More thoughts on Clark fantasizing about sweaty Bruce "in a friend way":
The reason this lasts so long is coz every time Clark considers that maybe this behaviour isn't normal, he looks over at Bruce who's doing the exact same thing and thinks "nah, this is how friends act, totally bros"
He's memorising his heartbeat and scent? Bruce has already studied every inch of his body in great detail multiple times
He's interested in learning more about Bruce's parents and childhood? Bruce has been learning to speak kryptonian and studying the culture for years now
He treats the bat kids like his own kids? Bruce literally buys the bank his parents owe money to so they can keep the farm
He stares at the man's scars for a bit too long in the changing rooms? Bruce just full on looks him in the eye while he strips down then continues on like nothing happened
This man has not only matched his freak, he's doubled it and put a batsymbol on it
Summary: Bruce and Clark only have a few hours where they’re both free and awake at the same time. When you and your boyfriend want to have sex and still go on other dates, you get creative.
(Contains: Consensual Somnophilia, I think this counts as bottom Bruce and top Clark, intercrural sex, light body worship, smut, 18+, MDNI)
Word Count: 1.7k
Read here on Ao3 here
A/N: yeahhhh this is the part where I finally accept that bit off more than I can chew and that this is definitely going to go into November. Lesson learned, start writing in September next year lmaoooo
They’d agreed on this. Clark knew they agreed on this. He had made sure that he had gotten Bruce’s consent to do this several times, making sure that this is okay. Bruce was sprawled out in his bed, laying on his stomach with an arm tucked under his pillow. His other hand, resting on the bed near his head, had a green bracelet around its wrist. That was the system they came up with. Green means go. If Bruce was wearing that bracelet, that meant that he was okay with his, and inviting Clark to go ahead.
But it still felt like he was breaking some kind of rule. He felt more giddy about it than anything. This sort of thing was taboo. It was Bruce’s suggestion - they didn’t have the chance to spend as much time together as they would like. Clark worked during the day, Bruce worked… well, during the day as well, at least for his company, but he did most of his real work during the night. As much as they’d wanted to fuck, it was hard to get time at home by themselves, and they preferred to spend their time having nice little dates at restaurants or the parks.
But they had needs, and they wanted to satiate those needs together. So Bruce proposed the idea. Clark could be anywhere in the blink of an eye. If he needed a bit of stress relief during the day, after his daily duties of being Superman, he could just pop over to Wayne Manor while Bruce was taking his late afternoon or evening nap. Clark expressed how he didn’t want to wake Bruce up, the man never got enough sleep, and Bruce just shrugged him off. If Clark ended up waking him up, then he figured that this would be a pretty good way to wake up.
Which led them here, with Clark climbing up into Bruce’s bed, still dressed in blue and red. His eyes softened as he looked down at his boyfriend. Bruce looked so pretty, all relaxed and peaceful like this. Clark debated whether or not he should roll his boyfriend over for this. He decided against it; even with Bruce’s reassurance that he didn’t care about being woken up, Clark didn’t want to risk it. He wanted the man to get as much sleep as possible during this, and he didn’t see any reason that he had to move Bruce for this to work. Besides, with him laying on his stomach like this, Clark got a lovely view of Bruce’s back and ass. Clark always had been a fan of the expanse of Bruce’s shoulders, so it was honestly perfect that this was how Bruce had fallen asleep for his nap.
Clark slowly ran his hands up and down Bruce’s sides, leaning over him slightly. Bruce barely stirred in his sleep. He shifted just a little, but not enough for Clark to think he just woke up. Clark ran his hands up his shirtless boyfriend’s back, all the way from just above his hips to the back of his shoulders, Clark’s thumbs rubbing over the scars he found on his way up. He leaned down, planting a soft kiss to one of Bruce’s shoulders, before pulling himself back so he could look down at him again.
“You’re so handsome.” Clark whispered, kissing Bruce’s other shoulder between statements. “You’re always so handsome.”
He knew that Bruce couldn’t hear him in his sleep, especially not when he was being so quiet, but it just felt wrong not talking to him while doing this. He ran his hands back down Bruce’s back, letting them settle on his ass. He cupped one of the man’s cheeks in each hand, kneading them slightly. He sighed, feeling the soft flesh under his hands. Even with all of the muscle there, it still had a nice bit of give to it.
“I wish I could be inside you right now.” Clark mused, playing with the waistband of Bruce’s sleep pants. “But I don’t want to go too far with this on our first try. I’ve got something else we can try, though.”
Clark slid Bruce’s pajama pants off of him, pulling his underwear down in the same motion. He paused when Bruce stirred a little at the sudden chill to his skin, his eyebrows scrunching up just a little in his sleep. He settled after a few seconds, burying the side of his face back into his pillow with a sigh. Clark finished shimmying Bruce’s pants down to his knees, leaving his ass and thighs exposed. Clark’s hands ran over the skin there for a moment, before he started working on his own clothes. For not the first time in his life, he was glad that his suit was a two piece. He unbuckled his yellow belt, before sliding it out of his pants and putting it down on the bed next to him. He pulled down the lower half of his costume, kicking it and his boots off. Clark wasted no time in pulling his boxer briefs off as well.
His cock bobbed up slightly once it was free, precum already beginning to leak from the tip. Clark already knew that that wasn’t going to be enough lubrication for what he was planning. Clark spit into his hand before rubbing it along his dick, groaning softly at the friction. He gave himself a good few pumps, just to make sure he was properly slicked up, before he turned his attention back to Bruce. Clark grabbed the man’s thighs, gently pushing them together. He gathered some more saliva in his mouth, before he spit where Bruce’s thighs met, right below his ass. Bruce gasped in his sleep, wiggling his hips back and forth a little as it ran down his sack.
“I know, the air’s making it cold.” Clark hissed in sympathy, climbing on top of Bruce. “I’m sorry. It’s warmer than lube though, and I’m about to make it warmer.”
Clark boxed Bruce’s knees in with his, using them to help keep his thighs closed just right. He took one of his hands off of Bruce’s thighs so he could line his cock up with the crux of Bruce’s thighs. Clark slowly pushed in, letting out a loud groan when he did. He was being louder than he meant to, but he found he didn’t care as much at this moment. It wouldn’t be so bad if Bruce woke up at this point. After all, he said it himself; waking up to his boyfriend touching him like this would be a pretty nice way to wake up.
He moved his hands to Bruce’s hips as he started thrusting between his thighs, using them as an anchor. He started out slow, relishing in the little gasps and groans that came out of Bruce. Every time Clark pushed in or pulled out, his slick cock would rub against Bruce’s thighs and the underside of his balls. Clark bit his lip as he pushed himself in and out, muffling most of his noises. It wasn’t quite the same as being inside of Bruce, but it still felt really, really good. His thighs were warm, and the feeling of skin on skin was nice. It wasn’t quite as tight by itself, no, but Clark could squish Bruce’s thighs to be exactly how he wanted them, not too tight, not too far apart either. Clark was almost content to just go at this pace until he came, and then Bruce started talking in his sleep.
“Clark…” The man softly groaned out, moving his hips back into Clark. The Kryptonian choked on his breath, his grip tightening slightly on Bruce’s hips. “Mmm… right there, yeah…”
It hit Clark almost immediately that Bruce was dreaming about something like this. Bruce was actively dreaming about Clark fucking him while the man’s dick was buried between his thighs. From the sound of it, Bruce was dreaming about Clark pounding into him, hitting him in his sweet spot. Clark groaned, his thrusts growing faster. His hips slapped against the back of Bruce’s thighs, Clark’s legs tightening around his. Clark lowered his head down to Bruce’s back, pressing kisses to every part of skin he could reach.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Clark mumbled into his boyfriend's neck, kissing the nape of it. He could feel the muscles in his abdomen tensing as he got close to orgasm. “I’m staying right here with you, staying right here. Gosh, you feel good, think I’m about to-“
Bruce chose that moment to finally wake up. He groaned groggily when he woke up, before groaning for a very different reason. His groans and gasps were louder now, the pleasure more present in his brain, like a shock to his system the very second he woke up. His eyes shot open, skipping past their normal phase of fluttering open. He writhed under Clark, his fingers holding the bed sheets underneath him in a death grip. Bruce looked over his shoulder, squinting his eyes in order to see his boyfriend in the dark of the room.
“Clark…?” Bruce cut Clark off, his words more like a question at first before enough sleep had left his mind for him to think clearly. “This is… this feels good, you feel good. I’m so- I’m so happy I talked you into this. You’re the best- fuck- the best nap alarm I’ve ever had.”
The praise, albeit a bit odd, and the feeling of Bruce reciprocating his movements was enough to push Clark over the edge. He came with a deep groan, burying his head in Bruce’s neck. He thrust a few more times between Bruce’s legs, his cum spurting out of his cock and panting Bruce’s thighs white. His last few thrusts did nothing more than rub it into Bruce’s skin. Clark laid there for a moment, just breathing in the way his boyfriend smelled, still catching a hint of that morning’s cologne. After a few moments, he pushed himself back up, giving Bruce enough space to roll over onto his back so he could look at his face.
“Hello handsome.” Bruce said, smiling sleepily.
“Hello to you too.” Clark smiled back. “Did you sleep well?”
submissive top clark dry humping bruce awake bc he’s horny in the morning and he’s just whimpering and whining while just trying to chase his pleasure and bruce, who is older and sleep deprived, just grumbles and hopes that clark can just expel his hormones out of his system so bruce can get another hour of sleep before work ohhhhh godddddd my dick is hard
i would love you hear your percy headcanons!! literally any, i love him 💘💘
OH MY GOODNESS I LOVE THIS QUESTIONNNNN
୨୧ hardcore blueberry enthusiast. like when he was a toddler he probably ate it solely because it was blue but then actually ended up LOVING them 😭😭 especially blueberry muffins he is a SUCKER for those!!!!!!!!
୨୧ #1 scary movie lover there ever was. I literally cannot explain this normally but TRUST me I know a horror movie fanatic when I see one 🙏🏼 he probably loooooves “I know what you did last summer” or “jeepers creepers” (solid 10/10 movies 🙂↕️)
୨୧ his favorite holiday is the 4th of july (american holiday) or christmas. I think he enjoys the 4th because it’s during the summer and he likes the cookouts and fireworks!! or christmas because he def loves spending time with family & loves giving people gifts :)
୨୧ hardcore freak. but like not at first!!!!!! I feel like at first it would take him a while to like genuinely get into being physically intimate because he’s so insecure 😭😭 but like just give him a few months and he’s INSATIABLE
୨୧ also this might be random and it’s not canon whatsoever but… imagine him having blue blood like lobsters do 😝😝 idk it’s cool to think about!!!!!!!
୨୧ has always had bedsheets with sea creatures on them. like I feel like this doesn’t change as he gets older either. or he’ll have blue sheets with a collection of sea creature plushies!
୨୧ underwater kiss enthusiast!!!! this literally doesn’t need elaboration he’s just a sucker for them
୨୧ HUSBAND MATERIALLLL like I don’t wanna see that “percy is boyfriend material” like NOOO HE IS HUSBAND MATERIALLLL!!!!!!!
୨୧ huge loverboy. will not argue with this whatsoever I KNOWWW a hopeless romantic when I see one
୨୧ putting aside his scars from war, he has SOOOO MANY from skating 😭😭 also hc that he lowkey has terrible balance 💔
୨୧ would actually love reading if he wasn’t dyslexic. or like he listens to audiobooks!!!!!! I feel like he is a big fan of fictional literature :)
— rainy flowers! 💌 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ a/n: missing percy extra bad recently 🙁🙁
the sound of the bedroom door opening has you sitting up as quick as ever.
the sight of percy’s impossibly wide smile; one that could light up the entire town— has you miring his expression possibly even wider.
despite being parted from him for only about two hours while he attended a doctor’s appointment, you missed him like he has been gone an entire month.
“there you are.” percy stalks towards the bed, taking a seat right beside you. one of his hands— damp from the pouring rain outside— cups your jaw before pulling you into a soft yet swift kiss.
“‘I’ve been looking for you’,” you quote, pecking him once more before parting, leaning back against the headboard. “how was your appointment?”
percy shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “boring. but! I got you something.”
you raise your eyebrows questioningly as he pulls something out of his sweatshirt. a bouquet of pink, handpicked flowers sit between his palms.
your face lights up. “for me?”
“no, for the neighbor.”
you attempt to glare but your smile fails you. ultimately giving up, you throw yourself onto percy, arms around him in a tight embrace.
“thank you thank you thank you!”
though too late, you realize percy’s hands weren’t the only thing still damp. he hasn’t even dared to change his clothes before entering in bed with you. and now your poor clothes are soaked.
“you’re all wet!”
percy pulls your face back, cupping your cheeks. “no kidding, rain will do that to you.”
you stick your tongue out at percy but he is quick to kiss it. with dramatic antics, you shove it back into your mouth and roll off of him and back onto the bed beside him instead.
“get away from me, you weirdo!”
“aww, come back, sweet girl,” percy whines, tugging you back against himself by your waist.
you hats to admit how much you’ve missed him and his touch so you remain protesting verbally while physically allowing him to hold you.
“don’t touch my tongue again, it’s gross.”
“you’ve never complained about it before.”
you fight back a laugh. “I’m a changed woman now.”
percy tilts his head to the side. “oh really?”
you nod, humming in approval of his statement. “yep. you’ve lost kissing privileges.”
he squints suspiciously at you, leaning in and kissing each corner of your mouth. then his lips only hover over yours where you can feel a smirk arising.
“you’re plotting and scheming.”
“are you a mind reader now?”
you scrunch up your nose. “I don’t need to read your mind to know what you’re thinking.”
“touché.”
percy lifts his mouth to kiss your nose. then your cheeks, your temples, your forehead, your jaw, your eyelids, and every inch of your face except for your mouth.
his movements are slow and taunting; yet truly comforting. gods, you really had missed him those two hours.
you fist his sweatshirt in your hand, keeping him close. “percy.”
“hmm.”
“I take it back. I haven’t changed one bit.”
he smiles, murmurs a “there’s my sweet girl,” and then claims your mouth at last.
since u guys liked perv!bucky so much i decided to do another one 🤭
bucky’s trying so hard to be good, but you’re unknowingly making it impossible. you’re perched on his lap while you’re both curled up on the couch in his apartment. some cheesy action movie is playing on the TV that has completely encapsulated your attention.
you’re all giggles and wide eyes at the corny dialogue, shifting in his lap every time someone says something ridiculous just to see his reaction. your movements aren’t sexual, but every move you make is killing him.
“bucky, did you see that?” you laugh, pointing at the screen where the hero just did something ridiculous. you wiggle a little, adjusting to get comfier, and your hips grind against his lap without a clue. his cock’s already stirring, twitching in his sweats, and he bites his lip, trying to focus on the movie. “he’s so dramatic” you giggle, turning to look at him, your breath warm against his neck. “bet you could do better stunts than that, old man.”
“yeah, baby, probably could,” he chuckles, voice steady despite the way his cock’s hardening, throbbing with every innocent shift of your body. he keeps his smile light and playful, his metal hand resting casually on the couch to hide how tightly he’s gripping it. inside, he’s a mess, his mind screaming that you’re too pure and sweet for the filthy thoughts flooding him, but he keeps his tone easy, matching your teasing. “you saying i should audition for the sequel?”
you laugh, wiggling again, and his cock pulses, the friction sending sparks up his spine. “oh, you’d steal the show,” you tease, grinning, oblivious to the storm building in him. he nods, forcing another chuckle, but his hips twitch slightly, betraying him as he fights the urge to buck up into you.
you shift once more, and that’s it—he’s done for. his cock throbs so hard he can’t stop it, and with one more roll of your hips, he cums in his pants, a low groan stifled in his throat as his body tenses, cum soaking through his sweats.
he’s mortified. his face is burning and guilt is crashing over him like a tidal wave. “fuck, baby, i’m so sorry,” he rasps, voice breaking as his hands hover, afraid to touch you now. “i didn’t mean to—oh my god” he’s trembling, shame choking him as he looks at you, expecting disgust.
you blink, confused, your innocence making his guilt sharper. “bucky, what’s wrong?” you ask, voice soft, still unaware of the wet spot under you or what just happened, and it only makes him feel worse.
you glance down, following his gaze, and you freeze, your cheeks flushing a deep pink as you realize the wet spot beneath you. “oh,” you whisper, eyes wide, your hands gripping his arms as you process what happened. your blush deepens, but instead of pulling away, you bite your lip, a shy smile tugging at your mouth. “bucky… did i… do that to you?” you ask, voice trembling with a mix of embarrassment and something else—something like pride.
he groans, low and pained, his head dropping forward, unable to meet your eyes. “i’m so sorry” he whispers with shame laced in his voice as he avoids your eye contact and shifts, trying to hide the mess. despite his efforts, the dampness where you two meet is unmistakable, and he’s convinced he’s ruined everything.
your blush deepens, but you don’t pull away, your fingers tracing gently along his arm, grounding him. “bucky, no,” you say softly, your voice sweet and earnest, your face still pink. “i… i’m not mad. i’m kinda… flattered?” you admit.
“the fact that i can make you feel like that? it’s… it’s nice, in a way.” your shy confession makes his heart skip, his guilt warring with a fresh wave of desire he tries to shove down.
“god, baby,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, his metal hand daring to rest lightly on your back. “you’re too perfect for me. i don’t deserve you, but fuck, i’m so lucky you’re here.” he exhales shakily, his shame still lingering but softened by your kindness, his heart pounding as he tries to wrap his head around how you could possibly be okay with this.
Summary: After weeks of heated tension, one night with Bucky sets everything on fire — your powers, your control, and the entire compound. Teammates won’t stop teasing, Hydra won’t stop hunting, and Bucky refuses to let you go now that he finally has you.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader (reader has telekinesis, shapeshifting and mind control powers.)
Warnings: NSFW (18+), MDNI, Heavy tension, rough kissing, possessive dynamics, Jealousy / protective behviour from Bucky, Mild violence (Hydra op, standard mission tension), accidental power surges (floating objects, flickering lights, rattling furniture),
Word Count: ~2,800
a/n: yall i cant believe the first part got that much love!!!! so here is the awaited part 2.. enjoy...
——————
He kissed you like he was starving — hands cupping your face, metal arm pulling you flush against him, and you gasped against his mouth, fingers sliding into his hair, tugging until he groaned.
“You drive me insane,” he rasped, lips dragging down your throat.
“Good,” you gasped, arching into him. “You deserve it.”
Your telekinesis flared again, shivering through the air. Lights flickered inside the compound windows, the glasses and plates on the counter rattling as well
Bucky didn’t even blink. His hand slid down your side, gripping your thigh, hauling it up around his hip like he couldn’t stand space between you.
The kiss turned messy, frantic.
You tugged at his shirt until he stripped it over his head, tossing it aside. Scars and muscle gleamed in the dim light, his chest rising fast. He crowded back into you, metal fingers trailing down your ribs — cold and sharp against your heated skin.
You shuddered.
“Doesn’t scare you?” he asked, voice low, testing.
You smirked, tilting your head. “Try me.”
He growled. And then his mouth was back on yours, his hand sliding under your top, palm hot against your bare skin.
Your powers hummed dangerously, but you pulled them back, focusing on him — on the taste of him, the weight of him, the way he kissed like he’d been waiting a lifetime.
“My room." he muttered against your lips. “Now.”
You didn’t argue.
He scooped you up effortlessly, carrying you through the hall of the compound. You half-laughed, half-gasped into his mouth, clutching his shoulders, telekinesis rattling the picture frames on the walls as he carried you straight to his room.
The door slammed shut.
He pressed you back against it, kissing you hard, almost punishing, like he hated how much he needed you.
You tugged his belt open with shaking fingers, shoving the leather free. He caught your wrists in his hand, pinning them above your head against the wall. His metal arm held firm — unmovable — and the sight of him holding you there, all strength and restraint, sent a shock straight through your core.
“Behave,” he rasped, eyes flicking down your body.
“Make me.”
His jaw clenched.
And then he did.
He kissed down your throat, biting and soothing in turns, while his free hand slid under your shirt. You gasped when his thumb brushed over your breast, circling slow before squeezing. Your knees buckled; he held you up effortlessly, grinding his hips into yours until you moaned into his mouth.
Your telekinesis snapped — the lamp shattered in a burst of light.
“Control it,” he growled, lips brushing your ear.
“Can’t,” you whispered. “Not with you doing this to me-”
Something feral flashed in his eyes. He lifted you, wrapped your legs around his waist, and carried you to the bed.
The mattress groaned as he dropped you onto it, climbing over you, caging you in with his body. His dog tags dangled, brushing your chest, and you tugged him down by them until your mouths crashed together again. Clothes came off in a frantic blur — your top, his jeans, his boxers sliding low, your nails dragging down his back. He kissed every new strip of skin he uncovered, like he couldn’t decide between worshipping you or devouring you.
When his hand slipped under your waistband and found how ready you were for him, his groan vibrated against your throat.
“Fuck..” he moaned your name.
Your hips jerked against his hand. “Please.”
The word broke him.
He ripped the last barrier between you aside and pressed into you with a slow, deliberate thrust that made your whole body arch. Your powers flared out uncontrolled — the curtains snapped shut, shadows rippling across the walls, the bed frame rattling beneath you.
“Eyes on me,” he growled, gripping your chin when your head fell back.
You obeyed. And the look in his eyes — hungry, desperate, reverent — made you clench around him so hard he cursed, burying himself deeper.
“Good girl..” he growled, and you whined.
He set a brutal pace, hips slamming into yours, every thrust driving you higher. Your nails carved lines down his back, and he grunted at the sting, metal hand gripping the headboard so hard the wood splintered.
“Too much?” he panted, forehead pressed to yours.
“Not enough,” you gasped, pulling him back in for a kiss.
His hand slid down, thumb circling exactly where you needed it, and your powers exploded. The dresser shook, a picture frame crashed to the floor, and Bucky groaned like he didn’t care if the whole compound knew.
It built fast, unstoppable. You clung to him, breathless pleas tumbling from your lips. He buried his face against your throat, groaning your codename, your real name, like he couldn’t decide which one owned him more. And when you came apart, your powers surged — the lights blew out, the headboard cracked, the air around you humming like a storm.
He followed with a ragged curse, hips stuttering as he spilled into you, collapsing against you with a shuddering breath.
The room was wrecked — furniture crooked, clothes and various items on the floor, air still tingling with your power.
But neither of you cared.
He stayed pressed to you, chest heaving, his arm tight around your waist like he was terrified you’d vanish. When his breath steadied, he pressed a slow, reverent kiss to your temple.
He murmured your name, softer now. “You undo me.”
You smiled against his skin.
“Guess you like losing, Barnes.”
His laugh was low, dark, against your throat.
“Only to you.”
——————
The first thing you noticed was the heat.
Not the sunlight, not the soreness in your body — but the sheer warmth of Bucky Barnes pressed against you like he had no intention of letting go.
His arm was slung across your waist, his metal hand resting over your stomach, thumb brushing unconsciously against your skin as he slept. His breath ghosted against your neck, slow and steady, like you’d been his anchor through the night.
For a moment, you didn’t move. Couldn’t.
The chaos of last night replayed in flashes — his mouth on yours, the sound of your name torn from his throat, the way the entire room had seemed to bend around the two of you when your powers snapped loose.
Your cheeks burned at the memory.
When you finally shifted, his grip tightened instantly.
“Don’t,” he muttered, voice still rough from sleep.
You froze. “You’re awake.”
“Have been,” he lied. His lips brushed your shoulder. “Stay.”
You turned your head just enough to catch his half-lidded eyes, the faint crease in his brow like he was afraid you’d disappear.
“You’re clingy in the morning,” you whispered, a teasing edge to cover your thundering heartbeat.
“Deal with it,” he muttered, pulling you even closer, burying his face in your hair.
——————
You thought you’d be smart. Quiet. Slip back to your own room before anyone noticed.
Big mistake.
The second you opened the door, you walked straight into the firing squad.
Natasha, Tony, and Sam were all casually stationed in the hallway like they’d been waiting for hours. Wanda leaned against the wall with a cup of tea, hiding her smile. Clint strolled up from the other end with a bagel, eyes lighting up like he’d stumbled into Christmas morning.
“Well, well, well,” Tony drawled, arms folded, smirk dangerous. “What do we have here? A shadow slinking out of Barnes’ room at—” he checked his watch dramatically, “—oh, nine hundred hours sharp. Very efficient.”
Your face burned hot. “We weren’t—”
Natasha cut you off with a knowing smirk. “Finally. I was this close to locking you both in the armory.”
Wanda tilted her head, eyes twinkling. “You rattled the entire building. I thought it was an earthquake.”
Sam whistled. “Explains the power surge. Stark’s generator readings spiked at, what, three a.m.? Thought we were under attack.”
Your jaw dropped. “It wasn’t that bad—”
The door behind you creaked. Bucky stepped out, shirtless, hair a complete mess, eyes murderous at the scene in front of him.
“Not. A. Word,” he growled.
The hallway erupted in laughter.
Breakfast was worse.
By the time you made it to the kitchen, the entire team had heard. Vision politely pretended to read the newspaper, but his eyes flicked up every so often with a curious hum. Thor clapped Bucky on the back so hard the poor man almost dropped his coffee.
“Congratulations, friend Barnes!” Thor boomed. “You have been most uptight of late — it is good you finally released such tension. You clearly needed the se-”
You choked on your coffee. Clint actually fell off his chair laughing. Wanda covered her mouth, eyes wide.
“Thor,” Steve groaned cutting him off before he continued, rubbing his face. “We don’t need details.”
But Thor only nodded, completely serious. “Details are unnecessary. It is plain for all to see — Barnes walks lighter this morning.”
Bucky’s ears turned scarlet. He growled, “I’m going to kill you.”
Natasha smirked into her cup. “He’s not wrong, though.”
Tony nearly spit out his orange juice. “Oh my God, Thor, never change.”
Nat sipped her coffee like a queen. “You both looked tense for weeks. I’m just glad you didn’t kill each other before finally giving in.”
“Kill each other?” Tony snorted. “She nearly killed my infrastructure. Do you know how much StarkTech shorted out last night?” He tapped at his tablet. “Sparks flying, bedframe cracking, breaker box fried. Honestly, I should start charging you two rent.”
You buried your face in your hands.
“Im sorry!!! My powers arent exactly that controlled!!”
Tony chuckled “i figured that one out last night.”
Bucky muttered darkly, “I will throw every single one of you out a window.”
“Promises, promises,” Sam shot back, grinning.
——————
It didn’t take long. Fury had barely given the briefing before you realised how bad this was going to be.
A Hydra cell had resurfaced in Berlin, and the team was being sent to take it down. You and Bucky were paired as point team — infiltration, recon, neutralisation.
“Your inside,” Fury said. “You both know the drill. Don’t get compromised.”
Tony smirked across the table. “Compromised? Please. They’ve been compromised for weeks.”
Laughter rippled around the room. Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. Wanda smothered a grin behind her hand.
Your cheeks burned. Bucky’s jaw ticked.
“Can we focus?” he growled.
Natasha leaned back in her chair. “Sure, husband.”
The team roared.
The quinjet hummed with quiet chatter, but your row was silent. You sat across from Bucky, eyes fixed on your gloves, trying not to think about how his gaze kept flicking to your mouth like he couldn’t stop himself.
Sam broke the silence.
“So, Barnes,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “you gonna be able to keep your head in the game? Or you gonna be distracted thinking about—”
“Finish that sentence,” Bucky warned, voice lethal.
Sam raised his hands and smirked.
You wanted to sink into the floor.
——————
The warehouse stank of oil and mildew, shadows stretching long under the broken skylights. You kept your powers tight and coiled, telekinesis steadying the tools in your hands as you worked the lock. Bucky stood close, knife already drawn, watching every corner like the walls themselves might come alive.
The door clicked. You slipped inside together, boots silent on the concrete.
“Left corridor,” you whispered.
He nodded. His hand brushed the small of your back — fleeting, but deliberate — before he took point.
The deeper you went, the louder the hum of servers grew. Hydra had turned this place into a nest, wires crawling over the walls, crates stacked like barricades.
Then you heard it — voices ahead.
Bucky held up a hand. You froze, focusing, letting your telekinesis spread just enough to “feel” the space. Six men. Armed.
You shaped your power like invisible fingers, flicking one of the lights overhead. It shattered, glass raining down, and in the chaos you and Bucky moved as one. His knife sank into the first soldier’s shoulder as your telekinesis ripped the gun from another’s hand, slamming it across his face. Within moments, the floor was littered with groaning bodies.
“Clear,” Bucky muttered, chest heaving.
But the last man standing wasn’t just another soldier. He was waiting.
The lieutenant stepped out from the shadows with a slow clap. His uniform was pressed, Hydra insignia sharp against the collar. But it was his smile that chilled you.
“Barnes,” he drawled. “The Asset. And his… partner.” His gaze slid to you, lingering far too long. “Or should I say, the experiment?”
Your blood ran cold.
Bucky was on him in a blink, knife at his throat. “Say one more word.”
The lieutenant chuckled, unfazed. “They’re already looking for her, you know. The one with the mind. The one with the power to bend the world. Hydra doesn’t forget. And we always collect what’s ours.”
Your stomach twisted. You hadn’t told the team everything — how Hydra operatives had tracked your family before, how your powers made you a target.
“Enough,” you snapped, pressing his mind with a push of your power. His eyes glazed for a second, fighting it — but Bucky’s knife dug deeper, silencing him with a hiss.
“Bucky,” you warned softly. “Focus.”
His jaw clenched, chest rising fast. He looked at the man like he wasn’t just an enemy — he was a threat to you.
When you finally dragged the knocked out lieutenant outside, Steve’s voice cracked over comms.
“Report.”
“Lieutenant secured,” you answered, keeping your tone even.
“And your intact?” Steve pressed.
“Of course she’s intact—” Bucky snapped before you could speak.
“Relax, Barnes,” Natasha purred. “We know you’ve got her covered.”
“Covered, under, over—” Sam started.
“Wilson,” Bucky growled, voice lethal.
“Alright, children,” Tony cut in. “Focus on the op. Then you can get back to whatever Olympic sport you’re training for in Barnes’ room.”
You groaned, ripping the comm from your ear.
But when Bucky’s hand brushed yours as you loaded the lieutenant onto the jet, your pulse betrayed you. Hydra might have wanted to claim you, but the truth was simple: the only one who had you was Bucky.
——————
The quinjet touched down well past midnight. Everyone filed out, tired and restless, but the teasing still hadn’t stopped.
“Good work, you two,” Steve said evenly, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
Sam smirked as he walked by. “Yeah, real seamless coordination. Almost like you’ve been practicing behind closed doors.”
“Sam,” you snapped.
Natasha’s smirk was lazier, deadlier. “Don’t be too hard on him. We all saw it. The way you covered each other? You fight like people who’ve undressed each other- oh wait you already ha-“
You nearly choked. “Nat—”
Bucky’s metal fist clenched, the plates whining under pressure. “Enough.”
The laughter followed you down the hall anyway.
Your door barely shut before Bucky was inside. He leaned against it, shoulders tense, breathing like he’d sprinted the length of the compound.
“You’re letting them get to you,” you said carefully.
“I don’t care about them,” he shot back. His eyes caught yours, raw and burning. “I care about this. About us. And I don’t even know what the hell this is.”
Silence stretched. Your heartbeat roared in your ears.
“Last night…” His voice dropped. “That wasn’t just… release. Not for me.”
Your throat tightened. “Then what was it?”
His jaw flexed. “It was me finally touching something I wanted for so long I thought it would kill me.”
The air crackled. You stepped closer, your power sparking faintly at your fingertips. “Bucky…”
“Tell me you don’t want this too,” he rasped, crowding closer. “Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop. But if you don’t—” His metal hand slid to your hip, hot and unyielding. “I’m not letting go.”
Your answer came in the form of your mouth on his, urgent and rough. His growl rumbled against your lips as he lifted you effortlessly, slamming your back against the door.
The kiss was all teeth and need, a continuation of everything you hadn’t said in the field. His hands mapped you like he was claiming territory, like if he pressed hard enough he could brand you into his memory.
“Bucky—” you gasped when his lips trailed fire down your throat.
“You’ve been mine since the first time you looked at me like I wasn’t a monster,” he groaned against your skin. “Don’t think I don’t know it.”
Your powers flared, telekinetic sparks rattling the lamp on your desk. He smirked against your pulse. “Can’t even control it, can you? Drives you crazy the same way it drives me.”
The door suddenly rattled — someone knocking, too loudly.
“HEY, lovebirds!” Sam’s voice. “Keep it down, some of us actually like to sleep!”
Bucky’s forehead dropped to your shoulder with a murderous groan.
You laughed breathlessly, pressing a kiss to his temple. “We’re never living this down.”
His metal hand tipped your chin back up, his expression fierce. “Let ‘em talk. They don’t get to have you. I do.”
And when he kissed you again, it was with the kind of certainty that left no room for argument.
Summary: After being assigned as Bucky Barnes’s roommate at the Avengers compound, you quickly discover that sharing a room isnt so simple.. especially when you can manipulate objects with your mind, read surface thoughts, and sometimes shift into a small, sleek black cat to escape. Your abilities make it difficult to distinguish between comfort and chaos when missions test you both. While you and Bucky negotiate the unusual connection that develops between silent gestures, purring at the foot of his bed, and accidental mind-reading. What begins as a stressful, awkward living arrangement eventually grows into a quiet, unspoken connection that neither of you expected.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader (reader has telekinesis, shapeshifting and mind control powers.)
Warnings: Reader has green eyes, slow-burn tension, mutual pining, roommates-to-lovers dynamic, grumpy/stoic Bucky vs witty/flirty Reader, telekinesis / mind control / shapeshifting powers, reader turns into a fluffy black cat with green eyes, vulnerability + comfort, accidental power surges (floating objects, flickering lights, rattling furniture), occasional accidental mind reading. Horrendous grammar and spelling.
Word Count: ~6,100
PART 2
——————
The Avengers compound is many things.
High-tech. Immense. Intimidating.
What it’s not, apparently, is organised—because the first thing you see when you open the door to your newly assigned quarters is Bucky Barnes.
He’s sitting in an armchair by the window like he was carved there. broad shoulders relaxed but ready, long legs stretched out, boots still on, eyes glinting pale blue in the afternoon light. His metal fingers tap against the armrest with a faint clink-clink-clink.
He looks up. Sees you. Scowls.
“Please tell me this is a joke.”
You shift your duffel bag higher on your shoulder and grin. “Hello to you too.”
“This is my room.”
“Our room,” you correct, stepping inside. The door slides shut behind you. “Congrats, roomie.”
His jaw works. “I asked for my own space.”
“Dont worry, me too.”
You dump your bag on the empty bed, toe off your boots, and stretch. His eyes track the movement, then flick away.
“Stark’s an asshole,” he mutters.
“You think?” you roll your eyes.
——————
It doesn’t take long for the room to become yours.
Bucky keeps his half spartan. Bed perfectly made, blanket folded, boots lined up with military precision. You, meanwhile, create controlled chaos—books stacked precariously, a mug that sits on your bedside table, and when your bored.. occasionally in your sleek black cat form curled on one the biggest sunny patch on the floor.
The first time you shift in front of him, he nearly drops his knife.
“—the fuck?”
The black fur ripples, and you purr lazily, tail flicking.
He stares. “You just—turned into a cat.”
“Very observant.”
His brow furrows. Then, very quietly: “…Green eyes.”
You blink at him, slow and feline, before leaping onto your bed and curling up.
From the corner of your eye, you catch his lips twitch. Almost a smile.
——————
The rest of the team catches on quickly.
You’re barely halfway through your first week of forced cohabitation when word spreads like wildfire: Barnes has a roommate. A powered one. A you.
The kitchen is chaos the next morning. Sam is pouring cereal like he’s trying to win a race, Nat is perched catlike on the counter with her coffee, Wanda is quietly reading the news, and Vision is attempting pancakes like he’s defusing a bomb.
You shuffle in, hair messy, one of your oversized sweatshirts drowning you down to mid-thigh. He stalks in two minutes later, jaw set like he’s marching into battle.
Sam notices immediately.
“Wait,” he says, spoon pausing halfway to his mouth. He points at you, then at Bucky. “Your Barnes’s roommate?”
“Unfortunately,” Bucky grumbles, reaching for the coffee pot like it personally owes him something
Nat’s mouth curves, sharp and knowing. She sets down her mug. “How’s that going?”
“Fine,” you say at the same time Bucky mutters, “Nightmare.”
You grin over your mug. “We’re bonding.”
“She floats his stuff when he’s not looking,” Wanda offers without looking up from her tablet, voice calm and amused.
Sam snorts. “Barnes, you’re doomed.”
“I am not—” Bucky starts, then goes rigid as his mug lifts out of his hand and drifts slowly across the kitchen island, steam curling. You sip from it midair.
Everyone watches in silence.
“Okay,” Sam says, deadpan. “Yeah, doomed.”
Bucky glares at you. “Give it back.”
“Ask nicely,” you sing-song, spinning the mug in lazy telekinetic loops.
“Sweetheart—”
“You don’t get to call me sweetheart and also threaten me,” you interrupt, snatching the mug back to him with a flick of your fingers. It lands perfectly in his hand. He blinks. His ears are faintly pink.
Nat notices. Of course she does. “Oh,” she murmurs, smirk spreading. “This is going to be fun.”
Vision sets a plate of slightly smoking pancakes on the counter. “Statistically,” he says thoughtfully,
“cohabitation increases emotional intimacy by 68%.”
“Vis-, stop,” Bucky mutters into his coffee.
“Statistically,” Sam echoes, grinning. “Barnes is screwed.”
Bucky mutters something under his breath about assassins deserving hazard pay, but he doesn’t correct them. His eyes flick toward you instead—like he can’t help it—and you catch the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth before he looks away.
——————
A week later, the training room hums with energy—punching bags thud, weights clank, and Sam and Nat are perched on the edge of the sparring mat like sharks waiting for blood.
You stretch lazily, rolling your shoulders. Across from you, Bucky is stripping off his sweatshirt, leaving him in just a black fitted tee that clings unfairly to muscle. His expression is flat. His eyes, however, are not. They’re locked on you like you’re a mission he hasn’t quite figured out how to complete.
“Barnes,” Sam calls, grinning wickedly, “try not to get your ass handed to you by your roommate.”
Bucky doesn’t even look at him. “I won’t.”
“Oh, you will,” Nat says, voice velvet and deadly. “She’s faster than you.”
“Cheats,” Bucky mutters, sliding his metal arm into position.
“Strategises,” you correct, stepping onto the mat. Your voice carries just enough mischief to make his jaw tick.
Wanda leans against the wall nearby, clearly here just to spectate. A faint smile plays on her lips. “This should be good.”
You circle each other.
Bucky moves like controlled thunder: precise, coiled, heavy strikes. You’re pure fluidity—dodging with impossible ease. When he swings, you bend like water. When he lunges, you vanish, reappearing behind him in a ripple of shadow as your form shifts briefly into something smaller and back again mid-roll.
Sam lets out a low whistle. “Okay. That was terrifying.”
Bucky grits his teeth. “Stay still.”
“Make me.”
He lunges. You flick your fingers and his boots skid out from under him with a sharp telekinetic tug. He hits the mat with a grunt.
“Point for me,” you chirp.
He growls low, rolling back to his feet—and stops when he notices he’s floating a few inches off the mat, limbs splayed. Your eyes glow faintly as you hold him aloft like a marionette.
“Having fun up there?” you ask sweetly.
Sam is howling with laughter now. Nat just smirks, exchanging cash with Wanda. Apparently a betting pool already exists.
“Put me down,” Bucky says, low and dangerous.
“Say please.”
His jaw flexes. “…Please.”
You drop him. He lands in a perfect crouch like a damn jungle cat, which would be more impressive if his ears weren’t bright red.
“You’re toast, Barnes,” Sam calls. “She’s in your head.”
“She’s everywhere,” Bucky mutters, brushing off his hands.
You grin, teeth flashing. “You like it.”
His eyes meet yours for half a second. Dark. Sharp. Something burns there, quick and hungry, before he masks it.
Nat catches it. Of course she does.
“Oh, this is going to be so entertaining.”
——————
Movie night at the compound is never quiet.
The common room hums with voices, the smell of buttered popcorn thick in the warm air, the flicker of an old projector throwing golden light across the room.
Sam and Clint are throwing popcorn at each other like middle schoolers. Nat is curled up on one end of the couch with a blanket and a glass of wine. Wanda and Vision are tucked together on the loveseat, murmuring softly. Bruce is half-asleep under a weighted blanket on a beanbag. Steve is perched upright at the edge of the couch like he’s at a strategy briefing, a bowl of pretzels clutched like a shield.
Bucky is buried in the opposite corner of the couch, hood up, arms crossed, face perfectly neutral.
Like a storm cloud pretending to be furniture.
For once, he actually looks calm.
Until the door clicks open.
Sleek and shadow-black, tail swaying low, paws silent. Fur like dark velvet, eyes glowing green in the dim light.
The chaos stops instantly.
“...What the hell,” Clint blurts, straightening. “Why is there a cat here?”
“That’s not just a cat,” Sam says slowly, leaning forward.
Bruce pushes his glasses up, blinking rapidly as his mind works through the biological aspects of science. “That’s…is that biologically safe?”
"You tell me.. your the scientist." Nat says.
Vision tilts his head, fascinated. “She has complete skeletal restructuring. It’s extraordinary.”
“That’s horrifying,” Clint mutters.
“It’s fine.. she can shapeshift,” Wanda says mildly, eyes glinting.
Tony strolls in late with a drink, stops dead, and points. “Why is there a mini panther in the living room? Did Barnes start collecting strays?”
“She is the stray,” Nat murmurs, amused.
“Excuse me,” Steve says faintly, looking alarmed. “Can she—does she still understand us like that?”
“She understands everything,” Wanda says.
“Creepy,” Clint mutters.
“Terrifying,” Bruce echoes.
“Sexy,” Sam adds.
“Sam,” Steve says warningly.
You turn your head towards sam and give him a little blink.. he waves at you.
You pad straight across the room, each step measured and silent, and leap lightly up onto the couch—next to him.
Bucky goes utterly still.
You curl yourself into a perfect circle right up against his thigh, like you’ve done it a hundred times, tail wrapping snug around your body. You let out a slow, deep purr, the sound vibrating through him like a low engine.
The silence is deafening.
Then—
“She just—” Sam is wheezing. “She just— BARNES. She’s literally- basically on- you.”
“She’s warm,” Vision observes.
“She’s purring,” Bruce says, sounding vaguely shell-shocked.
Nat lifts her glass in your direction. “Claimed him.”
Wanda smiles faintly. “She has a habit of doing that.”
“This isn’t normal,” Bucky says flatly, staring straight ahead like a man facing a firing squad.
“Neither are you,” Clint says.
“Welcome to the family,” Tony mutters, dropping into a chair.
“She’s your problem now.”
“She’s not my—”
You flick your tail across his stomach, slow and silky. His breath catches audibly.
The purr in your chest deepens, vibrating against his thighs.
Bucky’s jaw locks like he’s physically holding himself together. His eyes stay glued to the TV, but his ears are crimson.
Wanda hides a grin behind her mug. “He’s trying so hard not to melt.”
“He’s gone,” Sam says, doubled over.
Nat’s eyes gleam. “He never stood a chance.”
Steve clears his throat awkwardly, but there’s a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “She…seems comfortable.”
“She’s too comfortable,” Bucky mutters, low and strangled.
“She owns you,” Tony says. “Accept it.”
Bucky does not move a single muscle for the rest of the movie.
But his flesh hand never leaves your back, either.
——————
The credits roll in a soft hum of music and static glow.
Sam is the first to break the silence, stretching like a lazy cat and groaning. “Okay. Solid explosions. Terrible dialogue. Eight outta ten.”
“Seven,” Clint says, standing and brushing popcorn off himself. “The villain monologued for ten straight minutes.”
“Classic,” Nat says, smirking.
“Scientifically implausible,” Bruce mumbles, peeling himself off his beanbag like it’s fighting back.
Wanda smiles faintly. “You say that every time.”
Tony tosses his empty glass toward the bar cart like he’s shooting hoops. “Five outta ten. No flying suits.”
“Because it was set in 1992,” Steve says, still somehow sitting like he’s at attention even as he stands.
“Excuses,” Tony mutters.
The room dissolves into the usual post-movie shuffle—blankets tossed aside, glasses gathered, voices low and warm with exhaustion.
No one even tries to get you off him.
They glance once, smirk, and leave you where you are—sleek black fur curled like a shadow right up against Bucky Barnes thigh, tail tucked tight, eyes half-lidded as your head rests on his thigh, purr slow and steady against it.
Wanda is the last to pass, and she just gives him a knowing look that makes his ears go pink.
Then it’s quiet.
Bucky stays very, very still.
The TV clicks off, plunging the room into soft golden lamplight and silence.
For a long moment he doesn’t move at all, just stares at the blank screen like he’s trying to process what just happened.
Then, slowly, he exhales. Shoulders lowering like a weight slipped off.
His flesh hand strokes down your back once—hesitant, careful—fingers sinking into your fur.
“You drive me insane,” he murmurs, voice rough, almost a whisper.
You don’t move.
He watches his fingers card gently through your fur like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he touches too hard.
“You just…walk in,” he mutters. “Like you own me.”
A soft, quiet laugh huffs out of him, low and disbelieving.
“Maybe you do.”
Your purr deepens, rumbling like a secret.
He sits there with you for a long while more, the whole compound finally quiet around him, hand resting steady and warm on your small body like it’s the only thing anchoring him.
And when he finally stands, he carries you—very carefully, cradled against his chest like you’re made of spun glass—and says nothing at all.
—————
A few weeks later…
The compound is quiet again.
Too quiet.
Not peaceful quiet.
Not gentle or warm or earned.
Just… hollow.
Like someone cut the sound out of the world and left only the ringing behind.
Mission adrenaline still hums faintly in your veins, restless and sharp as glass, like your body hasn’t caught up to the fact that you’re safe now. The ghosts of chaos still cling to you like soot—rain-slick streets flashing under neon signs, boots pounding through puddles, smoke curling off half-collapsed concrete, the tinny crackle of comms chatter slicing through the roar of gunfire.
You can still taste metal on the back of your tongue.
Your muscles twitch like you might need to sprint again at any second.
You’d burned through everything tonight.
Held crumbling walls aloft with nothing but sheer will until your skull throbbed like it might crack.
Bent steel beams out of the way while Natasha dragged civilians through the gap.
Flicked rifles out of enemy hands before they could blink, slamming them harmlessly into walls.
Threaded through hostile minds like smoke, forcing them to stutter, to falter, to freeze mid-trigger-pull.
Leapt into their blind spots as a flash of black fur and claws, shadows swallowing you whole until even Steve lost track of where you were.
Every scrap of focus, gone.
Every ounce of strength, spent.
And still, somehow, you’d made it back.
The quinjet’s ramp lowering into the glow of the landing bay. The compound’s doors sliding open to welcome you home. The team dispersing down the halls in silence, all of them bleeding exhaustion in the way they moved, shoulders sagging, voices low.
And now—
Now it’s too quiet.
The kind of quiet that makes your skin feel thin.
The kind that lets everything you’ve been holding off come crashing back in at once.
You stumble into your room on autopilot.
You Kick your boots off. Throw your jacket ontop of Buckys leather one on the lounge chair.
The second the door clicks shut behind you, your legs feel like water.
The air is thick with static from your frayed control—pens roll lazily across your desk, the curtains shiver as if caught in a draft, your bedside lamp flickers, dims, then flares too bright. Your head buzzes. Every thought frays at the edges, slipping through your fingers like smoke.
You can’t hold yourself together anymore.
So you stop trying.
You let your bones ripple and dissolve, let your skin contract and fold inward in a wash of shadow. Limbs shrink. Breath hitches. The world stretches wide and towering around you.
Then you land lightly on the rug, claws clicking softly against the floor.
A sleek black tail flicks once behind you.
You lift your head, blinking slow with luminous green eyes.
Sleek. Black. Fluffy. Green-eyed. Small.
The air smells sharper like this, cleaner, every sound much more clear and crisp. The buzz in your skull eases. The tension in your shoulders drains away like water down a drain. You pad to your bed, silent and surefooted, and leap up in one smooth motion.
Your paws sink into the blanket. You circle once, twice, tail curling close, and finally collapse in a tight little coil at the foot of the bed. You begin to knead the bed, the first purr rattles out of you thin and shaky.
Then another.
Then another—
Until it builds into a steady low hum, warm and rhythmic, echoing faintly in your chest like a heartbeat. You let the sound wrap around you like a cocoon.
Small is easier.
Small is quiet.
Safe.
You close your eyes, and for the first time all night, you start to feel almost still.
The door creaks. Your ears twitch toward it instantly. Claws flex against the blanket.
But it’s only him.
Bucky stands in the doorway like a shadow cut out of the dim hallway light. His boots are unlaced, dark with grime and rainwater. His tac pants are still on, streaked with mud, but his black undershirt is clean and damp, clinging to the lines of his shoulders from a too-quick shower. There’s a thin cut on his jaw, cleaned but angry red. His hair is wet, dark strands dripping slowly onto the fabric clinging to his collarbones.
He leans against the frame, silent.
His expression is the same steel mask he always wears after missions, the one that says nothing can touch him.
But his eyes…
His eyes give him away.
They’re soft.
Worried.
Bleeding some quiet, private thing he doesn’t know how to name.
He stops dead when he sees you.
For a long, still moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just looks at you like he’s not sure you’re real.
Your purr fades to a soft, uncertain rumble. Then he exhales through his nose, slow and shaky, and steps inside. His boots silent on the rug. Movements careful, measured, like approaching something wild and wounded.
The door clicks shut behind him. He says nothing.
Doesn’t ask why you’re like this.
Doesn’t tell you to stop.
Doesn’t demand you be fine.
He just unknots the thick black sweatshirt from around his waist.
It’s the same one he’d had on the quinjet after the fight, when everyone else had been laughing too loud, pretending their hands weren’t still shaking. The same one that still smells faintly of clean soap and steel and him—darker and warm underneath, like burnt sugar and rain.
He crosses the room.
And then, so carefully it makes your chest ache, he drapes it over you.
Like a shield.
Like he’s trying to guard you from everything, even now.
The weight of it is soft and warm and smells like him, and the moment it settles over your tiny body, your whole frame sags with relief.
His metal hand hovers for a second before he lowers it to your head.
The touch is barely there.
Just a brush down the line of your small furry head, gentle enough that your fur stands on end from the lightness of it.
“Get some rest, trouble,” he murmurs, voice low and rough and quiet.
Something in the way he says it makes your chest squeeze. Like what he means is: Please be here tomorrow.
His thumb lingers a second longer. Then he straightens, silent again.
He glances back once at the door, like he’s making sure no one else is coming, and then at you again.
You pretend to be asleep, purring steady.
Something in his expression softens.
Cracks.
Then he switches off the lamp and slips back out into the hall, closing the door with a soft click.
Your purrs are so loud now the mattress hums beneath you.
And for the first time all night, you let yourself sleep.
——————
The world is grey and still when you wake.
For a long, hazy moment, you don’t move.
Don’t even breathe.
The quiet is soft this time.
Not hollow.
Just…gentle.
Your body is a loose curl of warmth under the weight of his sweatshirt, your tail tucked around your paws. You’re still small, still furred, sleek black against rumpled sheets. The exhaustion has seeped out of your bones in the night like poison leaching from a wound.
Your purr is a low hum under the silence.
Slow. Steady.
Then—
A sound.
The faintest rasp of breath, close.
Your ears flick.
You lift your head, blinking sleep-heavy green eyes, and peer over the edge of the mattress.
And there he is.
Bucky.
Asleep on the floor beside your bed.
He’s slumped sideways like he meant to sit watch and lost the fight. One arm is draped limply across the mattress within inches of your paws, palm up, fingers slack. His head rests on the edge of your blanket, cheek half-buried in the fabric, lashes casting soft shadows over bruised half-moons beneath his eyes.
He must have come back.
Sometime in the small hours when the compound was dead silent.
He must’ve sat down to make sure you were still breathing— and just… never left… never walked back to his bed across the room from yours.
His boots are gone, but he’s still in his tac pants, belt undone. The black shirt he’d been wearing earlier is rumpled, sleeves shoved to his elbows, revealing the dark burnished gleam of his metal arm where the dawn light kisses it. His flesh hand twitches faintly in his sleep, a ghost of movement.
You stay very still, watching him.
Your heart gives a strange, soft ache.
There’s something unguarded about him like this. All the sharp edges dulled. All the weight he carries smoothed from his face.
Just…human. Just Bucky.
Your tail flicks once. Then, slowly, carefully, you unfold from yourself.
Your small body shivers like dark water, shape unraveling, fur melting back into skin, paws stretching into fingers. The air ripples faintly with the echo of your power as your limbs lengthen, spine straightens, and the world shrinks back down to your size again.
You crouch on the mattress in your human form, knees tucked under you, his sweatshirt slipping down one shoulder. It’s big on you, the sleeves hanging past your fingers as you crawl forward.
Careful not to wake him.
Careful not to breathe too loud.
You stop just above where he’s sprawled, and—very gently— you reach down and brush your fingertips through his hair.
It’s soft.
Damp at the ends still from his shower. Messy from sleep.
He stirs.
Brows twitching, lashes fluttering.
His voice is rough when it comes, barely awake.
“Sweetheart?”
The word is thick with sleep, low and unguarded and so tender it makes your breath hitch.
He blinks up at you, confused at first—like he’s not sure if he’s dreaming— then his eyes clear.
They flick over your human shape in his hoodie.
Then back to your face.
His lips twitch.
Just the faintest hint of a smile, like it’s trying to sneak past him.
“Figured you’d be curled up on my floor,” he rasps.
You smile, soft.
“Thought about it.”
His eyes linger on you a moment longer, warm and bleary and too soft for someone who’s spent years sharpening himself into steel.
Then he exhales, slow.
Like something heavy just slipped off his shoulders.
And his fingers—still draped across your mattress—curl slowly, deliberately, until they hook loosely around yours.
Not pulling.
Just holding. Just… anchoring.
——————
Something shifts. It’s not loud or obvious or anything anyone could point to and name. It’s just… there. This quiet, constant hum under your skin, like the faint buzz of static before a storm. Like the air holding its breath.
Bucky is everywhere now. Not in the literal sense—he still keeps to himself most of the time, still disappears into the gym at dawn or the training mats after dinner, still walks through the compound like he’s trying not to leave footprints, but you can feel him. You feel him. The faint brush at the edge of your mind sometimes when your shields are down, just the whisper of surface thoughts you never mean to catch—flashes of steel and snow and silence edged with something you can’t quite name, like the ghost of heat bleeding through frost. You tell yourself you’re imagining it. Then you catch him staring.
It happens one early morning, the kitchen still quiet and grey with half-light. You’re standing at the counter, hair mussed from sleep, idly floating a ceramic bowl across the room toward the sink with nothing but your mind. The thing glides through the air smooth and weightless, steam curling from your tea, your eyes half-lidded with fatigue. When you glance over, he’s leaning against the fridge, coffee mug cradled in his flesh hand, watching you. Not startled.
Not even particularly interested.
Just watching. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“You always this lazy,” he mutters, voice low and rough from sleep, “or is it just before breakfast?”
You don’t even look at him, letting the bowl clink down softly in the sink. “Saving my hands for the important stuff.”
There’s a pause. Then a sound—a small, soft huff of laughter. When you glance back, he’s still looking at his coffee, lips twitching like he’s trying to hide it.
It keeps happening. Your powers slipping around the edges when you’re distracted. A pen floating lazy spirals above your notebook while you daydream in the common room. A stack of files sliding themselves into neat piles on the table while you scroll through a mission brief. The TV remote zipping through the air into your palm before Steve finishes asking who’s got it. Every time, you see Bucky’s eyes flick toward it, just for a second.
A muscle jumping in his jaw. Nothing more. But once, when you flick the fridge shut with your mind and walk away without touching it, he stares at your back like he’s trying to solve an equation he’s been stuck on for days. The ceramic mug creaks faintly in his metal hand.
The others start noticing too.
You pad silently into the common room one night as a sleek black blur, paws soft against the rug, tail flicking. The room smells like butter and sugar, half a bowl of popcorn forgotten on the table. You’d slipped out for air earlier, prowling the dark grounds to bleed off the last edge of adrenaline still gnawing at your nerves. Nat glances up from her book first.
Her eyes track your shadowed shape. Her lips curve.
“Well,” she says smoothly, shutting her book on one finger. “Back from your secret missions, little shadow?”
Sam turns—and chokes on his popcorn. “Wait—holy— is that you?” he sputters, pointing at you like you’re an apparition.
You leap lightly onto the arm of the couch, settling with a delicate flick of your tail.
“Yup,” Wanda says before you can even blink, not looking away from her tea. “She does that.”
“She—” Sam blinks at you, at Wanda, at you again. “She cattifies? Like—just casually?”
“She’s more coordinated like that than you are on two feet,” Clint mutters, deadpan, eyes still on the TV.
"Hey!! look I knew she could- like- she did it the other day with the movie- but yknow- didnt know it was this regular occurrence-“ Sam tried to defend himself.. but did it terribly.
You yawn, long and silent, baring sharp white teeth. Sam stares. Wanda sips her tea. Nat is still smirking. Bucky doesn’t look up. He’s slouched in the corner armchair, long legs sprawled, boots crossed at the ankle, a battered paperback in his hand.
“Don’t let her near the laser pointer,” he says without glancing up.
Sam’s head snaps toward him. “You knew about this?”
Bucky flips a page. “She sleeps like that.”
The room goes still. Nat blinks. Her smirk sharpens. “Oh?”
Your tail freezes mid-flick.
Wanda’s mouth twitches around her mug. Steve looks over slowly from the armchair, brows furrowing like he’s replaying the words in his head. Clint starts grinning like he’s just scented gossip from a mile away. Sam goes very still, then breaks into a grin like the sun coming up.
“Ohhh,” he says, dragging it out. “Ohhhhhh.”
Bucky’s ears go faintly pink. “Shut up,” he says flatly, not looking up from his book.
“Wait-wait wait—” Clint leans forward, pointing between you and him. “So, what—you curl up at the end of his bed? Like an actual—”
“Don’t,” Bucky warns, eyes lifting just enough to pin him with a look.
“Oh, this is adorable,” Nat murmurs, delighted.
Sam’s grinning like a fox. “This is better than I could’ve hoped for.”
Bucky mutters something, most likely an insult, and hes gripping the book so tightly the spine is bending.
You flick your tail once, trying to look bored. But you can feel the pulse of his surface thoughts brush your mind like a spark.
“god.. shes so pretty”
Your purr hiccups once mid-breath. You pretend it’s nothing.
——————
The compound is finally still.
Hours later, after the teasing died down, after the laughter faded and the others retreated off to their rooms, the halls have gone hollow and dark. The only sound is the distant hum of the air system and the faint click of your claws on tile as you prowl the corridor in your sleek black cat form.
The adrenaline from the mission hasn’t completely left your blood. It never does, not right away. There’s still a faint buzz in your chest, like you’re too sharp to sleep. So instead, you prowl. The shape feels good—small, fast, silent. Your senses sharpen to razor edges; the world is bigger and softer at once.
The kitchen smells faintly of coffee grounds and warm metal. A single dim light glows above the stove, the only illumination in the cavernous space. You hop silently onto the counter, tail flicking, and nudge open a cabinet with your head. The rustle of a half-empty bag of crackers makes your ears perk.
You are halfway through clawing it open when the voice comes from the shadows.
“Y’know,” Bucky says quietly, “most people use their hands.”
Slowly, you turn around.
He’s there—leaning in the doorway like he’s been waiting, half his body swallowed in shadow. The low golden light cuts across his face, carving sharp lines into his jaw, glinting off his metal arm. His hair is damp, curling faintly at the ends, and he’s dressed down in sweats and a soft black shirt that hangs loose on his shoulders.
Your heart lurches.
He crosses the room with that infuriating, unhurried prowl of his, every movement loose and quiet, like he’s made of coiled wire under silk. His boots make no sound on the tiles.
You let out a soft, warning hiss. It sounds more like a nervous squeak.
“Don’t start,” he murmurs, and there’s a curl of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “Caught you red-handed. Or… pawed.”
You flick your tail sharply and crouch, ready to bolt.
But he’s faster.
His flesh hand closes gently but firmly around the scruff of your neck, lifting you up like you weigh nothing. You let out a startled meow, legs dangling.
“Mmhm,” he hums, holding you at arm’s length, inspecting you like you’re a puzzle piece that’s just clicked into place. His eyes gleam dark and sharp in the dim light. “Thought so.”
You try to glare. It comes out as a furious green-eyed glare and a pitiful mrrp noise.
And then before you can even react, he sets you back down on the counter.
“Go on,” he says softly, stepping back and leaning against the opposite counter, crossing his arms. “Do it.”
Your ears twitch.
“Change back,” he clarifies, his voice low, rough like gravel. “Wanna see it.”
Your chest tightens.
For a second, you hesitate—just staring at him, at the way his gaze fixes on you like he’s been starving quietly and you’re the only thing that could fill him. His expression is steady, almost blank, but his pulse is thudding hard enough you can hear it.
Then you exhale and let go.
Your body ripples, stretches, twists. Fur flows back into skin. Limbs lengthen. Bone reshapes under muscle. There’s a soft rush of air and the faint crackle of energy as your human form settles like smoke clearing.
You are suddenly sitting on the counter, hair a little mussed, in one of your oversized shirts, skin still humming faintly with leftover magic.
Bucky doesn’t move.
His eyes drag up your body like they’re caught on every inch. Slowly. Deliberately.
You hop down lightly, “Satisfied?” you murmur, trying to sound bored even though your heart is hammering so hard you’re sure he can hear it.
His lips twitch. “Not even close.”
Your breath catches.
He pushes off the counter, closing the space between you in two slow steps, close enough that the heat from his body cuts through the cool air. He smells like soap and warm steel and something darker beneath, something that makes your knees want to bend.
“Y’know,” he murmurs, voice like smoke and velvet, “you drive me insane.”
You blink up at him. “I’m not doing anything.”
“That’s the problem,” he says, almost gently, like it’s an admission he didn’t mean to let slip. His eyes are dark, wrecked, flinty with restraint. His hands trap you against the counter.
“You float things around like it’s nothing. Walk around barefoot at two a.m. like you don’t know what you do to people. To me.”
Your stomach flips.
You manage, barely, “You never said anything.”
“Couldn’t,” he says, low and rough. “Wouldn’t stop if I did.”
Silence pools between you, thick and molten.
You swallow. “And now?”
He leans in just slightly, close enough his breath skims your cheek. “Now,” he murmurs, “I’m done pretending I don’t want to touch you.”
You don’t breathe.
And then his metal hand skims your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, gentle in a way that makes your whole body go still.
His thumb traces the corner of your mouth like he’s trying to memorize the shape of it. The cool brush of metal sends a shiver down your spine. You hold perfectly still, muscles taut as wire, every nerve drawn tight with the kind of tension that’s too sharp to move through.
“Bucky,” you whisper, barely audible, like saying his name too loud might shatter this.
“Yeah,” he rasps, his gaze pinned to your lips like he can’t look anywhere else. “Say it again.”
Your pulse skitters. “Bucky.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw, and then he’s kissing you.
It’s slow. Careful at first, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast. His mouth is warm and soft, brushing yours like a secret. The contact burns through you, a low, steady flame that licks up your spine and curls behind your ribs.
You melt into it.
Your fingers fist in the fabric at his waist as your mind stutters, power crackling instinctively in response. A stray glass on the counter rattles faintly. The air hums around you. He pulls back just enough to murmur against your mouth, “Easy, trouble. Don’t burn the place down yet.”
You huff a shaky laugh, and he swallows the sound in another kiss—deeper this time, hungrier, his flesh hand sliding to your hip, the metal one bracing firm at the small of your back.
Your knees go weak.
Energy sparks under your skin. The dim kitchen light flickers once, sharply. You can feel the pull of his thoughts against your mind like the edge of a magnetic field—his control fraying just enough that you catch the flashes bleeding through: heat, want, restraint straining like pulled wire.
He breaks the kiss with a soft curse, resting his forehead against yours. His breath is ragged. “You have no idea,” he murmurs, “how long I’ve been trying not to do that.”
Your lips curve. “Could’ve fooled me.”
His eyes snap open—blue, blown dark, unreadable. Then he scoffs, low and sharp. “Smart mouth,” he mutters, and the way he says it makes your stomach clench.
His hands are on you again before you can reply, hauling you up with effortless strength. You gasp and instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, arms looped over his shoulders. He walks you backward until your spine hits the cool metal of the fridge door, the vibration of the impact humming through you.
“Still think you can tease me and walk away?” he murmurs, kissing the hollow beneath your jaw.
You can’t even form words. Your powers flutter wild in response—utensils clatter in drawers, a stack of plates slides an inch across the counter.
He notices.
He pulls back just enough to watch your eyes glow faintly, your breath hitching. “Careful,” he says softly, wicked amusement curling at the edges of his voice. “You’re leaking.”
“Shut up,” you breathe, and drag his mouth back to yours.
This kiss isn’t careful.
It’s heat and teeth and hunger. He groans low in his chest when your fingers tangle in his hair, and the sound sends lightning through your bloodstream. His metal hand fists in the back of your shirt and pulls you tighter against him until there’s not a millimeter of space left between your bodies.
The air hums sharp around you, flickering with your power, your control fraying with every brush of his mouth on your skin.
yandere!prince who is keen on what your preferences are. (sometimes more than you yourself)
Anul watches as you pet the tiny beast, it's the affection he's ever seen you give willingly and of course he boils hot with jealousy. Your whispers coo at the kitten, you didn't realize he was there untill the crunching of a leaf scared tge poor animal away. You frowned and turned to see what had caused the disturbance. It was Anul, an almost cute pout on his face.
"What are you doing?" he asked you pulling your body into a hug, letting go to cradle your face.
"Nothing, my prince, I was tending to the gardens and it simply strolled along." you were cautious when you said it, nowadays anything would set him off.
"Do you love me [Name]?" he said suddenly, holding you tighter, your breasts pressed right up against his solid chest.
He didn't wait for an answer as he stared, "Because as you know very well, I love you. And if there's something wrong with me that's you don't like, you need to just say it. I would rather you be with someone you at the very least find attractive."
You blinked for a moment unsure of what to say, was Anul, next in line to rule a kingdom of over a million seriously jealous of a cat? "I, uhm, I don't find you unappealing in any way my prince." he was hooked on every word, huffing in dissatisfaction when you finally gave your answer.
"Really?" he asked, tilting his head slightly and you knew what was coming.
"Really."
"Then why don't you show me?"
And his lips were on yours before you could answer. It was hot, and selfish the way Anul kissed you. Like he knew your heart wasn't fully in it but still wanted more, he and you both were shaking by the time he was done, his eyes in a lovesick daze that made your stomach churn.
"I love you, [Name], more then anyone in this entire world could imagine." And that, you knew was true.
warn — none, i these asks were pretty similar so i just grouped them into one!
✦ ✦
yandere!prince whos been more lovey dovey with you, currently you sit on his lap in the throne room dressed into too expensive clothing while he craddles your head and noses your neck.
"Mm, I wish I could just plaster your scent to me permanently. It's much easier getting off with your smell than not." As usual he waits for your reaction, you grace him with a polite smile he frowns at. He likes it better when you squirm.
"Don't ignore me," he whines his arms gripping your waist in a way that reminds you how easily he could overpower you.
"I'm not." you said dryly, attempting to turn your head from his caramel face but he only holds you tighter.
"Then look at me when I'm talking." his voice was like glass cutting through your heart, you faced him, tears in your eyes, you just couldn't help it. His affections were so misleading you didn't know if he was really in love with you like he said or simply took pleasure in tormenting you. ( most likely the latter )
"Awww, sweetheart don't cry." his face is concerned but his tone is condescending. It only makes you sob more. He kisses at your cheeks, wiping tears away with his thumb. Unbeknownst to you, Anul feels guilty, of course, not enough to ever let you go. But enough to give you a bit of comfort.
"What's wrong my love? Tell me."
There were so many things you could say, instead you whispered, "I just miss my friends. From the maids chambers. I havent seen them in so long."
This partly true, because of him you hadn't seen very much of anyone besides him.
"Very well, then just for today you can be released to your original residence, of course tonight you will sleep with me." you gasped, a for a moment Anul almost looked kind.
"Really?" you didn't believe it.
"Of course."
✦ ✦
You were overjoyed to be back with your friends, it was almost like escaping prison if not for a few hours.
"[Name], you're back." a high pitched voice called from the stairway down to the laundry room, you need to be out of these clothes as soon as possible.
"Samantha, I've missed you." You hugged her tightly.
"And you, though not much has happened whe you've been gone. I'm assuming the prince is rather amorous these days?"
Your face went bright red, "No, not really. We haven't done anything like that if that's what you're asking..."
"I see...Oh that reminds me, you've received someletters while you've been gone." Samantha led you back to the room where mail was to be collected, all maids had a workers had a box where they could receive things from outside the palace, you box contained two eveloples stamped with your family's emblem.
It must be from your father, you thought, you have no siblings and your mother always signed her initials at the ends of his letters to let you know shes always there.
One envelope contains a letter written to you (from your father as suspected) stating how he's found you a husband. Someone you've met before, the farmer who lives just outside your house and how once your contract expires you are urged to return home. The thought makes your heart swell, you'd forgotten about the man, his warm smile, his dimpled cheeks and rather charastmatic personality.
This was the best news you'd gotten since you'd came here, and your contract was ending in just a few short weeks, soon you'd be able to leave and continue a lifestyle you'd always dreamed of.
Suddenly your sprits were lifted, you didn't feel as dreadful walking back to the princes chambers. But Anul could tell you were happier than usual. He could always tell.
And while lying in bed, terror overcame you in just a few short words.
"You're not eally going off to try and mary that man were you [Name]?"
His claws grip your jaw, sinister smile pressed on your lips.
"No my prince, of course not my prince." you lie with a shaky teary breath.
"Of course you weren't, you'd never leave me, just as i'd never leave you, because were meant to be together and nothing could ever come between us right?"
"Right."
The day after, you saw you contract had been extended, instead of a few short weeks, Anul had changed the time of stay to years. You never should have signed that paper.
note — i accidentally posted the hcs before i was done! >~<, more anul content :>
✦ ✦
yandere!prince who drives himself mad over every interaction you have with another male, it's an unspoken rule that no one is allowed to look you in the eyes because the clingy bastard has a careful and constant eye watching over you
anul hardly ever lets you out of his sight, he goes, you go, you go, he goes. it's law.
so on the rare cases where he does have to leave your side, safe to say he's more than just a little grumpy. ( he slit the throat of his personal advisor because he was talking to loud )
your just doing you job, the job you were meant to do, cleaning and preparing for a party held for nobles in his upcoming inauguration. anul is obviously dreading this party, his father is being picky about evey little thing and said he'd banish you if he tries to bring you along. (he doesn't actually care he just is waiting patiently for the day he becomes king and his fathers word will mean nothing)
whats worse is theres this insect on his arm, buzzing nosily to him about nothing, the only good thing that actually came from it's mouth was when she asked about you.
"Oh you mean [Name], she's perfect isn't she?" He doesn't wait for a response, Anetha is dying listening to him go on and on and on about you, and she hardly gets it anyway! Your a maid, born from slum and you're hardly that pretty anyway, what did the Prince of Salttion see in you.
She makes a horrible mistake and tries to find out herself.
"Hello m'lady how may I he—" you don't get to finish your sentence before Anethea's gaurds are stomping you into the ground. It's not like you havent been in a situation like this before, but it's the fear of not knowing if you'd be able to escape let alone survive that makes you sob tears into your blood.
You're shoved into a closet before your found, Anul had tore every room apart looking for you ( literally, the door came flying off it's hinges as you fell to the ground unconscious. ) and sees pure, blood raging red when he cradleds your head in his lap. not even his father tries to reprimand him for his attentiveness to you, who ever had done this would pay in blood.
He can't control his breathing as they cart you away, he's right there with you of course, Anetha watching pleasantly, he catches the look and saves it for later.
When you finally wake up you feel sore, definitely brtter then when you were bloody and hurting in the dank closet but sore nonetheless. Anul is right besides you, his long violet hair wafting on your bed, his face planted into the cushions of the mattress breathing softly. How long had you been out? How long had the prince been here? He certainly didn't look like himself, hair messy, clothes rumpled.
You hesitated for a moment, reaching out to stroke his soft wavy hair, then without warning his jumped up and statched at your wrist. His eyes were bloodshot, (had he been crying, did something else happen while you were out?) and the hold on your wrist was only getting tighter.
"A-Anul, you're hurting me." he lets go in an instant and immediately sits up to hold you in his arms.
"Oh god, I thought you—" he choked and let go to place a kiss on your lips. they were chapped, but warm.
you only blinked, he didn't care that you hadn't kissed him back. "I am going to gut that pig alive you hear me?" he said squeezing your cheeks.
"I am going to peel her insides till they look like confetti alright?" he said desperately, "I failed to protect you, and look what happened. Oh my baby, my poor baby." he cried, kissing your cheeks lettinf his tears fall freely on his face.
"And you [Name], are to never leave my side again, I've already made arrangements for you to sleep with me so it won't be a problem." you flinched at the finality in his words but Anul couldn't tell.
All he could see waa the bruising of your face and a lot of bodies he'd have to dispose of, because he wasn't just going after that noble who'd set you up.
For generations he declared then and there anyone involved (directly or indirectly) in the attempted murder of his wife, would die a shameful and slow death.
Yandere!Prince is, simply put, a spoiled brat. Serving as the leader of the country, he rules the people with an iron fist…supposedly. His delicate, moisturized hands are not made for any kind of forceful grip, so keep such preposterous nonsense out of your mind!
Naturally, someone of his stature requires a bodyguard. Someone to assist him everywhere and make sure not a single scratch lands on his soft, silken skin.
The problem, you see, is that he’s rather stubborn and picky. He’s in a constant state of whining to his servants, scolding them, or shooing them away from his royal presence.
Imagine everyone’s surprise when you arrive as the appointed guard, and his Majesty is awfully, suspiciously quiet. Not a single complaint escapes his lips, and he follows your orders with angelic obedience.
You’re the only one unfortunate enough to know the truth: the man is deplorably obsessed with you. He’s fallen in love from the moment his eyes landed on you. Even more, he's particularly clingy, often interfering with your job through needy flirts and pathetic begging.
"Stay back," you warn, one hand readied above the sword, and the other protectively hovering before his Highness. "There seems to be conflict outside."
Your intense focus is abruptly interrupted by a wet, warm feeling. You retract your arm instinctively, and huff in annoyance.
"Were you sucking on my fingers just now?!"
"I bear no fault," the Prince shouts with indignation. "It is you who dangled them before me so seductively."
Still thinking about Yandere!Prince, I ended up surprisingly fond of the character.
A bratty, stubborn, and misbehaving royalty who is otherwise piously cooperative, but only when it comes to you.
You have to understand, this man is a menace. He's the kind to flip the whole table because the eggs weren't cooked the way he wanted. He'll fire a maid because she didn't step aside quickly enough. Marriage proposals? He'll spit in his suitor's tea because they looked at him the wrong way.
He's comically vile. Yet, from the moment you stepped foot into his estate, he's turned into a stray dog, following you around and executing your orders without the faintest whine.
He'll go from screaming profanities at the servants to puffing up his curls with an innocent smile, staring in the mirror and wondering if he looks perfect enough for your arrival. You're taking him on a walk, so he needs to be particularly cute. Maybe you'll even compliment him!
Oh, he laps up any word leaving your mouth like a parched man. It's enough for you to tell him "put a coat on, it's cold outside", and he'll replay it in his head for the next few weeks, giddy and infatuated. To think you'd care about him so much. Well, it's your job - naturally - but there's more to it. He can feel it.
Additionally, his romantic approach is clumsy, perhaps even disastrous. After all, he's used to simply demanding whatever he wants. His Highness oscillates between theatrical pride and awful, petty jealousy. From cheekily attempting to sway you off your feet, to pathetically hugging your feet and begging for reassurance.
"What the hell are you doing out at this hour?"
You rub your tired eyes, dragging the man into your chamber.
"Why, must I require your permission to go around my own place?"
You glare at him in disbelief. He seems to have snuck all the way into the servant's quarters, barefoot; you found him fidgeting outside your door.
"You're not...you're not thinking of leaving me, are you?"
He finally confesses, pouting and turning away in embarrassment.
"What? Is this why you woke me up in the middle of the night? It's the third time this month!"
— favorite place to kiss you! 💌 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ a/n: did something like this a while back but I thought I’d do it again with more boys!!! :)
percy jackson LIVES for kissing your mouth. and this gets bonus points because it’s quite literally canon!!!! he literally doesn’t care if it’s a peck, a proper kiss, or a makeout— if your mouth is on his he is as happy as a clam. especially when you initiated your first kiss he MELTEDDD like seriously he is down baddddd!!!!! he’ll even pull you away from your tasks— or if you’re talking to a friend, etc— just to kiss you even if it’s a quick peck. he just can’t get enough ever!!!!!
jason grace is a hardcore hand kisser and I will die on this hill!!!! he just loves kissing your hand!! your palm, your fingers, the pads of your fingers, the back of your hand, ANYWHERE as long as it’s on your hand. he’ll always intertwine your hands together and just kiss yours and kiss it and kiss it he adores your hands!!
leo valdez likes nose kisses! he loves watching your nose scrunch up, fighting a smile, as he does so— then, obviously, has to add a few more kisses just for good luck of course… not because he wants to see your bright grin, yk that would be crazyyyy!! I think he also likes nose kisses because you’re always adamant on giving them back— claiming it’s some sort of “thing” in your relationship. and if it makes you happy, then he’s totally in!!!!!
connor stoll adores stomach kisses. like when you’re laying in bed and he has his arms around your hips and his head on your belly and he’ll just press lazy kisses to it. he thinks it’s awfully intimate which is what makes him love it so much; because it makes him feel so connected to you in a way, if that makes any sense at all. even when you’re not laying in bed— if you’re standing, he’ll drop to his knees just to kiss your stomach. he calls it worshipping the goddess that you are!!!
luke castellan loves to kiss your shoulders. wrapping his arms around your waist and dropping his head to your shoulder and just peppering kisses to it…….. that is what I’m talking abouttttt!!!!!!!! or extra points if he just comes up behind you while your doing something, not making any noise, and just kisses your shoulder therefore scaring the shit out of you. you scold him but gods his smirk is attractive!!
ethan nakamura is definitely a kiss on the temples kinda guy. I don’t really have a reasoning for this but you just have to trust me because this is what my gut is telling me………. he loves just holding you from around your waist, swaying side to side with his cheek resting against your temple, occasionally turning to press kisses to it. it’s an awfully domestic action, if you say so yourself!!
frank zhang loooooves cheek kisses!!! they’re so simply yet so special to him. but it’s never just one cheek, no, it’s both!!!! he must kiss both or he claims he isn’t showing you as much love as you deserve. not that you’re complaining, you love nothing more than these simple kisses to your face. and even to feel your cheeks heat up beneath his mouth he is in looove!!! then when he pulls back, you see his face as pink as your own!!!!! just two peas in a pod they say!
✦ Pairing: husband!bucky barnes x wife!reader
✦ Genre: fluff, domestic shenanigans, comedy, soft bucky feels
✦ Word Count: ~3.5k
✦ Summary: You and Bucky move into your first apartment together. Between IKEA furniture, spilled paint, and one very irrational fear, you realize the deadliest assassin in history is actually the world’s biggest softie.
✦✦✦✦✦✦
The apartment wasn’t much creaky floors, stubborn windows, a kitchen the size of a shoebox but it was yours. Yours and Bucky’s.
You’d barely finished setting the keys on the counter before he was pulling you into a kiss, his grin boyish and unstoppable.
“Can you believe this?” he whispered against your lips. “Our place. Our home.”
“Where no one can yell at you for leaving socks on the couch,” you teased.
He chuckled, squeezing your waist. “Or for eatin’ ice cream outta the tub. Doll, this is paradise.”
Of course, paradise came with six boxes of IKEA furniture, three cans of paint, and exactly zero instructions that made sense.
Two hours in, Bucky was glaring at a pile of wooden boards like they’d personally insulted him.
“I fought aliens,” he muttered darkly, turning a screw the wrong way. “I fought freakin’ robots. And this—this is my greatest enemy.”
You stifled a laugh. “It’s just a bookshelf.”
“It’s psychological warfare is what it is.”
By the time the third shelf collapsed on itself, you had tears streaming down your face from laughing. Bucky scowled, though his lips twitched like he wanted to smile too.
“Laugh it up, Mrs. Barnes. Laugh it up. But when this thing topples over in the middle of the night and tries to kill us, don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”
“Pretty sure the only thing it’s killing is your pride.”
He growled, grabbed the instruction manual, and promptly declared it “garbage.”
When the paint cans came out, things didn’t improve. You turned your head for one second and came back to find a streak of blue across Bucky’s cheek.
“Bucky—”
He smirked. “What?”
“You’re wearing the wall.”
“Looks better on me,” he said, then promptly dabbed a streak on your nose with his finger.
That turned into a full-on paint war. By the end, the walls were patchy, your clothes were ruined, and Bucky was chasing you around the room with a dripping brush, laughing like a man who’d never known war.
You collapsed together on the tarp, covered in streaks of blue and gray, grinning up at the ceiling.
“Home,” Bucky whispered again, softer this time. Like it was a prayer.
That was when it happened.
You went to unpack the kitchen boxes, and he wandered into the bathroom. A second later, you heard it
“Doll?” His voice was tight. Almost panicked.
You rushed in to find him standing frozen in the doorway, pointing.
At… a spider.
The tiniest, spindliest, most harmless bathroom spider you’d ever seen.
“Are you kidding me?” you blurted, biting back a laugh.
His jaw tightened. “That thing moved fast.”
“It’s a daddy longlegs.”
“I don’t care if it’s a daddy, a mommy, or the whole damn family tree. That thing’s got eight legs and bad intentions.”
You stared at him. James Buchanan Barnes, who could dismantle a man in under five seconds, was rooted to the spot by a bug the size of a penny.
“Bucky,” you said carefully, “you were a feared assassin. People literally tremble when they hear your name. And you’re afraid of a spider?”
He didn’t even blink. “Yes.”
You burst out laughing. “Oh my God.”
“Don’t ‘oh my God’ me,” he protested, stepping behind you like you were his shield. “Doll, kill it. Please. Before it kills us.”
“It’s not gonna kill us!” you wheezed, still laughing as you grabbed a tissue. One quick motion and it was gone.
Bucky let out a shaky breath, then looked at you with the most sheepish expression you’d ever seen on his face.
“You can’t tell anyone about this,” he warned.
“Oh, I’m telling everyone.”
“Doll—”
“Steve needs to know. Sam, too. Clint will never let you live this down.”
“Sweetheart.” His voice dropped into a desperate plea. “Please. I’ll—I’ll build the bookshelf again. I’ll paint all the walls myself. Just don’t tell ‘em.”
You grinned, stepping up on your toes to kiss him. “Your secret’s safe with me… Mr. Barnes.”
The tension melted out of him instantly. He pulled you against his chest, nuzzling your hair, still muttering under his breath.
“Eight legs. That ain’t right. Nothing should have that many legs.”
You laughed so hard you nearly cried.
Moving into your first apartment wasn’t perfect. The furniture wobbled, the paint was uneven, and you were pretty sure you’d be finding blue streaks on your skin for days. But as you stood there in his arms, his heart thudding steady beneath your ear, you figured maybe perfect was overrated.
After all, you had a husband who could fight armies, but needed you to kill the bugs. And honestly? That was even better.
I Think I’ve Seen This Film Before | Bucky Barnes x Reader
I am back to writing after moving cities, starting a new job, going through a death in the family, and breaking up with my ex! Please enjoy the angst.
Word count: 20.4k
Warnings: anxiety, talk of cheating, vomit
The persistent buzzing was wearing on your last nerve.
“Buck!” you called, “your phone is ringing- again!”
Bucky’s phone sat on the opposite side of the kitchen island, vibrating into oblivion, just as it had been for the past few minutes. Part of you wanted to answer the damn thing and put a stop to whatever telemarketer spam was plaguing your boyfriend’s phone. And if it weren’t for the cookie dough covering your hands, maybe you would’ve.
And so, you called to him again.
“I think it’s probably pretty important!” You let out a sigh, “Cause they won’t stop fucking calling.”
Bucky chuckled from down the hall. Damn his enhanced senses. Not even words mumbled under your breath could escape his hearing.
“Just let it go to voicemail,” he hollered, content to ignore his ringing phone.
Bucky never had much affection for his phone. He felt it was more of a bother than an advancement. That it didn’t fit comfortably into his life. He never wanted to be this accessible. This available to other people. Until he met you.
Overnight, his opinion changed. Texting, he decided, was his favorite thing about the modern world. No longer did he have to wait for a response to the love letters he drafted. No longer did he have to hang around the mailbox hoping for an envelope stained with your lipstick. He could simply fire off an adoring text, and your replies were almost instantaneous.
But it was uncommon for his phone to blow up like this when the two of you were together. When you were apart, it buzzed every few minutes with your responses to his loving messages. But when the two of you were both home, nestled in the apartment you shared, Bucky abandoned his phone. In his eyes, everything and everyone else could wait.
He often ditched the thing upon returning home, leaving it on the counter or the coffee table. He didn’t squirrel it away into his pocket or keep it on his bedside table. No, he disconnected from it completely. Happily. He only ever wanted to be present with you. To be completely free from distraction when you were around.
But whoever was calling didn’t get the memo. They called once, twice, five times in a row.
You’d called out to Bucky every time, letting him know that a very persistent individual was eager to get ahold of him. But he didn’t seem to care. He was too busy folding and putting away your laundry in the bedroom. Too content in this perfect picture of domestic bliss.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said as he finally swept through the kitchen, empty laundry basket in hand. “I’ll worry about it tomorrow.”
“It seems like something,” you told him. “What if it’s Sam or Joaquin? What if something’s wrong?”
Bucky thought it over for a moment. His distaste for his phone was strong, but his concern for his friends was infinitely more powerful. And while he didn’t want to be the kind of boyfriend who spent all of his time occupied by his screen, he opted to give the missed calls a glance. Just in case.
A familiar number- a number he hadn’t seen in ages- was splashed across his notifications. It wasn’t saved in his contacts anymore, but he’d recognize it anywhere. Before he had a chance to wonder why it was plaguing him, his phone began vibrating once again. That same number, one he saw as an ancient relic of a past life, illuminated his screen for a sixth time.
He stared at his buzzing phone. He didn’t want to answer. Had no interest in speaking to this person. But just as he tried to place his phone back on the counter, something gnawed at him. Nagged at him. Told him there had to be a good reason for these calls.
He eyed you for a short moment and answered the call.
“Um… hello?”
There was no way this was Sam or Torres, that much you knew. But who else would call Bucky six times in a row? Who else would bother him on a Saturday? Whose call would he answer while at home with you? Nat was more of a texter, and Yelena had broken her phone in an “incident” only a few days prior. You found yourself at a loss for answers.
“Yeah, I know,” Bucky said into the phone, almost irritated. “Did you need something, or-”
He listened for a long time, throwing in the occasional “yeah” or “okay”. Whoever was on the other end, he didn’t seem thrilled to be speaking to them. But he was hearing them out. Giving them a chance. He even reached for a piece of scratch paper and a pen and jotted down a few notes here and there. You and your cookie dough sat in suspense.
“Um, alright. I’m going to…” His eyes found yours, “Let me think it over and I’ll get back to you.”
And just like that, the mysterious call was over.
Bucky slipped his phone into his pocket. It wasn’t like him.
“Well?” you stared at him, expectant. “Who was that?”
Bucky let out a sigh. His head fell an inch or two. He smoothed the crease between his brows with the pad of his thumb. He stayed this way for a long, quiet moment. Until finally, he, asked:
“Do you remember me telling you about Tara?”
Tara. Tara.
“Yeah.”
How could you forget?
He’d told you about his ex-girlfriend Tara a few times. She’d been a fellow special agent with SWORD; that’s how they met. The way Bucky described it, their breakup was amicable and quiet, no dramatics. He said it was for the better. That they simply grew apart.
Sam told a different story.
After nearly three years together, Tara left. She got a job offer on the other side of the world. She didn’t know how long she’d be gone, didn’t know if she’d ever come back. And while Bucky wanted to stay in Brooklyn, wanted to stay in the only real home he’d ever known, he promised her he’d follow. That he’d go with her, if that’s what she wanted.
But she didn’t ask him to tag along.
Instead, she ended things. She boarded a jet and began an entirely new life, a life that didn’t include Bucky.
And it destroyed him.
He wanted, more than anything, for her to be happy. Wanted her to pursue the opportunity. But her departure ate through him like acid. It hollowed him out, turning him into a shell of himself. He had loved her so much. So deeply. So endlessly. They talked about the future they’d share. About getting married. He’d considered their relationship a sure thing. A guarantee.
And then she was gone.
Sam helped him pick up the pieces. But it took time. A long time. Sam said he barely recognized his friend at times; he was more of a husk than a person.
An intense feeling of unease settled into your stomach. Why had Tara called? Was she finally back in town? Did she want a second chance with Bucky? Would he leave you for her? Were you just his placeholder until she returned?
“Well, she’s back in the city,” Bucky told you.
Your heart dropped. A pang of anxiety struck you like lightning, but you refused to show it.
“Oh yeah?” you asked casually. Maybe too casually.
“Yeah. And she wants my help.”
It took you off guard.
“With what?”
Bucky sat down on one of the barstools that lived under the kitchen island. He scratched at his stubble. “Her new organization thinks they found another underground sect of Hydra.”
“Oh.” You stomach twisted. “Shit.”
Bucky nodded. “They want me to come work with them for a while. Help them handle it. Cause I’m,” he let out a small, cynical laugh, “Cause I’m the expert, or whatever.”
A small part of you, the selfish part, was relieved. Tara had called about a work matter, nothing more. There was nothing romantic to it. But a much larger part of you fell stricken with worry.
Anytime something Hydra related came up in Bucky’s work, it knocked him off kilter. His nightmares returned. His anxiety worsened. It pushed him to the precipice, forcing him to cling to his newfound peace by his fingernails. It killed you to see him that way. Killed you to know that he was hurting.
But he refused to back down when it came to Hydra. Refused to shy away from the harsh reality that Hydra was still lurking. Still skulking in the shadows. And no matter how it affected him, he was dedicated to toppling every last Hydra holdout. For the good of the world. For himself.
“So, what do you think?” He stared at you expectantly.
You stared right back.
“Um, what do I think?”
You weren’t quite sure what he was asking. Or why. This decision was entirely up to him. It was his mental health on the line. His trauma being unearthed all over again. But you offered him your opinion regardless.
“Well, I think it’s… it’s going to be hard on you,” you said. “Every time you deal with Hydra, it has consequences. But I know you want to take them down- rightfully so.” You shrugged, “So you should do whatever feels right to you. If it gets to be too much, you can always take a step back. And I’ll be here for you the whole time. So-”
Bucky’s smile put a stop to your words.
You couldn’t help but laugh a little, “What?”
“I meant, what do you think about me working with Tara?” He asked. “Don’t get me wrong, your answer was great- perfect, actually. And I definitely needed to hear that,” he smiled at you again, totally smitten. “But I need to know if you’re comfortable with this. And be honest with me, okay? Because if this makes you feel weird, I won’t do it.”
“Oh, um…” you shrugged.
The truth was complicated. And though you would rather Bucky not work with the previous love of his life, what option did you have? How could you possibly ask him not to take this job? He felt a responsibility to eliminate Hydra, to tear them apart the way they did him. And you weren’t going to get in his way.
In the grand scheme of things, Bucky working with his ex didn’t matter. If partnering up with Tara meant cutting off yet another head of the snake, it was more than justified.
You swallowed to your immature, childish, petty feelings about the situation, and put on a smile.
“I mean, it’s a work thing. It’s not like she called you up and asked you to marry her,” you forced a laugh. “We’re all mature adults here. If you want to do it, then you should. I know how much it means to you that Hydra is wiped off the map. And I’m not going to stop you just because the two of you used to be-”
The words ‘in love’ got stuck in your throat.
“Used to be together,” you said. “Plus, I trust you. I’m not worried about you straying.”
You were, in fact, very worried about him straying. About him spending time with Tara. About him remembering just how much he loved her. About dormant feelings suddenly awakening. In a previous life, she was ‘the one’ for him. The love of his life. And you feared that she’d returned to reclaim her title.
But before the dread could set in, he rose from his seat and made the way around the counter. He wrapped his arms around your waist and settled his chin in the crook of your neck.
You feared he’d notice your thundering pulse. Your unsteady breathing.
“You definitely don’t have to worry about me straying,” he said, his breath fanning your skin. “Thank you for always being so understanding. I love you.”
You leaned back against him, eliminating what tiny space remained between your bodies. And for a split second, you felt at ease.
But the voice in the back of your head, the one that you’d wrongfully silenced in the past, told you this was a mistake. That this was the beginning of the end. It told you that you’d seen this film before and that the ending would by agonizing. It screamed at you, warning you that you were, once again, repeating a well-known pattern.
But you muzzled it, just like you had before.
Because, while the situation did have a haunting air of familiarity to it, Bucky was different. He was loving. He was trustworthy.
Wasn’t he?
Yes. Of course.
You chastised yourself for even wondering. For doubting. It wasn’t fair to saddle Bucky with the weight of your failed relationships. To be suspicious of him when he gave you no reason.
You wriggled until he loosened his grip, allowing you to turn around.
“And I love you,” you let your lips melt against his. “So, when do you start?”
It wasn’t so bad at first.
His days started early, much earlier than yours. He slipped out the door and into the dark morning before you woke each day, leaving you in an empty bed. Waking without him next to you, with his side of the bed empty and cold, stung.
Gone were the early morning chats over coffee. Gone were the shared showers before work. But you didn’t allow yourself too much time to mourn these lost moments with Bucky. They would return one day, you knew they would. Once his work with Tara’s organization was over, things would return to normal. You just had to be patient.
And while your shared morning routine was a temporarily put on hold, your usual evening schedule was alive and well.
The two of you cooked and ate dinner together every night, just as you always did. You shared a glass or two of wine. Did the dishes. And when the kitchen was clean, you’d curl up against Bucky’s side for a little tv time.
There was one notable difference, however. One noticeable change to your evenings, to your home as a whole.
Bucky’s phone never left his side. He always had it with him, either tucked into his pocket or cradled safely in his hand. It sat on his nightstand at bedtime, only inches away. It buzzed with emails, texts. And he refused to let them go unanswered, even for a few minutes.
Surely, he wasn’t doing it because he wanted to. Right? It was all business, all professional. It had to be. He was the expert, the authority on Hydra. He had to be reachable, that was all.
But his newfound habit didn’t pair well with his borderline constant comments about Tara.
“Tara said the funniest thing today.”
“Tara had a great idea.”
“Do you like this coffee? Tara introduced me to it.”
Tara.
Her name pinballed around inside your head, buzzing like a swarm of angry bees. It was loud, almost deafening. A deep, animal instinct screamed at you, warning you: something wasn’t right. He talked about her far too often and far too highly for this to be an innocent professional relationship. Surely, there was something amiss. Something going on between them behind closed doors.
There had, at one time, been so much love there. Was it really possible that that love died out?
The suspicions piled higher and higher as the days passed. Every time Bucky reached for his phone, a knot twisted in your stomach. Surely, Tara was sending him flirtatious texts. She had to be. You found yourself dying to dig through his phone. To investigate each and every message she sent. But you restrained yourself, never daring to break the trust you and Bucky had so carefully built.
After a short while, you found yourself hating Tara. Cursing her. Raging against her inside your own head. The stories you came up with, the horrible pictures you painted- they twisted her into a villain. An evil siren sent to sink her claws into the love of your life and steal him away.
It almost frightened you how easy it was for you to hate her. To hate someone you didn’t know.
And she hadn’t even done anything wrong.
But you couldn’t help it; you were jealous. Jealous of all the time she spent with Bucky. Jealous of how often he spoke with her. Jealous that, even when he was at home, she was still on his mind.
And you hated the feeling. Hated the immature thoughts that stirred inside your head. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t overcome the weight of the green-eyed monster on your back.
Two weeks into Bucky’s new gig, you stood at the kitchen counter, waiting for him. He was late. On a normal night, he returned home between six and six-thirty, but the clock neared seven and there was no sign of him. He didn’t answer your calls, didn’t respond to your texts. It wasn’t like him.
You started on dinner without him, though you couldn’t remember the last time you cooked a meal alone. The two of you always worked together, evenly sharing the labor of making dinner. It was part of your routine, one of your shared patterns. And ever since your morning routine was snatched out from under you, you grew to cherish the time spent making dinner with Bucky.
Suddenly, you felt startlingly alone.
You woke up alone. Got ready for work alone. Returned home to an empty apartment. And with Bucky otherwise occupied, you made dinner alone, too.
As eight o’clock rolled around, you once again fiddled with the tin foil covering the meal you’d so carefully prepared. After doing your best to keep it warm on the stove, a distinctive burning smell forced you to pull it from the burner. You supposed lukewarm and covered in foil was better than charred into oblivion.
As you tore another piece of foil from the roll and wrapped it tightly around the dish, your phone buzzed, and Bucky’s picture lit up your screen. All at once, you found your tight muscles relaxing.
A deep, calming sigh left your chest. Some silent, subconscious part of you had feared that something happened to him. That Hydra silenced him once and for all. That he couldn’t answer your calls because he was lying dead somewhere. It was a reality too horrible to even acknowledge. And so, you’d pushed it to the darkest corner of your mind and opted focused on dinner. But that didn’t stop your hands from shaking.
The tremors calmed a bit as you answered his call.
“Buck?”
“Hey, sweetheart,” he sounded out of breath. Hurried. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer- I’m so sorry I’m late. I got pulled into a last-minute meeting and it ran long.”
“That’s okay, it happens,” you told him. “Dinner’s ready. Will you be home soon?”
“Twenty minutes, I promise,” he told you. “Did you eat already?”
The question almost offended you. “Of course not, baby. I’ve been waiting for you.”
He let out a disappointed sigh, “Doll, you didn’t have to-”
“I wanted to. I’d much rather eat with you, even if it means waiting a while.”
He was quiet for a moment; you could almost see the sad smile spreading across his face. “You’re too good to me- you’re the best. I’ll be home soon, okay?”
And he was.
The two of you ate your room temperature dinner together and discussed your respective workdays. Bucky, of course, namedropped Tara more times than you could count. And by all accounts, she was incredible. It made you wonder when Bucky would realize that you couldn’t compare. That you couldn’t compete with her. On paper, she was his perfect match. She was his other half. Tara was whip smart and worldly. Hilarious. Gutsy. And absolutely deadly.
How could you compete against someone like that?
Sleep evaded you each night as you as you compared yourself to his lost love, to the one that got away. Over and over again, you listed your attributes against Tara’s, examining how you might stack up to her. You played out every possible scenario in your head. Not one of them ended with Bucky choosing you. And you couldn’t blame him.
His weekends were soon consumed by work. No longer did he spend his Saturdays and Sundays with you, browsing the farmers market and enjoying brunch. No longer did the two of you have movie marathons or bake fresh cookies. Instead, he spent his weekends at headquarters or locked in your home office. The two of you didn’t go on dates or spend time with friends. No, Bucky spent all of his time with Tara.
A month later, Bucky studied you over another late dinner.
“Are you feeling alright?” he asked.
He put down his fork and pressed the back of his hand to your forehead, your cheeks, searching for a fever.
“Um, yeah. I think so…” you eyed the hand pressed against your cheek. “Why?”
“Are you sure? You seem tired, baby.” He looked at you closely, examining the most minute details of your face. His gaze dropped to your plate, and he frowned at your virtually untouched meal. “Are you not hungry? Maybe you’re getting sick.”
A small sigh pushed through your lips.
It wasn’t at all what you needed to hear. Ever since Bucky started working with Tara, you feared he’d fall back under the spell of her otherworldly beauty, of her wit and charm, and leave you in the dust. The thought kept you up, driving you slowly insane each night. And knowing that you looked tried, that Bucky thought you looked sickly, drove another pang of anxiety into your chest.
“I just haven’t been sleeping well lately,” you told him. “It’s been- work has been really crazy.”
It was such an easy lie. You reached for it two days prior when Bucky asked why you’d bitten all the skin off your bottom lip. And it came in handy three days before that, when he asked why your nails were bitten down to the quick, why your cuticles were raw and bloodied.
“Oh, that’s right. Of course. I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He removed his hand from your cheek and placed it instead on your forearm. “Do you know when things will go back to normal?”
You simply shook your head.
And that was the last night you ate dinner together.
The following night, you found yourself back in the kitchen, cooking dinner alone once again. You’d never realized just how much you hated cooking until you had to do it by yourself. With Bucky around, you looked forward to making dinner every night. Looked forward to dancing in the kitchen and watching him chop vegetables with his expert knife skills. But without him, it became your most dreaded chore.
You glanced longingly at the clock and found a renewed sense of hope. It was nearly eight, which meant Bucky would be barreling through the front door and wrapping you in his arms in no time. You poured two glasses of wine and placed them on the table, allowing yourself a smile. He would be home soon.
At least, that’s what you thought.
Around nine-forty, your phone buzzed. Bucky’s name appeared in block letters across your screen. And before you could even say hello, he was speaking.
“Baby, hey. I don’t- I’m so sorry. I’m leaving right now, okay? I promise. I’m on my way.”
It took everything in you to keep your disappointment from seeping into your words. This wasn’t his fault- you knew it wasn’t. And it wasn’t fair of you to be upset with him. To make him feel worse. But you missed him. Desperately.
Never before had any of Bucky’s meetings lasted this long or run this late. You knew in your gut there was something going on. Something secretive and sinister. Something that would rip you to shreds.
The manufactured casual tone you adopted didn’t sound convincing to you, but you hoped he’d buy it. “It’s- don’t worry about it, Buck. Okay? It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not, doll. I didn’t- I was gonna be home normal time. But I couldn’t step away from this briefing.” His words came out in a flurry, “I’m so sorry, I should have at least called. This is- it’s not okay. I feel awful.”
“Don’t feel awful, baby. It happens.” You wondered if this ‘briefing’ included everyone from the team. Or if Bucky and Tara had been the only ones in attendance. “Um, dinner is in the fridge, okay? I made-”
“Please tell me you ate without me,” he nearly begged.
“Oh, um. Yeah. Yes. I did- I ate already.”
With crossed fingers, you hoped Bucky would believe your lie.
With Bucky MIA, you hadn’t even considered eating. Nothing sounded remotely appetizing. In fact, your stomach had tied itself into a thousand intricate, painful knots. The nausea crept in soon after, and the idea of eating dinner flew entirely out the window.
But it was easier to lie, to tell him you’d eaten. It would save him a little guilt. And if you could convince him that you’d already had your share, he wouldn’t ask about your lack of appetite.
But you adopted your best happy-go-lucky tone and pretended that you weren’t losing your mind.
“Sorry, Buck, I wasn’t planning on eating without you, but it got pretty late and-”
“No, no. I’m glad you ate. I’m sure you were starving,” he said. “I’ll be home soon, okay? I can’t wait to see you.”
He rushed through the front door twenty minutes later, apologies falling from his lips one after another. He scooped you into his arms and dotted kisses all over your face between “I’m sorrys”. And you assured him that all was well. But you had to wonder if his affections were genuine. If his apologies applied only to his late arrival, or if he’d committed some other transgression he’d yet to confess.
But you sat at the table with him anyway as he reheated the dinner you’d made by yourself. You listened to him tell you all about Tara’s brilliant work in the briefing. And you wondered how much longer you’d get to keep him.
Dinner became non-existent for you, as did most other meals. You did your best to stomach small, infrequent snacks here and there. But the anxiety of Bucky’s possible infidelity made it almost impossible to keep food down.
You still cooked, though. Regardless of the intense nausea, the biting stomach pains, you still managed to put together decent meals for him. You’d tuck the food neatly into Tupperware and stack it in the fridge, knowing damn well he’d never be home in time to eat it warm.
It was as if, after his first excessively late arrival, a seal had been broken. Never again did he return home at a reasonable time. He came through the door ever-later as the days dragged on. Nine-fifty. Ten-thirteen. Ten-thirty-five. Eleven. You did your best to stay awake, at least. To be there to greet him when he got home. But as his homecomings grew later and later, you found yourself dozing off before he’d even texted to let you know he was on his way home.
Some nights, he didn’t come home at all. You’d wake in the morning to find his side of the bed untouched. His boots missing from the front hall. On those mornings, it became obvious just how disconnected you were. On those mornings, you realized that the two of you were just ships passing in the nights. On those mornings, you wretched in the shower before work.
Every obvious warning sign was there. Every red flag. Every neon fucking sign pointed to the fact that Bucky was having an affair. And it threatened to eat you alive.
You’d never been so miserable. So heartbroken. Pain radiated through your chest and pulsed through your veins. Every cell in your body throbbed with agony. You wanted someone to put you out of your misery. To wipe you from the face of the earth and save you from Bucky’s confession and eventual departure. But no such mercy came.
Part of you wished you’d spoken up. Wished that you’d told Bucky not to take the job.
If you’d just voiced your concerns, maybe he never would’ve strayed. Maybe things would still be normal. And god, did you miss normalcy. You missed the patterns. The routines. The “boring” domestic life you once shared with Bucky. You missed talking to him. Spending time with him. Being close with him. The distance between you seemed to grow every single day. And you feared you’d never bridge that gap.
But you didn’t have to.
Bucky returned home one Sunday night in unusually high spirits. He found you in the bathroom, getting ready for bed, and lifted you into his strong arms.
“Baby…” He buried his face in your neck and smiled against your skin. “I’m so excited for next weekend.”
You were so lost in his touch that the words didn’t register for a quite a while. It had been so long since he was this affectionate, this close. Tears threatened to pool in the corner of your eyes as you relished in the sensation of his arms knitted around your back. His breath on your skin. And for a moment, you allowed yourself to consider the possibility that things might be okay.
Suddenly, you realized what he’d said.
“Next weekend?” You pulled away just a hair, allowing yourself a glimpse at his face. “What’s next weekend?”
“’What’s next weekend?’” He let an exaggerated, over-dramatic gasp fill his lungs, “I can’t believe you forgot! We’re going to the cabin, sweetheart! Next weekend, remember? It’s the weekend of the nineteenth! Keep up, doll.” He shot you a wink.
The cabin?
Sure, the two of you had planned to escape upstate to your aunt’s cozy little cabin. But that was agreed upon months ago. Long before this job. Long before Tara. You’d assumed that with Bucky’s long hours and lack of weekends, that that plan was defunct. But apparently, you were wrong.
“Wait, we’re still going?” you asked, incredulous.
“Of course,” Bucky said. “I told them I can’t work next weekend, no ifs, ands, or buts.” He snaked his hands from your spine to your sides and allowed them to slowly inch up your body. When they finally cupped your face, he pressed his lips to yours in a long, deep kiss full of longing. “I’m long overdue for some interrupted him with my best girl.”
Your heart fluttered.
“I know I’ve been really busy. And tired. And distracted. And- I’ve been a fucking absentee boyfriend,” he sighed. The self-hatred in his voice was almost palpable. “I didn’t think this job would be so… intense. I’ve barely been home. And I know this whole thing has gotta be tough on you.”
Tears sprang forth once again. You did your best to blink them away, but they persisted, and a few rolled down your cheeks against your will.
You sighed, “I just miss you.” The words had a fractured quality about them.
“Oh, sweetheart…” The heartbreak in his voice forced more tears to your surface. He pulled you into his body, wrapping you in the tightest hug he could safely manage. “I miss you too. So much. I promise nexxt weekend is going to be just for us. And when I’m done with this job, we’ll go away together for a long time, okay? No phones,” he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “No distractions,” he left a second kiss to your nose. “Just you and me,” he leaned down and dropped a third and final kiss against your lips.
It was a simple promise, nothing extravagant. But it was exactly what you’d been dying to hear. You’d been so convinced that Bucky would end things any day now, so sure that your time with him would soon be over. But hearing him make promises for your shared future helped ease the agony you’d been shouldering. And just like that, the storm clouds in your soul parted, revealing your first taste of sunshine in weeks.
Bucky was still yours. And he still wanted you to be his.
In the days leading up to your weekend away, you found yourself floating through life. Everything seemed easier, brighter, warmer. The constant nausea let up and the anxiety quieted. You ate a real meal for the first time in an indeterminable number of weeks. Sure, Bucky was still glued to his phone at home and staying late at the office. But you could see a light at the end of the tunnel.
After the absolute misery you’d experienced, hope felt so foreign. So other. But you welcomed it with open arms.
All you had to do was survive until Friday. Bucky talked his team into granting him an early departure from the office, allowing the two of you to escape the city by noon. You’d drive upstate with the windows down, blaring some top 40’s hits from decades past. And together, you’d settle in for some much-needed reconnection.
On Thursday night, Bucky returned home around ten. And regardless of his long day, he was more exultant than ever. He practically vibrated with excitement as he shoveled his dinner into his mouth and rushed to the bedroom to finish packing. It was the most energetic you’d seen him in quite some time.
“Okay, I double and triple checked my bag,” he told you. “I’m ready.”
“I’ve been packed since Tuesday,” you bragged. “And I got us…” you rifled through your duffle and unearthed a knotted grocery bag. “S’mores supplies.”
Bucky was floored. “You fucking think of everything!”
When the two of you settled in for bed that night, it almost felt like the good old days. Like the days before your doubts and suspicions and private agony. Before Bucky’s obsession with his phone. Before his late nights and his stories about Tara.
You slept like a rock that night, taking comfort in the fact the next day, you’d have Bucky all to yourself for an entire weekend.
He woke early the next morning, as he always did, and did his best not to disturb you. But you were too excited to sleep any longer. As he slowly and carefully rose from the bed, your eyes flew open.
“Happy cabin day,” you whispered into the dark.
Bucky’s startled gasp sent you into a fit of laughter.
“You scared the hell out of- were you just laying there in the dark waiting for me to wake up?”
“Yeah, kinda.”
“Well… happy cabin day, you creep,” he laughed, still catching his breath. “Leaving at noon sharp?”
“Noon sharp,” you said back.
He dressed for his half day of work and allowed you to accompany him to the front door.
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he left a kiss against your forehead, “And we’re out the door right at twelve.”
“Right at twelve,” you nodded. “See you soon, Buck.”
But you didn’t.
Eleven rolled around without any sign of Bucky. Eleven-thirty and eleven-forty passed. And as the clock closed in on twelve, you wondered why you’d gotten your hopes up. Why you allowed yourself to get invested in this trip. Why you believed that things would actually work out.
But still, you held out hope. You sat perched on the arm of the couch. Waiting. Your duffel and Bucky’s sat at your feet. Waiting.
Your texts went unanswered. Your calls went straight to voicemail.
‘Maybe he’s just running a bit late,’ you thought. ‘Maybe he’ll be home by twelve-thirty. Or one.’
But he wasn’t.
Nor was he home by two. Or three.
The familiar nausea crept back in. The anxiety returned.
At four, you tossed your packed duffel into your closet and stripped out of your roadtrip clothes. You donned a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt and sank into the couch under the weight of your disappointment. All the hope, all the optimism you’d felt in this last week evaporated. And in their place settled a pointed shame.
You couldn’t believe you’d been so stupid, so naïve. You should’ve known better. Should’ve managed your expectations. This was your own fault, really. If you’d been smart enough to read between the lines, you wouldn’t be so heartbroken.
Around five, your stomach gave a hollow, gurgling growl. You’d been too excited to eat that morning as you rushed around completing last minute tasks before leaving for your weekend away. And after the realization that Bucky had gone back on his word, you were too sullen to even think about food, made nauseous by your anxiety.
But the nausea subsided for a moment, leaving an unbridled hunger in its wake. For a long moment, you considered putting together a simple dinner. There were groceries in the fridge, and you certainly had plenty of time to cook and eat, seeing as Bucky sabotaged your plans. But you didn’t have it in you.
Every night that you cooked dinner alone required a herculean effort. You had to push yourself, had to give yourself a rallying speech. And every night, it worked. Every night, you somehow found it in you to drag yourself to the kitchen and assemble a decent meal- albeit, a meal you wouldn’t eat. But with your hopes for a romantic weekend away dashed, the pep-talk didn’t work. Encouragement didn’t work. Nothing on the planet could force you to make even the simplest dinner. The kitchen seemed too far; you couldn’t fathom walking all the way to the cupboard for a snack.
But your bedroom? That was close by. That was doable.
With a pitiful groan, you heaved yourself up off the couch and lugged your body into the next room. You fetched your duffle out of the closet and fished your hand around inside until you unearthed the bag of s’mores supplies. With your bounty tucked under your arm, you made the journey back into the living room and settled onto the couch once again.
A few marshmallows and a graham cracker or two would have to suffice; it was all you could manage.
At six, your phone rang. Without even looking at the screen, you knew it was Bucky. Knew he’d be guilty and repentant and upset. Knew he’d promise to make it up to you. Knew he had a perfectly good reason for blowing off your trip.
The petty part of you wondered if he’d simply had trouble tearing himself from Tara’s side.
On the final ring, you answered his call.
And you were right, he was guilty. And repentant. And upset.
“Baby, I’m- you have no idea how sorry I am. I wanted to call sooner, we were just- I was so busy. We’re working on a new lead and-” he huffed, “It’s not an excuse, I know it’s not an excuse. I made you a promise and I’m so sorry I let you down again.”
A few tears welled in your eyes, your nose burned.
“It’s fine,” you said. “Happens.”
“I’m on my way home right now, I’ll be there as quickly as I can and as soon as I get there, we’ll leave for the cabin. We can-”
“We’re gonna hit too much traffic,” you told him, your voice flat. “That was one of the reasons we decided to leave at noon. We didn’t want to get stuck, remember?”
“Right. Well…” He went quiet for a moment as he searched for the right thing to say- for anything to say. “T wanted me to extend her apologies.”
‘T’? He was giving her nicknames now?
“She didn’t mean to keep me so long,” he said.
Your pitiful dinner churned in your stomach, fighting desperately to crawl back up your esophagus.
Tara. Kept him. It seemed to you that Bucky was somehow reading your mind and acting on your greatest fears.
“Hey, have you eaten yet?” He asked, filling the silence, “I can pick up something for dinner, anything you want.”
The marshmallows and graham crackers looked at you with pity.
“That’s okay, I already- I’m not hungry,” you sighed. You didn’t mean to sound so dejected, but you didn’t have the energy to hide it. “I’ll just see you when you get home.”
You hung up and let your phone slide in between the couch cushions. Never before had you felt so much like an island.
Bucky tore through the door twenty minutes later, his face shiny with sweat. You knew he’d desperately rushed home, hoping it would somehow fix the situation or at least mitigate some of your disappointment. It didn’t.
“Sweetheart…” he flew to the couch and sat by your side, “I am so, so sorry. I- I didn’t mean to be late.”
He eyed you for a moment, waiting for you to speak. But you didn’t. You remained still, leaning back against the couch cushions. There were no tears, no rageful words. You were quiet. Resigned.
He averted his gaze, too guilty to even look at you.
“I didn’t want to stay,” he swore. “But T needed me. She practically begged me.”
T needed him. Not the team. Tara.
It should’ve upset you, but it didn’t. You were past the point of being upset.
“Six hours late is…” You shook your head. “How does that even happen?”
Bucky ran a hand down the side of his face, “I don’t know. I’m the authority on this stuff and Tara said it was really important, so I- it doesn’t matter. I told her I needed to leave at noon, and I didn’t. I fucked up, not her.”
You nodded. You didn’t want to fight with him. And even if you did, you were too tired.
“I hope you know I’m not actively trying to make you miserable. I don’t want to be gone all the time.” He ran a hand through his hair, “I hate this. I hate that we never get to do anything together, and I hate that I can never spend any real time with you, and I hate that you look so…” He fell silent for a long moment as he drank you in.
His close observance made you want to shrink away. You knew he was taking inventory of your hollow, heartbroken stare. Your tired eyes. These days, you barely recognized yourself in the mirror. The face looking back at you wasn’t yours- it couldn’t be. It was too empty. Too deflated. More like a fragile husk than a person.
“I… I don’t remember the last time I saw you really smile,” the realization swept over him as he spoke. “Or… heard you laugh,” a deep crease formed between his brows. “I miss it. I miss you.”
You nodded, feeling suddenly guilty. The cynical, sour part of your brain had gotten to you, convincing you that Bucky was relishing in your destruction. That he was taking joy in draining you, gutting you.
But as you watched the tears gather slowly in his eyes, you realized just how wrong you’d been.
“I didn’t think it would be like this,” he swore. “I knew I’d be busy, but I…” He shook his head, “I didn’t know I’d be leaving you alone all the time. And breaking promises. And it’s-” With the back of his left hand, he all too aggressively swiped a rogue tear from his cheek; you were certain the sharp bite of the metal stung as it dug into his skin. “Hurting you like this is- it’s my biggest regret. And that includes everything I did for Hydra. I promised you we’d always be on the same team, and I’m…”
He pulled his phone out of his pocket; your chest tightened. Was he really pausing to check a text from Tara? Now?
“I’m calling the Tara,” he said, “I’m quitting.”
You unearthed yourself from the couch cushions, yanked upright by Bucky’s words. “What?”
“I can’t do it anymore. If I keep working on this, I’m gonna lose you,” he said, his voice wavering, desperate. “And I can’t risk that.”
Suddenly, a distinct and pointed feeling of guilt engulfed you. Here Bucky was, prepared to abandon his efforts to topple Hydra- for you. He was willing to allow that hideous, evil organization to rise again- for you. He was ready to default on the promise he made to himself- for you.
How could you have doubted him? How could you have been so suspicious? He’d done nothing wrong, aside from coming home late. But that wasn’t an indictment of his character or an accurate depiction of who he was as a partner. He was kind. He was trustworthy. He was loving.
His fingers flew over his screen, dialing Tara’s number; you didn’t love that he had it memorized. But before he could finish, you rested a hand atop his, stopping him.
He stared at you, “What are you-”
“I can’t let you quit.”
“But-”
“If you don’t see this through, you’ll regret it. It’ll eat away at you for the rest of your life.”
He tried to protest, to prove you wrong, but you silenced him.
“I know you, Buck. I know how you feel about Hydra. And even though I’m… yeah, I’m miserable right now, but it’s fine. It’s short-term. I’ll survive.” You outstretched your free hand and settled it on his forearm. “You need to do this for you. If you quit, you’ll hate yourself. And if, heaven forbid, Hydra makes some big resurgence, you’ll always blame yourself. You’ll always wonder if you could’ve stopped it, here and now.”
He considered your words for a long, quiet moment; you watched a war rage beneath his surface. You knew you were right. Knew that you’d read his mind. Knew that if he sat idly by and allowed Hydra to claw its way back to power, it would kill him. People would get hurt; people would die. And it would be his fault, at least partially. But he couldn’t help the desperate longing in his gaze, the fraught ache as he stared at you.
You could practically see him being torn in two by the nearly impossible choice.
“You’re…” he gave a small shake of his head, “You’re right. But this whole situation is- it’s eating you alive. You just said that you’re miserable. I can’t-” He looked down at his phone once again, “I can’t let you to be miserable. I can’t do that to you.”
You shrugged, hoping to assuage some of his guilt. “So, it’s not ideal.” The laughed you tacked onto the end didn’t convince him; it didn’t even convince you.
A long silence filled the room. A deep frown settled Bucky’s into Bucky’s mouth as he hemmed and hawed over his options. You knew he’d choose to stay on. Hoped he’d quit. Feared he’d tell you he was leaving you for Tara.
Finally, he spoke.
“I can’t… I can’t walk away from the job,” he sighed, “It goes against everything in me.”
You gave him a polite nod; his decision wasn’t a surprise.
“But that doesn’t mean that I’m okay with- with the way that things have been going for us,” he said. “I’ve been so preoccupied that I haven’t really been- what does my therapist call it?” He thought it over for a moment. “I haven’t been ‘emotionally present’. I haven’t been physically present much, either.”
You shrugged, “You’ve been under a lot of stress. I understand-”
“Yeah, but you’ve been in this by yourself,” he huffed, angry at himself. “And it’s not fair. I turned this into something one-sided.”
Alarm bells blared in your head at the word “one-sided”. What the hell did he mean by that? Was this him telling you that your feelings were no longer requited? Was he apologizing for hurting you, only so he could tell you he was leaving you?
“I’m gonna tell Tara I have to scale back my hours, or something.”
The alarms quieted a few decibels.
“If there’s anything I can do to make this whole thing easier on you, all you have to do is tell me. I’ll do it. Whatever it is.” He bit down on the inside of his cheek, “Cause I can’t keep doing this to you. I can’t keep apologizing and hoping that it’ll fix all the late nights and broken promises.” He shrugged, “But even though I know it won’t fix anything… I’m sorry. I mean it.”
Another long stretch of quiet occurred as you looked him over. His shoulders were hunched in defeat, devastation. His jaw was tense, his brow furrowed. He held one of your hands in his warm palm, and rested his metallic hand on top, as though cradling something delicate. Something precious. He looked genuinely miserable. Genuinely despondent. And your heart ached for him.
He was a good person. He took this job to protect the world, to protect you. Who were you to crucify him for coming home late a few times? Who were you to be suspicious of his intentions when all he wanted was to mend things with you? It wasn’t fair to accuse him of infidelity. To assume that he was stepping out on you behind your back. Your insecurity, you decided, was not his fault nor his problem.
And so, you vowed to stop jumping to conclusions. To stop assuming the worst of him. To stop writing fiction about what was going on between Bucky and ‘T’.
However, you did want to ask him one question.
“I really appreciate the apology- the apologies,” you corrected yourself. “And I know you’re not doing anything malicious. You’re just trying to do your best.”
He nodded.
“You’re not in an easy position here. I want a lot from you; your job wants a lot from you. You’re being stretched really thin right now. And I know you’re stressed out about how this is affecting me.”
Bucky nodded again, more emphatically this time.
“There is- there’s one thing you could do that might make things easier on me,” you told him.
Bucky scooted a bit closer, “anything.”
“And I need you to be one hundred percent honest with me.”
“Cross my heart.”
You hesitated, second-guessing your question. But if you were to stay sane for the remainder of this job, you needed a straight answer. There wasn’t a mature, adult way to ask. Each way you phrased it sounded pettier and more childish than the last.
And so, you simply dropped the question in his lap.
“Is there anything going on between you and Tara? Romantically or-” you winced, “Sexually?”
He stared at you, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly agape.
Was he simply surprised to hear such a preposterous question? Or was he shocked that you figured out about his torrid affair?
“What?” he finally said. “Between Tara and- no!” He shook his head, an incredulous look on his face. “I would never do that.”
The weight that had been sitting on your chest ever since Tara’s first phone call suddenly felt lighter. It didn’t vanish completely, but it lessened. You’d been aching to hear those words come out of his mouth. And now that they finally had.
“I’m not that kind of guy, sweetheart. I don’t do that sort of thing,” he swore. “Did you think that I was-”
You forced a laugh and shrugged. “No, no. Of course not. I didn’t actually think you’d-” the word got stuck in your throat. You had to force it out, “-cheat on me,” you lied. “But with the long hours and the late nights and all the texts and phone calls you guys share…”
“It is not like that, I promise,” he said, denying the accusation with his entire being. “Tara is great, and yeah, we spend a lot of time together. But I love you. You are the only person for me.”
He went on. And on. And on. For a solid two minutes, at least. He vowed that he wasn’t sleeping with Tara, swearing on every holy book in existence that he didn’t have feelings for her. He promised that he was in love with you, that he wanted you, that you were the love of his life. Only you.
And it should’ve made you feel better. But as Bucky continued his unrelenting, gushing promises about his love for you, he unknowingly planted more seeds of doubt. He strong denouncements and fierce denial of any romantic or sexual wrongdoing brought one phrase to mind:
“Thou dost protest too much.”
You knew then, without a doubt, that you were losing your mind.
But you couldn’t stop the vicious cycle; the ghosts of relationships past refused to allow it. And so, over the course of the next few minutes, you found yourself endlessly oscillating between ‘he’s laying it on thick to hide the fact that he’s cheating and ‘he loves me so much, it’s so awful of me to think he’s hiding something.’
You thanked the universe that mind reading was not amongst Bucky’s enhanced abilities. If he’d been able to hear all of your thoughts, if he knew how quickly your pendulum swung from one end of the spectrum to the next, he’d think you were crazy.
“All this to say,” he paused, and locked eyes with you in a moment of deep, genuine connection. “I love you. And only you. I don’t want anyone else.”
And though a sliver of suspicion remained, you accepted his words at face value.
“I love you too, Buck.”
He pulled you in for slow, long kiss. The two of you melted together, desperately affixing your bodies together in an attempt to make up for lost time.
“What do you think?” Bucky said when the two of you finally parted, “You still want to go up to the cabin tomorrow?”
You had no reason not to. You gave Bucky the affirmative and a wide smile stretched across his face. The previous night’s excitement returned and together, you made a plan for the following morning.
But when the following morning came, you woke to an empty bed. Again.
When your alarm went off at seven, you bolted upright. Today was the day that things between you and Bucky were finally going to get back on track. But when you turned to his side of the bed, he was nowhere to be found. His pillow was cold.
“Buck?” you called, your voice bouncing off the walls of the deserted apartment. “Are you here?”
No answer.
“Of fucking course.”
With a deeply disappointed sigh, you flopped back down and decided to sleep until noon. How could he do this to you- again? How could he ditch you? How could he promise to be more present, only to turn around and disappear? A tornado of anger swirled inside your chest, interrupted only by tidal waves of hurt. Of grief.
But just as the first tear slid its way down your cheek, the front door opened.
Cautious, quiet footsteps crept through the living room, down the short hallway, and into the bedroom. Bucky’s head slowly peeked around the corner. And once he realized you were awake, he rushed to your bedside with his hands concealed behind his back.
“Good morning, sweet- hey, are you okay?” Concern eclipsed his smile as he eyed the rogue tears clinging to your lashes. “Are you crying?”
You wiped your eyes with your t-shirt and gave a shake of your head, “No, I’m- I just had a really strange dream. It was a sad one.”
Bucky frowned, “I’m sorry, baby. Do you think that a bacon, egg, cheese, and hashbrown breakfast sandwich on an onion bagel would help?”
Your eyes widened, “You went to The Hot Bagel?”
Bucky nodded. From behind his back, he revealed the brown paper bag printed with your favorite bagel shop’s logo.
“Oh my god, this is- how long was the line?” In one swift motion you stole the bag from Bucky’s grasp and tore into it, revealing a miracle wrapped in tinfoil.
“It wasn’t long at all. There were only two people in front of me,” Bucky said, his smile proud.
“Buck…” you narrowed your eyes at him.
His face dropped. He feared that he’d ordered incorrectly. That he’d taken the wrong bag from the counter. “What?”
“If there were only two people in front of you, what time did you get there?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he gave a small shrug.
“But it’s one of the busiest shops in the city and-”
“And I know it’s your favorite. So, I went.” He said it so matter of factly, as though it were a no brainer. “I would’ve been back a little earlier, but the onion bagels weren’t quite ready when I got there. I almost got you an everything instead, but…”
Your expression grew incredulous. He let out a belly laugh.
“But I knew you’d give me that exact look. So, I waited a little longer.”
Together, the two of you inhaled what you deemed the best breakfast sandwich in New York. And once you’d tucked the s’mores supplies back into your bag and gotten ready for the drive, Bucky led you by the hand down to the car.
The drive was exactly what you’d imagined. Windows down. Clear skies. Invigorating music. Bucky danced with you to today’s hits. Eighties ballads. Forties crooners. He provided backup vocals and took the occasional solo. This was how it was supposed to be. This was what your relationship had always been: warm, safe, comfortable.
There was no room here for doubt or suspicion or distrust.
As the cabin rolled into view, you made a conscious decision to remove any inkling of wariness from your mind. Bucky was yours. And you were his. And that was that.
Like a perfect gentleman, he unloaded the car and carried the bags up the porch steps. The cabin sat tucked in amongst a swath of trees that shielded it from the main road. Its interior was decorated with thought, with care, with love. It welcomed you in and instantly, you felt right at home. Rounding out the space was a small yard, complete with a hammock and fire pit.
It seemed that the weekend might be saved after all, until you glanced into Bucky’s bag.
As he was unpacking his toiletries and getting his clothes sorted, the shiny silver corner of his laptop caught your eye. It was tucked under a pair of sweatpants, but you knew in your bones that it was his computer. Upon further inspection, you discovered a hotspot hiding amongst his clothes, as well.
So much for the ‘uninterrupted weekend’ he’d sold you.
But instead of assuming the worst, instead of spiraling, you reasoned with yourself. He’d packed his bag prior to your heart to heart. Prior to your admission of being miserable. Prior to his promise to scale back his hours. It was perfectly logical to think that he’d simply forgotten to remove his computer and his hotspot from his bag. That he had no intention of using them this weekend. That he only packed them in case of an emergency.
And maybe- just maybe- he didn’t intend to work during your getaway.
But work he did, anyway.
Bucky found you lounging in the hammock, protected from the sun by the shadow of a large, old tree.
“Where have you been?” you asked, looking up from your book. “You said you were right behind me.”
He had said it would only take a few minutes for him to “send one last email” before he could “completely unplug.” But that was forty-five minutes ago.
“I know, I’m sorry. One email turned into a phone call, and that turned into a zoom,” he said, exasperated. “But I’m here now. Does that hammock have room enough for two?”
Some childish and petty part of you wanted to call him on his shit. It wanted to throw the words “uninterrupted weekend” back at him and watch as he ate them.
But he looked so tired. Everything about him screamed ‘rundown’. This was the longest you’d ever seen his stubble. His hair was longer, too- longer than he liked it. There was a defeated air about the slope of his shoulders. And every breath seemed more like a sigh. He didn’t get to go out for long runs in the park anymore; this was probably the most time he’d spent in the sun in weeks.
The loving, devoted, compassionate part of you won out against your immature instinct, and you allowed him to share your hammock. He climbed in with a warm smile stretched across his face and tucked his body into your side. It was the perfect way to spend an afternoon- save for his near-constant texting. But you figured that a preoccupied Bucky was better than no Bucky at all.
He never even cracked the book he brought along for the trip. He, instead, allowed it to rest at his side while he responded to Tara’s messages. Every once and a while, you caught a glimpse of his screen, and everything appeared to be on the up and up. There were no emojis. No flirtations. No double entendres. Just business.
And though you wished he’d knock it off and be present with you, you let it to slide. He was just trying to make everyone happy. Trying to stretch himself thinner than thin. And he was clearly miserable, himself; you thought it best not to add insult to injury.
And the weekend was still lovely regardless. It was the most time you’d spent together since he started with Tara’s organization, and you swore you could feel yourself coming back to life. The two of you ate and danced and made s’mores and fell asleep under the stars. And even though it was a truncated version of the trip you’d hoped for, you wouldn’t have traded it for anything.
Things were looking up.
Another respite from Bucky’s hellish schedule came a few weeks after your cabin jaunt. Just as the sense of renewal granted by the getaway started to wear off, Bucky came home from work one Friday night with a nearly cartoonish grin on his face.
He bounded through the front door and threw himself at you, sweeping you into his arms. It was unexpected, almost strange; he never came home with his energy intact like this. But you welcomed it; you missed seeing him this way.
“I have good news,” he said. “Do you wanna guess what it is?”
“Hmm…” you thought it over for a moment, “Are you-”
He didn’t allow you to properly formulate a guess; he was far too excited.
“I’ll give you a hint: guess who has the whole weekend off?” he asked, spinning you around as though on a dance floor.
Your jaw dropped. “Really?”
“Really.”
It was like music to your ears. Like your birthday and New Year’s Eve and Valentine’s Day rolled into one. You could’ve sworn that confetti fell from the ceiling. That fireworks exploded outside your window. It wasn’t just good news. It was great news. The best news you’d ever received.
“We’ve hit a wall with this lead we’re working on,” he told you. “There’s some information we need in order to move forward, but not even our access team has been able to get to it. It’s not in any of the systems they’ve looked through.”
You gave him a strange look, “What’s an access team?”
He rolled his eyes and laughed a little, “They’re hackers. But they told me to stop calling them ‘hackers’ cause apparently that sounds ‘cheesy’.”
You shrugged, “‘Hackers’ kinda does make it sound like you’re in a bad spy movie.”
“They hack! It’s the name that makes the most sense!” he laughed. “Anyway, they think it’s probably being stored on a drive somewhere off-network, that way no one can hac- I mean, access it. And our entire strategy hinges on that information. So, there’s not much we can do right now.”
It struck you that maybe you were supposed to be sensitive to this plight. To the frustrations of his job. Maybe deep down, he was disappointed that Hydra’s fall would have to be delayed. But he didn’t seem all that bummed about it. If anything, he seemed unburdened.
“They called things off for the weekend so everyone can recharge,” he told you. “I think they’re hoping that a free weekend will help people come back with fresh eyes and clear minds.”
“Yeah, it’s almost like allowing your employees to rest helps them be better problem solvers,” you quipped.
“Who could’ve seen that coming?” he laughed. The sound hit you deep in your chest; you realized just how much you missed that laugh. It vibrated against his lips as he pressed them to yours.
The possibilities of how the two of you might spend this rare, free weekend- farmer’s markets, museums, drinking and dancing- evaporated from your mind as he kissed you. And suddenly, they were replaced by hungrier, more salacious options.
But for the time being, you quieted them. This was Bucky’s weekend, his free time.
He never had the time to do what he wanted to do anymore. Ever since he started this job, his time no longer belonged to him. This job owned every day, every minute; he was lucky enough to get a few hours on loan so he could sleep.
“Well, whatever you wanna do this weekend, I’m in,” you told him when you finally parted. “You get to pick since you never have free time anymore.”
He fell silent for a long moment, thinking.
“Anything you want!” you promised him. “We can go on a bike ride or roam around in that fancy bookstore in SoHo or-”
“If it’s alright, I’d rather not.”
“You’d rather not what, Buck?”
He sighed, “Would you mind if we didn’t do… anything? I don’t want you to be bored all weekend, but I just…”
He let out a long sigh and looked around the room. As his gaze swept through the space, you watched him take in the subtle changes here and there: a new throw pillow on the couch, a different set of coasters on the coffee table, a new lamp to replace the one he’d accidentally broken.
This was the apartment you’d hunted for together. The apartment he’d called his “safest place”. His “favorite place”. And yet, he’d barely spent any time within its walls in recent days. He was more like a guest here. A stranger. A foreign transplant.
His eyes filled with the same desperate longing you’d seen before the cabin trip. “I just want to be home, you know? But if you want to go and-”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you told him. “If you want to stay home all weekend, we’ll stay home.”
He eyed you warily, “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” you promised. “I’ll never say no to weekend at home with you.”
A satisfied smile spread across his face.
You weren’t quite sure if he was excited to spend the weekend at home with you, or if he was simply thrilled to lounge on the couch for a few days. Either way, you were happy to have him all to yourself. Happy to keep him out of the clutches of others for a few days.
“Maybe we could get some snacks and have a movie marathon? There are a ton of classics I’ve never seen,” he said. “Jaws, Jurassic Park, Alien. What do you think?”
You quirked a brow at him, “I think it’s criminal that you’ve never seen Jurassic Park.”
“I know,” he groaned. “That’s why I’m trying to rectify it! What do you think?”
You, of course, agreed to his proposal. The two of you made a list of movies and a list of snacks, and you couldn’t resist the excitement building in your chest. This weekend was going to be the mulligan. The do-over. After your cabin weekend was cut short, after it was tarnished by Bucky’s constant correspondence with Tara, the two of you needed a second chance at an uninterrupted weekend. And the opportunity had finally arrived.
The next day, Bucky settled in next to you on the couch. He draped a blanket over your lap, pulled you securely into his side, and pressed play on Jaws. Jurassic Park followed shortly after, and he raved about it as the two of you made and ate lunch. A slew of movies spanning multiple genres left Bucky in awe. It was a strange experience, watching Alien after West Side Story, but you didn’t care. Bucky was home, and that’s all that mattered.
And much to your surprise, he hadn’t mentioned Tara once. Hadn’t texted her. Hadn’t paused the movie to read one of her emails. And for the first time in a long time, things inside your apartment felt less crowded.
But a nagging thought needled at you. What if he was simply being more covert about corresponding with Tara now? What if he had gotten better at covering things up?
No. You wouldn’t allow yourself to think that way anymore.
With a deep breath, you nestled yourself deeper into Bucky’s embrace and vowed to simply enjoy the weekend. You didn’t know when- or if- you’d get another one like this any time soon. And you damn sure weren’t going to waste it by concocting wild speculations.
Once the sun finally set behind the skyscrapers, Bucky pressed play on your last movie of the night: When Harry Met Sally. But just as Harry and Sally bumped into each other in a bookstore, there was a knock at your front door.
Bucky looked at you. You looked at him.
“Were you expecting someone?” he asked.
You shook your head.
“Hmm,” Bucky rose from the couch, “Maybe it’s a neighbor.”
He strode toward the front door and pressed his face against its surface, peering through the peephole. You could’ve sworn you heard a quiet gasp fill his lungs.
“Who is it, Buck?”
He didn’t answer. He removed the chain on the door with a slow intensity. Inched the deadbolt open at a glacial pace. His movements were painstaking, deliberate. Almost sluggish. Whoever it was, Bucky didn’t seem too pleased to see them.
When he finally turned the knob, he pulled the door open only a few inches. A sliver, really. He leaned his head out into the hall and spoke quietly with the mystery visitor.
It was odd, his behavior. He had no reason to be secretive or cagey when speaking to a neighbor. He had no reason to hide his conversation from you. To shield you from this surprise guest.
As quietly as you could, you rose from the couch a crept closer to the door, hoping to catch a word or two.
“Yeah, and I thought I told you never to come to my apartment,” Bucky said, his words hurried.
Something about it made your stomach turn. Why would he feel the need to give someone such a specific stipulation, unless he had something to hide?
And then a woman’s voice filled the air.
Not any woman’s voice.
Tara’s.
“I know, but I need you, Buck.”
A flash of heat scorched your insides. And before you knew what was happening, you’d wrenched the door all the way open.
Tara stood before you in a floor length maroon gown dripping with intricate beading. She towered over you, her perfect body elongated by elegant heels. Her auburn hair was twisted and tucked into a fabulous updo. Diamonds dangled from her ears and encircled her slender neck. And deep red lipstick accentuated her perfect pout.
You thought it possible that she’d stepped out of a magazine or off of a runway.
And suddenly, you wondered what the fuck Bucky was doing with you. What he saw in you. How he could be with you when she existed.
A violent pain tore through your abdomen, nearly stealing your breath. It seemed that something sharp and jagged was ripping through your insides, shredding your guts into confetti. But you forced yourself to remain composed. To appear unbothered.
Bucky shifted his gaze to you and then back to Tara. He looked nervous, as though you’d caught him red-handed.
“Sweetheart, this is Tara,” he gestured to the devastatingly beautiful supermodel standing in the hall. “Tara, this is-”
“It’s nice to meet you,” she said in a rush, her attention barely drifting from Bucky’s face. “But we really don’t have time for pleasantries right now, Buck. This is an emergency.”
“I don’t think I can tonight,” Bucky told her. “I have plans, we’re watching-”
“I know how to get the drive, I know where it is.” Tara shrugged, “Okay, I’m pretty sure I know where it is.”
Bucky didn’t answer, he simply quirked a brow at her, allowing her to continue.
“There’s a huge gala tonight at Thomas Weller’s house,” she said.
Bucky perked up.
“Weller’s house…” he said, thinking it over. “He lives in the-”
“The prohibition era mansion with the hidden room that acted as a speakeasy. Yeah,” Tara nodded, her eyes a bit wild. She seemed truly exhilarated by the circumstances. “He’s the only one Hydra would trust to keep the drive secure, and tonight’s the only chance for us to find it,” she said. “He has to be hiding it in that secret room- I feel it.”
“But we can’t be sure…”
“Barnes, I’m sure.”
Bucky thought on it for a long, quiet moment. “Are you willing to stake Magdalini’s on it?”
Tara’s face lit up as her head fell back in a laugh. A loose auburn curl bounced at the nape of her neck. Her perfectly polished nails brushed against her chest as she caught her breath. You were certain she was the princess from every fairytale you’d read as a child.
“Yes!” she finally said when she composed herself. “I am willing to bet you a doz- TWO dozen cookies from Magdalini’s.”
Bucky took this very seriously. A knowing look eclipsed his face, and he granted Tara an understanding nod. You, on the other hand, were left in the cold. You weren’t sure what had just happened between them, but they knew something you didn’t. They shared something you were not a part of. Whether these cookies were an inside joke or some kind of metric, you weren’t sure. But they were important.
You waited for an explanation, for one of them to afford you an invite to the joke. But no such offer came.
“Do you still have your tux from the SWORD anniversary party? The one where we knocked over the ice sculpture?” Tara asked.
A small smile flickered across Bucky’s face. He cut his glance toward you, dropped his smile, and nodded at Tara.
“Then get dressed,” she told him. “The party starts in twenty minutes and it’s basically across town.”
“Okay, yeah, just-” Bucky began to make a sweeping gesture of invitation but cut it short when his eyes met yours. “Um, I’ll be out in a minute,” he told her, before shutting the door and leaving her in the hall.
With the door shut, the two of you shared a long, loaded look.
“I’m sorry…” he finally said. “I know we were gonna watch movies and-”
“It’s fine, Bu-” you stopped yourself, not wanting to use the same nickname as Tara. “Babe.”
He sighed, “I keep disappointing you.”
You shrugged, “It is what it is. This is part of your job.”
You meant it. You knew he wasn’t doing this on purpose. Knew he wasn’t trying to hurt you. It wasn’t fair to blame him. It wasn’t even fair to blame Tara, though you wanted to. She, too, was just doing her job. Just trying to stop Hydra. And who were you to stop those efforts?
But you couldn’t help the frustration that ground your teeth together. The disappointment. The irritation. It all pooled together into a sinister, inky cocktail that coated your insides. It seemed that, at every turn, Bucky chose Tara. You knew it was childish to feel that way. Knew it was petty and stupid and immature. But you couldn’t stop it.
And Tara’s piercing beauty didn’t help. Her perfect cheekbones and flawless skin made you want to double over. Made you question if you were even the same species.
Bucky dressed in his tuxedo quietly, eyeing you every now and again. You sat on the edge of the bed, waiting to assist with his tie, if need be. Another heavy, endless silence wedged itself between the two of you. The kind of silence that precedes disaster.
“So, what’s the deal with Magda… Madgolee-”
“Magdalini’s?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s this bakery out in New Hampshire,” he told you. “Tara and I were in Concord doing recon for this job, and we kind of randomly stumbled upon the place.”
You waited for something more, but nothing came.
“But what do cookies have to do with you going to this party?” you asked.
“Well, when Tara and I were togeth- when we worked together,” he overcorrected. “If one of us had a feeling about something but no proof, we’d bet the other a dozen cookies from Magdalini’s.” He gave a quiet laugh, “Since it’s all the way in New Hampshire and always sells out before noon, it’s a pain in the ass to get those damn cookies. You have to trek out to Concord early in the morning and wait in a long line and it’s- it’s a whole thing.” He shrugged, “So her telling me that she’d bet two dozen of those cookies on this party tonight means she’s sure. Cause if she’s not, she’s gotta drag her ass all the way out there.”
Bucky smiled as he buttoned his shirt, clearly awash in the memories of that bakery. And the woman he shared it with. And suddenly, you hated those damn cookies.
You hated the inside jokes and shared memories Bucky had with Tara. Hated that he was leaving you. Again. To be with her. Again. Hated that you were so goddamn jealous.
“Just um… let me know if you need help with your tie,” you muttered before fleeing the scene.
You found solace in the quiet, empty living room, and leaned against the back of the couch. Over and over again, you forced yourself to take deep, calming breaths. This wasn’t Bucky’s fault, you told yourself. He had a job to do; and as unfortunate as it was, this was part of it. When the dust cleared, things would go back to normal. Tara would disappear once again and your relationship with Bucky would be returned to its former glory. That was the silver lining, the light at the end of the tunnel. Your heartrate slowed, your frustration evaporated, and you discovered a newfound hope.
Until there was another soft knock at the door.
Just as you turned to face the sound, the door opened just a sliver.
“Hi,” Tara leaned her head in, an apologetic smile on her beautiful face. “Do you mind if I wait inside? Your neighbors are staring,” she chuckled.
Of course, your neighbors were staring; a runway model was loitering in their hallway.
And though you didn’t want her in the space you shared with Bucky, what choice did you have?
You gestured for her to enter, “Sure.”
She stood just inside the door, her elegant ensemble completely out of place in your home. She tucked her designer clutch under her arm and gave your apartment a once over.
“It’s so cozy in here,” she said without a drop of condescension. “I love that painting. Where did you get it?” She gestured to the framed canvas hanging on the opposite wall.
“Oh that’s- I painted it,” you told her, suddenly sheepish.
Not only was she smart and beautiful and skilled- she was nice, too?
“You um, you look really nice,” you told her. “I like your dress.”
It was painfully awkward. You were certain Tara could feel the envy radiating from your every pore. But you had to make an effort. Had to make nice. She was Bucky’s coworker; and regardless of the punishing schedule she’d set for him, she hadn’t technically done anything wrong. That you knew of.
But the way she lit up when Bucky walked out in his tux made you wonder.
Maybe it was unfair, you thought, to condemn her for her reaction- anyone with sight would react the exact same way. Bucky was always attractive but seeing him all dressed up made your knees weak. The custom-fitted tux hugged him in all the right places and accentuated his physique. It took every ounce of your strength not to pounce on him right then and there.
“Is this okay?” he asked, looking down at his ensemble. “I had a little trouble with the tie.”
“I can help with-” “Oh, here, let me-”
Both you and Tara took a step in his direction, arms outstretched, prepared to assist him. Simultaneously, you snapped your head in the other’s direction and locked eyes. Tara flashed you a smile that you categorized as ‘almost apologetic’ and with a sweeping gesture, conceded.
The tension in the room settled atop the three of you, forcing everyone’s eyes down.
After a deep breath and a shake of your head, you took your rightful place in front of Bucky. With nimble fingers, you adjusted the fabric of his tie until it was perfect. He shot you a look, silently apologizing for the incident.
You wanted to brush the whole thing off. To pretend that it didn’t bother you. But it did.
Sure, Tara was nice. But why would she feel entitled to get so up close and personal with Bucky this way? And why would she feel comfortable doing so in front of you? In your home? She was his ex, his coworker. It made no sense for her to be the one to fix his tie, especially when you were right there. Of course, it was just a bow tie; Tara hadn’t volunteered to French kiss him or anything of the sort. But the way she jumped at the chance to enter his personal bubble rubbed you the wrong way.
Maybe, you feared, Bucky allowed her to get close to him at work. Maybe the two of them spent time cozied up in her office when they were supposed to be attending meetings. Maybe she’d gotten so used to being intimate with him that this kind of task had become second nature to her. And maybe she’d been so overwhelmed by the sight of her lover in his tuxedo that she’d forgotten she had an audience.
Maybe he wasn’t staying at work all night, laboring over this job until the early morning hours. Maybe he was sleeping at her apartment, in her bed.
The possibility trapped your lungs in a vice, cutting off your air supply. Bile rose in the back of your throat; it took everything in you to force it down. By some miracle, you remained composed, and adjusted Bucky’s tie.
“There,” you said , “All done.”
Just as Bucky tried to express his gratitude, he stumbled to the side. Tara had yanked him by the hand and began hauling him toward the door. Bucky stumbled behind her for a few paces before locking eyes with you. He slipped his hand from her grasp and doubled back to place a kiss on your cheek.
“I’m really sorry about this,” he said. “I-”
“I won’t have him home too late!” Tara called from the door with a laugh. “Thanks for sharing him with me!”
Before you had the chance to blink, Bucky and Tara disappeared out the door and down the hall.
‘Sharing’ him? Another vicious bout of pain ripped through you. And without an audience, you were free so succumb. You doubled over, allowing the agony to take hold of you. The sharp, searing pain sliced its way from your gut to your throat, flaying you wide open. Only when it quieted to an angry throb were you able to stand upright and hobble to the couch.
After an hour or so, you forced yourself to stop thinking about them. About Bucky and Tara together. About the things that might be transpiring on the other side of town. It wasn’t healthy, wasn’t productive. The pain in your abdomen had finally dulled and you knew that if you continued to ruminate, it would return with a vengeance.
And so, you wiped your tears and dragged your body off the couch. You took a long shower, did your skincare, and slipped into your most comfortable pajamas. All you had to do was delude yourself into believing that Bucky was out with Sam or working with Yelena. It was the perfect fix, albeit temporary.
After your shower you climbed into bed and dove into your favorite silly sitcom. The canned laughter and over the top storylines helped distract you, helped lift your shattered spirits. With one tap of your remote you skipped half a season- expertly avoiding a storyline about the main character cheating on his girlfriend- and resumed your rewatch in a happier spot.
Still, you picked and bit at what was left of your nails. Eyed the clock every few minutes. Checked your phone more than you would’ve liked. You couldn’t help it.
Just before eleven o’clock, you heard the front door open.
“Buck?” you called, hoping it was only him.
“Yeah…” he said. He sounded different. “It’s me.”
His keys clinked against the wall as he hung them on the hook by the door, and you knew he’d be in the bedroom soon. Knew he’d have his tail between his legs. Knew you were in for a long night of discussions and apologies. You turned off the tv and waited, expecting his slumped shoulders to lean against the doorframe any second.
But he never appeared.
Something- instinct, intuition- nudged you out of bed.
Something was wrong.
You cautiously made your way out of the bedroom and into the living room as the pit in your stomach doubled- tripled- in size.
You found Bucky still standing by the front door, motionless. His eyes were downcast; his hands were shoved into his pockets. The bowtie you’d so meticulously fixed for him was draped loosely around his neck. The first few buttons of his shirt were open.
“Hey…” you called.
He barely looked up, and only for a split second. “Hi.”
The distance between you seemed much vaster than it was. He seemed to be miles away, adrift somewhere far and unfamiliar. No one moved, no one spoke. The tension in the air grew heavier by the second, nearly crushing you.
And after a while, you couldn’t take the strained silence.
“Um, how’d it go?” you asked. “Is everything okay?”
Finally, Bucky dragged his gaze from the floor. The misery in his eyes sent a pang of anxiety ripping through your chest.
“Something h-” he gave a small shake of his head, cleared his throat. “Something happened. Between me and Tara.”
His words knocked you off balance. Your nails dug into the couch as you fought to remain upright. The unforgiving pain in your abdomen exploded once again. And a tidal wave of nausea swallowed you whole.
“It was part of our cover, it wasn’t- there wasn’t anything romantic about it,” he swore. The words tumbled out of his mouth in a panicked rush. “We weren’t supposed to be in Weller’s office- a security guard was coming and if they knew we’d taken the drive, Weller would’ve had us killed. So, Tara k-” he choked on the word. “She kissed me. She made it look like we were a couple who’d gotten, I don’t know, carried away or something. Like we were just looking for a private room to…” He didn’t finish his sentence.
Suddenly, his eyes grew wide.
“But we didn’t- we didn’t do that!” he said, almost frantic. “It was just the kissing, nothing else. I swear.”
Finaly, he unrooted his feet and made his way toward you; he stopped just a foot from where you stood.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m so- I didn’t know that was gonna happen,” he said. “I had no idea. She just did it without telling me. I didn’t want to- I didn’t want her to do that.”
His words settled into your body, creating fractures and fissures as they went.
A storm of sympathy rained down on you as you stared at him. He was in utter agony, that was no secret. His hands shook, his face was flushed, his eyes brimmed with tears. He hadn’t wanted that kiss. Hadn’t known about it or expected it. And he was suffering. The love of your life was suffering.
But the ghost of relationships past returned, screaming at you over and over. Gloating.
“I told you so!”
“I told you so!”
“I told you so!”
This was exactly what you’d feared. What you’d dreaded. And regardless of the circumstances, your old wounds were ripped open once again. The flashbacks hit you like a truck; the familiar words tore you to pieces. There was no surviving this; no making it out alive. It seemed that you would bleed out, that you’d be lifeless and cold in a matter of moments.
But the first tear dripped down Bucky’s face, and brought you back to reality.
It took all your might, all your strength, but you forced your impending collapse and demise to wait. Everything would have to wait.
“I’m s- I’m sorry that happened to you,” you said.
His brow furrowed, “What?”
You breathed through the throbbing, unrelenting ache in your chest, and repeated yourself.
“I’m sorry that happened to you, Buck,” you said, matter-of-factly. “She shouldn’t have ki- she shouldn’t have done that. You didn’t want it. Didn’t consent to it. It’s not okay.”
He stared at you, wide eyed. Another tear spilled onto his cheek, but he didn’t seem to notice; he was far too shocked.
“Sweetheart, I don’t care about that- I’m fine,” he shrugged. “I’m worried about you. About hurting you.” He dug his teeth into the inside of his cheek, “About what this might- what it might do to us.”
The words came out quieter, weaker than you’d hoped. “Wasn’t your fault.”
“Baby-”
“I’m sorry, can you-” you cleared your throat, “Can you just give me one second?” You gave him a strained smile and turned slowly back to the bedroom. Bucky faltered awkwardly in the living room as you fled.
You turned too sharply around the corner into your bedroom, knocking the point of your shoulder into the wall. But you barely noticed; it didn’t hurt. It should’ve; you’d run into this corner enough times to know that it should kill. But it didn’t. You barely even noticed it. Some tiny portion of your brain registered the hit and catalogued it for the future, for when you’d discover the bruise and wonder about its origin.
On unsteady feet, you flew into the en suite bathroom and shut the door behind you. You didn’t mean to slam it, but the panic creeping into your bones stole your sense of decorum. It turned you into a jittery, unstable version of yourself. The sound of the door banging into its frame made you jump.
With the lock twisted into place, you leaned against the nearest wall and promptly fell apart.
The was the breakdown of the century, the monster you’d been fighting off with sword and shield. But fighting was useless. It came at you like a natural disaster. Unstoppable. Uncontrollable. Life-threatening. It was your own personal category 5 hurricane. Your uncontained wildfire. Your San Andreas fault.
The tears soaked your shirt in mere moments. Your breathing was ragged, labored. A burning sensation clawed at your throat, your chest, as your lungs begged for oxygen. The weakness in your knees forced you to slide down the wall, searching for the stability of the floor.
But even as you fell to pieces, you forced yourself to stay quiet. To do your damnedest to keep Bucky from hearing. Because no matter what happened at that party, he was still the great love of your life. And you didn’t want to upset him.
But it was too late.
“Baby…” Bucky called from the bedroom, his voice jagged with worry. “Baby, I’m so sorry. Please, can we talk?”
The handle of the bathroom door jiggled as he tried it, but found it locked. He sighed.
His metal knuckles knocked gently against the wood, “Sweetheart, please… open the door.”
You didn’t answer.
“Baby, I’m-” he choked on the panic. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing- there’s nothing going on with me and T-” he didn’t say her name. “I swear to god, I swear on my life. I swear on Steve’s. It’s not like that.”
The logical part of your brain knew he was telling the truth. Nothing about James Buchanan Barnes said ‘cheater’. He was a loyal, decent person who would rather die than hurt you. Never over the course of your relationship had you ever caught him so much as looking at another woman.
But the tortured, traumatized part of your brain was too busy falling down a rabbit hole of flashbacks to listen to reason. All at once, it grew to be too much.
Once again, bile crawled its way up the back of your throat. And though you tried to resist, you didn’t have any fight left in you. Your mouth flooded with saliva, and you threw yourself to the floor in front of the toilet. Pain rocketed through your knees as your crashed against the cold tile.
And finally, after months of staving off the nausea, you let it win. You allowed yourself to be sick. To be weak.
All of the fear and worry and pain exited your body in an almost violent fashion. It had been building up for so long, slowly taking over every cell. And now, it had forced you to the ground. Forced you to your knees. Forced you to lean over the toilet and retch, over and over again.
“Sweetheart?” Bucky called, distressed. There was a heightened sense of alarm in his voice. A pleading desperation. “Are you okay? Can I get you anything?”
Answering wasn’t an option, as you were otherwise occupied.
“I’m gonna get you some water, okay? But I’ll be right back.”
‘See?’ you thought, ‘He does care.’
The thought only brought on another wave of sickness.
The force with which your body lurched forward would most likely leave you sore the next day, but you didn’t care. You didn’t care about anything other than bringing air into your lungs.
Bucky’s voice entered your consciousness every minute or so as he checked on you; he sounded like he might be sick himself. But you weren’t able to ask.
Finally, it was over. The contents of your stomach were long gone, and you’d expelled only bile for the past few minutes. But after a spell of dry heaving, the forceful retching came to an end. You allowed yourself to slump against the nearest wall with relief. A sharp burn ripped through your throat and nose. Your hands shook. Tears clung to your cheeks and lashes. But it was over.
Your head fell into your hands, and you forced yourself to take a few deep, even breaths, though they did little to calm you. Images of Bucky and Tara still pummeled you from every angle. You wondered if you’d find her red lipstick smudged up and down his neck.
In all honesty, you didn’t mean to say it out loud. You didn’t mean for Bucky to hear you. But you’d lost control of yourself long ago, and the words slipped out before you had the chance to stop them.
“I can’t do this again.”
The fire scorching down your throat banished the haunting visions of Bucky and his lost love and dragged you back to reality.
No part of you wanted to face him after the dramatic show you’d put on. After he’d kissed another woman. After everything that could’ve gone wrong did. The anticipation conjured a dark, swirling pit to open in your stomach. Would he end things tonight, after witnessing your instability? Or would he wait till the morning? Would he immediately fly into Tara’s arms? Or would he wait a few days out of respect?
The nausea returned, but you didn’t have anything left to expel. You dragged a few greedy breaths into your lungs and forced yourself to face the facts: the longer you waited- the longer you hid- the worse it would be. And so, you pulled yourself up off the floor and rinsed your mouth in the bathroom sink.
Bucky hovered closely to the bathroom door. He was so close, in fact, that he left you almost no room to exit.
“Are you doing alright, sweetheart?” His eyes were red; his cheeks were stained with tear tracks. “I brought you a glass of water if you’re interested.”
He reached for you tentatively, his hand shaking ever so slightly.
There was a time when you never would’ve avoided his touch. Never would’ve imagined pulling away from his hand. But you did. Maybe you didn’t mean to, maybe it was a reflex. But you did it. You yanked your body out of his path and tucked your arms into your chest, as though protecting yourself from some great danger.
More than anything, you wanted to flee the room, the apartment- maybe the state. But you knew there was no point in running. Instead, you took a few long strides across the room, putting some distance between you and Bucky. It felt safer here. More comfortable.
The look on Bucky’s face nearly made you sick again.
“Sorry,” you said, flames scorching down your throat. “I-”
“No, hey- it’s okay, I get it.” He forced the saddest smile you’d ever seen. “Um, I’ll just- I’ll put this on your nightstand.” He set the glass of water down behind him and turned back to you with anguish carved into his face.
“Baby…” he sighed. “I’m so-”
“You don’t have to apologize again,” you told him . “It’s-”
A wave of dizziness crested over you, sending the world around you into chaos. Black, shiny spots shimmered on the edges of your vision. Desperately, you grabbed onto the corner of the nearby armchair in an attempt to steady yourself. Your nails dug into the upholstery as you breathed through your tremulous grip on the world.
Bucky took a small, cautious step in your direction. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m-” You listed to the side once again. “I’m gonna pass out.”
Bucky’s eyes widened, “What?”
And then you were falling. Falling forward. Black clouds obscured your vision, your ears started ringing. A gust of air fanned your face as you quickly folded toward the floor. A pair of strong arms locked around you suddenly. One encircled your waist; the other, your chest. And then you were out.
Everything was still black and cloudy; the sounds came back first.
The words were fuzzy at first, lacking any real, definable structure. But you could tell it was Bucky saying them. Could tell by his tone, his gentle voice, that he was reassuring you. The garbled, shapeless words grew slowly clearer until you finally made them out.
“I got you,” he said. “You’re okay, baby. I got you.”
A cool sensation glided across your cheek; it sent goosebumps crawling over your skin. It felt so familiar. Why did it feel so familiar? The cold, metal drifted across your skin again, and you recognized Bucky’s vibranium hand.
“You’re alright, I’m here,” he told you. “I’m right here.”
Finally, you rediscovered the ability to open your eyes. It was harder than you remembered, more taxing. But you did it. And Bucky’s face was the first thing you saw- his beautiful, anxious face. He sat next to you on the bed, leaning over you with unparalleled worry.
“Hey,” his brow creased with concern. “How are you feeling?”
It took a moment for you to formulate the words, but eventually, you managed an “I’m fine.”
And technically speaking, you were. You weren’t dizzy or nauseous anymore. You hadn’t been injured when you blacked out- Bucky didn’t allow that to happen. So, physically speaking, ‘fine’ was accurate.
But the embarrassment burned your face; you were certain that your skin must be scorching to the touch. It was all just so dramatic. So over the top. The sobbing, the vomiting, the fainting… It was like something out of a soap opera.
“Are you sure?” he asked. His voice was still thin, still brittle with concern.
You gave a cautious nod, “Yeah. I swear.”
He relaxed the tiniest amount. But if you knew anything about him, you knew he’d remain hypervigilant for the rest of the night, just in case. Hell, he’d probably remain hypervigilant for at least a week, ready to save you if need be.
“Thanks for catching me, Buck.”
“Yeah- of course,” a small smile crept across his face. “Always, baby.”
He ghosted his thumb over your cheek again, “Is this- has this ever happened before?” he asked, “Or is it something new?”
He worried more than anyone you’d ever known. And always about you. You kicked yourself for thinking he would ever stray. For thinking that he didn’t care.
“It hasn’t happened in a long time, but I used to pass out a lot when I was younger. Whenever I was really-” You cut your sentence off at the knees.
He eyed you, “Whenever you were really what?”
There was no sense in saying it. Bucky already felt guilty enough, adding to his shame wasn’t going to help.
“When you were what?” he asked again, more insistent this time. Anxiety practically dripped from his words.
You sighed. “Whenever I was really upset. Or extremely stressed.”
Bucky matched your sigh with one of his own. His was heavier, weighed down by his responsibility for your episode. He gently stroked your face once more, but pulled away before his thumb could sweep the entire length of your cheek bone. He tucked his hands safety at his sides.
“Sorry,” he said. It was almost imperceptible.
“No, I’m-” you began to try and sit upright.
“Okay, hey, let’s just take it slow, alright? I don’t think you should get up yet.”
But you were determined to sit up. If you continued to lie there, Bucky would continue to dote on you. To wring his hands. And it would only increase the evening’s embarrassing dramatics.
Much to Bucky’s dismay, you didn’t listen to his cautionary words. You pushed yourself up to a seated position without difficulty and rested your back against the headboard.
In a flash, Bucky was on his feet. He stood right against the bed, his hands anxiously hovering over you, poised to save you at a moment’s notice. If you began listing toward the edge of the bed, he’d catch you. Again.
But no such incident occurred. You were perfectly steady, perfectly safe. You accepted the glass of water he offered you for the second time and drained it in a matter of seconds.
“Do you want some more?” he asked, already heading for the kitchen, “I’ll go get-”
“No, no, I’m okay,” you said. “I want you to stay here- I wanna talk to you.”
Bucky halted in the doorway, frozen. Dread bloomed in his eyes. He lost his grip on the glass in his hand and barely reacted quickly enough to stop it from shattering.
“Oh. Okay. Yeah…” he said; his words has a wounded quality about them.
He took a few slow steps toward the bed but stayed at a cautious distance. His shoulders tensed, his jaw tightened. He sucked in a sharp breath and coiled his metal hand into a tight fist. He seemed to be waiting for something, expecting something.
But after waiting only a few short moments, he spoke again.
“You don’t- you don’t actually have to say it, if that’s okay. I don’t think I could handle hearing the words,” a broken smile flashed across his face for a split second. “But I understand. I won’t beg you reconsider- I get it. And I’m sorry, for what it’s worth- if it’s worth anything.”
“What?”
He placed the empty glass on your nightstand and headed for the closet.
“I’m just gonna grab a few things. Some clothes and stuff. And then I’ll-” he sighed, “And then I’ll get out of your hair.”
You shook your head, “What are you talking about, Buck? I just said I wanted us to talk-”
“I know, sweetheart.” Something in his words sounded like begging. Like pleading for mercy. “And I know I need to let you say your piece, but I don’t know if I can h-handle it. At least not right now. And I know that’s selfish of me. And I’m sorry. But I’m-”
He was practically falling apart at the seams. Parts of him seemed to be peeling away, stripping him down to his most raw, vulnerable self. His hands shook. His voice wavered. His breathing came in shallow, erratic bursts. His body was determined to self-destruct before you could deliver the final, deadly blow.
You jumped out of bed on unsteady feet, your arms outstretched toward him. If you could reach his side and anchor him to the earth quickly enough, maybe you could stave off the panic attack that loomed on his horizon.
He, of course, protested. He tried to say something, something cautioning you against getting up in such a hurry. Against running across the room. But his voice barely carried any weight.
“Hey, it’s okay. We’re okay.” Your hands cradled his face, “Breathe, baby. I don’t want you to leave. I want you here.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. His hands found your waist. And he dragged deep, even breaths into his lungs. He was so focused, so concentrated on staying above water that you weren’t sure he heard your whispered reassurances. But you voiced them anyway. Just in case he could hear you. In case your words helped him somehow.
It was a long time before he came back to you. But you waited patiently for him. As you always did.
When he finally opened his eyes, he looked you over slowly, drinking you in as though seeing you for the first time. The panic had dissipated from his expression, leaving tentative relief in its wake. It seemed that he was just grateful you were still there. Grateful that you hadn’t cut your losses and left him in the dust.
Finally, he spoke. It was a genuine question. No levity. No humor.
“You still love me?”
It crushed you.
“Of course- of course, I do, Buck.” Your hands slipped from his cheeks, down his chest, and wound around his back. He pulled you tighter, crushing you against his body.
“Even after-”
“Yes,” you said against his chest.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. About tonight- about all of it.” He smoothed his hand up and down your back in an endless loop. “I know this hasn’t been easy on you. I know I hurt you. And it’s just so- I’m done working with her. I promise.”
This conversation felt a bit too familiar. Hadn’t this happened before? Hadn’t he already offered to quit? And hadn’t you stopped him? It seemed that you were trapped in a timeloop of sorts, forced to endlessly relive this version of reality. You were about to, once again, stop him from quitting, but he spoke before you had the chance.
“I know what you’re gonna say, but I can’t do this anymore. I can feel-” he cleared his throat, forcing the emotion down. “I can feel you slipping away. And I can’t keep putting what we have at risk-”
“Buck,” you sighed, “I trust you. Tonight wasn’t your fault. And if you need to keep working with-”
“No.”
And that was it on the subject. He wasn’t open to any arguments or rebuttals.
“I’m not losing you over this,” he insisted. “I know you want to be supportive, but nothing is worth losing you.”
It was quiet- inaudible, really. But you mustered up a “thank you” that only someone with enhanced senses could’ve heard.
The relief brought tears to your eyes. Never before had anyone actually chosen you like this. Never before had anyone dropped everything for you because they wanted to. It was a new feeling for you, and you wondered how you’d survived this long without it.
But the relief only lasted so long.
“What about Hydra? If they’re getting stronger, if they’re coming back, shouldn’t you-”
Bucky shook his head, “The team can take care of it without me. I’ve given them everything I can; they know everything I know. And they have the drive now.” He shrugged, “They don’t need me anymore.”
The two of you remained locked in a tight embrace. A comfortable silence settled around your bodies. And for the first time in months, the suspicious voice in your head was quiet. There were no doubts, no fears. Only comfort. Finally, comfort.
“I’m sorry I reacted like that.” You unearthed your face from Bucky’s chest and did your best to look up at him. “The crying and the vomiting and the passing out, it’s…” you rolled your eyes and let out a huff, “it was a lot.”
He tightened his grip around you.
“No, don’t be sorry. I’ve been- I’ve kind of been torturing you for months. I put you in such a… I put you in a terrible position- the worst position. And I wasn’t even there for you. I kept hurting you and leaving you and- and then tonight with the…” he shook his head. “I can’t imagine what that felt like for you.”
“But I-” You struggled against his inhuman strength until he begrudgingly loosened his grip and allowed you enough room to really look at him- though he refused to let go completely. “I made this all about me,” you said, disgusted. “She-” you had to force yourself to say the words; they tasted like vinegar. “She kissed you against your will. I know what that’s like, it’s not fun. And I made it about me- it was selfish.”
“Sweetheart-”
“What happened tonight wasn’t your fault.” Your words were steadfast. Unflinching. “I should’ve been there for you. I should’ve been supportive. I should’ve-”
He took your face in his hands, “It’s all okay, sweetheart. I’m okay.”
“I’m sorry.” The words came out so defeated, so bathed in shame. “And I’m sorry I ever thought- I’m sorry I ever even considered that you might cheat. I know you’re not the type- of course, you’re not the type.”
“It’s okay. The late nights and the phone calls and all the-”
“It’s not just that,” you sighed, “I mean, that stuff was definitely part of it. But this whole thing just felt so…”
For a split second, you allowed your eyes to close. The memories of betrayal and infidelity clawed at you, hissing and snarling as they tore open a pit in your stomach. You gave a slight shake of your head and opened your eyes, willing the past to dissipate.
“It felt so familiar- too familiar. Like I’ve been here before.”
Bucky’s eyes widened a bit as he put the pieces together. He didn’t know much about your past relationships, just as you intended. He knew only that your exes hadn’t treated you all that well. You never went into great detail about how or why things ended, and Bucky didn’t pry. But a knowing look bloomed across his face as he allowed your words to settle over him.
“You’ve been cheated on,” he said.
You nodded, “Three times.”
A sharp gasp filled Bucky’s lungs; disgust twisted his features into a horrified mask. “Three times?”
Again, you nodded.
“In a row. We were- I was really serious about each of them. We lived together. Talked about building a future together. And then… yeah.”
Bucky was too shocked to move, to blink.
And suddenly, his disturbed stare was too much. His hands were too big and warm against your skin. His grasp was too tight. You freed yourself from his embrace and put some distance between his body and yours. The air around him was just so heavy, so hot. A similar heat scorched your cheeks as the embarrassment of your admission caught up to you; you dragged deep breaths of cool, crisp air into your lungs.
Bucky stayed right where you left him; you weren’t sure if it was out of respect or utter shock.
“Is that…” He paused, probably wondering if he should even ask. You nodded, assuring him that it was okay. “That’s why I heard you say, ‘I can’t do this again’?”
A fresh wave of heat struck your cheeks, and you gave a reluctant nod.
“Yeah.” You rolled your eyes, “I didn’t mean to be so dramatic about it.”
“You weren’t-”
“My instincts have just been screaming at me for months, you know? And I’ve been trying really hard not to listen to them and then tonight happened and- and it was like a chorus of thousands of people screaming ‘I told you so!’” You gave a shake of your head, “It was like all the old wounds were ripped open and I was bleeding out again and it was no one’s fault but mine for not learning from my past mistakes.”
Bucky nodded.
“But it’s- I mean, obviously, this situation is different, cause you didn’t actually do anything wrong. It was just, I don’t know, muscle memory.”
“Makes sense. You’ve been through a lot. Three times is…” He stared at you with heartbreak in his eyes. “Being cheated on isn’t your fault, sweetheart. You said ‘past mistakes’ like you’re to blame, but you’re not. You know that, right?”
Your shrug was cold, detached.
Bucky took a step toward you, “Baby, it’s-”
“I didn’t even tell you the best part,” you said. A cynical smile spread across your face, “Those guys all cheated on me with an ex.”
Bucky’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“Yeah,” you leaned against the nearest wall, crossing your arms over your chest. Suddenly, you felt too exposed. “I know how it sounds, but it’s true. It was- it’s why I was losing my mind the whole time you and Tara were working together. I’m not this possessive, jealous person. I just- I thought the pattern was starting again.”
Bucky made a beeline toward you. He cautiously extended a hand in your direction and rested it against your cheek with a feather-light touch. There was something in his eyes, something sad and compassionate and concerned. The most genuine, heartfelt pity.
“Baby, I’m so sorry.” He wrapped his arms gently around you, “I’m so sorry. No one should have to go through that. And I never would’ve taken this job- I never would’ve worked with her. I had no idea.”
“It’s not your fault. I didn’t want you to know.”
Bucky released you from his arms and took a step back, meeting your eyeline. “Why not?”
For a few seconds, you allowed your head to dip. Your eyes closed. Your jaw tensed. Speaking to Bucky openly and honestly wasn’t hard. He was the last person to judge or mock; he always listened with and open mind and open heart. But some things were hard to admit, even to him. He deserved the truth, though. Didn’t he? He deserved to know why you felt this way. Why you’d grown nervous at the first mention of Tara all those months ago.
“Because it’s embarrassing. Because I feel like…” you raised your head but deftly avoided eye contact. “I feel like I have this weird, very specific curse, or something. Like there’s something about me that pushes people back into the arms of their ex. Like something about being with me is so…” disgust colored your voice, “so awful that- that it kind of gives people a wakeup call, or something. And it helps them realize that the person they left behind is way, way better than anything I could ever offer them.”
He gave you the saddest smile you’d ever seen, “Sweetheart, that’s not true-”
“Maybe if it had only happened once. Or even twice. But what’s that thing they say, ‘once is random, twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern’?” The half-hearted shrug you threw his way was almost too pathetic. “When this kind of things happens to you three times- in a row- it makes you wonder if you’re the problem.”
A heavy silence filled the room. Bucky was still, his eyes trained on you. You fidgeted under his gaze, picking at the last remnants of one of your nails. The voice inside your head wailed. It wondered why Bucky wasn’t refuting your argument. Why he was completely silent. It feared that he agreed with you. That he’d taken your words to heart and finally seen the light, finally realized that there really was something wrong with you. That Tara was the better choice. That he was to be number four.
The urge to slap yourself across the face surged through you. There you were, doubting him once again. Projecting your problems onto him. Suspecting him of things he had never done- would never do. It took all of your strength, but you wrangled those skeptical, distrusting thoughts and shoved them into a dark corner of your mind.
“But um, I know that this is my issue, not yours,” you said. “It’s something I need to work on. Cause it’s not fair of me to- I shouldn’t have put all of my shit on you. I know you’d never-”
“I would never,” Bucky insisted. He closed the space between you and cradled your face gently in his big hands. “I would never do that to you. You’re the only person I will ever want.”
You gave a slight nod. There was something shameful in your words. “I know- I know that. But the logical part of my brain was, I don’t know, hijacked. Or something. All I could think about was…” you sighed, “All I could think about was when you how going to tell me. I wondered if you’d sit me down and say it to my face- or if you’d tell me at all. I thought maybe I’d come home from work one day and all your stuff would be gone.”
His hands left your face. But before you could mourn their absence, his arms were wrapped securely, protectively around your waist. It seemed as though he was trying to save you from the pain of your past, to shield you from the ghosts. It was the same protection you offered him when the nightmares came calling, when the weight of his Hydra days grew too heavy to carry alone.
He let out a contented sigh as your arms wound around his neck and pulled you closer until you were certain that your body and his would meld into one. His heart beat against your chest, his breath ghosted across your skin. And for a long moment, you forgot the fear and agony that had plagued you these last few months. For a long moment, it was perfect.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised, “Ever.”
“I know,” your arms tightened around his neck. “I’m sorry for being so suspicious. And so upset. It’s not that I don’t trust you, I-”
Just then, he pulled away, just enough that his eyes could meet yours.
“I know you trust me. But you had plenty reason to be upset. And suspicious.” He brushed a kiss against your forehead, “You’ve been through a lot. It’s not your fault- your instincts were trying to protect you.”
“But-”
“No. No ‘buts’. Okay?” He was steadfast, almost stern. “You thought you recognized a pattern from your past, and you were scared. But you were just doing your best with the information you had. And that’s enough. You reacted in a way that makes sense, given the context. You don’t have to apologize or browbeat yourself for it. Okay?”
He eyed you for a long while until you gave him an unenthusiastic ‘okay’.
“And you aren’t cursed, by the way,” he asserted. “There is nothing wrong with you. There is nothing about you that is going to send me running back to Tara or any of my other exes. You are…” His intense expression softened, melting into the purest form of adoration. “Everything to me. I could never want anyone more than I want you. Everything that I’ve been through- I would do it again. All of it. Because it led me to you-”
A quiet laugh left your chest.
“I’m dead serious,” he said, his expression grave. “I’d go back and do all of it again- I wouldn’t change a single thing. If it brought me to you, I’d do it in heartbeat.”
There was no more humor in your expression, no more laughter bubbling on your surface, because he meant it. He really would repeat every heinous, awful thing that had ever happened to him- just to get back to you. Without a word, your tucked yourself against Bucky’s chest once again, and allowed his arms to crush you into his body.
He was the good, trustworthy, loving man you always knew him to be. He was gracious. Understanding. Compassionate. Better than you ever dreamed. Better than you thought you deserved. He wasn’t a rerun of your past. No, he was a fresh, blank page. A clean slate. A brand-new story. For the first time, you didn’t have to worry about soul-crushing plot twists. You didn’t have to fear that the story might end prematurely, or that the next page might bring heartbreak.
Your story and his were inextricably wound together, and that’s how they’d remain.
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