spangled Captain, or as you know him as Steve, has kept a little secret. A secret he thinks he guards well yet the rest of the Avengers seem to know already. Biting the bullet he decides to share this information with you but you have a secret of your own who isn’t too pleased about it.
@retrosabers
⭒ From Me, To You
as bucky’s secret santa, you’re determined to give him the best christmas present he’s ever received.
@vintagebuckybarnes
⭒ In Vino Veritas
It all started when you and the Avengers enjoyed drinks during the afterparty back at the Avengers Tower. There, Tony revealed one of your deepest secrets, and even though you wish it had never come to light at first, you’re glad it did when the man you love stands on your doorstep, ready to start the rest of your life together.
@marvelstoriesepic
⭒ Weakness
You use Bucky’s only weakness to your advantage until it bites you in the ass.
@artficlly
⭒ Lessons In Love Making
You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.
@thebarneschronicles
⭒ Nine Lives
Bucky Barnes drives you insane—in every possible way. The bickering, the reckless plans, the way he smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. But when a mission goes sideways, leaving you both bloodied and too close for comfort, the tension between you ignites into something impossible to ignore.
@inkedbybarnes
⭒ Blind Date
convinced that bucky will never like you back, you agree to a blind date arranged for you to forget about him.
⭒ None Of It Was Fake
you've been undercover with bucky as husband and wife. upon returning, he seems to have forgotten that it was all pretend.
@mournthebird
⭒ Knots
You help the soldier with some self care.
@em1i2a3
⭒ Hole In The Earth
@winterst4n
⭒ Sit Still
After stupidly jumping out of a craft on a mission, ending up with many broken ribs. Bucky is placed under your care unwillingly and he makes the week hell for you. But when the week ends he starts to regret everything.
It was Reader and Bucky's one year anniversary of them dating, Bucky didnt really know what to do considering he hasn't dated since the 1940's but he knew one thing - you give flowers to people you love.
Bucky Barnes who goes to a local flower shop in a market, realising he didnt even know what your favourite flowers were - he silently cursed himself.
Bucky Barnes who texted one of your friends to ask, what a boyfriend he was for not knowing such a simple thing.
Bucky Barnes who settled for grabbing a bouquet of a mix of flowers, bound to see on of your favourite flower through the roses, tulips and sunflowers.
Bucky Barnes who comes home, finding you on the couch - on your computer. He placed the bouquet of flowers behind his back, moving close your computer to get your attention.
"I got you something--"
"Oh-- Buck, you didnt have to."
"No, I needed to. It's our anniversary."
Bucky Barnes who hands you the flowers, watching your eyes light up as you grab them from him.
"You're old fashioned."
"I'm just old." He said with a smile, placing a soft kiss to your lips.
blakekathryn
tangentwithtanner
