Summary: You were hoping to sneak away after being at your fathers for a summer party, but Bucky has other ideas.
Warnings: Smut 18+ ONLY, oral (f receiving), fingering, edging, p in v sex, Bucky is a menace in this okay?
Part 1 || Bucky Masterlist || Masterpost
The sound of the party going on outside grew muffled as you shut the window to your old room.
Taking a deep breath, you sighed and let your shoulders drop into a slouch before you kicked off your heels, humming to yourself once your feet were finally flat on the floor again.
mean dom! male! stripper! reader giving a lap dance to a whimpery touch deprived bucky???? With the look don’t touch rule???? Bucky comes in his bants and gets all blushy??? Lots of dirty talk and praise??? Bucky calls reader ‘sir’?
you write a lot of great fics and i love them so much thank you gor brightening my day with your fics!
-🎤
Private Hours
$ log - congressman!bucky barnes came seeking refuge from the weight of his own power, lost in a haze of bourbon and neon. for you, it was just another shift until you realised that beneath the tailored suit lay an eager mess.
$ warn --nsfw --dubcon(light) --dom!gn!reader --mean!exotic-dancer!reader --sub!congressman!bucky --needy!bucky --praise --dry-humping --semi-public --intox(alc, light) --begging --titles(Sir)
$ wc -w 1.6k
$ cd masterlist / bucky-barnes
# authors-note = thank you for enjoying my work!!
# note = focused more on needy!bucky than reader tbh. some interpretation of a lapdance, but tbh you're just riding his thigh.
The club is a throat of crimson light and thick smoke, the kind of place where time feels suspended between the thumping bass and the low murmur of desperate conversations.
Bucky sits hunched in a deep velvet booth, the expensive bourbon in his glass untouched for several minutes. He's spent the last hour staring at nothing, letting the alcohol numb the sharp edges of his responsibilities. Sam had mentioned this place something about low lights and late nights for when the world gets too loud — and god, he needed the distraction.
Watching the dancers move through the haze, he feels a ghost of a memory; the way bodies swayed in speakeasies back in his good forty's, before the world turned to steel and politics.
It's not hard to find men like him here tired, powerful men who have spent their entire lives holding everything together, only to come here to let it all unravel. They're fixtures in these places, a ghost among the living, seeking a darkness that matches the one behind his own ribs.
Then, you spot him. Congressman Barnes.
You've been watching him from your podium for twenty minutes, tracking the way his broad shoulders tense under his tailored suit and the way his jaw remains locked even as he sips his drink. He's delicious — not just because of the hunger rolling off him in waves, but because of the sheer amount of control he's trying to maintain.
You make your move with practiced, predator grace, weaving through the crowd until you reach his booth.
You don't ask permission. you simply saunter into his space, letting the heat of your body invade his bubble before you make contact. as you straddle him, your thighs pressing against his hips. Leaning down close, your face inches from his, you let him drink in the sight of you before you speak.
"Hey there, stranger," you purr, your voice a low vibration that cuts through the thumping bass. "You look like you're carrying the weight of the whole damn world on those shoulders — what's your poison tonight?"
You watch his throat bob as he swallows, his eyes tracking the movement of your lips with an intensity that betrays him. You assume he's just another corporate shark, another man who pays for this kind of attention because it's easier than feeling anything real. Men like that — who live behind glossy-wooden desks and ironclad contracts — are used to this. They're used to buying a moment of distraction.
But Bucky isn't.
There's something different in the way he looks at you, not just hunger, but genuine bewilderment. He's entranced, completely caught.
He doesn't have that practiced, cynical smirk that the other men in this room wear like armour. Instead, his pupils dilate until his irises are thin rings, his mouth parting slightly as he tries to formulate a response that doesn't come out strangled.
"I... Bourbon," he manages to rasp, the word slurred slightly, though not from lack of alcohol from the shock of your proximity.
You chuckle, a low, knowing sound. He's clearly not used to being hunted like this.
You reach down, your fingers brushing against the glass in his unsteady grip, guiding it back to the table. "Let's put that away for a moment, shall we? You need something stronger to handle this."
You shift your weight, settling more firmly against him, barely giving him any time to process the invitation before you begin to move.
You start with slow, hypnotic circles of your hips, deliberately seeking out the friction of your hips. You watch his eyelids flutter, the controlled composure of a statesman dissolving into the raw vulnerability of a man who hasn't been touched like this in decades.
He takes another swallow of bourbon, but it's not enough; he needs the liquid to smooth over the jagged edges of his desire, to numb the shame that threatens to surface even as his body betrays him.
When your hips roll against his cock through the thin barrier of fabric, a broken whine escapes his throat a sound he would never permit himself in public.
He reaches out instinctively, fingers twitching to grip your waist, to anchor himself to the only solid thing in this haze, but you catch his wrists mid air. You hold them firmly against the velvet, your expression one of amused condescension. "Hands to yourself, Congressman," you murmur, your voice cutting through the bass like silk over steel.
"Please, I just —" he begs, the word cracking on his lips. It's undignified, pathetic even, the way he shudders under your touch while his hands remain trapped. "Let me touch you."
He's a man who commands rooms, who debates policy and stares down adversaries. But here, under the weight of your hips and the sharp bite of your gaze, he's nothing but a starving animal.
You lean down close, your breath hot against his ear as you continue to grind, slow and punishing.
"Wat was that?" you coo, your voice dripping with false sweetness. "I don't think I heard you properly, Mr Barnes. You're in my establishment now — you don't get to demand things."
You pull back just enough to meet his blown out pupils, watching the way his throat works as he swallows hard. "Try again. and this time, show some respect to your host."
Bucky's chest heaves against the constraints of his button down shirt, his eyes tracking your every movement with a desperate, helpless fascination. He's drowning, and he knows it, but he doesn't want to be saved.
"Sir," he chokes out, the word tasting like surrender and salvation all at once. his cheeks burn hotter at the admission, the humiliation of his position warring with the overwhelming pleasure of your friction. "Please. Sir —I can't —"
You chuckle, a low, dangerous sound that vibrates through his chest. You shift your weight, grinding harder against the bulge straining beneath his tailored trousers, making his hips jerk involuntarily. "That's better, Mr Barnes, attaboy" you praise him, though the condescension in your tone makes his breath hitch. "See? you're learning so fast — maybe there's hope for you after all."
You notice it before he does the way his breathing becomes shallow and uneven, the way his thighs tense beneath you. he's close, teetering on the edge of losing what little composure he has left. you lean down, your lips brushing his temple as you continue that slow, punishing grind.
You know exactly how that friction feels against his lap, and you know he can't do a goddamn thing about it.
"Look at you," you coo, your voice dripping with mock sympathy. "All that power, all those impressive speeches and sharp suits, and here you are, undone by a little attention."
You shift again, a slow, rolling pressure that forces a strangled noise from the back of his throat — not quite a whimper, but something dangerously close to a growl that breaks halfway through. His knuckles turn white where they press against the velvet, muscles corded in his arms as he fights the instinct to reach for you. He looks wrecked, his usual stoicism crumbling under the relentless rhythm of your hips.
"Please, please I —," he chokes out, the word less of a request and more of a surrender. His fingers twitch against the velvet, aching to grab your hips, to anchor himself against the storm you're creating, but he's paralysed by the sheer audacity of your cruelty. "I just — fuck — I just —"
"Just what?" you murmur, leaning in until your breath ghosts over his lips. "You want me to stop? Or you want me to finish what I started?"
He can't answer. He can only let out a broken, guttural sound as you roll your hips one more time, applying a devastating amount of pressure directly against the sensitive head of his cock through the fabric. The friction is too precise, too deliberate.
Bucky's messy, little orgasm hits him sends his hips bucking upward against yours. A raw, unvarnished groan tears from his throat a sound far too loud for a man in his position as he spills himself helplessly against the restrictive fabric of his trousers. His entire frame trembles, muscles locking tight before gradually going limp as the aftershocks roll through him, leaving him panting and utterly undone in the crimson haze.
"There you go," you murmur, satisfied as you watch him unravel. The vulnerability in his eyes is delicious, but the moment is already over for you.
Without a second of hesitation, you shift off his lap. The sudden absence of your heat leaves him feeling exposed and abandoned.
You don't offer a hand to steady him, nor do you linger to witness the wreckage of his composure. You stand up smoothly, adjusting your outfit with the detached grace of someone who has just finished a mundane task.
The sudden absence of your body leaves him shivering in the cool air of the booth, his chest heaving as he stares up at you with dazed, unfocused eyes.
"Try to remember yourself before you head back, Congressman," you drawl, your voice returning to that icy, professional register. "You wouldn't want them seeing you looking this — this dishevelled."
You don't wait for him to find his words or his dignity. You turn on your heel and saunter away, your hips swaying in a slow, confident rhythm that mocks his recent surrender. You weave through the smoke and the bodies, leaving him behind in the crimson shadows, already forgotten as you make your way back toward your podium.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus @rosemint-tea @sheriff-bodecker @mathcat345 @infinictus
❝ thunderbolts!bucky x PR!assisstant!reader ❞
── the new avengers need better publicity, you need eight more hours in every day, yet what's supposed to be a silly one-off carnival prize turns into something you never thought about needing before. and now, can't stop.
⤷ tags: some fluff, carnival/fair, kissing booth so, kissing, but not reader and bucky 💔 the new avengerz need a sitcom and this is it, workaholism and burnout, emotional exhaustion + unhealthy work-life balance, manipulative boss/employer (fuck valentina till we die unless i need her for a plot device) fake date turned real, sweet bucky barnes, not beta read we die like men ⋮ warnings: valentina is a terrible and manipulative boss and doesnt care! (#loreaccurate)
˗ˏˋ ꒰ june’s note ꒱ ˎˊ˗
── guys i cant stawp BLURSHING I LOVE THIS BUCKY SO MUCHHHHH BRUH lowk i dont even care if this flops bc i love him so bad ive already come back to reread this like eight million times.
series masterlist.
There are exactly three kinds of phone calls that happen after 2:17am.
The first are emergencies. The second are mistakes. The third belong to Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.
Your ears buzz with your ringing phone from beneath the dim blue glow of your apartment television, half-curled on the couch with paperwork balanced over your knees and takeout gone cold on the coffee table. Outside your windows, rain slicks the fire escape silver beneath the streetlights. Inside, your apartment smells faintly like coffee grounds, printer ink, and the lavender candle you forgot to blow out two hours ago. It would almost be peaceful until the screen flashes her name.
Because of course it does.
You let it ring once longer than you should before answering.
“Tell me you’re alive,” Valentina says by way of greeting.
You close your eyes. “Wouldn't answer if I wasn't.”
“Cute. I need Coney Island locked down by Friday.”
Your stomach sinks immediately.
There’s the rustle of papers on her end, heels clicking somewhere distant, voices moving around her like orbiting satellites. Valentina never really exists in silence, she exists in motion, in disruption. In perfectly sharpened smiles and impossible demands delivered like casual suggestions.
You glance toward the calendar taped beside your kitchen, every visible square is already full. Press conference Tuesday. Magazine interview Wednesday. Damage control briefing Thursday. A breakfast segment Friday morning where you'll have to remind John Walker to not call a reporter a communist on live television.
Again.
And somewhere between all of that, you’re supposed to sleep.
“Locked down for what?” you ask carefully, already knowing you won’t like the answer.
“The festival.”
Your face scrunches to yourself as you click the television off.
“The what?”
“The promo event for the New Avengers initiative.” She says it like this has always existed. Like you’ve simply forgotten. “Public morale is still shaky after New York.”
Shaky, that’s one word for it. Another might be catastrophic.
The Void incident had left the city bruised in ways news reports couldn’t fully capture. Broken storefronts, candlelight vigils, protestors outside federal buildings. Viral footage looping endlessly online and every headline asking the same question in different fonts:
Who cleans up the people meant to save everyone else?
Valentina’s answer, apparently, is a carnival.
You press your fingers against your forehead. “You want me to plan a festival in four days.”
“A patriotic community outreach event,” she corrects smoothly. “Family friendly. Charming. Nostalgic Americana. Think hot dogs, ferris wheels, smiling children.”
“You’re describing propaganda.”
“I’m describing public relations. Which is your department.”
Your department. Which, in practice, means every department. You handle schedules, rewrite interviews, stop Alexei from drunkenly live-streaming classified conversations. You remind Walker not to threaten journalists. You once spent six straight hours convincing a publication not to run an article titled THE WINTER SOLDIER: CAN HE FEEL LOVE? You coordinate meetings, smooth scandals, track medication schedules, answer six phones at once, and carry emergency aspirin in every handbag you own because stress headaches have become less of an inconvenience and more of a personality trait.
Sometimes you think your real superpower is surviving on four hours of sleep and shitty vending machine coffee.
“You’ll have the team there,” Valentina continues. “Photo opportunities. Meet-and-greets. Humanize them.”
Humanize them as if they aren’t human already, messy and difficult and exhausted human beings carrying too much aching violence in their bones. You think of Yelena rolling her eyes through interviews while secretly making sure catering staff eat before security does. Bob nervously apologizing every time he takes up space in a room. Ava standing closest to exits without realizing it. Bucky Barnes sitting through press briefings with the expression of a man enduring minor dental surgery.
Your chest tightens a little at the thought of him. Not because you know him well, you don’t, not really. But you know the shape of him around the edges. The quiet way he lingers after meetings to stack abandoned coffee cups when nobody’s looking. The way he always notices when you haven’t eaten lunch. The low rasp of his voice saying your name carefully, like he’s worried about handling it wrong. You know he watches you when Valentina gets especially cruel. You know he hates these events, and now you’re about to force him into another one.
“There’s one more thing,” Valentina says.
Of course there is.
“The board wants something memorable.”
You stare blankly at your dark television screen. “…Define memorable.”
Valentina's laugh is all you get before the call clicks.
By the grace of cold brew and a supercharged energy drink, your own concoction that you only resort to in times of ultimate need, three days later Coney Island looks like someone tried to shove patriotism and Valentine’s Day into a blender.
Workers haul string lights across vendor stalls while event coordinators scream into headsets. Red-and-white banners snap violently in the ocean wind. Somewhere down the boardwalk, someone is testing a carousel organ loud enough to qualify as psychological warfare. Your clipboard is tucked against your chest while three phones vibrate simultaneously in your coat pocket and you haven’t sat down in nine hours. There are very few moments in life where you can physically feel a migraine settle in the back of your mind like a sedimentary rock, but this is definitely one of them. You pinch the bridge of your nose hard enough to see stars while the vendor beside you shifts awkwardly beneath your silence.
Behind you, Bucky's waiting beside a post. You can feel the weight of his stare somewhere between your shoulder blades. Not impatient or angry, just deeply suspicious in the way stray dogs eye thunderstorms.
You turn slowly, daring your approach.
The ocean wind catches strands of his hair as you walk over, dark and unruly from the humidity. He’s dressed down today—henley beneath a leather jacket, gloves tucked into one pocket like he’d debated wearing them and decided against it. The afternoon sun cuts sharp across the tired lines of his face, then his eyes flick past you toward the booth. Toward the giant pink sign with his name on it.
His expression goes completely blank which is somehow worse.
“Okay,” you say carefully. “Before you react—”
“Kissing booth.”
“Technically it’s more of a charity—”
“Kissing booth.”
You inhale slowly through your nose.
“It's a temporary kissing-adjacent promotional… station?”
Bucky stares at you, and you fearfully stare back. Somewhere nearby, Alexei loudly shouts something in Russian followed by what sounds suspiciously like metal bending. The boardwalk rattles with activity around you. Workers finish nailing the last of the stakes while vendors wheel carts into position. Someone tests the speakers again, blasting an aggressively cheerful rendition of Love Shack across Coney Island and you swear for a whole minute the universe is laughing at you.
Bucky gestures vaguely toward the booth like he’s not entirely convinced it’s real yet. “You want me to sit in there.”
“No,” you say quickly. “Well, yes. Kind of. This is just— there was a mix-up with the booth assignments.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Assignments?”
You pull the clipboard tighter against your chest.
Because, yes, assignments. The assignments you had spent the last forty-two hours fighting to organize while surviving exclusively on caffeine and stress. It had started reasonably enough, Valentina wanted a carnival and you had insisted if the Thunderbolts were going to do public outreach, they needed something interactive instead of forcing traumatized assassins on some stage for another dead-eyed press conference.
So you made booths.
Alexei immediately claimed the strength tester after nearly breaking it during setup. Yelena requested “something dangerous but whimsical,” which somehow became axe throwing and tightrope demonstrations after three separate insurance waivers. Ava chose disappearing tricks because, according to her, “I already vanish, might as well monetize it.” Walker took ring toss with the terrifying intensity of a man preparing for combat. And Bob—sweet, nervous Bob spent two entire nights teaching himself how to make balloon animals from YouTube tutorials because he wanted “kids to have a nice time.”
It should have worked perfectly and it almost had. Until Bucky never handed in his assignment slip. You had reminded him three times, once after a briefing, once outside the elevator and once while he was making coffee at two in the morning in the compound kitchen, sleeves shoved up his forearms while rain hammered the windows.
He’d looked exhausted that night. Distant. You remembered him rubbing a hand over his face and mumbling, “I’ll get it to you tomorrow.” Tomorrow had become three days later, three days later had become now, and now every booth was filled except one.
You clear your throat. “The thing is Mr. Barnes, since I didn’t get your slip back in time, you’re on the last rotation for the—”
“No.” The word comes instantly, flat and immediate.
You blink. “But Mr. Barnes—”
“No.”
The breeze snaps sharply through the velvet curtains behind you. Bucky folds his arms now, jaw tightening beneath the scruff.
“I’m not doing that.”
His voice isn’t harsh, and that’s the problem. If he sounded angry, maybe this would be easier. Instead he just sounds tired, sunken bone-deep tired. Like the very idea of sitting beneath a neon sign while strangers lined up to kiss him feels less embarrassing and more fundamentally cruel.
Guilt twists hot beneath your ribs and you lower your voice instinctively.
“We can figure something else out.”
And you mean it. You’ll rearrange the rotations. Move people around. Take over a booth yourself if you have to. You can fix this. You always fix this. But before another word leaves your mouth, heels click sharply across the boardwalk behind you and every muscle in your spine tightens immediately.
Valentina. Of course.
She appears beside you draped in cream silk and diamonds despite the salt-heavy wind, sunglasses perched elegantly atop perfectly styled hair. She takes one look at the booth, then at Bucky standing there like he’d rather be shot, and smiles.
Not kindly.
“Oh, good,” she says smoothly. “We’re discussing the crowd favorite.”
Bucky’s expression darkens instantly. “I said no.”
Valentina doesn’t even pause. “Put up or shut up, Barnes. You signed a contract.”
Silence drops hard between them, so hard that the nearby laughter buzzes faintly across the wind. The ferris wheel creaks overhead somewhere down the pier, each sound that once felt distant now nearly echoed in the silence.
Bucky stares at her with the particular stillness of someone barely holding himself together.
“You can’t seriously think this is a good idea.”
“I don’t particularly care whether it’s a good idea,” Valentina replies. “I care whether it works.”
“It’s humiliating.”
“It’s publicity.”
“It’s demeaning.”
“It’s one afternoon.”
You watch his jaw flex sharply as he looks away first out toward the ocean, toward gray water crashing endlessly against the pylons beneath the boardwalk and suddenly you remember that article again. THE WINTER SOLDIER: CAN HE FEEL LOVE? You remember ripping it from a reporter’s hands before Bucky could see it, remember staying late to bury the piece before publication, remember the way people look at him sometimes—not like a person, but like something to dissect. A weapon wearing human skin.
Your chest aches unexpectedly.
“Val,” you start quietly, “I can figure something else out, maybe we should just—”
“No,” she says simply.
Then, to Bucky, “You want the public to stop fearing you and seeing you as this weapon of mass destruction? Then give them something else to look at.”
The words land harder than she probably intends, or maybe exactly as intended. Bucky goes still, he's not angry or defensive, just closed off somewhere distant behind his eyes. You hate that expression. Hate how familiar it’s become around the compound. Because every time someone talks about him instead of to him, he gets that same look on his face like he’s already halfway gone from the room.
For a long moment, nobody speaks, then Bucky lets out a quiet humorless laugh and shakes his head once.
“Unbelievable.”
“You’ll survive.”
His eyes flick toward you then and somehow that’s worse. Because he isn’t looking at Valentina trying to asses the best way to dispose of her. He’s looking at you, not accusingly, he doesn't even look upset, really. Just tired. There's the gentle crinkle at the corner of his eyes that if you didn't know any better, looked apologetic, like he knows you’re caught in the middle of this too.
You swallow hard.
“I’m sorry,” you say softly.
Something shifts briefly in his expression at that, something small enough you almost miss it. Then he sighs through his nose and drags a hand back through his hair.
“When do I start.”
Valentina smiles immediately, victorious. "Gates open in ten.”
By eight-thirty, Coney Island is glowing.
Not metaphorically, but literally glowing. Strings of carnival lights burn gold against the dark sky while neon signs flicker to life across the boardwalk. The ferris wheel spins slow and bright beside the ocean, all color and motion reflected against black water. Music drifts through the salt-heavy air—old pop songs, laughter, barkers shouting over games, the distant metallic scream of roller coasters cutting through the evening.
And somehow, it works. You stand near the main stage clutching your three phones and a clipboard while the crowd surges around the booths in thick waves of people. Families, tourists, influencers and reporters. Children running around with cotton candy bigger than their heads. Nobody’s yelling, nobody’s protesting, nobody’s asking who died in New York. For the first time in weeks, the New Avengers aren’t being looked at like loaded weapons. They’re just people. Messy, strange people at a carnival. Alexei becomes an instant favorite with teenage boys after “accidentally” lifting the strength tester clean out of the ground during a demonstration. He spends the next hour flexing for selfies while loudly insisting he could have beaten Steve Rogers in arm wrestling.
Ava disappears mid-conversation often enough to make children shriek with delight. Yelena’s booth develops the longest line after she starts mocking participants while perfectly splitting balloons with throwing axes.
“You throw like frightened raccoon,” she tells one businessman flatly. “But good effort.”
Walker gets weirdly competitive over ring toss and starts coaching children with military precision.
And Bob ends up surrounded by kids hanging onto every balloon animal he makes like he’s performing actual magic. You buy a ticket from his booth for good measure after you catch him smiling to himself at one point while a little girl hugs a balloon dinosaur to her chest like treasure.
It’s good, better than good. It’s human.
Your chest loosens slowly throughout the evening in tiny increments you barely notice. Every successful interview, every laugh, every smiling photo opportunity. Every headline you know tomorrow won’t be catastrophic. Maybe this is what relief feels like you think, or maybe it’s just exhaustion finally numbing you properly. Either way, you’ll take it. You weave through the crowd toward the last booth on the pier, heels clicking over old wood planks sticky with spilled soda and ocean mist.
You already know what you’ll find before you get there. Chaos, soft red lipped line chaos. The line for Bucky’s booth stretches nearly halfway down the boardwalk because of course it does. The pink curtains glow warmly beneath hanging fairy lights while the giant KISSING BOOTH sign sways slightly overhead. Ticket stubs litter the counter. Someone has thrown rose petals everywhere for reasons you genuinely cannot begin to understand.
And seated inside like a deeply reluctant beauty pageant winner is Bucky Barnes. Miserable, popular, radiantly handsome and absolutely doomed.
You stop just outside the booth and watch for a moment unnoticed. He’d compromised eventually, after nearly an hour of arguing how the booth was going to run. No actual kissing, that had been the line. People could approach, take pictures, kiss his cheek if they wanted, maybe the corner of his mouth if they were brave enough and respectful about it.
That was it. No lap sitting, no flirting encouraged, no weird requests. And honestly? That restraint somehow makes the whole thing worse. Or better, you’re not entirely sure. Because Bucky sitting there all broad shoulders and reluctant charm while blushing every time someone kisses near his mouth has apparently become the event of the century.
A girl in her twenties leans over the booth counter carefully. “Can I kiss your cheek?”
Bucky sighs like a man moments from death. “Yeah. Sure.”
She kisses just beside his mouth instead and his ears turn immediately pink. The entire group of friends behind her starts screaming and you have to look away before he notices you smiling.
“You enjoying yourself?”
The voice startles you slightly, Bucky’s watching you now from beneath the booth lights, one brow lifted seemingly catching your not-so-slick smile.
You recover quickly. “I’m enjoying that nobody’s been arrested.”
“Still plenty of time.”
Someone shoves another handful of raffle tickets into the jar beside him so much so that the thing is nearly overflowing now.
You eye it suspiciously.
“You realize you’re winning by a concerning margin.”
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“No,” you murmur. “You just accidentally became the main attraction.”
Another woman approaches the booth already clutching her phone for a selfie. Bucky gives you one last tired look before turning back toward the crowd. And maybe it’s the lights, or exhaustion, or the strange warmth of the evening settling around all of you. But something about him looks softer tonight, less guarded. Not happy exactly, just a little lighter maybe, like he’s forgotten to brace for impact for a few hours.
You leave before he catches you staring.
By the end of the night, the carnival's glow grows hazy and golden with exhaustion. Children sleep against parents’ shoulders, the boardwalk smells like sugar and salt and fried dough as workers begin shutting down smaller game stalls while music drifts quieter now beneath crashing waves.
You stand offstage near the raffle table reviewing final attendance numbers when Valentina sweeps past in her silk and diamonds like she personally invented public approval.
“Excellent turnout,” she says smoothly.
You glance at the overflowing crowd gathered before the main stage. “Shockingly.”
“I’m rarely wrong.”
“You’re frequently evil, though.”
She smiles. “Occupational hazard.”
Before you can reply, she steps onto the stage to thunderous applause and immediately slips into performance. God, she’s good at it too. Warm smile, measured pauses, the exact cadence of someone manufacturing sincerity in real time.
“Tonight,” Valentina announces smoothly into the microphone, “was about rebuilding trust. About community. About reminding the world that heroes do not stand above the people—they stand beside them.”
You nearly choke.
Nearby, Yelena mutters, “If I roll my eyes harder they will fall out of skull.”
Applause erupts anyway and Valentina continues effortlessly.
"We thank you humbly for your contribution tonight, all funds will proceed to the Rebuilding Manhattan Foundation along with a hefty donation from yours truly. But enough about our success. It's time to celebrate you!"
Two workers brought out matching clear globes full of tickets.
“And now—our raffle booth winner.”
Oh, you had forgotten about the raffle.
The booth competition had been a last-minute addition. Whichever Avenger earned the most tickets throughout the evening became the grand prize, and whoever held the matching raffle ticket would win “an exclusive evening experience” with them.
You’d assumed Yelena would win. Or maybe Alexei. Certainly not—
“And by overwhelming demand,” Valentina says dramatically, “our winner is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.”
The crowd loses its mind, actual screaming and cheering erupts across the pier while spotlights swing wildly toward Bucky near the side stage.
His face goes completely blank.
“No,” he says immediately.
Walker laughs so hard he nearly folds in half. “Oh my God.”
Yelena is openly crying from laughter while Bob claps supportively while somehow also looking apologetic about it.
Bucky gets shoved toward the stage anyway beneath deafening applause. You watch him climb the steps with the expression of a man approaching his own execution as Valentina beams beside him.
“Now,” she says, lifting the massive raffle jar from his booth, “let’s see who our lucky winner is.”
You barely pay attention at first. You’re checking engagement numbers on your phone while she digs dramatically through the tickets, then she reads the number aloud.
And your stomach drops clean through the floor.
No. No, absolutely not.
You know that number because you bought exactly one raffle ticket all night at Bob’s booth. Because he'd looked so proud of himself and that stupid dinosaur balloon. It was just one ticket. Your hand fumbles for the ticket in your pocket, freezing when you feel the paper brush against your fingertips. Around you, silence spreads slowly. People start turning and looking as your blood goes cold and Valentina repeats the number. You stare down at the crumpled pink ticket as you pull it from inside your coat pocket like maybe reality will change itself if you wait long enough.
It doesn’t, unfortunately. Walker notices first, the grin that spreads across his face is instant and catastrophic.
“Oh, this is unbelievable.”
Yelena physically doubles over laughing. Bucky looks confused at first then he sees your expression and realization hits him all at once. His eyes widen slightly.
“Oh no.”
The crowd begins clapping impatiently while you briefly consider faking your own death. Instead, against every survival instinct in your body, you slowly raise the ticket and the screaming somehow gets louder.
“Oh my God,” Bob whispers delightedly.
You want the boardwalk to split open and swallow you whole. Disappointingly it leaves you whole as you climb the stage steps feeling heat crawl violently up your neck while hundreds of people cheer like this is the greatest romance of the century.
Bucky stares at you as you step beside him. He doesn't look upset, he seems more stunned than anything.
“You bought a ticket?” he asks quietly.
“It was for Bob.”
“How does that somehow makes this worse.”
Valentina appears beside you both practically glowing with satisfaction.
“Perfect,” she says even though absolutely nobody agrees with her.
Someone shoves a bouquet into your arms. Another worker places ridiculous little carnival crowns onto both your heads to roaring applause from the crowd below. Then comes the champagne bottle, you stare at it in horror while Bucky looks like he’s dissociating.
"Now how 'bout a kiss? In honor of the booth." Valentina grins, all teeth like a predator closing in on its prey. It may have sounded like a question but there was only one answer allowed.
You dared a look over to Bucky who's eyes have now dropped to the floor, if looks could kill the stage would evaporate beneath you. Clearly charity wasn't enough for Valentina, and what's a successful Da Fontaine affair without a little public humiliation?
Slowly, with a crack of feedback from the mic, she starts up. "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"
And like sheep, the crowd follows behind her, a sea of echoing voices overlapping each other in front of you until it all blended into one symphonious torture device. You think you could die right here. There had to be a way to convince your heart to give up, maybe you can feign a drop in blood sugar and faint, though you're sure Valentina would spin it off as you swooning over the—
"Goddamnit."
You don't know how you heard Bucky's voice over the cries of the crowd. You also don't know when he got so close to you. And you definitely don't know what to do with the fact that his lips are on yours. His hand ghosting the side of your forearm, fingers just barely grazing the skin leaving a strange tingle of warmth in their wake.
Just as quickly as you realized what was happening, it was over. He had stepped back to his spot, plastic crown crooked on his head and eyes back to the floor.
“Enjoy your night!” Valentina announces brightly into the microphone, shocking you back to reality.
The crowd cheers again. Pictures flash endlessly from below the stage capturing your smile that feels medically concerning. Then Valentina leans toward you subtly while applause swells around the pier. Still smiling perfectly for cameras, she murmurs from the corner of her mouth,
“Stock and popularity reports on my desk by midnight.”
You blink at her.
“You’re assigning homework during my public humiliation?”
“Adaptability is important.”
Then she steps away smoothly to wave at the crowd while you stand there beside Bucky wearing a plastic crown and holding champagne like the world’s most exhausted newlyweds. For a long moment after you step off stage neither of you speaks. Then Bucky looks over at you, looks at the flowers, the matching crowns, the absolute despair on your face. And to your horror, he laughs. Quiet and dry, the closest thing to boisterous you think he's probably capable of.
The sound hits you strangely hard beneath all the carnival lights.
“You okay there, sweetheart?” he asks softly.
You stare at him flatly, the morbid embarrassment coursing through your body not even allowing you to register the nickname that he slipped out.
“No.”
Bucky only laughs again as he finally steps off the stage.
You stayed behind for a couple hours to make sure the cleanup of the fair went smoothly, watching the vendors roll out and the workers breakdown the booths and rides with practiced ease. There's a strange serenity to it, watching a near dozen people move so fluidly despite all doing different things. And the end result is well worth it, a glittering Coney Island all to yourself. There aren't many perks that come with this jobs as the cons often outweigh the pros but it's in the little moment like these that you find yourself lucky to do what you do.
The tower is quiet by the time you get back, not wholly silent but quiet enough. The New Avengers Tower never really reaches silence anymore—not with old pipes humming through the walls, elevators sighing faintly at odd hours, distant footsteps echoing somewhere several floors away. There’s always movement lingering inside the building like it hasn’t fully decided whether it’s headquarters or home.
But compared to Coney Island, the stillness as you walk in feels deafening. The carnival lights are gone now, no echoing music, no cheering crowds. No champagne bottles shoved into your hands while strangers screamed because apparently public humiliation counts as team bonding. Just fluorescent hallway lights and exhaustion settling heavy into your bones.
The others scattered almost immediately after returning as they usually do. Walker probably disappeared toward the gym swinging some rings around his fingers he took from his booth for "practice purposes only". Yelena likely stole three leftover funnel cakes from catering “for emotional recovery.” Alexei would loudly insist tonight proved he was “man of people" and you have no doubt that Bob carefully carried his remaining balloon supplies back to storage like they’re precious cargo.
And Bucky, you don’t know where Bucky goes. Not that you look when you get there, you head straight toward your office, even if you didn't have paperwork to do it's just second nature to you now. Your arms and legs strangely yearning for the hunch of your desk chair. The room greets you exactly as you left it: dim desk lamp glowing amber over scattered paperwork, abandoned coffee cups lining the windowsill, schedules pinned crookedly across the corkboard beside your desk.
Home sweet home.
You sigh quietly and set the ridiculous bouquet onto your desk and for a second you just stare at it. The pink roses, baby’s breath and tiny glittering ribbons curled around the stems. The thing looks aggressively romantic to the point where you almost throw it away. Yet after a long moment, you find an empty vase near the filing cabinets and fill it carefully from the office sink. The flowers settle into the water slowly, softening the harshness of the room in a way you immediately resent.
Then there’s the crown. Cheap plastic silver with fake rhinestones glued along the front. You turn it over once in your hands and a laugh nearly escapes you remembering the look on Bucky’s face wearing the matching one beneath all those flashing cameras. You should throw this away too. Instead, without entirely meaning to you place it carefully on the shelf beside your desk. Right between the “World’s Best Boss” mug Bob gave you ironically and a stack of outdated press binders. You stare at it for a moment longer than necessary.
Then you sit down and go back to work, because that’s what you do.
Hours blur strangely after midnight.
The tower grows quieter floor by floor while your office remains trapped in artificial daylight from computer screens and desk lamps. You build itineraries, rewrite schedules, confirm hotels. Cross-reference security routes and everything in between for next month’s national press tour. Florida. Louisiana. Texas. Nevada. California. Washington. Every city another performance as another attempt to convince the public the world is safe in the hands of people barely holding themselves together.
Your eyes burn by one-thirty. By two, your shoulders ache, by two-forty-seven in the morning, you’re staring blankly at a spreadsheet without actually reading it.
The knock at your open office door startles you anyway.
You look up too quickly, your eyes needing a moment to adjust to the sudden change in view, and when they focus they go wide in surprise. Bucky leans against the doorway, hands shoved into the pockets of gray sweats, dark t-shirt hanging loose over broad shoulders. His hair is damp like he showered recently, slightly curled at the ends. There’s still a faint crease between his brows like he's been contemplating something for far too long.
For one disorienting second, he looks soft and domestic. Dangerously human in the warm low lighting of your office. Then you notice the plastic crown still balanced crookedly on his head.
You blink.
“…You kept it.”
He reaches up absently, touching the crown like he forgot it was there.
“Yelena tried to superglue it while I was asleep. Waiting on the solvent to set in.”
“That tracks.”
A small smile tugs briefly at his mouth before fading. Then his eyes drift over the room to the stacks of paperwork, your open laptop, the half-finished reports. You watch as his eyes slow over the vase of flowers beside your desk and the matching crown on your shelf. Something unreadable crosses his face.
“You’re still working?”
You glance back toward your screen automatically at the mention of it, your brain shifting back into work mode.
“Unfortunately.”
“It’s almost three.”
“Mhm.”
Bucky stays quiet for a moment. “So.”
“So?” You keep typing.
“Aren’t you gonna collect your reward?”
Your fingers stop over the keyboard as you look up slowly.
He’s watching you carefully now, expression unreadable beneath the soft shadows of the room. The question settles awkwardly between you. He doesn't seem like he's teasing exactly or entirely serious either.
Your stomach twists anyway.
“That’s not…” You clear your throat lightly. “It’s not like that.”
Bucky lifts a brow. “No?”
“No.”
You look back toward the spreadsheet because somehow that feels safer than looking directly at him.
“The raffle thing was just publicity. If it’d been someone else maybe they would’ve wanted the whole grand-prize experience but…” You shrug lightly. “It’s just me. You can ignore it and go about your night.”
Silence.
When you finally glance back up, Bucky is still staring at you. You can't tell if he's offended or relieved or none of the above. He's just studying you with this strange quiet intensity that makes your chest feel suddenly too tight.
“Just you,” he repeats softly.
You immediately regret the wording. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
But something about the way he says it makes it clear he’s not entirely convinced. You turn back toward your laptop quickly.
“I still have to finish these reports anyway.”
Bucky steps fully into the office then, slow and quiet against the carpet.
“You work too much, y’know?”
The words are almost too gentle.
You huff faintly. “I don’t think I work enough actually. If it was too much all this would be done by now and I’d be in bed.”
“That’s not how that works.”
“It is in this building.”
He leans against the edge of your desk now, arms folding loosely across his chest. The movement brings him closer, too close, because now you can smell soap and clean cotton and something distinctly him beneath it all. It dizzies you but your mind insists it's the lack of sleep and combined caffeine bombs running through your bloodstream instead.
“Valentina isn’t worth you being here losing sleep,” he says quietly.
The words hit harder than they should, making you stare down at the papers in front of you.
“I’m not here for Valentina.”
A beat passes.
“You’re her personal assistant.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m here for her.”
“Then what are you here for?”
The question should be easy. It isn't. Why isn't it? Your mouth opens automatically but nothing comes out and suddenly the exhaustion hits all at once. Not physically but emotionally, like a crack in the dam finally splintering beneath pressure of the water. You think about the last year, the endless damage control, the constant emergencies. The way your entire life has slowly narrowed into schedules and briefings and fixing problems before anyone notices they exist, how much of yourself you've carved out and sacrificed to the greater good of the team even when there was nothing left to give.
You think about tonight. About how happy everyone looked for a few hours, how they all seemed to just breathe and exist in peace beneath the lights, how Bucky laughed onstage beside you like he’d forgotten how tired he was. And for the first time since God knows when, you realize you genuinely don’t know why you’re still doing any of this.
The silence stretches too long.
Bucky watches you carefully now as concern beginning to soften the edges of his expression. And before you can stop yourself, the truth slips out quietly.
“…I don’t know anymore.”
The sincerity of it horrifies you instantly. You force yourself to recover after that, fast, too fast. Straightening in your chair and looking back toward your computer, rebuilding the walls before he can see through them properly. You gather the reports quickly into a neat stack.
“I’ve gotta go get these copied and fax them over to Washington,” you say lightly, voice suddenly professional again. “So feel free to let yourself out.”
You stand before he can respond.
“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes.”
The formality lands colder than intended, you feel it immediately and so does he. But neither of you says anything about it, you brush past him toward the printer room with papers clutched tightly in your hands while the office door swings softly behind you.
And Bucky stays standing there beside the flowers for a very long time.
The thing about exhaustion is that eventually it stops feeling temporary. It settles into people, becomes them. Bucky's good at noticing these kinds of things. He sees it in you that night when you walked past him out of your office. That slight crease at the corner of your eyes, the gentle downturn of your lips. It's more than just tired. It's the same exact same way he used to be after missions. Not sleepy ,or overworked but worn down from within. There’s a difference.
And unfortunately for him, once he notices something, he can’t seem to stop noticing it.
It starts innocently enough, at least that’s what he tells himself. Two weeks after the carnival, he catches sight of you asleep in one of the conference rooms at six-thirty in the morning. Not properly asleep, but the kind where your cheek rests against folded arms beside an open laptop while a spreadsheet still glows across your face. Your coffee has gone cold beside you. One heel dangles half-off your foot beneath the table.
You wake the second he opens the door on instinct, sitting up as if you were trying to reject the sleep from your skin, like your body no longer trusts rest enough to stay in it.
“Sorry,” he says automatically.
You blink at him once, clearly disoriented, before straightening too fast.
“No, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—”
“You were asleep.”
“I know.”
“You should probably do that more.”
You laugh quietly at that, not because it’s funny, because you’re too tired to respond properly. Then you grab your laptop and hurry toward another meeting before he can say anything else. And for some reason, that bothers him, more than it should.
And he starts noticing more things.
The way you’re always the first person awake in the tower. The way your office light stays on long after everyone else has gone to bed, the stack of dry-cleaning hanging behind your office door because you haven’t gone home properly in three days. How you survive almost exclusively on vending machine coffee and whatever leftovers the kitchen staff can force into your hands. How every time Valentina calls your phone, something in your shoulders visibly tightens before you answer.
And then there’s that sentence.
I don’t know anymore.
It stays lodged irritatingly somewhere in the back of his head. Because Bucky knows what it sounds like when someone loses sight of themselves. He’s spent years listening to that exact emptiness in his own voice. So one night, after watching you miss dinner again because you were reorganizing a diplomatic security route for the third time, he does something he absolutely should not do.
He starts digging.
Not maliciously, not even deeply, at first. Just enough to satisfy curiosity, that’s what he tells himself anyway. Turns out, you’re surprisingly easy to find once he starts looking. There’s an old university article buried online about graduating journalism students. Your picture sits beside it smiling brightly into the camera, younger and softer somehow, eyes alive in a way he’s never actually seen in person.
The caption beneath it reads: Aspiring investigative journalist hopes to focus on political corruption and humanitarian reporting.
Bucky stares at that sentence longer than necessary. Investigative journalist. Not PR manager, not assistant, not professional crisis cleaner. He keeps reading. There are archived campus articles under your name too. Human-interest pieces with local interviews. A profile on immigrant-owned bookstores in Brooklyn, an article about public housing funding cuts. One opinion piece angry enough to surprise a laugh out of him. Your writing was good, really good. Honest in a way most modern journalism isn’t anymore. There’s warmth in it and curiosity, the clear desperate hope of someone who thought words could still matter.
Bucky leans back slowly in his chair.
Huh.
The next part takes more effort. Internal employee records aren’t exactly public, but neither are most things he can access if he really wants to. The file paints the picture quickly. Originally: summer internship with government media relations, some resume padding. Temporary. Then came the first extension, then the job offer, then Valentina personally requested you transferred under her division after a year.
Four years later, you’re still here.
The timeline unsettles him more than expected. Because somewhere between those records, he can practically see it happening one delayed dream at a time. One promotion, one emergency, one “just until things calm down.” Until suddenly four years are gone and now you sit in fluorescent offices at three in the morning saying things like I don’t know anymore.
Bucky closes the file as agitated energy crawls beneath his skin unexpectedly. He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like how personal this feels when it shouldn’t. You’re not his responsibility. Hell, you work for Valentina which alone should make him keep his distance. Instead, he starts watching more carefully, not in a creepy way at least he desperately hopes not.
Just observant.
He notices your schedule before you even mention it aloud now. Knows when your meetings run long by the way you rub your temples afterward, knows you skip lunch on Thursdays because that’s when Valentina schedules back-to-back press briefings. Knows you take exactly nine minutes to drink your coffee every morning before the interruptions begin.
And eventually—because apparently he’s lost his mind—he taps into Valentina’s phone. It wasn't hard, not for him. He tells himself it’s because Valentina is secretive and manipulative and generally worth monitoring anyway. The fact that he immediately searches your name in her messages is entirely irrelevant.
Mostly, it’s work. Schedules, orders, and demands. Other texts read like dog commands. Move this meeting. Fix this interview. Get Barnes under control before he kills someone during press week. Bucky snorts quietly at that one, but underneath the logistics, another pattern emerges. Messages sent at absurd hours.
2:14 AM.
5:47 AM.
11:58 PM.
And every single time you answer. Immediately no matter the hour, no matter the request. One message in particular makes something cold settle heavily in his chest.
VALENTINA:
Need revised public sympathy projections before morning.
YOU:
Working on it now.
Timestamp: 3:11 AM.
Bucky checks the next message.
VALENTINA:
Also your article draft for the congressional media package was overwritten. Rewrite before briefing.
Long pause.
Then finally:
YOU:
Understood.
No complaint, no argument, nothing. Just understood. Bucky stares at the screen for a long time after that with his jaw tight because suddenly he understands something he hadn’t before. You aren’t staying because you love the work anymore, you’re staying because somewhere along the line, you stopped believing you were allowed to leave it.
And for reasons he absolutely cannot explain, that realization makes him angry.
The week the tour begins feels less like preparing for travel and more like trying to hold back the ocean with your hands. Every completed task reveals three more beneath it, every checked box spawns another checklist. You suppose that's the nature of public relations, nobody notices when things go right only when they go wrong.
So you sit alone in Conference Room Three at six-thirty in the morning surrounded by enough paperwork to qualify as structural support. The city beyond the windows is still waking up, sunlight creeps slowly between skyscrapers, painting the glass in soft gold, traffic hums faintly thirty floors below. Somewhere in the tower, coffee brews. The smell drifts down the hallway and for a moment, it reminds you of college. Early mornings in the journalism building, the campus newspaper office, stacks of articles spread across tables while everyone survived on caffeine and deadlines. Back then, exhaustion felt different, temporary and purposeful. You were tired because you were building something, not maintaining it.
The memory flickers briefly before another email notification drags you back to reality.
You sigh.
Florida. Louisiana. Flight manifests. Texas. Nevada. Security routes. North and South California. Washington. Hotel confirmations. Media schedules. Emergency contingency plans. It all blends together until the words feel foreign.
You move through the checklist automatically now, pen tapping softly against the table as you verify each item. Alexei's dietary accommodations. Bob's interview briefing packets. Yelena's legal waiver forms. Walker, God, Walker. You add another note reminding him not to argue with local reporters. Again.
The conference room door opens quietly but you don't look up.
"If that's another change request, I'm pretending not to speak English."
A pause.
"I don't think that'd work."
Your pen stills. Bucky. Of course.
You glance up briefly. He's dressed casually today—dark henley, jeans, leather jacket slung over one shoulder. His hair's tied back into a low bun at the nape of his neck. He looks rested. You try not to resent him for it.
"Morning."
"Morning."
Neither of you says anything for a moment as Bucky steps further into the room.
You immediately notice he has coffee, and because the universe enjoys cruelty, he notices you noticing. Without a word, he slides the second cup onto the table beside your paperwork. You stare at it, then at him, then back at the coffee.
"...What is this?"
"Coffee."
"I know it's coffee."
"Then we're making progress."
You blink and Bucky looks suspiciously pleased with himself as a laugh almost escapes before you stop it.
"Thank you, Mr. Barnes."
"You're welcome."
You reach for the cup and take a testing sip, it's exactly how you take it. Not too sweet, not too bitter with just enough cream.
Your stomach does something strange. "You remembered."
Bucky shrugs. "You seem to live off this stuff, you always get the same thing every morning."
That shouldn't surprise you that he knows that, but somehow it does because most people only notice your mistakes, not your coffee order. You take another careful sip and warmth settles into your chest. Unfortunately, it also makes you realize how tired you are.
Bucky sits across from you, the chair creaks softly beneath his weight. You immediately know this conversation is about to become dangerous. Not dangerous in the life-threatening sense, dangerous in the personal sense.
The kind you've spent years avoiding.
"So," he says casually.
Your eyes narrow suspiciously.
"So?"
"What'd you do before this?"
There it is. You knew it was coming eventually, ever since that night in your office, ever since I don't know anymore slipped out and you accidentally gave the both you an existential crisis.
You return to your paperwork immediately. "Nothing exciting."
Bucky doesn't move.
"Everybody did something before they got here."
"Not me. I spawned fully formed from a spreadsheet."
His mouth twitches and you refuse to acknowledge it.
"You probably went to college, right? What'd you study?"
"Writing." Technically true, partially, somewhat. True enough for this conversation.
"That's it?"
"Mhm."
"Must've been some real interesting writing."
"Thrilling."
"What kinda stuff d'ya write?"
You look back down at the checklist. Florida press briefing. Check. Louisiana catering. Check. Avoiding conversations about yourself. Hopefully check.
"It's not important."
Bucky studies you for a second.
The problem with him is that he notices things, not loudly, not obviously but thoroughly. Like he's assembling a puzzle nobody else realized existed.
"Seems important."
"It's really not."
"Why not?"
Because once upon a time you wanted things. That's why. And wanting things feels embarrassing now, like showing someone an old diary. There was a time when your future felt bright and specific. You were going to write and travel, report stories that mattered. You were going to chase truth through cities and courtrooms and tiny towns nobody paid attention to.
You were going to make a difference. Instead you're color-coding transportation schedules for superheroes, which sounds cooler than it feels.
You push the thought away quickly. "We need to focus on the tour."
Bucky sighs.
The sound is deeply familiar now, you've learned there are different versions. Annoyed sighs. Amused sighs. This one falls somewhere between concerned and stubborn.
"The tour's done."
"No, it isn't."
"It starts next week."
"Which means it isn't done."
He opens his mouth.
You point your pen at him immediately. "Don't."
"I haven't said anything."
"You were about to."
"Probably."
"Exactly."
Bucky leans back in his chair and for a moment, neither of you speaks. Sunlight stretches further across the conference table, the room grows warmer. Outside the windows, Manhattan continues waking up as your checklist waits patiently.
Eventually Bucky nods toward the stack of folders beside you.
"How many pages is that?"
You glance over. "...Two hundred and twelve. Double sided though."
He stares. "You counted?"
"I printed them."
"That's horrifying."
"Thank you."
"You need help."
"I have help."
"No, you have stress."
You try not to smile. You fail a little. His expression softens immediately when he catches it and the realization makes you look back down at your paperwork far too quickly. A strange silence settles afterward as Bucky watches you work. You pretend not to notice. Every so often he asks another question, small ones, harmless ones completely unrelated to work. Favorite movie. Favorite book. Whether you ever travel anywhere for fun. Each time, you brush them aside gently, deflect, redirect and return to logistics.
Because talking about yourself feels strangely difficult now. As if those pieces of you belong to someone else. Someone far from the person you are now. Someone who still believed she'd become the person she planned to be. Eventually the others begin arriving for the briefing, voices echo down the hallway. Laughter and arguments, Alexei loudly demanding breakfast. The moment breaks and you straighten automatically. Professional again, clipboard in hand, schedules organized, walls rebuilt.
But as Bucky stands to leave, he pauses beside your chair just briefly. Long enough to say quietly,
"I still think it's important."
You glance up. "What is?"
"The stuff before this."
For a second, something in your chest tightens. Then the hallway fills with noise as the team arrives ready to get the start of this tour. And before you can think too hard about the look in his eyes, you're already moving on to the next thing that needs fixing.
The tour starts in New York beneath camera flashes and manufactured optimism.
Valentina brands it NEW AVENGERS TAKE ON AMERICA in massive red-white-and-blue lettering splashed across buses, billboards, and every social media platform imaginable. There are matching jackets, coordinated appearances, sponsorships and press packets thicker than small novels. And at the center of all of it you're running everything behind the scenes, the magic behind the curtain. You’re the first one awake every morning and the last one asleep every night. Coordinating flights and confirming hotel security. Rewriting interview questions at two in the morning because a senator decided “government-sanctioned enhanced individuals” sounded too threatening. You memorize everyone’s schedules better than your own. Alexei hates early flights. Yelena gets carsick if she reads in moving vehicles. Walker refuses sparkling water on principle. Bob forgets meals when he’s nervous. Ava disappears physically and emotionally when overwhelmed. And Bucky quietly starts watching you unravel without you even realizing.
Florida comes first.
Warm ocean air and blinding sunlight. Endless beachside photo ops where reporters practically trip over themselves trying to re-brand the Thunderbolts as approachable. You stand off-camera the entire time holding three phones and an emergency schedule binder while makeup artists swarm the team beneath umbrellas. When a reporter corners Walker with a question about civilian casualties, you intercept the conversation before it can spiral. When Alexei drunkenly wanders toward a jet ski rental booth, you redirect him with the ease of long practice. When Bob panics before a televised interview, you crouch beside him backstage speaking so softly Bucky can’t hear the words from across the room—but he sees Bob visibly steady afterward.
Nobody thanks you, not really. Because by now everyone just expects you to catch disasters before they happen.
Louisiana is worse.
The BBQ festival turns into an overnight public event after attendance doubles unexpectedly. There’s live music, politicians, influencers, too many cameras and too much noise. You spend nearly fourteen straight hours on your feet rerouting security because protestors gather outside the venue. Bucky catches you sitting alone behind the catering tents around midnight afterward eating cold cornbread straight from the tray while typing one-handed on your laptop.
“You know they got tables inside, right?” he says quietly.
You don’t even look up. “Tables inside have senators.”
Fair enough.
Texas somehow becomes the breaking point.
Because apparently somebody thought it would be patriotic to put the New Avengers on a ranch. There are horses, lasso demonstrations and an event coordinator who says “yeehaw initiative” with complete sincerity. You haven’t slept more than four hours in three days. Bucky realizes this because you stop blinking normally sometime around Dallas.
You’re standing near the arena floor fixing Walker’s tie before a press appearance when your knees nearly buckle outright. Not dramatically but just enough, a tiny dangerous sway. Bucky catches it immediately from across the room and nobody else, because nobody else is paying attention to you. Why would they.
“You alright?” he asks later when he corners you briefly beside the equipment trailers.
You’re typing an email while transcribing a call simultaneously. “Mhm.”
“That wasn’t convincing.”
“I’m fine.”
“You almost fell over.”
“I’ve done worse.” You say it casually like it’s normal, like exhaustion is just another logistical inconvenience. And something in Bucky’s chest twists unpleasantly.
Vegas comes next.
Bright lights and champagne, galas filled with rich people pretending they’ve always trusted the team. You spend the entire evening moving through the casino ballroom like a ghost in heels, fixing problems before they fully form. Someone spills wine on Ava’s dress—you replace it. A reporter leaks the wrong attendance numbers—you correct it before publication. Valentina changes an entire speech thirty minutes before showtime and hands you handwritten notes expecting a miracle, and you deliver one anyway.
At one point Bucky finds you standing alone in an empty hallway outside the ballroom just standing there with your eyes closed. Like you forgot where you were for a second.
“You should sit down.”
Your eyes open immediately. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I sit down I think I might actually stay there.”
The honesty of it lingers between you, just like that night in your office. And there's that familiar twist in Bucky's chest. Then your phone rings again and you leave before he can answer.
North and South California blur together after that.
Interviews, photoshoots, crowds and handshakes. You become smaller somehow as the trip stretches on, not physically but emotionally. Like pieces of yourself are being traded away for efficiency. Bucky notices you stop laughing entirely around San Francisco, not that you laughed much before, but now even your smiles look scheduled.
Washington is the final stop.
A massive gala followed by a national press conference closing out the tour. Everyone’s exhausted at this point. Everyone except Valentina, who somehow feeds off chaos like a cryptid sustained entirely by public relations. The gala goes perfectly because you made sure it would. Bucky watches you from across the ballroom while senators shake his hand and cameras flash endlessly around him. You stand near the back wall beside the press table, headset crooked slightly over your hair, eyes fixed on three different problems at once. You haven’t touched the champagne in your hand all night, you haven’t sat down once, Bucky's not even sure if you've taken a breath longer than a second. And suddenly Bucky realizes something that settles heavy in his chest, you’re carrying this team in ways nobody notices because if you do your job correctly, nobody ever sees the weight of it.
Including him. Especially him.
That realization follows him all the way back to New York.
Three nights later, your office light is still on at eleven forty-three. Naturally.
Rain taps softly against the tower windows while the city glows gold below Manhattan. Your office smells like paper and coffee and exhaustion again because some things just never change. You’re halfway through next quarter’s budget reports when the office door opens without warning.
You don’t look up immediately.
“If this is another scheduling conflict I’m going to fake my death.”
“I'm sure we could work something out.”
You blink and finally look up. Bucky stands in the doorway wearing a dark suit, not mission tactical gear or his usual jacket and henley. A proper suit. Dark navy, slightly loosened tie, sleeves pushed back just enough to expose metal at his wrist. Hair slicked and styled back.
He looks unfairly good.
Which is irritating because your brain is too tired to handle that information responsibly.
You stare at him blankly. “…What's all this?”
“Come with me.”
You frown slowly.
"What? Where?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Kinda does.” You turn back toward your laptop with a tired sigh. “Listen, I have a lot I need to get done so whatever it is you need just write it down or have Valentina text me.”
Bucky doesn’t move from the doorway. Instead, he leans against it with casual air.
“I’m cashing in your reward.”
Your fingers pause over the keyboard. "My what?”
“Your reward from the carnival.” His mouth twitches slightly. “You won a free night out with the winning booth. That’s me. I’m cashing it in.”
Despite yourself, a laugh escapes quietly. “I don’t think that’s how it was supposed to work, Mr. Barnes.”
“It is now.”
You shake your head immediately. “No, absolutely not.”
“Get your stuff and meet me at the elevators.”
“But I—”
“I can also just shut off the WiFi to the building.”
You stare at him flatly. “You’re bluffing.”
Bucky lifts one shoulder casually.
“Wanna find out?”
Honestly? You’re not entirely sure he is bluffing, which is deeply concerning. You eye him suspiciously for a long moment while rain patters softly against the windows behind him. Then you look back at your screen. Thirty-two unread emails, three unfinished reports, tomorrows itinerary half-completed. Your entire body aches and somewhere beneath all that exhaustion something quieter stirs unexpectedly, something warm and curious. Because Bucky Barnes is standing in your office at midnight trying to drag you away from work like this matters to him for some incomprehensible reason. You don’t understand it and you’re not sure you want to. But after weeks of airports and crowds and fluorescent conference rooms you realize you can’t remember the last time someone asked you to leave work for something that wasn’t another obligation.
You exhale slowly through your nose. “…Fine.”
Victory flashes briefly across his face before disappearing almost immediately.
“You got ten minutes.”
“You know you’re very bossy for someone kidnapping me.”
“You’ll survive.”
You grumble under your breath while shutting your laptop and reaching for your coat.
The elevator ride down is painfully quiet, not awkward exactly, just strange. You can't remember the last time you've left your office before midnight. You stand beside Bucky clutching your coat and purse while fluorescent lights hum softly overhead. Your reflection stares back at you from the mirrored walls—tired eyes, wrinkled work clothes, tension still living stubbornly between your shoulders.
Bucky glances over once, then again.
“You look exhausted.”
You deadpan immediately. “Gee, thanks.”
“That wasn’t an insult.”
“It sounded like one.”
“It was concern.”
The word lands oddly between you as you meet his eyes. Concern, like he’s allowed to have that for you, like that's something that matters to him. You look away first.
The elevator dings softly when it reaches the underground garage. Bucky gestures toward a black town car waiting near the far wall.
Your brows pull together instantly. "Why is there a car?”
“So we can drive places.”
“You’re being weirdly mysterious.”
“You ask too many questions.”
“I literally work in intelligence-adjacent public relations. Questions are my whole thing.”
Bucky opens the back door for you anyway and inside, neatly folded across the leather seat, is a dress box.
You stop and slowly look at him. “What is that.”
“Your outfit.”
“…My what?”
“You can’t wear office clothes where we’re going.”
Suspicion floods you instantly.
“Where are we going?”
“Get in the car.”
“Mr. Barnes—”
“Bucky.”
You narrow your eyes. “Kidnappers have to earn their first-name privileges.”
Something dangerously close to a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“Get in the car.”
You should say no. Probably. Normal people would definitely say no to mysterious late-night kidnappings involving unidentified dresses and annoyingly handsome super soldiers. Instead, exhaustion apparently kills survival instincts because you climb into the car anyway. The dress box sits in your lap accusingly as Bucky stands at the door, the divider rises immediately once Bucky gives him the go ahead.
Your suspicion deepens.
“You’re not gonna answer a single question, are you?”
“Nope.”
“This feels illegal.”
“You’ll survive that too.”
You glare at him while opening the box.
Then immediately forget how to breathe for a second. The dress inside is beautiful. Dark satin the color of midnight with soft draping fabric and delicate straps, elegant without being overly formal. Simple in the kind of expensive way that makes your stomach tighten immediately.
You touch the fabric carefully. “…Mr. Barnes.”
“No questions.”
“How did you even—”
“No questions.”
You look up at him slowly as realization hits all at once.
“The tour.”
His silence answers for him. And suddenly you remember all those weeks of fittings and event prep. Designers taking measurements backstage before galas while you balanced schedules against your chest. You hadn’t realized anyone else paid attention.
Your throat feels strangely tight.
“There’s a privacy screen,” he says quietly, nodding toward the divider window. “You can change if you want.”
“If I want?”
“Or I can tell the driver to head home for the night.”
The thing is, you know he means it, that’s what gets you. There’s no pressure in his voice, no expectation. Just an offer.
You look down at the dress again then at your reflection faintly mirrored in the tinted window beside you. You can’t remember the last time you dressed for something that wasn’t work. Can’t remember the last time someone planned an evening for you instead of handing you another responsibility to carry.
“…Fine,” you murmur quietly.
Bucky nods and shuts the door almost immediately after that, giving you privacy without making a show of it. Your chest aches unexpectedly.
The dress fits perfectly, of course. The satin settles smoothly against your skin, cool and soft as water. You let your hair down and try to ruffle some life into it. When you finally sit back down, carefully smoothing the fabric over your knees, you knock on the door and Bucky opens it.
And visibly stills.
The reaction is brief, barely there but you catch it anyway. His eyes flick over you once before settling carefully back on your face and something warm and unreadable flashes there.
“…Okay,” he says quietly.
You blink. “Okay what?”
“You look nice.”
The compliment lands embarrassingly hard after months of being perceived exclusively as overworked office furniture.
You glance down awkwardly. “Thank you.”
Then you notice the roses that somehow magically appeared in his hands, deep red roses tied together with black ribbon.
You stare at them. “Where did you get those?”
He stays quiet, holding the bouquet in his arms.
"Right. No questions."
You laugh softly before you can stop yourself. And for the first time since you're not sure when, Bucky smiles fully, small but warm. Beautiful enough to briefly ruin your ability to think coherently. He slides into the seat next to you and the driver pulls away from the tower.
The jazz lounge sits tucked into the lower streets of Manhattan beneath soft golden lights and old brick. The moment you step inside, warmth wraps around you. Low music hums through the room beneath the soft cry of a trumpet, dim amber lamps glow against polished wood tables. The air smells faintly like whiskey and candle wax and expensive food.
It feels far away from your life somehow, like stepping briefly into somebody else’s memory. Bucky keeps one hand lightly against the small of your back guiding you through the crowded room, the touch burns straight through the thin satin of your dress. You try very hard not to think about it.
Dinner is easy in a way you don’t expect.
That’s the dangerous part. You spend so much time around Bucky professionally that you forgot he can actually be funny when he’s relaxed, that quick but witty dry humor and quiet observations muttered beneath his breath. Stories from the forties so ridiculous you genuinely can’t tell when he’s lying anymore. At one point you laugh hard enough to snort into your drink, it should've been mortifying. Bucky nearly chokes laughing himself afterward.
“You absolutely cannot judge me,” you whisper harshly across the table.
“I’m not judging,” he grins. “I’m enjoying myself.”
And somehow that feels worse.
Hours pass without you noticing, and that alone feels miraculous. After dinner he takes you walking along the boardwalk downtown, city wind curling cold around both of you while music and traffic hum softly below Manhattan lights. You end up at a tiny old photobooth tucked near an arcade.
“Absolutely not,” you say immediately.
Bucky’s already pulling the curtain open.
“You survived the carnival. You can survive this.”
“That carnival psychologically damaged me.”
“C’mon.” You let him drag you inside anyway because apparently this evening has become one long series of terrible decisions.
The booth is tiny, painfully tiny. Your knees bump his immediately once the curtain slides shut, thighs pressed against his as you sit shoulder to shoulder. The flash startles you during the first photo, breaking that first wind of embarrassment as the two of you adjust to being so close. Bucky makes a joke about the booth taking compartmentalizing a step to far as the second flash clicks, the photo catching both of you laughing, a curled wide smile on your face that you haven't felt in years. By the third, the laughing has died down and you’re turned toward each other too closely, breathing the same recycled air, the city noise muffled outside the booth curtain. Bucky’s gaze flicks downward briefly and your stomach flips violently. Then there’s this horrible suspended second where your eyes drop down too and you think, maybe if you lean in just a bit more—
But then the camera flashes again and both of you pull back slightly too fast.
The tension afterward feels thick enough to touch, so naturally you get ice cream. Because apparently that’s how you handle almost kissing your coworker. You sit beside him on a bench outside a tiny twenty-four-hour shop while melting vanilla drips slowly down your hand.
“This is the nicest night I’ve had in years,” you admit quietly before thinking better of it.
Bucky looks over at you softly beneath the city lights. “Yeah?”
“…Yeah.” You nod once.
Something shifts in his expression then, into something gentler, almost relieved.
The drive to your apartment passes too quickly for your liking afterward but you don’t want to acknowledge that realization. Bucky walks you all the way to your building door despite your insistence that he doesn’t need to. The city is quiet this late, streetlights painting everything gold.
You turn toward him at the steps and for a second neither of you speaks.
“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.” You smile softly. “I really did have a good time.”
“Bucky.”
You blink. “What?”
“Call me Bucky. If I've earned it, of course.”
The words settle warm somewhere beneath your ribs. You look down briefly, suddenly shy in a way you haven’t felt in years.
“Oh.” You fully ignore the blush crossing your face, because if you don't acknowledge it then it's not real, right? “Well… thank you, Bucky.”
The smile he gives you afterward feels dangerously intimate. You escape before your brain can fully process it, keys fumbling slightly as you balance them between the flowers, heart beating embarrassingly fast as you step inside your apartment and shut the door carefully behind you.
The second there's a safe enough barrier between you and him you lose it. A ridiculous giggle slips out your lips as you immediately lean against the door with burning cheeks.
Oh no. Oh, this is bad. Because you’re smiling. You touch your face like maybe you can physically stop it. You can’t smile like this. Smiling means thinking and thinking means feeling and feelings… well that just can't be. You try to stifle as much of those feelings as you possibly can, but every time your eyes catch the roses on your table it all bubbles back over the surface again.
And unbeknownst to you outside your apartment door, Bucky hasn’t left yet. He stands there quietly for another moment listening to your footsteps move softly through the apartment beyond the wall. Listening to drawers open, shoes kicked off, the muffled sound of you laughing once under your breath at seemingly nothing.
Then finally the lights click off and only then does he leave.
The ride back to the tower feels strangely quiet afterward, not uncomfortable, just full. Like something settled into place inside his chest without permission.
Bucky stares out the car window at sleeping Manhattan while your bashful smile and blushing cheeks replays endlessly in his head, and somewhere deep down beneath years of grief and exhaustion and carefully guarded distance—something reluctantly warm begins to bloom.
˗ˏˋ ꒰ bonus june note ꒱ ˎˊ˗
── fun fact! parts of this story are inspired by this kdrama i watched called king the land, and the mmc gu won is SOO bucky coded i actually love it i was watching his grumpy traumatized ass like.... i know where ive seen this before LOL
summary: Your phone is at eleven percent, your roommate isn't answering, and going back to your dorm isn't an option. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Unfortunately for you, those desperate measures involve waking Bucky Barnes in the middle of the night.
word count: 3.3k
warnings: mutual pining, friends to lovers, drunken confessions, fluff.
a/n: I'm a sucker for drunk dialing Bucky, and this just came ot of the blue. I also had to balance my collab entries because the next ones are filthyy. Beta read by my lovelies @buckysdecaflove and @herejustforbuckybarnes | dividers by @dividers-are-us
read on AO3
Your phone had eleven percent battery when you finally admitted you needed help.
The bar was too loud, too hot, and you'd lost track of Wanda twenty minutes ago, or maybe it was an hour… time felt slippery, and your fingers fumbled three times before you managed to pull up your recent calls.
Your mom would lecture. Your roommate was visiting her boyfriend. Wanda was… somewhere. And going back to the dorm wasn't an option; you'd already gotten written up twice this semester for noise violations, and if the resident advisor found you stumbling in drunk at 2 AM, that was strike three. Which meant a meeting with Residential Life, which meant possibly losing your housing.
Bucky's number sat third on the list, right below the campus library. You stared at it, thumb hovering. He probably had better things to do than deal with drunk undergrads, even if he did tutor you every Tuesday in social theory and sometimes almost smiled when you made him laugh.
But you were out of options, so you pressed call.
"Do you have any idea what time it is?" His voice was rough with sleep. Oh god, you'd waken him up.
"Bucky!" You tried to sound sober and failed spectacularly. "Hi! Hey, it's me!"
There was a pause, and you could almost picture him staring at his phone confused. "I know it's you, are you okay?"
"I'm great! I'm so great, actually. I'm at Murphy's—you know Murphy's? The bar with the good fries?— and I can't find Wanda and my phone is dying and I can't go back to my dorm because Collin's, that's my RA… well she already hates me and if she catches me drunk I'm dead, like actually dead, like expelled from housing dead, and I didn't know who else to call and—"
"Jesus Christ," more rustling, the clink of keys. "Stay inside, I'll be there in ten minutes."
"You're coming?" Your voice went embarrassingly soft. "Really?"
"Stay inside." He hung up.
You clutched your phone to your chest and waited, trying not to think about how much trouble you were in or how Bucky had sounded annoyed or how you'd definitely just ruined everything.
Bucky looked like murder when he pushed through the bar's front door.
His hair was messy, shoved back from his face, and he hadn't bothered with a jacket even though it was October. His jaw was set in that way that meant he was pissed, and when his eyes landed on you,something like relief flickered in his expression, but he masked it immediately with irritation.
"Hey!" You lit up despite his scowl, smiling up at him. "You came! You actually came! I wasn't sure you would because you sounded kind of mad on the phone, but you're here and you look—" You reached up, fingers catching his sleeve. "You look really nice, I mean, you always look nice, but right now you look extra nice even though you're making your grumpy face."
"My grumpy face." His voice was flat.
"Yeah, the one where you do this—" You scrunched your eyebrows together in imitation. "When I get something wrong during tutoring, but I think it's cute so it doesn't really work as intimidation."
"I'm not trying to intimidate you, I'm trying to get you home." He caught your wrist as you reached for his face. "How much did you drink?"
"Not that much!" You held up your fingers, trying to count. "Like… this many?"
"That's seven."
"Is it?" You looked at your hands delighted. "Math!"
He took your elbow, firm and impersonal. "Come on."
"Wait, I should find Wanda—"
"Already texted her roommate, she left an hour ago with some girls from her anthropology class." He was already steering you toward the door, moving with efficiency. "Now walk."
You tried, you really did. But the floor was tilted and your boots were too heavy, and you stumbled into him, grabbing his shirt with both hands.
"Whoa! The ground moved."
"The ground didn't move, you're drunk." His arm went around your waist, steady and sure. "I got you."
"You always got me," you said happily, beaming up at him. "Every Tuesday at three PM, you've got me and social theory and sometimes you bring me coffee even though you pretend it's because you were getting some for yourself anyway."
"Because I was getting some for myself."
"Liar, you don't even drink the fancy vanilla stuff… you think it's too sweet, I heard you tell your roommate it tastes like liquid cookies.
His jaw ticked. "Walk."
Outside, the October air was crisp, and you sighed, turning your face into his shoulder. He was so warm and solid and he smelled like laundry detergent and something woodsy.
"You smell really good," you announced. "Like, really, really good. Is that your shampoo? Or your detergent?"
"It's called basic hygiene."
"No, it's more than that." You nosed against his collar, shameless. "It's like… woodsy. Clean. Really nice."
"I'm not nice. I'm the guy, who makes you rewrite your essays."
"Because you want me to do well." You pulled back up to look at him, which was a mistake because the world tilted again and he caught you, his arm never leaving your waist. "That's nice! You're secretly nice, Bucky. You walk around with your grumpy face and your serious eyes but you're actually—"
"Stop talking."
"—really, really attractive," you finished. "Like, so attractive. Wanda says I have a thing for grumpy guys but I think it's actually just you. Just specifically you."
He made a noise that sounded deeply pained. "You're drunk."
"Doesn't make it not true!" You reached for his free hand, fumbling until your fingers tangled with his. He let you, even though his expression stayed carefully neutral. "I think about you a lot. Like, a lot a lot. Sometimes during Professor Williams' lectures I'll completely zone out because I'm thinking about Tuesday and the way you lean back in your chair and you look so—"
"Stop."
"Why?"
"Because you're going to hate yourself tomorrow."
"I won't," you said earnestly. "I mean every word. You're the smartest person I know and you're so patient with me and sometimes you smile at me like you actually like me and it makes my whole—"
"We're almost there," he said, which wasn't an answer at all.
A couple passed you going the other direction. The guy glanced at Bucky with a smirk. Bucky's expression went ice-cold.
"Fun night?" the guy asked.
"Keep walking." His voice could've stripped paint.
But his hand around yours was so gentle.
"Are you mad at me?" you asked quietly.
"No."
"You seem mad."
"I'm not mad at you." He squeezed your fingers once. "I'm mad at the situation."
"What situation?"
"The one where you're drunk and saying things you don't mean."
"I do mean them," you protested. "I mean all of them. You're smart and hot and nice and your hands are really—"
"We're here." He stopped in front of a building you've never noticed before. "Come on."
You looked up at the brick facade, then back at him. "Where's here?"
"My place."
"Your place?" You felt your whole face light up. "I'm going to your place? Like, your actual apartment?"
"You can't go back to your dorm and I'm not leaving you alone like this." He was already pulling you towards the entrance. "So yeah. My place."
"This is the best night ever," you said enthusiastically.
He muttered something under his breath you couldn't understand, but the drunk haze had taken over your brain at this point for you to care at all.
Everything about Bucky changed the moment his apartment door closed behind you. The hard line of his shoulders dropped, his expression softened, and when he guided you to the couch, his hands were careful on your arms.
"Sit." He crouched in front of you, and you watched him unlace your boots with steady, practiced movements. "Let's get these off."
"You're taking care of me."
"That's the idea." He slipped off one boot, then the other, setting them nearby the door.
"No one really does that." You said it without thinking, and his hands stilled on your ankle.
"Does what?"
"Takes care of me. I'm usually the one taking care of people. Wanda calls me her emotional support golden retriever." You laughed, but it came out sadder than you meant. "But you came to get me and you're taking off my boots and being so nice even though you're pretending not to be."
He looked up at you, but you couldn't read his expression. "I'm not pretending anything. Stay here."
He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a pint glass of water and two ibuprofen. When he sat beside you on the couch, you immediately listed into his side.
"Drink," he said, holding out the glass.
You drank obediently, very aware of how his thigh was pressed against yours, how he smelled even better up close. When you finished half of the glass, he took it from you, setting it on the coffee table.
"Better?"
"Yeah." You turned to face him, tucking your legs under you. "Bucky, I need to tell you something."
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"I'm gonna tell you anyway." You smiled at him. "I have the biggest crush on you. Like, the biggest. It's embarrassing how much I like you."
His throat worked. "You're drunk."
"I know! That's why I can finally say it!" You reached out, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingertips. He went very still. "I've wanted to say it for weeks but you're always so serious and smart."
He didn't pull away. That was the first thing you noticed through the fog of alcohol and exhaustion—Bucky stayed perfectly still as your fingers traced the edge of his jaw, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light of his apartment.
"You're going to regret this in the morning," he said quietly, but his voice had lost its edge. It was almost gentle now, the way he spoke to you during tutoring when you were frustrated and on the verge of giving up. "All of it."
"I won't." You were so sure, so absolutely certain, even as the room spun gently around you. "I've never been more sure of anything. You're the best part of my week, Bucky. Every Tuesday. Sometimes I wish I was stupider so I'd need more tutoring sessions."
A sound escaped him—not quite a laugh, but close. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. And for the record, you're not stupid at all."
"It's true!" You dropped your hand from his face but only so you could grab his hand instead. His fingers were calloused and warm. "You're so smart it's intimidating. And you're so grumpy but you're actually the kindest person I know. And your hands—I think about your hands a lot. Is that weird? That's probably weird."
"It's the alcohol talking."
"It's the alcohol letting me finally say it." You yawned, and Bucky's expression went softer. "M' sorry. I'm not tired. I want to keep telling you how great you are."
"You can tell me in the morning." He stood, and the loss of his warmth made you make a noise of protest. "Come on, you need sleep."
"I don't want to sleep, I want to stay here with you."
"You'll still be here with me." He held out his hand, and when you took it, he pulled you gently to your feet. The world tilted dangerously, and you grabbed his shirt with both hands to steady yourself. "Easy, I've got you."
"You keep saying that."
"Because I mean it."
He guided you down a short hallway to his bedroom, and you were too tired to properly appreciate it—the books stacked on his nightstand, the worn paperback face-down on the bed, the fact tht his sheets were dark blue and looked incredibly soft. He pulled back the covers with one hand while keeping you upright with the other.
"Lie down," he said, and you obliged, sinking into the mattress with a sigh that turned into another yawn. The pillow smelled like him and you pressed your face into it shamelessly.
"Your bed smells like you," you mumbled. "S'nice."
He was quiet for a moment, and then you felt the covers being pulled up to your shoulders. "Sleep."
"Are you going to sleep too?"
"I'll be on the couch."
"No." You reached out blindly, catching the hem of his shirt. "Stay, please?"
He hesitated. You could feel it in the tension of the fabric under your fingers.
"You're drunk," he said finally, gently detaching your hand. "I'm not going to take advantage of that."
"Not taking advantage," you protested, but your eyes were already closing. "Just want you close, you make me feel safe."
There was a long silence, then, so quiet you almost missed it: "You make me feel a lot of things too."
You wanted to ask what he meant, but sleep was pulling you under, heavy and inexorable. The last thing you registered was the brush of his fingers against his forehead, pushing your hair back from your face, and the soft click of the door closing behind him.
Sunlight was a personal attack.
You woke up in stages: first the pounding head, then the dry mouth, then the dawning realization that these were not your sheets, this was not your room and you were absolutely, catastrophically still wearing your clothes from last night.
You sat up too fast that the room spun around you. You groaned and pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes.
Oh god.
Fragments started filtering back: Murphy's, the phone call. Bucky's face when he'd walked through the bar door, his arm around your waist, his hand in yours… The things you said.
I have the biggest crush on you. Like, the biggest.
I think about you a lot. Like, a lot a lot.
Your hands—I think about your hands a lot.
Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.
You were going to die. Actually, literally die of embarrassment. You'd have to transfer to a different school. Move to another country. Change your name. You could never look at Bucky again without wanting to sink into the earth.
The door creaked open, and you flinched.
Bucky stood in the doorway, dressed in a henley and sweatpants, holding glass of water and the ibuprofen bottle. His hair was still messy from sleep, and there was a pillow crease on his cheek, and he looked so unfairly handsome that you wanted to cry.
Or climb him like a tree.
"Morning," he said. His voice was neutral, but his eyes were watching you carefully.
"Hi." Your voice came out as croak. "Um. Good morning, I'm so sorry."
He raised an eyebrow, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. He set the glass and pills on the nightstand. "For what?"
"For… everything?" You couldn't look at him. You stared at your hands instead, twisted in the dark blue sheets. "For calling you at two in the morning and making you come get me. For… whatever I said. I was really drunk. I don't usually—I mean, I shouldn't have—"
"You don't remember what you said?"
"I remember," you admitted quietly. "I remember all of it. And I'm so, so sorry. I didn't mean to make things weird. I know you're my tutor and I'm just some drunk undergrad you had to rescue, and I completely understand if you want me to find someone else for tutoring because this is so unprofessional and—"
The words died on your lips as he closed the distance and kissed you.
One moment you were spiraling into panic, words tumbling out faster than you could control them, and the next his hand was cupping your jaw, tilting your face up and his mouth was on yours soft, but insistent.
"You done apologizing?" His voice was rough, but his eyes were soft. "Because I've been waiting to do that since October, maybe September."
You blinked at him, heart hammering so hard you were sure he could feel it through your ribs. "You—what?"
"I like you too." He said simply, like he was stating a fact. "Have for a while. Thought I was being obvious, honestly."
"Obvious?" Your voice came out squeaky. "You glare at me when I get citations wrong."
"That's me flirting." A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I'm not very good at it."
You stared at him, cataloging every Tuesday afternoon: the extra coffee he always had waiting, the way he leaned closer than necessary to point at your notes, the fact that he never once looked at his phone during your sessions even though you knew he was busy. Or last night, when he answered your call at two in the morning without hesitation.
"Oh my god," you breathed. "I'm an idiot."
"You're not." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "You're the best part of my week too. Every Tuesday. Sometimes I wish you'd fail more assignments so you'd need extra sessions."
A laugh bubbled out of you, half-hysterical. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've heard."
"Yeah, well… you started it."
You kissed him this time, leaning forward and catching his mouth with yours. It was messier than the first one—you were still groggy and hungover and your aim was terrible—but he made a pleased sound against your lips and his hand slid into your hair, and suddenly the headache and the embarrassment were all worth it.
When you broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours. "I was going to tell you eventually. When you weren't drunk and I didn't feel like a creep."
"When were you planning that?"
"Next Tuesday. I had a whole thing planned, was gonna take you to the coffee shop after tutoring, buy you one of those vanilla monstrosities you like, and tell you I'd very much like to take you on a date."
Your heart did something complicated in your chest. "You definitely hate vanilla lattes."
"I hate seeing you light up when I hand you one even more." He pulled back, and his cheeks were faintly pink. "That came out wrong. I mean—I like seeing you light up. I just hate pretending I don't."
"You're so bad at this," you said, grinning.
"I told you." He shrugged, but his eyes were warm and steady on yours. "I'm not good at flirting. You'll have to be patient with me."
"I can do that." You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his the way you had last night. "I can be very patient for you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I have a crush on you, remember?"
"I remember." He squeezed your hand. "You told me at least seven times last night. Also that my hands are attractive and I smell good."
"Oh god." You buried your face in his shoulder. "I'm never drinking again."
"You're adorable when you're drunk." He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Confusing, but adorable. Now drink your water and take the ibuprofen. We can talk about all of this after you don't look like you're about to pass out."
"Bossy."
"You like it."
You did. You really, really did.
You reached for the glass of water, but didn't let go of his hand. And when he smiled at you, you decided that getting drunk at Murphy's was maybe the best accidental decision you've ever made.
"So," you said, after swallowing the ibuprofen. "Does this mean Tuesday is still happening? The coffee date thing?"
"If you want it to."
"I want it to."
"Okay," he let out a breath you haven't realized he'd been holding. "Okay. Tuesday. But maybe we can also do something before then? Like, I don't know, dinner tonight? If you're feeling better?"
"Are you asking me on a date, Bucky?"
"I'm trying to." His ears were turning red. "Is it working?"
You leaned up and kissed his cheek. "Very much yes."
Summary: After going on yet another failed date and deleting yet another dating app, you are prepared to give up on them altogether when you try your luck with the last option, Tinder. To your surprise, you end up matching with the kind of man you’ve only ever dreamed of, and he spends the next few weeks of your life proving to you that dating apps aren’t nearly as bad as you thought they were.
WC: 16.6k | Warnings: 18+, coarse language, fluff, smut, bad experiences with guys, modern day dating, use of dating apps, slight age gap (late 30’s Bucky, early 30’s reader), fingering, hair pulling, hickeys, protected sex, big dick Bucky again, size/height difference, clueless Bucky who is bad with phones (sexy). | Masterlist
“What a massive fucking waste of time this was,” you muttered as you uninstalled Hinge from your phone with a little more force in the press of your thumb than necessary.
“Not to mention a waste of space on your phone,” your best friend and co-worker, Brittany, said from over the rim of her coffee cup as she took a sip.
“Yes! Exactly, thank you,” came your muttered response as you watched the app bounce slightly on the screen before the icon disappeared entirely, your profile you set up seven months ago vanishing with it.
You sat up at your desk, setting your phone down a little roughly on it as you looked over at Brittany. She was sitting with her back to the floor to ceiling windows, the sun filtering in since the blinds had been pulled all the way up, and your eyes instinctively flickered over to the hand that was holding the cup.
Her left hand, to be specific.
On her finger were two rings, one big, achingly beautiful engagement ring that stood out because of the large princess cut diamond on the center of it while the rest of the band was rather simple. Under it though was another band, her wedding ring, and this one was littered with smaller diamonds, because she scored a man who fucking adores her and shows it in everything he gives her.
No, women didn’t need expensive things or giant rings to know they’re loved, but it was sure as hell nice to receive them anyway.
You narrowed your eyes at her hand, at the way she flaunted the rings like she knows just how fucking lucky she is and wanted to show it off, and she has every right to. She found love in a city full of fuckboys and sugar daddies, and she found someone who looks at her like she hung the moon, and someone that wasn’t a couple decades older than her.
Then again, she was simply sitting there drinking her double shot espresso and listening to you rant about yet another miserable and failed date you went on last night. She wasn’t flaunting or showing off anything, she was simply existing.
You sighed, shaking your head. “You know how lucky you are, right? You and Garret have been together, what, six years? And it’s like not a single day has gone by that you and he haven’t fallen even more in love with each other. It’s sick, honestly,”
Brittany laughed, shaking her head as she set her coffee down on her desk. “I am quite aware of how lucky I am,” she said, “And I’m incredibly sorry that last night was a bust. If there was any way I could stop these horrible, disgusting men from inserting themselves into your life, I would.”
She was being serious, though the teasing tone of her voice had you letting out a pitiful whine as you looked back down at her rings. “I know, and I love you for that,” you said, then held out your hand. “Can I wear it again? I want to feel the weight of the love you get to feel every single day.”
Brittany smiled and shook her head again, but she slid off her engagement ring and handed it over to you, watching with a soft grin as you slid the ring onto your own finger.
You looked down at it, feeling the weight of it trying to balance on your finger, then huffed, tipping your head back on the chair. “You lucky bitch. I hate you,”
She scoffed, turning back to her desk and clicking on the keyboard in front of her, making the monitor to her left turn back on. “You just said you love me,”
“I know. I do love you and I would be so miserable if I didn’t have you in my life,” you said back, and you watched her as she sent you a smirk over her shoulder.
“You mean you’d be even more miserable?”
“Yeah, no, I do actually hate you,”
Brittany snorted as she pulled up the spreadsheet she’d been working on before you interrupted her by telling her all the details of your date last night; how the guy kept trying to convince you to let him go home with you, how obvious it was that he was just interested in fucking you even though you explicitly told him on the app messages that you don’t do that on the first date, and how the whole thing just felt like a giant waste of a night.
“Why don’t you try meeting someone out in the real world? You know, running into someone on the street or striking up a conversation in a store,” she suggested, likely since it worked out so well for her since she met Garret in the checkout line at a Whole Foods. He was behind her after letting her go first, and she thought he was cute so she paid for the six things he’d had in his cart, and he ended up asking her out on a date as they left the store.
It was so easy, and yet it was simply not that fucking easy.
You shook your head, looking at the ring on your finger for a few more seconds before sitting up and going back to your own computer. “Somehow I think that would be even worse,”
After spending most of the day sitting at a desk, your back was kind of hurting and your fingers were sore from all the typing you did.
The relief you instantly felt in your body when you slipped under the sheets of your bed after having a good half hour shower had you moaning, your eyes fluttering shut. It hit you like a ton of bricks that you would much rather prefer to have a man make you moan in bed at close to midnight, but not on the first fucking date, and not when it’s obvious that it’s the only thing he wants from you.
You’d love to share your bed with a man, preferably your steady, and preferably someone who didn’t make you cringe at the first line he sent you in a text message. You lifted your left hand, your finger once again bare since you obviously gave Brittany her ring back earlier, and you sighed.
You want what she gets to come home to every night. Dinner, loving arms, handsome smiles, and a kiss on the cheek or mouth as a way of greeting each other after a long day away from one another.
You wanted your own Garret, which is why you keep going through those fucking apps, hoping to find someone actually interested in more than a quick, easy lay. It was concerning how many men have ignored the way your profile so clearly stated that you are looking for something long term, and assume you just want a night with them instead of a progressing relationship.
But it seemed hopeless. You tried so many apps now, and they all led to the exact same result; a miserable night with a man who stared at your chest the entire time and lacked basic conversation skills.
Bumble was a failure, and you couldn’t count how many times you’d been catfished since most of them did not look like their pictures at all. It had you questioning every single man going forward, with you analyzing their photos to see if it looked like it was recent or taken ten years ago.
You were embarrassed at how many times you’ve messaged back and forth with a guy you thought was cute, only for him to show up to the date with a full on beard instead of the clean shaven face he has in his pictures, and bald spots on his head instead of neatly brushed hair. It was offensive, honestly. They weren’t ugly, but to show themselves from before they started to bald, then show up with less hair on their head than they have on their chest is a bit much.
That’s when you deactivated your profile and deleted Bumble.
Hinge wasn’t any better. You got sent countless roses from guys who looked to be about the same age as your dad, and so many messages were sent straight into the hidden tab since they were automatically filtered for saying something inappropriate.
One comment was on a picture of you sitting at a bar, one leg crossed over the other as you held up your drink, and the man had the nerve to have his opening line be ‘My face is a lot more comfy than that stool, why don’t you sit on it instead?’.
And that pretty much summed up your Hinge experience.
Your last app is Tinder, and you left it for last since you’d heard about its reputation, and you thought that if you couldn’t find any decent men on the apps you tried before it, it would be your absolute last resort.
With a soft sigh, you lowered your hand to your bed then rolled onto your side, reaching for your phone. Clicking on the app, you cringed as the first profile popped up, the first photo being of a man taking a mirror selfie, shirtless and with his gym shorts low on his hips. You could tell that it was taken in a gym changeroom, the lockers in the background making it obvious, and you squinted your eyes as you looked at his bicep he was so obviously trying to show off by flexing his arm.
You swiped left.
The next few profiles were relatively the same as the first, men showing off their bulging biceps and sharp jawlines under thick hair of a beard. A few more were of men fishing or hunting, holding up either a big catch from the lake or a mutilated body of a forest animal, and you were about ready to call it a night and just go to bed.
Then, just as you were about to swipe off the app, the new profile that popped up had you pausing. It was a selfie taken on what looked like a sidewalk, and the man was wearing a baggy gray tee with his sunglasses latched onto the neckline of it. He was wearing earbuds, the kind with a string still attached to them, and he was smiling as he looked just slightly off to the left from the actual camera.
He was attractive, and you noticed the way his smile didn’t seem forced or like he was only doing it to put on a show like you’ve seen from countless other guys. He has dark brown hair that was the perfect length to run your fingers through, a clean shaven face that held hints of him having a beard or at least stubble sometime in the past, and what looked to be the softest lips you’ve ever seen. His eyes were a stunning shade of blue, and there were faint lines near the corners of them, making your own eyes flicker down to see what his age is.
James, 37, 10 M away.
That had one of your brows raising, and you went a little further in his profile, reading his bio.
Cat dad if you like that kind of thing. I don’t like fishing because I’m not good at it, and hunting is incredibly boring to me, but I do like cooking and eating. I’m quite good at both of those things.
Your lips curled upwards into a soft grin before you pursed your lips.
This guy was definitely a lot more than attractive, and from what little you’ve read about him, he either has a really good sense of humor, or he’s more of a blunt, dry humor kind of guy, and both of those things piqued your interest. He was also a little bit older than you, and your type has always been older rather than younger since you always felt like you were robbing the cradle, even though the youngest man you’ve dated was only two years younger than you.
After going through the rest of his bio, you moved onto the four other photos on his profile. One was of him and what looks to be his sister, another of him sitting at a booth with his arms crossed and his head turned to the side, seemingly unaware the photo was being taken, another of him at the gym, but he wasn’t wearing a tight muscle tank or shorts, he was wearing a baggy tee and sweats, and he wasn’t flexing in the mirror as he took the photo, he just looked a little out of breath and focused, and for some reason that was really doing it for you. The last photo wasn’t even of him, it was of his lap and tucked into a small ball on his thighs was a white cat, sleeping peacefully.
Oh, he really is a cat dad if he’s posting her or him on his dating profile. You liked that for some odd reason. You liked it a lot.
But would he like you? You weren’t sure, but there was also no harm in checking, right?
It wouldn’t be the first hot guy to reject you on a dating app if he didn’t match with you, and you haven’t gotten attached to him, so fuck it.
You swiped right and then got off the app, not even wanting to see whoever’s profile came next since you had a feeling they weren’t going to top James, and then you set your phone back down on your nightstand, rolled onto your stomach and fell asleep.
You’d been so tired last night that you had forgotten to close the blinds and curtains.
You woke up to the harsh sunlight starting to seep into your room, and you groaned, rolling onto your side for a few moments before you grabbed your phone and checked the time.
8:04 in the morning. A solid minute before your alarm was supposed to go off.
You groaned again, your thumb swiping down to see all the notifications you’d gotten while you slept, and while you weren’t expecting to see any from Tinder since you just started using it last night and had only swiped right on one person, it still deflated you a bit to see no notification from that app.
But you weren’t going to dwell on it, not if you wanted to be able to grab an iced coffee on your way to work this morning.
Throwing your sheets off your body, you hauled yourself out of bed, leaving it unmade since it was Friday and you planned on washing all your bedding this weekend anyway.
You were out of your apartment by 8:30, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you headed down the street towards the coffee shop you frequented on the corner. After ordering your usual, you were off to work, and by the time you sat down at your desk, it was just before nine.
Sliding the straps of your bag off your shoulder, you set it under your desk and out of the way, putting your coffee down on the surface of your desk as you shrugged out of your jacket.
Brittany was already here and looking as effortlessly stunning as she always does, and when she saw you, she turned in her seat and smiled at you. “Good morning,” she greeted, taking a sip of her own coffee.
“Morning,” you said back, giving her a smile in return as you draped your jacket over the back of your chair before sitting down.
She looked at you for a few lingering seconds before she smiled. “You look significantly happier today than you did yesterday,” she observed. “Find any new matches on Humble? Or… or Binge? Whatever it’s called?”
You lifted a brow. “Bumble and Hinge?” you corrected, then shook your head. “No, I deleted those apps. I actually spent a few minutes last night questioning whether or not I’d truly be happy if I ended up all alone for the rest of my life with no one to love me but my three pet cats. And I decided that, yes, I’d be very happy.”
Brittany snorted then covered her mouth as she looked over to her right, making sure no one heard it. “So no more dating apps then?”
You shook your head again, pulling out your laptop and setting it on your desk. “No, I still have one more I’m trying out. After that though, I might just give up on them and try paying for the cute guy behind me in the checkout line instead,”
Brittany just gave you a big grin instead of scoffing at you, and you expected that joke to go either way. “Hey, it worked out quite well for me,” she said, and you couldn’t even argue with her, because she was absolutely right.
A few hours later, you and Brittany were sitting down at a picnic bench, an array of food trucks forming a semi-circle around the lot you and her often go to for lunch.
She was talking about a trip that she and Garret were planning on going on soon when your phone pinged from its place in your bag. You put your burger onto the napkin next to your fries, gesturing for her to keep talking as you rummaged around in your bag.
Pulling your phone out, you checked the notification and felt a brief jolt of excitement go through you when you saw that it was from Tinder.
New Match with James.
You pursed your lips to stop yourself from smiling too big, and Brittany abruptly shut up. “What? Why are you making that face? What am I missing here?” she asked, chewing her own burger that was packed with mainly just tomato.
A small laugh left your lips as you showed her the notification, and her face relaxed a bit.
“Oh, you matched with James, I see,” she teased, leaning back when you turned your phone away. “Is he one of the ones you swiped right on last night?”
You nodded, “Yeah- well, he’s the only one I swiped right on last night. The others were… just not good,”
Brittany snorted, shaking her head. “I could never. From the amount of horror stories I’ve heard about dating apps, I don’t think I could ever actually bring myself to try them. If I wasn’t with Gare, of course,”
“Oh, of course,” you agreed, narrowing your eyes playfully at her before you looked back down at the notification.
It was nice to know that James found you either attractive or found your profile interesting, or even both. That was a good thing, right? You definitely found him attractive, even more so now than last night since you aren’t as worn out and tired as you’d been when you swiped on his profile.
But you weren’t going to get your hopes up. You’d been led astray by your fair share of handsome men, and you could only hope that James wasn’t one of those guys that only wants one thing from you.
“I’ll let you know how it goes,” you tell Brittany, and she nods in agreement.
You wanted to message him first, but you’d probably end up overthinking your message, and it would probably take you the rest of your lunch break to come up with a cute but subtle first message, and you were starving.
So you put your phone back in your bag, planning to message James later if he hadn’t messaged you first already, then returned your full attention back to your burger that was packed with everything but tomato.
You’d been craving tacos for the majority of this week, so after work you went to the grocery store you pass by on your way home.
If you grabbed enough of the ingredients, you’d be able to get multiple meals out of it, so that’s what you did since you didn’t feel like planning your meals ahead for this weekend.
You set the heavy grocery bag onto your counter with a huff, setting your work bag next to it after. This week had drained you, like most do, and you had very little energy left to get you through the rest of the day. You decided that you’d skip your usual shower you have after work and instead get started on dinner right away while you still had the motivation to do so.
Pulling out a pan from the drawer, you put it on the stovetop before turning the burner on. You’d just put the ground beef into the pan to cook it when your phone went off, and you turned to look over at your bag.
Setting down the wooden spoon you’d been using, you walked over to the counter and pulled your phone out of your bag, seeing that it was another notification from Tinder.
Oh right, James.
You’d meant to take some time earlier to text him, or at least to think of a fun first text to him, but it had slipped your mind throughout the rest of your shift at work.
Clicking on the notification, you were brought to a new message thread with James, and you didn’t let yourself feel too giddy at the fact that he texted first, because, well, bare fucking minimum.
James B.: Is it okay to be completely honest and say that I’ve spent a good few hours trying to find a good opening line, but all of them seemed absolutely ridiculous and I didn’t want to put you through that? So, here we are instead.
You let out a laugh when you read that, your hand coming up to your mouth as you read the text again before typing out a response to him.
So… is that your opening line then?
Oh God, was that way too fast to reply to someone? Did he think you were just waiting around all day for his text now? He’d sent it at a convenient time when you had nothing going on, and you weren’t one of those people who liked waiting hours for a reply, so you didn’t like doing it to others.
Yep, you were definitely overthinking things like usual.
You set your phone down quickly and walked back over to the stove, picking up the spoon again to stir the ground beef in the pan. Just as you added the seasoning, your phone went off again, and you looked over at it embarrassingly quickly. You couldn’t help but feel excited to see his response, because you found James very cute and handsome, and he came across as a funny guy over text, and that was unfortunately your exact type.
James B.: Yes, it was. Did I already blow my chance? Because that would really, really suck.
Another small laugh left your lips, and you glanced over to make sure the beef wasn’t burning before replying to James.
No, I liked it. Very different from the openers I’ve received in the past. Smoother too. Very straight to the point.
The reply to that one came a few minutes later when you had taken the pan off the burner and set it aside, starting on a salad to go with your tacos.
James B.: Gonna be honest again here, I’m not used to this kind of thing at all, so I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not, but I’m really hoping you’re not because I really gave that my all and it would be terrible to know I’d already messed this up.
Honesty. You liked that in a guy, again, bare fucking minimum, but at least he was making it known that he was an honest guy right from the start. That was a good sign, and the more you texted him, the more his personality came out and made you laugh, which were also good signs.
He was already coming off a lot more genuine and friendlier than the guys you’ve matched with in the past, and you could already feel your hopes starting to rise the more you messaged back and forth with him.
You knew you needed to reel yourself back in and not get too ahead of yourself until you’ve actually met the guy and had a conversation with him face to face, but when it was an hour after that first text was sent and he’d let it slip that he thinks you’re very pretty, you could already feel your hopes going through the roof.
Except, this time, that didn’t feel like a bad thing.
When Monday rolled around, you were in such a good mood after having gotten some pretty decent sleep over the weekend, and your mood had extended over to Brittany, who gave you a big smile when she saw you walk in.
“Wow, you look different,” she said, leaning back in her chair when you reached your desk. “A good different. You look… happy. Way too happy for a Monday morning.”
You laughed as you sat down. “I am happy. I had a good weekend; caught up on some sleep, had leftover tacos for dinner, watched almost an entire season of a show… oh, and I’ve been talking to James since Friday night. Like, actually talking and not just rushing to meet each other the very next day after matching,”
Brittany’s brows raised, and her smile grew a little. “Wow,” she said again, “That’s great. I was secretly hoping this guy wouldn’t be a massive disappointment. But I’m not going to say anything more than that until you actually meet him. I don’t want to get your hopes up even more than they probably already are.”
Jesus, she knows you too well. “You don’t need to worry about that. I got them up all on my own,” you said as you set your bag down under your desk. “We’re meeting for drinks on Saturday.”
“Oh, wow. I think this is the first time I’m hearing about a date happening a week after texting. Usually you’re meeting up within a few days after talking with a guy,” she observed, and you fought off a growing smile.
“I know, but James is… I don’t know, different? He said he didn’t want to rush into things, and whenever, or even if I want to meet up, it would be when I’m comfortable enough to do so,” you said, and Brittany’s brows lifted up even more on her forehead.
“Damn, he already sounds so much better than the other losers,” she said, then bounced a bit in her chair. “Okay, I don’t mean to get your hopes up even more, but I’m really excited for you. From the little I’ve heard, this guy sounds great. You need to tell me everything that happens on Saturday.”
“You know I will,” you said back, giving her a cheeky grin just as your boss walked past, and you both quickly straightened up since you’d gotten reprimanded for gossiping too much in the past.
Once he was out of earshot, Brittany leaned towards you once more. “I’m excited for you,” she whispered, giving you a genuine smile. “I hope things go well on Saturday.”
You returned her smile, “Me too,”
The week had flown by, unlike last week which seemed to have dragged on.
Before you knew it, it was Saturday, and you had changed your outfit for tonight no less than five times. The first one was way too formal for a first date, but the second one was way too casual. The third one was nice but too simple, and the fourth one you’d put on was just for fun since it’d been a while since you’d worn that type of dress, and the fifth one was your last attempt at dressing yourself for a first date you were actually excited to go on.
It was simple, but not as simple as the third outfit. A black velvet skirt, dark brown nylons, a tight fitting dark red turtle neck, and matching black velvet boots that went up to just under your knees.
You liked how you looked when you stepped in front of the mirror, so before you could go back to your closet to find a sixth outfit, you grabbed your black, faux leather purse and slung it over your shoulder before quickly leaving your room, leaving a mess of clothes strewn all over the place you knew you’d be annoyed to come home to later.
The place James had suggested meeting was a pub that was conveniently located right at the halfway mark between your place and his. The Uber ride there only took ten minutes, and you cringed when you saw the glowing sign with the pub’s name on it quickly approaching. You planned to meet for seven, but of course you being you, you ended up arriving at six forty five.
You walked into the pub and looked around, having a feeling that you weren’t going to spot James anywhere since you were fifteen minutes earlier than the time you planned. After checking for him anyway and not seeing him, you walked over to the bar and sat down, putting your purse on the stool next to yours so you could save him a seat.
Once you’d ordered yourself a drink, you pulled your phone out to message James, just to let him know that you’d arrived. You hadn’t yet exchanged phone numbers, which is something you normally liked only doing once you really trusted someone and felt comfortable with them, so you opened the Tinder app and went straight into the message tab, clicking on the only text thread you have on it.
Just as you set your phone down to take a sip of your vodka cranberry, it went off, vibrating against your lap.
James B.: I’m so sorry for making you wait. I’m on the way, I just had some trouble getting there. ETA says one minute, I’ll see you soon.
You squirmed on the stool, feeling giddy that by the time he arrived, it still wouldn’t be seven yet, so he’d be arriving early too just like you had.
James proved to be as honest in person as he is over text because only a minute later, the door to the pub swung open, and in walked a man you’d been secretly admiring on your phone screen.
And you could safely say the photos did not do him justice.
He was wearing dark jeans, white sneakers that were a little stained with dirt, a light grey shirt and a dark blue jacket. His hair was slightly messy, like he’d been messing around with it during the ride here, but the way his lips parted in a charming smile more than made up for it.
Fuck, the photos did not do him justice at all. He looked even better in person.
You straightened up a bit, a nervous smile forming on your lips when his eyes met yours after he’d quickly scanned the room. A matching smile formed on his mouth when he saw you, and he maneuvered his way between tables and other patrons with such ease, and the slight bit of confidence you could feel radiating off of him was definitely a plus rather than a turn off.
When he reached the bar, you stood up out of instinct, and your head nearly spun at the height difference. Your boots made you an inch taller, but you were still nowhere near James’ height, and you had to tilt your head back to be able to look up at him.
“Hey,” he greeted, and his voice nearly knocked you off your feet. You hadn’t really given much thought to how his voice would sound, and you and he hadn’t spoken verbally on the phone during the week you’d been texting back and forth, but even if you had you were sure the speaker wouldn’t have done him justice either.
Holy shit, you needed to calm down.
“Hi,” you said back, willing your heart to stop beating so fast as you leaned towards him when he extended his arm towards you, and you wrapped your own arms around him in a brief hug. You nearly fainted when your nose brushed against his shoulder and you caught wind of his cologne.
You had no idea how you were making it through this date, because you hadn’t felt like this at all during your dates with other men in the past, and this was just the fucking greeting stage of it.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said, even though you both knew you and he were early. “I think I accidentally requested an Uber Share or something because I had to wait for two other people to get dropped off first before it was my turn. I swear, I have no idea how to work my phone half the time, I’m like someone’s fifty year old dad when it comes to that kind of thing.”
That had you laughing as you sat back down on your stool, and you grabbed your purse, taking it off the stool next to you before gesturing for him to sit down as well. “That’s okay. I’m pretty sure I’ve done that before in the past too. On the plus side, at least it’s cheaper,”
James tilted his head as he sat down. “I didn’t know that either,”
“Oh, well… now you do,” you lifted your shoulder in a shrug. “So… if all else fails tonight, at least you learned something new.”
“That’s a nice way to look at things, thank you,” he said back, and that charming smile was back on his face, and you had to force yourself to stop looking at his mouth after you’d already been staring at it for a good five seconds.
Before you got to reply, the bartender came over to him and asked for his order, and James ordered a beer before turning his attention back to you.
“Um, I don’t know when a good time to mention this is, so I’ll just mention it now,” he started, and he sounded exactly like how he texted, and you found that incredibly endearing. “My friends and family call me Bucky. It’s just like a nickname thing that stuck ever since I was a kid, so… you can call me that if you want. Or James. James is fine too.”
Your lips curved into a sly grin at that, and you propped your elbow up onto the surface of the bar. “Well… if I have permission to use your nickname, I’m not about to pass it up,” you said, then teasingly added, “Bucky.”
James, or Bucky, poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue, and you had no idea if he realized how attractive that was or not. “So, do you have any nicknames I should call you by?”
You shook your head, reaching for your drink and taking a sip as you answered, “No, no nicknames. I’m boring like that,”
Bucky’s head tilted to the side again, and he shook it as well. “I don’t think you’re boring,” he said all too easily, completely unaware of the flip your stomach just did. “I’ve been talking to you for less than five minutes and this is already the most fun I’ve had all week, so, you know, stop being so hard on yourself.”
The bluntness of his words had your face heating up, and you subtly pressed the cool glass of your drink against your cheek. “Okay, I will,” you said, and you watched as a grin formed on his face.
“Sorry, I realize how demanding that sounded,” he said, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck.
Shrugging, you sipped the last of your drink, knowing you’d definitely need another to get through this date, and for once you didn’t mean that in a bad way. “I didn’t mind it. Kinda needed to hear it, if we’re being honest,”
Bucky’s smile grew at that, and he let out a breathy laugh as he dropped his hand. “I’m not like that, I promise,”
You blamed the one single drink you’d had on what came out of your mouth next. “And yet something tells me I wouldn’t mind if you were,”
Your eyes widened a bit at your own words, but you didn’t take them back or say anything to distract him, and you watched the way his own eyes widened a bit before they briefly dropped down to your mouth. He cleared his throat just as his beer was placed in front of him, and he quickly grabbed it. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said under his breath, then took a generous swig of his beer. When you set your empty glass down onto the bar, Bucky eyed it instantly, and he gestured to it as he asked, “Can I get you another one of those?”
You pressed your lips together, leaning your head on your palm when you propped your elbow up on the bar. “Sure,” you said, and Bucky was quickly turning to get the attention of the bar tender.
Once he’d ordered you another ‘red, fruity looking drink’, he turned back to you, and there was a small smile on his lips as he kept a firm grip on his beer. “I should’ve said this as soon as I walked in,” he said, gesturing to your form with his free hand. “Uh, you… you look really beautiful.”
That had a blush taking over your face instantly, and you really wished your new drink was here so you could try to mask it by pressing the cold glass against your cheek again. You’ve found that in the past, if one of the guys you’d gone on a date with actually made you blush, that it just boosted their already massive egos and made them think you’ll let them sleep with you just because of it. Though Bucky didn’t seem like that type at all.
“Thank you,” you said after you’d finally found your voice. “That’s really nice of… you look nice too. Good, you look good.”
Holy shit, one guy gives you a compliment and you’re already stuttering out your response. Yeah, this guy was definitely different from the rest, because you’re finding it hard to speak to him, and it wasn’t because he was making you uncomfortable. He was making you feel flustered, but in a really good way. This was all so new to you, and you realized you had no idea how to act on a date that wasn’t expected to end in just sex.
But he didn’t seem to be weirded out by your behaviour, and the smile he gave you at your nervousness made your heart flutter just a bit. “Thank you,” was all he said, and then your drink was placed in front of you.
You all too eagerly grabbed it and began sipping it.
Bucky watched you for a few moments before he shook his head, his smile still on his lips. “Is it considered embarrassing if I tell you that I switched my shirt about three times before settling on this one?”
That had one of your brows raising, and you lowered your drink back down to the bar. “No, I don’t think that’s embarrassing. It’s a nice shirt. I’m glad it was the winner,” you said, and the laugh that came out of his mouth was genuine, unlike the fake and over the top laughs you’d heard when a guy thought it would increase his chances of getting his dick wet. “I changed my outfit about five times, so I think I have you beat there.”
Bucky’s smile softened, and you felt your heart beat a little quicker at the way he was looking at you right now. “Well, I don’t know what the other outfits looked like, but I’m sure they were beautiful too,”
And that was how the rest of the date went. Bucky would say or do something as simple as lifting his arm to run his hand through his hair, or tell you that you have pretty eyes, and you’d instantly blush and turn into putty in his hands.
It was embarrassing how much you already liked him, but then again, isn’t that the whole point of a first date? To see if you’re compatible with someone and if you vibe together?
You were definitely feeling the vibe with Bucky, and from the looks he’d been giving you and the things he’d been saying to you all night, you had a feeling he was feeling it too.
It was nearing eleven when you mutually decided to call it a night.
You both made your way out of the pub and onto the sidewalk, and you ordered your Uber first, then helped Bucky order one that wasn’t an Uber Share. You’d both had a fair share of drinks tonight, but you weren’t drunk since you paced yourself with the sole reason of wanting to remember this date with almost crystal clear clarity.
Once you’d helped Bucky with the correct option on the Uber app, he put his phone in his pocket and let out an embarrassed laugh. “Thanks for that. You probably think I’m like an old man now,” he muttered, and you smiled up at him, shaking your head.
“I don’t. I actually think men who are terrible at using smart phones are incredibly hot,”
You were tipsy, not drunk, and that was the reason for your lack of filter right now.
Bucky lifted a brow as his eyes dropped down to your mouth, and you so badly wanted him to kiss you. Fuck what you’d told yourself before. This man was a walking dream and you wanted him to take you to bed. It was obvious now that the other guys you’ve gone out on dates with would’ve never worked, because you’d never felt what you’re currently feeling right now before in your life.
But Bucky didn’t lean down, and he didn’t close the distance between yours and his mouth. “I’m not going to kiss you tonight,” he said, almost as if he was telling that to himself, and you felt your face heat up. “I don’t want this to become a cliché, because I had a really, really nice time with you. So, I’m not going to kiss you yet. But just know that I really want to.”
Now your face was on fire for a completely different reason. Pressing your lips together, you looked down at the sidewalk. He probably didn’t even know it, but that was probably the most perfect thing to say to end a date. “Let me see your phone,” you said in response, and Bucky narrowed his brows but reached into his pocket and handed you his phone anyway.
You held back a laugh when you saw that he didn’t even have a passcode lock for it, and went into his contacts. You put your number in, then saved it under your first and last name before giving his phone back to him. “That’s the first time I’ve given a guy my number on the first date, so…” you trailed off, giving him a flustered grin. “Please text me. Or call me. Or both.”
The look he gave you almost had you begging him to go back on his own words and kiss you, but you held back, and so did he. “I will,” he said with a certainty in his tone that told you he would definitely be texting you after this.
Your Uber came only moments later, and when you turned to Bucky, you didn’t have to say a single word, because he somehow knew what you wanted to do. He pulled you against his chest for your second hug of the night, and when your nose brushed along his jacket again, you let your eyes briefly close.
“Have a good night,” he said when he pulled back, keeping his hands wrapped around your elbows. “And weekend.”
You gave him one last smile, stepping back and towards the curb. “You too,”
Bucky opened the door for you, and you were once again reduced to a blushing mess as you crawled into the backseat and tried to force yourself to stop smiling so much, but it was hopeless, because there was a permanent smile on your face the whole ride back to your apartment.
It’d been less than twenty four hours since your date with Bucky, and you were still giddy just thinking about it, let alone talking about it.
He’d ended up texting you a few minutes after you’d gotten home, and even though it was a simple message that thanked you for a good night, it still set butterflies loose all over your body.
You weren’t sure how you’d managed to go to sleep at all last night when your mind was completely awake for most of the night, playing back every interaction you’d had with him.
When your phone went off from its place on the coffee table, you instantly reached for it, and the text made you cover your mouth with your fingers.
Bucky from Tinder: I’d really like to take you out for dinner sometime next week, if you’re available. Hopefully that isn’t asking too much too fast.
“Oh, Jesus, you’ve got it bad,” Brittany said from her place on the couch next to you. You’d invited her over for a girls’ day, complete with wine and wearing sweats all day long, and you’d just finished telling her all about how good the date had been. “You’re smiling at that thing like it’s eight inches and about to rock your world.”
You barked out a laugh, looking over at her with a barely repressed smile. “I kind of want it to,” you said back, and Brittany let out a laugh of her own. “He wants to take me out for dinner next week.”
Brittany hummed in interest, leaning over to look at the text as well. “You have him saved as ‘Bucky from Tinder’?” she scoffed, shaking her head.
“Hey, he didn’t give me his full name last night,” you defended yourself.
“Did you give him yours?”
“No… just my first and last name,” you said, and Brittany shook her head as she brought her wine glass up to her mouth and took a sip from it. “But I would’ve given him a lot more than that. He was so sweet and kind and funny and… Britt, he was respectful, and he made me feel so comfortable the whole time. I’ve never been on a date that was that… good. Does that even make sense?”
Brittany nodded, smiling when she lowered her glass. “Of course it makes sense, that’s how it’s supposed to be,” she said like it was obvious, and you supposed it kind of was. “That’s exactly how Gare made me feel on our first date. I mean, yeah that’s the bare minimum, but in this day and age? It’s how you know you’ve found a good one.”
“Or found one who’s too good to be true,” you said, but even you didn’t believe that, and the eyeroll you received from Brittany was justified.
“Stop trying to convince yourself it’s all an act,” she said, reaching for the wine bottle and pouring more into both yours and her glasses. “There are good guys still in the world, and from what I’ve heard, you’ve finally found one after multiple failed attempts.”
You scoffed. “Wow, harsh,”
“Am I wrong?” she asked, giving you a sly smirk, “That’s what I thought. Now stop second guessing things, and stop trying to convince yourself that it’s too good to be true. Just have fun and see where things go. Oh, and get his last name and text it to me so I know who to point fingers at if you ever go missing. You can never be too careful.”
You let your shoulders drop as you laughed, and you nodded, taking your now filled glass from her when she held it out to you. “You’re right. I’m having fun and seeing where things go,” you stated, and Brittany held up her pinky to you with a grin, and you wrapped your own pinky around hers before the focus shifted to what to order for dinner.
The restaurant you and Bucky met at had been your choice since he picked the pub last Saturday, so you opted for a place you’d gone to a couple times before with your friends, because the menu was good, and it was a relatively chill place compared to the more lively restaurants located throughout Brooklyn.
You’d planned to meet there for six, and of course you were both there around five forty five instead. This date felt significantly more formal than the first one did, so you dressed up a little more than you did last week, while also trying to not overdo it. A cute black dress that fit you well and had thin straps and went down to just above your knees, and black heels that gave you another inch or two of height, but when you stood next to Bucky, you were still nowhere near being as tall as he is.
He dressed up more too, and if you thought he looked good on the first date, you had no words for how he looks right now. A crisp white button up that was pulled up to his elbows, showing off his, for lack of better words, thick forearms, covered his top half, while dark grey jeans and Converse covered his lower half, and holy shit. This man has the ‘stylish but still casual’ look perfected.
And when he pulled out your chair for you, you swooned even more, even though Brittany’s words of that being ‘the bare minimum’ rang throughout your head. It somehow felt like much more than that.
You were two glasses of wine and one shared appetizer deep when the vibe shifted from light and friendly to downright flirty, and you were grateful that the lights were dim in this restaurant, or else Bucky would be able to see how easily he can get you all flustered.
Bucky’s arms were crossed on the table, his eyes fixated on you as he watched you take a slow sip of your wine. “I gotta say… I thought you looked beautiful last weekend, but tonight… Fuck,” he muttered the last word, and you had to cover your mouth with your hand as you quickly averted your eyes.
There was no way you could look at that man while he says things like that and not jump across the table at him. You had no idea a simple swear word could sound so hot.
You had to take a few moments to compose yourself, and a few more sips of wine, before you could even string together a response. “Well, I thought you looked incredibly good last weekend too, but the way you look right now… Not sure if there are words to even describe it,” you said, feeling more confident about what to say in front of him now that the ice had effectively been broken. “You look like a sexy professor or something. I would’ve definitely gone to all my classes if my teachers looked half this good.”
Bucky’s brow raised and he ran his tongue along the seam of his lips. “So, does that mean I have some competition? Are you harbouring some feelings for your past professors or is this some kind of fantasy you have?”
You shook your head. “No, definitely not harbouring any feelings,”
“No?”
“No. No, they were all old and balding, not that that’s a bad thing, but still,” you said, and the small laugh you’d gotten out of Bucky had a permanent smile on your lips. “Oh, before I forget. What’s your last name?”
“My last name?” he huffed out another laugh. “That’s an odd shift in conversation. It’s Barnes.”
“Bucky Barnes,” you said, unable to stop yourself from cracking up. “The double B, huh?”
Bucky shook his head, holding up a finger as he poured the remaining wine into yours and his glasses. “No, my first name is James, remember? So it’s technically JB.”
You hummed, nodding slowly. “Well, what’s your middle name?”
That had him freezing, and he shot you a sheepish smile as he set the empty bottle aside and pushed it towards the edge of the table. “That’s reserved for date number three,”
Your face flushed at that, and you tilted your head. “So, is that you telling me you would like to see me again after this?”
Bucky tilted his head too, a grin tugging at his lips. “If I haven’t made it obvious enough, I like you. And I’d definitely like to see you again after this,” he said, and his way with words made your heart flutter wildly in your chest. He was so blunt, but equally sweet, and you didn’t know how much you liked that until now.
You pressed your lips together before swallowing harshly. “Me too,”
“You like me too, or you’d like to see me again after this too?” he asked, and you let out a soft laugh.
“Both,”
After dinner, you and Bucky once again found yourselves standing on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, waiting for your separate Ubers. Even though every inch of your body was screaming at you to ask if you could go with him, or tell him to come with you, you didn’t want to rush this. He didn’t rush things the last time, and it only made this second date that much better.
You weren’t waiting for nearly as long as you were last time, which was quite unfortunate since you would gladly spend the rest of your Friday night with Bucky. Your Uber driver was just down the street, and when you turned to look up at Bucky, you found him already looking down at you.
Before you could say anything, he took a step towards you, then another until he was right in front of you, and you had to crane your neck a bit to look up at him. “I really wish I kissed you last time,” he said, and you felt your heart start beating a little faster as you inhaled a shaky breath.
“I wish you did too,” you said back, and you stood completely still as he lifted his right hand and cradled your jaw. He tilted your head up just a bit more, and you were desperate to feel his mouth on yours, and he must be feeling a similar way, because only a few seconds later he was leaning down and closing the distance between you and him.
You stayed frozen for a few more seconds before your hands came up and rested on his chest. You kissed him back, and despite the tension between you and him, the kiss wasn’t rushed or rough or harsh. It was deep and intense and it left you feeling light headed but in the best possible way.
The hand on your jaw slid into your hair, and he deepened the kiss just slightly before pulling back, and his forehead came to rest against yours just as your Uber pulled up.
You looked to the side and winced when you confirmed that was indeed the car listed as the one that would be taking you home, and then you turned back to Bucky. “That’s my ride,” you muttered a little miserably.
But Bucky just laughed softly. “Have a good night, sweetheart,” he murmured, then pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I’ll be thinking about this all weekend.”
“Just all weekend?” you breathed, earning yourself another laugh. You smiled as you pulled away, and he once again opened the door for you. “Have a good night, Bucky.” you said back, then got into the car.
The breath of air you let out as soon as he shut the door would’ve been embarrassing to have done in front of a stranger, but you were full of nerves and wine and you could still feel Bucky’s lips on your own, so you didn’t even care.
Brittany was right. You’ve got it bad.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been that fucking starstruck after a first kiss. Like, ever,” you said after you finished telling Brittany all about your second date with Bucky. It was a Monday morning and you’d been at work for forty five minutes now, and yet you’d done absolutely nothing at all except talk to your best friend.
Brittany leaned forward at her desk, wiggling her brows at you. “Not even after your first kiss with a man ever?”
“No,” you shook your head. “Not even then.”
“Oh, babe, you’re down so bad,” she laughed, leaning back in her chair and swaying it a bit. “I’m definitely mentioning this in my maid of honor speech at your wedding.”
Your face heated up at that, and you bit down on your lip. “Promise?”
“Oh, my God!” she laughed again, “You really like this one, huh? You never reacted like that when I joked about marriage in the past.”
“Well, none of them have been as amazing as Bucky’s been,” you said back, and as if you’d manifested him, your phone vibrated from where it was on your desk. You grabbed it, and the look on your face must’ve told Brittany everything, because she let out a scoff.
“Speak of the devil, huh?”
You laughed, reading over his text another two times before looking up at her. “He wants to see me again this week,”
“Damn, he’s down bad too,” Brittany said, and you rolled your eyes as you began typing out a reply. “But I’m happy for you. Seriously. This is going extremely well, and I can’t wait for a double date with you and Bucky and Gare and I.”
That had you looking up from your phone with a grin. “I’d be so down for that,”
The week passed by in a blur, and so did yours and Bucky’s third date which was at the movie theater, and by the end of that one, after whispering to each other all throughout the movie, he asked if you wanted to come over to his place Saturday night for dinner, and you were quick to say yes.
You hadn’t been to a man’s house in an embarrassingly long time, and you hadn’t been to a man’s house for dinner in an even longer time, so of course you had no idea what to wear.
Something similar to what you wore to the movies seemed appropriate, especially since you wouldn’t be going out to a restaurant to eat, so there wasn’t really a need to dress up too much… right?
You settled on light blue jeans and a burgundy sweater, completed with the letters NYU in large, white font across your chest. It was your comfort shirt, and it felt fitting since your heart had been beating a million miles a minute since the moment you stepped foot in Bucky’s apartment.
He’d ushered you over to the couch, where he’d gotten you settled in with a glass of wine and a nice view of him as he moved around his kitchen. The open concept allowed you to shamelessly watch him move from one counter to the stove to the fridge without anything in the way of your view, except for the big island that took up a good portion of the kitchen.
He was making some old family recipe that had been passed down for about seventy years now, but he’d told you that it was pretty much just a fancier version of pasta with a homemade sauce.
As you looked around his apartment, you couldn’t stop the smile that had formed on your face. It was so Bucky, which made sense, but it still made you feel all warm on the inside.
On the coffee table in front of you were two TV remotes, a coaster that had seen better days, a book that must’ve had well over a thousand pages in it, and a small spider plant that seemed to be living its best life. How men were so good at keeping plants alive, you had no idea, but you felt bad about all the plants you’d accidentally killed in the past when you saw how lively his plant looks.
A large flat screen TV was mounted on the wall, and under it was an electric fireplace encased in dark gray brick. The couch you were sitting on could fit maybe four people comfortably, and was a soft velvet fabric but it also had a more modern feel to it.
The rug under your feet was a dark blue and you could see traces of white fur embedded in it, which made sense since there was a small cat tree tucked away in the corner by the window, and it also had traces of white all over it.
His kitchen was modern too, with light gray cupboards and cabinets with a black marble counter top, and the fridge and stove were both stainless steel you had personal beef with since it was a pain in the ass to clean and remove all fingerprints from, but both his appliances were pretty close to spotless.
There was a six seater dining table off to the right near the floor to ceiling windows, and there was a beautiful light made of black metal hanging over the center of the table.
Dim lights hung over the island while white spotlights filled in the dark spots in the kitchen, and you were extremely jealous that Bucky gets to come home to his place every day after work, because this was pretty close to being your dream apartment.
Bucky was a good looking guy, and he always seemed to know how to dress himself perfectly for whatever occasion, so it made a lot of sense that his apartment was very nicely decorated.
Now if only you knew what his bedroom looked like…
After taking in his apartment, you let your eyes drift over to Bucky again, and you had to bring your wine glass up to your mouth to hide your growing smile. He looked good, even though he was just wearing jeans and a light blue Henley.
You watched as he stirred the pot of noodles on the stove, and you were finally able to compose yourself enough to speak. “Your place is so nice. I’m actually jealous that you get to come home to this every day,” you said, taking a sip of the wine and letting it cool you down a bit. “I didn’t realize you had such a creative eye for interior design.”
Bucky laughed, glancing over his shoulder at you. “Don’t give me all the credit. I put pretty much half a year’s paycheck into it. This place looked a lot different when I first moved in a couple years ago,” he said, setting down the spoon he was using before taking the pot off the burner. “My sister had a lot of say in most of it. She’s the one who has the eye for that kind of thing.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Has anyone ever told you that it’s okay to take a compliment?” you asked, earning another laugh from Bucky as he began putting the pasta onto two plates.
As he plated the food, you saw movement out of the corner of your eye, and when you turned your head, you saw a fluffy white cat sitting in the entrance way of the hall. There was a pastel yellow collar around its neck, complete with a small silver bell, and it had blue eyes that matched Bucky’s.
Like father like child, you guessed, even though this wasn’t a human being.
“That is the cutest cat I’ve ever seen,” you said, sitting up a bit as the cat looked inquisitively at you, like it was taking you in.
Bucky hummed, looking over his shoulder again, and when he saw the cat sitting in the hallway, he grinned. “Yeah, that’s my girl, Alpine. She’s pretty sweet looking,” he said back, picking up both plates and making his way over to you. “She’s feisty though. I could’ve sworn she was on drugs when I first got her. She scratched pretty much every piece of furniture to the point where I had to replace it all. She’s more relaxed now that she’s three, thankfully.”
You smiled at that, sitting up even more as he held the plate out to you, and your mind briefly went back to his dating profile, where he explicitly stated that he is a cat dad. “Are we eating here?” you asked, setting your wine down on the coffee table as Bucky sat down next to you on the couch.
“Yeah, if that’s okay with you,” he said, a smile growing on his lips when his knee brushed against yours.
“It’s okay with me,” you immediately said, setting the plate down on your lap. “Feels more domestic this way.”
His lips only curved more at that. “That’s what I was thinking too,”
As you and he ate, you couldn’t stop yourself from constantly looking over at him, watching the way his jaw moved as he chewed. You’d been thinking about yours and his first kiss pretty much all week, and having him so close to you and looking so effortlessly hot was not helping your case at all. It definitely didn’t help that you’d gotten teased a little earlier when you first arrived, since he’d welcomed you into his place with a kiss to your cheek that was dangerously close to your mouth.
You and he also shared a kiss on your last date, but it was brief since he’d got called into work afterwards when you and he left the theater, so you only got to feel his lips for a minute or two before he left. You wanted him to kiss you again, but this time for much longer.
Once you and he finished eating, he set the plates aside and picked up his own wine glass, and your eyes were once again drawn to his mouth and neck as he swallowed. “That was really good,” you said, trying to distract yourself as you nodded at the now empty plates. “I think whoever came up with that recipe would be very proud to know that it was one of the best things I’ve ever tasted.”
Bucky’s mouth lifted in a small grin, and he shifted on the couch, draping one arm around the back of it all too casually. This whole thing felt all too domestic and comfortable, which are two things you hadn’t felt around a man in quite some time now. “That would be my great grandmother. She came up with it when my grandma got married and they couldn’t afford to hire a chef to handle the meal for the wedding, so she came up with something special for her,”
You grinned at that, propping your elbow up on the back of the couch. “That’s so sweet. That just makes it even better,”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you confirmed, “That makes it feel even more special. Thank you for that.”
Bucky gave you a look that had you squirming a bit, and when he leaned forward to set his glass aside, then reached for yours, you let him take it from you and place it next to his.
Now empty handed, you had nothing to fiddle with as a blush was starting to take over your body. But you didn’t have to simmer in it for too long as Bucky’s big hands moved to your face, and he cradled your head like you were something precious.
Then he was guiding you into a kiss, and you all but melted against him. Your own hands came up to rest on his shoulders, and that must’ve encouraged him to deepen the kiss as his tongue slid past your lips and brushed against your own.
This is what you’d been craving since your very first taste of him, and you were not about to not take full advantage of the fact that he’d initiated this, and he clearly wanted this as much as you do.
One of your hands slid around to the back of his neck, and you tangled your fingers in his hair as you pressed closer, and Bucky nearly pulled you onto his lap. A soft, needy sigh left your mouth and entered his, and you felt the way his grip on you tightened before his hands moved to your waist, holding you firmly against his chest.
When you pulled back for a breath of air, Bucky was pulling you back in, and you once again forgot how to breathe as you shared his air instead. He tasted like the dinner he’d made for you and wine, and for some reason it tasted even better on his tongue.
Your fingers tugged gently on his hair, and your stomach flipped wildly inside your body at the deep sound that tumbled from the back of his throat. Your arms banded around his shoulders, keeping him close when you had to pull away to be able to breathe in fresh air. Your lips were tingling and your heart was pounding in your chest, something you were sure he could feel from how close you were.
God, he was a good kisser. Definitely the best guy you’ve ever shared a kiss with, though you were sure your attraction to not only his appearance but to his overall personality played a huge factor in your opinion on that.
Bucky pressed his forehead against yours, soft breaths leaving his lips that you tried to match your own breathing to. His lips were puffy and damp like you knew yours were, and his eyes had significantly darkened.
A heat pooled in your lower body, but you didn’t let yourself give it too much attention.
As much as you wanted to have sex with Bucky right now, you also didn’t want to rush things. Yours and his relationship had been going perfectly so far, and the pacing of it was a huge part of that. There was no doubt that you wanted him to take you to his bed right now and fuck you into tomorrow, but you also knew that the build up to it, especially after this heated interaction on the couch, would make it that much better.
So you just leaned in and started a much lazier kiss that still had that heat growing inside of you, but wouldn’t be enough to persuade you into begging him to take you right then and there.
Though as you felt his big, strong hands slide up your sides as he kissed you back, you weren’t sure how much longer you would be able to have him like this before you could no longer resist taking that much more serious step with him.
The first thing you read on Monday morning was a text from Bucky that had you feeling all kinds of things.
Bucky Barnes: I can’t stop thinking about you.
It was simple, straight forward, but so fucking sexy. You practically melted all over again when you read it after sleeping alone in your bed. How you managed to keep yourself off his dick on Saturday, you’d never know, but you had a feeling that the next time you see him, you weren’t sure how you would be able to stop yourself from taking that next step with him.
You were already feeling a little heated just thinking about it as you texted him back.
I can’t stop thinking about you either. Movie night soon? At my place? I’ll provide the movies and booze, you just bring yourself.
The fact that it only took him under two minutes to respond only made you feel even warmer.
Bucky Barnes: Absolutely. I can’t promise I’ll be paying much attention to the movies, though. Fair warning.
How he was so easily able to make you melt like this, you had no idea, but you weren’t complaining about it at all. You hadn’t felt this way in so long, you were more than ready to bask in it for as long as you could.
That was kind of why I suggested it. Fair warning back to you.
It turns out that you weren’t the only one who’d been holding back that night at Bucky’s when he made you dinner then indulged in some shameless making out on the couch after.
You and Bucky had only gotten ten minutes into Twister before you both leaned in for a kiss, and things had only escalated from there.
He looked so big on your two seater couch, and that sight alone had you feeling needy for him, and he must’ve been feeling something similar since it didn’t take long for him to haul you onto his lap and guide you into a much deeper kiss as the movie continued to play on the TV behind you, completely forgotten about.
Your hands slid into his hair, tilting his head back as you took control in the way most men you’d been with in the past didn’t like very much, because God forbid a woman be in control.
But Bucky just let out the deepest, sexiest sound you’d ever heard in your life, and it once again proved to you that he was so beyond different from the failures you’d let into your life before him.
His hands slid under your shirt and grabbed onto your waist, his fingers gently digging into your skin. The skin on skin contact you’d been craving since the very first date had you moaning into his mouth, and you felt the way his grip tightened just a bit more.
When he broke away from the kiss, you were both panting heavily, your lips damp and puffy much like his are. “Is it too soon to say that I’ve been thinking about this for a while now?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper as he let out short breaths.
You quickly shook your head, your nails scratching along his scalp. “No. I’ve been thinking about this for a while too. An embarrassingly long time, honestly,”
Bucky huffed out a laugh, his hands smoothing up and down your sides. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he mumbled, “But I am curious to know exactly how long you’ve been wanting this now.”
Your face flushed and you let out an embarrassed whine as you pressed your forehead against his. “Like… since the first date,” you confessed, and Bucky let out another soft laugh that had you heating up even more. “But it’s really not my fault. You were so sweet and kind and… I’d never gone out with someone who was so considerate and nice to me.”
Bucky gave you a small grin, one of his hands moving to hold your chin between his thumb and index finger. “Too bad for the guys who came before me then,” he murmured, his thumb tugging at your bottom lip. “They didn’t deserve to see you like this anyway.”
Your breath hitched at that, your eyes flickering between his own and his mouth. “Like what?”
Bucky guided your face closer to his once again. “Like this,” he repeated, his lips brushing against yours. “So perfect and pretty and sexy.”
Your body flushed at that, and your thighs tried to close around his hips, something you knew he noticed as he gave you another brief smile before he was leaning in and kissing you again.
You kissed him back, pressing your chest right up against his as you deepened the kiss. As his tongue brushed along the seam of your mouth, you parted your lips and moaned when it immediately touched yours. Your hips instinctively rolled forward against his, and the sound he made had you feeling light headed and tipsy despite you being completely sober.
He pulled away again, and when you tried to chase after him, he brought both hands up to your face to hold you still. His lips were wet and parted and there was obvious desire in his eyes, but he still refrained from kissing you again. Before you could question him, Bucky asked a question of his own, “Are you ready to do this with me? We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to yet,” he asked, and you reeled back in surprise.
Was he seriously asking if you were ready to have sex with him? God, you wanted to meet his mother so bad, because the first thing you’d do is thank her for raising such a perfectly decent man who effortlessly put the rest of the men in the entire world to fucking shame.
You felt a bit too giddy as you nodded. “Yes. I do want to do this,” you said. “Do you?”
“Yes,” Bucky replied instantly, and you smiled. “I just don’t want to rush you into doing something you don’t want to do.”
Your smile grew at that, and you ran your hands down the front of his dark red Henley. “I want to do this. I’m ready to do this,” you said, “I don’t think I’ve ever been more ready. You make me comfortable, Bucky.”
You watched as a small grin formed on his face, and then his hands were cradling your face as he guided you back into a kiss. As you lost yourself in the feeling of his mouth on yours, his hands moved down your body, one planting firmly on your hip while the other one teased the waistline of your leggings. “Can I?” he asked against your lips, and you once again eagerly nodded.
His hand slid beneath the fabric of both your leggings and your panties, and your breath hitched when you felt his fingers brush against your core. You moaned against his mouth as his fingers found your wetness, and the roughness of his skin against yours felt better than anything else.
“Still okay?” he asked, pulling back to look up at you, and you closed your eyes as you nodded. He gathered your wetness on his fingers, swiping them along your folds before he dipped one inside of you. A soft moan tore from your lips, your hands coming up to grab tightly onto his shoulders. “You’re so wet.” he murmured, something close to pride evident in his tone.
Your face flushed at that, and you held him even tighter. “Bucky,”
He worked you open with one finger before slowly adding a second, and you moaned a little louder. “You’re so pretty,” Bucky said under his breath, the hand on your hip helping you rock against his hand. You rolled your hips forward, grinding against his hand as he worked his fingers inside of you, and another long moan slipped past your lips. “So fucking pretty.” he repeated, then nuzzled his face against your neck.
He started placing open mouthed kisses along your skin, his tongue darting out to taste you. Your head fell back a bit, giving him more room as you rode his fingers, and he all too happily let you set the pace.
“Mmm,” you moaned, your hands tangling in his hair as he ran the tip of his nose along the length of your throat. “Feels so good.”
Bucky smiled against your neck. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you breathed out, your pussy clenching a bit when he curled his fingers just slightly inside of you. He was so gentle and it made it feel ten times better than it ever had before. “So good, Bucky.”
He hummed against your skin, then he gently sucked on the spot between your neck and shoulder, and you shuddered on his lap. Normally, you thought hickeys were uncomfortable and a bit childish to both receive and put on others, but with Bucky you found yourself leaning into his touch. He had completely switched your perspective on most things regarding dating, and you weren’t the least bit mad about it.
After he was satisfied with the mark he’d left on you, the one you couldn’t wait to see later in the mirror, he lifted his head and pressed his lips to yours. You moaned against his mouth, your sounds muffled now as you rocked your hips against his own. When his thumb brushed against your clit, you jolted unexpectedly, a needy whine tearing from your mouth after.
“You like that?” he asked, once again pulling back from your mouth so he could look up at you.
You nodded, squeezing your eyes shut as you tugged gently on his hair. “Yes. Fuck,” you gasped. “I like it.”
Bucky hummed again and continued to tease your clit as he worked you open on his fingers. “I wanna feel you cum for me, baby,” he murmured, and the pet name had you clenching tightly around his fingers. “Yeah, that’s it. Just like that. Cum for me, sweetheart.”
Your grip on his hair tightened a bit as you dropped your forehead to his, your moans growing louder as you felt your body start to tense up. “Fuck,” you whispered harshly, pressing your chest against his as you came. Pleasure ripped through you, hitting you harder than anything had in a while, and you could confidently say that no man had ever made you feel like that with just his fingers.
A shaky breath left your lips as your body trembled on top of him, your pussy fluttering from the sensitivity as he worked you through it with his free hand placed firmly on your lower back, holding you against him and keeping you grounded.
“Holy shit,” you laughed, reaching down to wrap your hand around his wrist when the pressure became too much, and he instantly paused, his eyes locking with yours. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt like that before in my life.” you confessed, and Bucky smiled up at you.
“It’s about to get even better,” he said, and you believed him wholeheartedly. If he was that good with just his hands, you weren’t sure how you were going to survive having his cock inside of you, but you were excited either way. You watched with hooded eyes as he slowly pulled his fingers out of you, then pulled his hand out of your leggings before bringing it to his mouth and cleaning it of your wetness. “Where is your bedroom?” he asked as he licked his fingers.
You were breathless when you answered, “Last door on the right. Down the hall,” you gestured behind you then grabbed onto his shoulders again as he grabbed onto the undersides of your thighs and stood up from the couch, lifting you up with him.
Your legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you, following your directions to your bedroom. Your fingers bunched up the fabric of his shirt as he entered your room, and then you were laying on your back on your bed as Bucky stood over you, looking down at you with nothing but desire all over his face.
You watched as he pulled his shirt over his head, and your eyes instantly dropped down to his chest. This man was effortlessly beautiful, and you never wanted to lick someone’s abs so much before in your entire life.
When he started to unzip his jeans, you snapped back to the moment and began pulling down your leggings, along with your soaked panties. You were so turned on and so comfortable with Bucky that you didn’t even feel self conscious about the fact that he’s seeing your lower half completely bare for the first time, and that only solidified things for you.
You were almost certain that you’d found the guy you wanted to spend your life with, but it was still too early to say that, so you kept it to yourself for now as you kicked your leggings aside and sat up on your bed.
Bucky popped open the button and lowered the zipper on his jeans, but he abandoned doing the rest in favor of reaching out and helping you pull off your shirt. You took it upon yourself to pull down both his boxers and jeans while he reached behind you and unclasped your bra, and then you were both completely naked.
Your eyes widened at the sheer size of him before he grabbed onto your thighs and pulled you against him as he lowered himself onto your bed, settling on top of you.
A moan left your mouth and entered his when he kissed you, pushing your thighs apart as he moved in between them. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders as you kissed him back, another moan leaving your lips as he rocked his hips against yours. His cock was hard and thick as it brushed against your wet folds, making you shudder against his body.
“You’re big,” you choked out when you pulled away from the kiss to get some air. “Sorry, that was the first thing on my mind now that we’re seconds away from having sex.” you added sheepishly when you saw the boyish grin on his lips.
“It’s okay,” he laughed, pressing a reassuring kiss to your lips. “We’ll go slow, at your pace.”
You let out a soft sigh, nodding as your hands came up to cup his face. “Okay,” you whispered, stroking his cheeks with your fingers as he continued to slowly rock his hips against yours. “Do you have a condom?”
He nodded, bracing himself on his forearms above you. “In my wallet,” he answered, “Hang on, I’ll get it-”
But when he tried to lift himself off you, your legs came up to wrap around his waist. “I’m on the pill,” you breathed, feeling your body heat up at the way he instantly paused. “I’ve never done it without a condom before, but I wouldn’t mind trying it with you. But if you want to use one-”
It was his turn to cut you off now, but he did it with a kiss. You hummed against his lips, but before you could deepen it, he slowly pulled away. “I’ve never done it without one either,”
Your eyes widened at that. “Really?” you asked in shock, and one of Bucky’s brows raised. “I mean… you’re just a little older than me, so I just assumed…”
He shook his head, lifting one hand to brush your hair out of your face. “No. Never. I was only in one serious relationship before this, and she was terrified to get pregnant, so we always used a condom,”
“Oh,” you breathed, running your hands up his firm biceps. “So… do you want to try it without one?”
Bucky smiled down at you, kissing the tip of your nose. “Yes. I do,” he said, “As long as you’re sure.”
You nodded, pressing your lips together as you felt his cock brush against your core again. “I’m sure,”
Bucky kissed you one more time before reaching down and grasping his cock. “We’ll go slow,” he said again and waited until you nodded before he slowly pushed inside of you.
Your back arched off the bed, a choked moan leaving your lips as you tensed up. “Fuck,” you whimpered, grateful that he’d paused after only sliding the first couple inches inside of you.
“Are you okay?” he asked, holding himself up on one forearm braced above your head as he looked down at you.
“Yeah. Yes,” you whispered, “Just… slow. Please.”
Bucky smiled at you, and it had you momentarily forgetting about the pressure you felt in your lower body. “Slow,” he agreed, his other hand grabbing yours. He laced your fingers together before gently pinning your hand on your pillow next to your head, and you gave it a gentle squeeze.
He pushed the rest of his cock inside of you, and you closed your eyes as your head fell back on the pillow. “Oh, my God,” you breathed, and the deep laugh Bucky let out had you clenching tightly around him.
“Fuck,” he echoed, his laugh quickly dying out as he dropped his forehead to yours, his own eyes squeezing shut. “God, you feel so good.” he whispered, and his praise made you blush all over your body.
Your free hand slid up his back before tangling in his hair, a long moan leaving your mouth as he slowly pulled back just a few inches before pushing back in. “Fuck, you feel good too,” you whimpered, turning your head as you pressed a kiss to the inside of his wrist. “Never felt this… this full before.”
Bucky huffed out a laugh, his hand giving yours another gentle squeeze as he set a deep, slow pace. “I’ll take that as a compliment,”
“It definitely is,” you said, softly dragging your nails along his scalp. “You feel so good, Bucky.”
He moaned at that, and you felt the shifting of his hand on the pillow above your head as he fisted the fabric between his fingers. “So do you, baby,” he rasped. “Never felt something this fucking good.”
A loud moan came from the back of your throat from both his words and the way he thrust into you a little deeper. He connected his mouth to yours as he started to rock his hips against yours, every drag of his cock allowing you to feel every inch of him.
As your body adjusted to him, you started to crave him more and more. Your hand tightened in his hair as you dragged your tongue along his, revelling in every thrust of his hips. “Faster,” you moaned against his mouth, and your stomach flipped at the deep groan he let out before he started moving his hips a little faster.
You jolted with each thrust, your body starting to move further up the bed. Bucky released the pillow and reached down, hiking your leg up higher around his waist and keeping your body pinned to his as he started to fuck into you, each drag of his cock audible now.
“Fuck,” you gasped, your other hand flying to his hair as well when he let go of it. Both his hands grabbed your hips, holding you in place as he worked himself inside of you.
Bucky let out a deep grunt before he kissed you again, and it was much messier now than it was before. It was teeth and tongue and his spit meeting yours as the headboard began to tap against the wall, and you briefly worried that your neighbours would be able to hear it.
But then again, you’d lived here for five years and not once had you brought a man home and let him fuck you in your bed, so they could just deal with it for one night.
Though you really hoped this wouldn’t be only one night. The way Bucky was fucking you told you that it wouldn’t be.
“God, baby,” he groaned, one hand moving down to grab onto your ass, and he wasn’t being quite as gentle as before, but he still wasn’t anywhere near being rough. “You’re so tight and wet and… fuck, you’re perfect.”
You moaned at that, because that was the exact word you would use to describe him. “You are,” you said back, one hand leaving his hair and latching onto his lower back. “You’re fucking perfect, Bucky. You have been this whole time.”
Bucky grunted against your lips, and his hand quickly moved from your hip to your clit. “I need you to cum for me again, baby. You feel too fucking good, I won’t last. I want you to cum first,” he nearly begged, and that shouldn’t have been so sexy.
Your heels dug into his lower back as he fucked you a little harder and circled your clit with clumsy fingers, and it was more than enough to send you reeling into yet another orgasm. Your nails dug into his skin as your back arched, and your cry filled your bedroom as you came, this time around his cock, though it hit you just as hard as when you came on his fingers in the living room.
Bucky let out a low grunt, his hips stuttering a bit as he grabbed your hip again, seemingly needing something other than your ass to hold onto as he began to spill inside of you.
Your pussy pulsed sharply around him as he filled you, his warmth being the first to ever find home deep within your body. You hoped he would be the only man to ever cum inside of you.
He pressed his warm body against yours, his arms banding around your middle as he buried his face in your chest, heavy breaths raking through his body. “Fuck,” he huffed, turning his head and pressing his cheek against your breast. “Shit.”
You let out a small laugh, running your fingers through his hair and trying to smooth down the strands that were now sticking up. “Fuck indeed,” you murmured, a smile forming on your lips when he let out a laugh as well.
Bucky lifted his head and looked at you, a sated, satisfied smile on his lips as he tried to control his breathing. “That was… really fucking good. I don’t think anything else could ever top that,”
You hummed, your smile turning into a smirk. “That sounds an awful lot like a challenge, Buck,”
His lips curved at that, and you had a feeling he liked the sound of the shortened version of his nickname coming from your mouth. “It is,” he said back, shifting on top of you and making you wince as his cock moved from its place still inside of you. “A challenge I can’t fucking wait to try over and over again.”
A blush took over you once more, and you quickly hid it from him as you pulled him down into another kiss, and this one wasn’t broken for a long time afterwards.
It had been a few weeks since you and Bucky first had sex, and it’s been a few weeks since you’d been trying to one up your first time together. As you’d both found out, it only got better with every attempt.
You and he finally put a label on your relationship after that night, and tonight is the night Brittany gets to meet the man who had taken all your past experiences with other men and completely rewrote them.
The bar you were meeting at wasn’t far from your place, so you ended up walking there. You knew Bucky would probably be spending the night at your place again tonight, so you didn’t worry about the walk back home after having a few drinks.
You, Brittany and Garret were currently sitting in the booth tucked away in the back corner, the one furthest away from the speakers so you could actually talk to each other and hear what the other person was saying.
You’d only been here for around ten minutes and had taken it upon yourself to order the same beer Bucky had ordered on yours and his first date for him, and it was sitting on the table next to your own untouched drink.
Just as Brittany was about to dive into another rant about her opinion on the latest, shitty reality TV show that had come out on Netflix, the door to the bar swung open, and you barely had time to look over your shoulder before you heard footsteps heading in your direction.
“Hey,” Bucky’s voice met your ears, and it instantly had you smiling as you turned to look up at him. “I’m sorry I’m late, I had trouble getting here.” he said, beginning to shrug out of his jacket.
“Did you order Uber Share again?” you asked with a teasing smile, and Bucky playfully glared at you before sitting down next to you in the booth.
“What is she talking about?” Brittany asked, and Bucky shot you another glare before smiling over at her.
“Just an inside joke,” he said, holding his hand out to her. “You’re Brittany, right? Her best friend and co-worker?”
Brittany lifted a brow, her eyes darting between you and Bucky before she allowed him to shake her hand. “That’s right,” she said, “And this is my husband, Garret, who I’m counting on you to hit it off with so we can go on more double dates now that our girl finally found herself a man.”
You blushed at that, finally taking a sip of your drink.
“No pressure,” Garret laughed, then shook Bucky’s hand as well. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too,” Bucky said before picking up the beer you slid in his direction. “Thank you.” he said, leaning over to press a kiss to your cheek.
Brittany smirked over at you, mouthing ‘I like him’ before quickly relaxing her face when Bucky looked over at her.
It was safe to say that Bucky and Garret hit it off as they were already making plans to get together one night for beers, burgers and football. He also hit it off with Brittany, and she gave you her blessing now that she had finally met the guy who’d easily been making you feel flustered since the very first text message.
After saying goodbye, you and Bucky walked the short distance back to your apartment, and you’d barely made it inside before he was all over you.
You laughed against his mouth as he shut the door behind him, nearly tripping over the table you had next to the front hall closet. “Wait,” you said, breaking away from his mouth.
Bucky furrowed his brows, and he looked unbelievably hot with flushed cheeks from the three beers he’d drank tonight. “What?”
You pushed on his chest when he tried to kiss you again. “Let me see your phone,”
His brows furrowed further before he reached into his back pocket and pulled his phone out, handing it to you. You smiled down at his lockscreen, it being a picture of Alpine laying on her back on his lap, and put in the password you’d set for him a few days ago.
It was your birthday, as per his request.
You swiped through his apps before finding the Tinder icon, and you clicked on it. “What are you… oh, fuck,” he said, looking at you with wide eyes. “I meant to delete that a long time ago. I haven’t been on it since I met you, I swear.”
That was proven since the last message he sent on that app was from a month and a half ago, and it was the same one he’d sent to you when he was ‘late’ for your first date. “I know. It’s okay, I haven’t deleted it off my phone either,” you said, then pulled up his profile.
You held his phone in one hand while you pulled out your own, and you quickly clicked on the Tinder icon before going onto your profile. “What are you doing?” Bucky asked, taking your phone from you when you held it out to him.
“We’re deleting our accounts. Together,” you said and watched his eyes dart down to your phone screen, the red prompt outlining the permanent deletion of your account starting back up at him.
He huffed out a laugh. “Oh,” he said, then his thumb instantly clicked the button, and you scrambled to do the same on his phone. Once both your accounts were deleted, the app itself followed quickly after, and then you were both tossing your phones onto the couch before he picked you up in his arms and carried you to your bedroom, this time knowing exactly where it is.
summary: even though he's supposed to be focused on an investigation, colby can't help when his mind wanders elsewhere.
a/n: this is the first time i've written for colby in months, so forgive me if im rusty 😭
sam and colby had just arrived to their filming location and were beginning to set up for their investigation. unfortunately for sam, colby’s mind was elsewhere.
no matter how far away he was, his mind was always on you. his mind replayed images of you standing at the airport, waving him and sam off before they left on this trip. your face on his screen from the night before, during your facetime conversation before he went to bed to rest up for a long night of investigating ahead of him. throughout the night, colby was constantly checking his phone, waiting for your responses to his messages.
“colby, come on, dude. can you please focus?” sam asked, slight irritation in his voice.
“hm? oh, shit. sorry.” colby sighed, sliding his phone back into his pocket. he sat with sam in the chairs he had set up to film them talking about the lore of the place they were investigating.
throughout the night, colby’s mind was on you. the smallest things would remind him of you, and although he felt bad for being distracted, he felt slightly less scared picturing you in his mind. you grounded him, and always made him feel safe.
after a while of filming, he and sam had taken a break to debrief and reset with the group they were with.
“i’m gonna call y/n.” colby said, walking slightly away from the group and tapping your icon.
“of course you are.” sam teased as he waved him off.
colby stood down the hall, phone pressed to his ear as he listened to the phone ringing. he felt his heart swell when he finally heard your voice on the other end of the line.
“colby, hey baby. is everything okay?” you asked once you answered.
“yeah, everything’s great. we’re taking a break from filming right now, and i just wanted to call you and check in. i miss you.” he said softly.
“i miss you too.” you said, colby hearing a faint smile in your voice. “i know you’re calling because i haven’t really been responding to your texts.” you teased.
“well, that’s part of it.” he laughed. “you know me too well.”
“of course i do. i know you’re busy filming, and i don’t want to bother you guys. especially since i know sam can get a little testy.” you joked. colby’s eyes flicked over to sam as he stifled a laugh.
“that is unfortunately very true.” colby laughed.
you and him talked for just a little while longer before he, sam, and their group had to get back to filming.
“okay, text me when you guys are done. i love you, baby.” you said softly.
“i love you too.” colby said, pressing a kiss to the speaker before hanging up.
the rest of the night, much to sam’s relief, colby was laser focused on the investigation and filming. once they were done and packed up, he and sam were packed back up in their rental, and colby was already texting you. he was filling you in on the events of the night, telling you about the evidence they captured and how excited he and sam were to start editing the footage and to be able to share it with their viewers. you were happy to hear how excited he was, and you loved the pride he took in his work.
once back at their hotel, you and colby text for a little while longer before it got late and you both were beginning to fall asleep. you exchanged good nights, the both of you excited that there was just one more day before you got to see each other again.
Can you please write an angsty one shot where bucky had an argument with his pregnant wife (he snapped at her which caused her to be emotional) she goes to the bed sad etc then the blip happens where only bucky survives. Post blip she's back and he's an emotional mess.
Didn’t Mean Any Of It -> Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier
Pairings-> Husband!Bucky Barnes x Wife/Pregnant!Reader
Summary-> Bucky snaps at you before the blip and he’s emotional when you come back.
Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes
Header made by my friend / divider made by me
GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator
You and Bucky have never fought before you got pregnant. At first, it started as disagreements, which you two were able to talk out. Now, there’s no talking out anything. You two are at the point where you guys don’t know who started what fight. You two don’t even stop to think to who started the fight and what the fight is about.
“You never let me say anything!” Bucky says.
“I do to!” You say.
“No, you don’t! When I do get a word in, you never let me finish a fucking sentence! You always cut me off! I’m sick and tired of it! So, please just consider shutting the fuck up for a few seconds so I can fine a goddamn sentence!” He snaps.
You stood there standing at your husband with your hands on your pregnant belly. Bucky has never talked to you like this. He has never yelled at you either. He hasn’t had a reason to. Your bottom lip quivered and your eyes teared up. You went straight to yours and Bucky’s bedroom, slamming the bedroom door behind you. Bucky flinches as you did so. He inhales deeply and runs his fingers through his hair as he sat down on the couch, slouching back against it. Meanwhile, you’re laying down on the bed crying your eyes out.
“Daddy is right. I never let him get a word in and I always cut him off. I never realized that I did that.” You say softly to yours and Bucky’s unborn daughter.
You felt yours and his unborn daughter kick where your hand is. That made you smile.
“Me and daddy need to calm down for a little bit before talking everything out.” You say.
Bucky was still in the living room. His eyes grew wide when he came to realization. He just realized that he snapped at you- his pregnant wife and the love of his life.
“I did not just say those things to my pregnant wife.” Bucky says to himself.
He knows what he said to you when he snapped at you. He just can’t believe that he snapped at you. He needs to apologize, which is what he’s going to do right now. He gets up from the couch to go to yours and his bedroom. He thought the door was going to be locked, but it wasn’t.
“Doll?” Bucky says softly as he opens the bedroom door.
He saw that you were sound asleep with your hand on your pregnant belly. He quietly walks over to the bed and covers you up with a blanket. Due to Bucky snapping at you, he thought it would be safe to sleep on the couch tonight and you two can talk about the fighting tomorrow if you’re not giving him the silent treatment. Bucky grabs a pillow and a blanket before going back to the living room. He lays down on the couch and stares up at the ceiling in the dark. He thinks about everything he has said to you in the fights you and him have had recently.
Bucky got little to no sleep last night. He was regretting what he said to you. He didn’t mean anything he said to you. He just hates that you two have been fighting. You two have something better to focus on, which is your pregnancy and yours and his daughter, and setting up the nursery for her. Bucky gets up off of the couch to check on you. He quietly opens the bedroom door. He didn’t see you in bed, but he didn’t see you. He felt like something was off. He can sense it. He just figure out what it is. He walked closer to the bed and moves the blanket out of the way. His eyes widen and his heart drops to the pit of his stomach at what he saw, which is dust particles of you on the bed.
“No.” Bucky says.
Bucky’s eyes teared up and his breathing became uneven.
“NO!” He screams.
Bucky walks backwards till his back hits the wall. He slides down the wall, sitting down on the floor. He lets out a loud sob that would send chills down anyone’s spine.
“This isn’t happening.” He repeats over and over.
Meanwhile, Steve has been trying to reach you and Bucky all morning, but you two weren’t answering your phones. It made him think that you two became part of the snap two. He rushes over to yours and Bucky’s house.
“Y/N! Bucky!” Steve shouts as he knocks on the door.
Bucky heard Steve knocking on the door, but he was too upset to get up and answer the door. Steve used the key you and Bucky gave him to unlock the door. Steve looked all over the house for you and Bucky. He found Bucky in yours and his bedroom, but you weren’t there.
“Where’s Y/N?” Steve asks.
“She’s gone! My pregnant wife is gone!” Bucky cries.
Steve sat down on the floor to comfort Bucky.
“I’m sorry, Buck.” Steve says softly.
“Why is this happening?” Bucky asks, his voice cracking.
“I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out.” Steve says.
The Avengers got straight to work on figuring out what happened. Bucky is helping out too. Even though he doesn’t have the energy to help after what happened to you, he wants to know what took you away from him.
“All we know is that when the infinity stones are in the gauntlet, half of everyone in the world disappeared when Thanos snapped his fingers.” Bruce says.
Bucky inhales shakily. He watches pictures of everyone who disappeared flash on the screen. His eyes teared up when he saw your picture.
“I need a minute.” Bucky says, his voice cracking.
Steve follows Bucky as he walked out of the room. Bucky was pacing back and forth in the hallway, thinking about the fights you two had before the blip happened. Then he stops pacing. A new wave of tears fills his eyes.
“I didn’t mean any of it.” Bucky says.
“You didn’t mean what?” Steve asks.
“Me and Y/N got into fights before all of this happened. I don’t remember who started it and what it was about, but all I know is that I didn’t mean any of it.” Bucky says.
“I’m sure Y/N will forgive you.” Steve says.
“What if she doesn’t? I said horrible things to her. What if she divorces me and takes my daughter with her and I’ll never see them again?” Bucky says.
That’s when Bucky broke down in tears. He leans against the wall, sliding down it and sitting on the floor. Steve sat down on the floor next to him, putting a comforting hand on his arm.
“That’s not going to happen, Buck.” Steve says softly.
“You don’t know that, Steve.” Bucky says.
“I do know that. Y/N is the most forgiving person I know and I know that she’ll forgive you for the things you said.” Steve says.
“I hope so, because I don’t know what I’ll do if she leaves me.” Bucky says.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Let’s hope that we can figure out how to figure out how to bring everyone back and you and Y/N can make up.” Steve says.
Bucky sniffles and nods. He wipes his tears away with the collar of his shirt.
“Take all the time you need to gather yourself.” Steve says.
Steve gently pats Bucky’s shoulder before standing up and going back to everyone else.
“Is Bucky ok?” Natasha asks.
“No. He’s missing his pregnant wife and it’s hitting him hard, which is why need to get this figured out.” Steve says.
While Bucky was taking time to himself, the Avengers figured out how to possibly get you and everyone else back from the blip. Right now, they’re catching Bucky up to speed.
“Are you guys sure this will work?” Bucky asks.
“There’s only one way to find out.” Scott says.
They did exactly that. They got to work right away. After building the time machine to go back in time to get the infinity stones, it was time to test it. Before doing so, Bucky was looking at yours and his wedding picture. His eyes teared up as he looked at it.
“We’re ready.” Steve says.
“Ok.” Bucky says.
Bucky puts yours and his wedding picture in his pocket and followed Steve to the time machine platform. The time machine sent the Avengers back in time to get the infinity stones and then got sent back to the compound.
“Now what?” Bucky asks.
“We get the stones to work their magic and hope it brings everyone back.” Bruce says.
“This better work.” Bucky says more to himself.
Again, the Avengers got to work. They didn’t stop till their version of the gauntlet was made and the infinity stones were put on it.
“It’s done. One of us just needs to try it out.” Bruce says.
“I’ll do it.” Bucky says.
The Avengers looked at Bucky with wide eyes when he said that.
“Bucky, you don’t know when what you’re saying.” Steve says.
“I do know what I’m saying, Steve. I’ll do it.” Bucky says.
“If you do this, it could possibly kill you and you will leave your wife and daughter alone. Is that what you want?” Steve says.
Steve is right and Bucky knows it. He was just so caught up in getting you back that he didn’t think about the possibility of what might happen to him if he’s the one to do it. He doesn’t want to leave you and yours and his daughter alone. He would feel guilty for that. He feels guilty enough for the things he has said to you before the blip happened.
“You’re right. My wife and daughter come first.” Bucky says.
Steve put a comforting hand on Bucky’s shoulder. Bruce decided to do it himself. Everyone waited a moment, preparing themselves for what could possibly happen when Bruce snaps his fingers. It could go one of two ways. One, it could bring everyone back and everything will go back to the way it was before Thanos got his hands on the infinity stones and made half of everyone in the world disappear when he snapped his fingers. Two, destruction can possibly happen. There’s only one way to find out. Bruce snapped his fingers. Nothing happened right away. It was quiet. Too quiet. It was like the quiet before the storm. Then destruction happened. It looked like a war zone. The Avengers knew what they had to do, which is fight and they’re not going down without one.
Bucky was thinking about you and yours and his daughter the whole time. He was wondering where you are and how you’re doing. He almost stopped what he was doing to run home to you, but he didn’t. Part of him was telling him that you weren’t back yet. So, Bucky stayed with the Avengers and helped them fight Thanos. He gave the fight his all. You and yours and his daughter are his only motivation to get through this fight alive. He’s glad he stayed, because they won. It’s over. Now that the fight is over, Bucky is looking for you, but he can’t find you.
“Where is she?!” Bucky asks frantically.
“Don’t panic, Buck. She’s probably at home.” Steve says, trying to get him to stay calm.
Bucky ran straight home after Steve said that. He didn’t stop. He just kept running till he got home. He bursted through the door of yours and his house, looking all over the place for you.
“Y/N!” Bucky shouts.
You were still in yours and Bucky’s bedroom, trying to figure what just happened when you heard Bucky’s voice. You thought you were hearing things or hallucinating at first. Then you went into the direction of your husband’s voice.
“Bucky.” You say.
Bucky turns around when he heard your voice. He felt relieved when he saw you. He went over to you and hugged you. He let out a breath he felt like he was holding for the past five years.
“I am so sorry for the things I said before all of this happened. I didn’t mean any of it. I was just mad. I was going to apologize for everything I said, but then everything happened. Please forgive me.” Bucky apologizes profusely.
“I’ll admit that I was upset about what you said to me. I was going to give you the silent treatment, but I’m not going to. What you said hurt me, but I forgive you.” You say.
“You do?” He asks.
“Yes.” You say.
“You’re not going to leave me and take our daughter with you?” He asks.
“No, I’m not. I love you too much to do that.” You say.
Bucky smiles and kisses you passionately. Then he put his hands on your pregnant belly.
“Hey, baby girl. It’s daddy. How are you doing?” Bucky almost whispers.
Both of you smiled when yours and his daughter kicked where his hand is.
“We can’t wait to see you soon.” He says softly.
Bucky looks at you and kisses you passionately again.
“I love you so much, babydoll. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you in any way.” He says sweetly.
“I love you too, honey.” You say softly.
No matter what you two have been through and no matter what Bucky said during the fight, you will love him more than anything in this world.
the two of you are going to some fancy party with important people from bucky's work, but when he finally saw you in that dress? the one you just bought for this evening? the long black one? oh god- he needs you right now. this is a look of a very hungry man. and now he is hungry for you.
"oh fuck that stupid party." his lips are on yours in a second. his hands on your hips, holding you like his life depends on it. you don't even know when you ended up on a nearby table with your legs wrapped around his waist and his lips kissing your neck with pure lust. he was sucking on your skin, biting you, moaning in your ear. this man became desperate for you. you knew he was a special guest on that party, but now he couldn't care less about it. he only cared about you in that sexy dress and his cock deep inside you. that's all this man wanted right now.
"we are going to be lat- oh!" you started but him taking off your panties interrupted you. he whispered something like "don't care" in your mouth as he started to unbutton his suit pants while still kissing you like a starving man. bucky knew that when he was hungry like this you had to be wet already. he knew you like the back of his own hand. it was a matter of seconds and you felt him inside of you. your dress rolled up. your head falling back as he entered you. he wasn't slow, his hands were holding your hips very tight, like he was afraid you may disappear when he needed you badly. desperately. your moans filled your living room as he was moving inside you.
"james- fuck-" you bit your lower lip. he started to kiss your throat as you gave him perfect access to it with your head back. he went faster and faster. he was also very vocal, especially when he was that needy and horny. after a few deep thrusts he replaced his mouth on your neck with his hand.
"look at me, baby, fuck you are so sexy." you saw nothing but love and lust in his eyes. he kept that eye contact until the both of you orgasmed. after everything he kept your panties in his pocket.
"can we maybe consider round two later at a party?" he casually asked with a wink.
that's how you ended up with your face pressed against a bathroom wall a few hours later.
gifs: @sylvia-tilly
reblogs, comments and requests are appreciated ♡
read more: let's fulfill the prophecy series || blurbs + moodboards masterlist
Sorry I fell asleep 🙈, can I please request something with dad Bucky and mid 20 year old reader?
The reader visits her parents to make them a surprise, she got something which they're secretly wishing to their wedding anniversary (a trip to italy where they spent their honeymoon), just because the reader can and she truly loves them. She is so happy and excited to see their reactions 🥰
When she arrives her small sisters (the reader has 2 younger sisters in the age of 23 and 20 years) they wave at her from the window above. When she gets inside, her stomach drops hearing her parents fighting about something stupid, they rarely fight but it happens. Her younger sisters are greeting her with a hug and a wide smile then they look at their parents giving the reader a knowing look.
Unfortunately it leads that her parents snap at her although she did nothing wrong, the reader is shocked and hurt by that and she quietly mumbles an apology under her breath and something else, sets the cake and the presents aside on the table and left without a word.
She fights the tears and only letting them fall when she is alone in her apartment. A few days and missed calls from her parents later, she is at work to distract herself which helps her a lot, for almost a week and then she had a bad day on top of that.
When she enters her apartment, she is still mad at her parents, but mostly sad and exhausted, she just wants someone to hold and to hug her. She made herself ready and screamed into a pillow because everything got too much.
When she woke up in the morning (it's weekend, finally a few days to breath and having a week off from work), she heard her parents whispering in the kitchen and it smells like her favorite breakfast. The reader rubs her eyes and comes out of her room. Bucky and her mom are greeting the reader, they ask her to talk and they apologize for it and that they were happy about the presents (they were also worried about the reader for the missed calls).
The reader just couldn't stop her tears and she just starts crying, all the pressure and insecurities crashing on her. They immediately hug and comfort her and the reader talks about her week. They continue to sooth and to comfort her. Bucky is holding her for a moment longer soothing her 🥹🥺
Thank you 🥺🫂
Something Special -> Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier
Pairings-> Platonic Dad!Bucky Barnes x Platonic Daughter!Reader and reader’s mom and younger sisters
Summary-> You got your parents something special for their wedding anniversary only to be snapped at while they’re in the middle of a fight, which they apologize for and make it up to you.
A/N-> The names I chose for the reader’s sisters are Jamie and Grace. Enjoy!🩵
Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes
Header made by my friend / divider made by me
GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator
You’re parents don’t fight often. When they do, it’s mostly disagreements, which they’re able to talk out. Out of all days for your parents to get into a fight, it was on the day of their wedding anniversary. Your younger sisters knew that they were fighting. It was over something stupid. They’ve heard it all day. They’re just hoping that they’ll talk everything out. Their moods brightened up when they saw your car pull into the driveway. You looked up at the window they’re looking out of as soon as you got out of your car. You smiled when you saw them waving at you. You waved back. You got the presents and cake you got your parents for their wedding anniversary and then walked up to the house. Your sisters opened the door before you even got to it and greeted you with hugs.
“We missed you.” Jamie says.
“You guys saw me a couple days ago.” You giggled.
“That feels like forever ago.” Grace says.
You giggled again as you followed them inside of the house. Your heart immediately drops to the pit of your stomach when you heard your parents fighting in the kitchen.
“Why are mom and dad fighting?” You asked your sisters.
“We don’t know. They’ve been fighting since this morning.” Jamie says.
“About what?” You asked.
“Something stupid.” Grace says.
“Well, hopefully they’ll talk it out and we can celebrate their wedding anniversary.” You say.
“Hopefully.” Jamie and Grace say at the same time.
You went into the kitchen to greet your parents. They didn’t even notice you were there. That’s how bad the fight is. You stood there for a moment, watching your parents fight before saying something.
“Mom? Dad?” You say, trying to get their attention.
They didn’t hear you.
“Mom? Dad?” You say a bit louder.
They heard you that time.
“Not now!” Your parents snapped at you.
You flinched and your eyes teared up when they snapped at you. They’ve never snapped at you. You’ve never given them a reason to.
“Sorry.” You mumbled under your breath.
You set their cake and presents on the table before leaving. Jamie and Grace saw you leaving and ran after you.
“Where are you going? You just got here.” Jamie asks.
You didn’t say anything. You got in your car and drove off. Your sisters watched you drive off till they couldn’t see your car anymore. They went back inside of the house with saddened looks on their faces. They went to the living room and sat down on the couch, slouching back against it. Your parent’s fight went on for a bit longer before it came to a stop. Your sisters were relieved for that, but they’re upset that you left.
“Where’s your sister? I thought she was coming over.” Bucky asks.
“She did.” Jamie says.
“When? We didn’t see her.” Your mom says.
“A few minutes ago, but she just left, because you two snapped at her.” Grace says.
“She put your cake and presents on the table.” Jamie says.
Your parents looked over at the table, seeing the cake and presents. They looked at what you brought over for a few seconds before opening the presents. Then they opened an envelope that contains a sweet note and plane tickets to Italy.
Happy wedding anniversary, mom and dad! You guys have been talking about wanting to go to Italy for so long that I saved up some money to buy you plane tickets for you two to go there on your wedding anniversary. I hope you guys have lots of fun while you’re there.
Love, Y/N
“Y/N told us that she wanted to do something special for you guys for your wedding anniversary this year, but you guys ruined it by snapping at her.” Grace says.
“We didn’t know.” Your mom says.
“Of course you guys didn’t, because you two couldn’t stop fighting long enough to even acknowledge that she was even here.” Jaime says.
Your parents looked at the plane tickets to Italy again before looking at each other.
“She probably hates us now.” Your mom says.
Your parents tried calling and texting you, but you didn’t answer them. You were too upset with them to answer them. When you got to your apartment, you closed and locked the door behind you. You tossed your keys onto the table and went straight to your bedroom. You laid down on your bed and started crying into your pillow. You screamed into your pillow. You couldn’t help it. That’s how upset and exhausted you are. Your phone kept ringing with calls and texts from your parents. You still didn’t answer any of them.
“Doll, please answer your phone.” Bucky says, leaving you another voicemail.
“Is she answering any of your calls and texts?” Your mom asks.
“No.” He answers.
“What are we going to do if our daughter never talks to us again?” She asks.
“I wouldn’t go that far, sweetheart.” He says, wrapping his arms around her.
“What are we going to do then?” She asks, leaning her head against his chest.
“I don’t know, but we’ll figure something out. We always do when our girls are upset.” He says softly.
->->->
A few days go by since your parents snapped at you on their wedding anniversary. You’re still upset with them. You’re still not answering any of their calls and texts. You’ve been off of work all week to breathe. When that weekend came, you woke up to the sound of your parents whispering. You stretched and rubbed your eyes before getting out of bed. You went to the kitchen to see your parents making your favorite breakfast.
“What are you guys doing here?” You asked, your voice a bit hoarse from waking up.
“This is our way of apologizing for snapping at you on our wedding anniversary.” Your mom says.
“We shouldn’t have done that. We were just too caught up in the fight that we didn’t even think about you and your feelings.” Bucky says.
You didn’t say anything. You just sat down at the table, not looking at them anymore. Your parents brought over a plate of your favorite breakfast, setting it in front of you on the table. Then your parents sat down on either side of you.
“We opened the presents you got us for our wedding anniversary.” Bucky says.
“I got you guys something special, but you guys ruined it by snapping at me.” You say, your voice cracking.
“We’re sorry. We didn’t mean to snap at you. We don’t want you to be upset with anymore. Please, sweetie.” Your mom says.
You slouched back in the chair. Your eyes teared up and your bottom lip quivered.
“Oh, doll.” Bucky whispers.
Your parents moved closer to you and wrapped their arms around you as you started crying.
“Please forgive us.” Bucky says.
“I do forgive you guys. I just didn’t like it when you guys snapped at me.” You say.
“We’re so sorry, sweetie.” Your mom apologizes again.
You sniffled and looked at your parents.
“What did you guys think of your presents?” You asked.
“We love all of them.” Your mom smiles.
“Especially the trip to Italy.” Bucky smiles.
“I’m glad you guys love it. I wanted to do something special for your wedding anniversary.” You say.
“Even if you and your sisters didn’t get us anything for our wedding anniversary, you girls will always be our something special.” Your mom says.
You smiled and hugged your parents.
“We love you and your sisters more than anything.” Bucky says.
“I love you guys too.” You say.
“Now, eat your breakfast before it gets cold.” Your mom says.
You couldn’t deny your favorite breakfast, especially if your parents made it. They made it with love and as an apology. That’s how sorry they are. Your parents made mental notes to themselves to try not to snap at you or your sisters the next time they fight.
A/N: I was thinking about this so much, my writing isn't perfect but if anyone wanna make a fanfic of this feel free to do so!
You lived in a small town, where everyone despised you. Despised you for having your life together, for being slightly rich, and for having beauty. The towns men wanted to be with you, while the girls wanted to be you.
You, however, wanted a husband, a husband who would fulfill your wishes, make you happy, and do everything couples do. So you went to a powerful witch, Wanda Maximoff. Asked her to help you find a husband and even joked about having her make one from wicker. But she wasn't joking at all; instead, she actually made someone. She made James Buchanan Barnes.
Your wicker husband.
His Hobbies:
— He's a big fan of reading and building things, often builds for you and the house.
— Loves nature and animals, takes walks while talking to the fur babies. He feeds them as well, basically his own kids.
— One day, he was randomly taking pictures of you, they turned out beautiful and since then he became interested in photography. Loves taking pics during sex too, has a box filled.
— He also tries out your favorite hobbies and enjoys them because he gets to spend time with you.
First Meeting:
— Your first meeting goes well; it was a bit strange but met your expectations.
— Your eyes fell on his body and how enormous he is, bigger than every man you met. Eyes blue and dark but body made from wicker. One of the arms was a slightly different color. But he looked perfect for you, making you blush.
— He looked at you for your next instructions. But you were too focused on him. "Hi, husband," you smiled and looked into his eyes. He felt awkward because he was new to this.
— He stared at you, a beautiful woman who was his wife now. Couldn't get you out of his head; he knew that he wouldn't let you go.
— You explained everything to him, and he nodded. Slowly he'll learn everything you tell him. He will be your husband, and you'll be his wife. A beautiful couple, with a beautiful marriage.
Understanding:
— Bucky takes his duties very seriously; first, he didn't know what husband meant until you explained. And now within a few days he was a perfect husband.
— Whenever you cook, he's behind you, holding you from your waist, kissing down your neck. He also helps around the house, making sure you don't get tired because that's his job for later.
—When you carry heavy things, he immediately grabs them.
— When you do laundry and bend down, he comes up behind you and grinds your ass on him.
— When you feel cold, he doesn't understand the concept of offering clothing, so he'll give you body heat.
— Overtime he learns that being a husband comes with responsibilities, the responsibility of helping you, keeping you happy, remembering little details, and being there for you.
Jealously:
— You guys visit the market, while he stands near and you browse fruits; a man comes up to you and starts flirting. Bucky feels that uneasy feeling in his chest. He does not understand it. however when the guy does not stop flirting, he comes up behind you and shoots him an angry glance. He tells him off, possessively kissing you. The man runs away afraid and embarrassed.
— His actions only made you feel happy but horny. The way he claimed you in front of him and protected you, no man had done that before.
— He is very jealous and possessive, but he comforts you. He tells you immediately that he doesn't own you but will protect you whenever he can. You always wanted a man like him, and at last you got him.
Domestic Life:
— He's very fond of the time he spends with you; every moment is special. It's peaceful and perfect to only have you in his life.
— He adores doing every small thing with you, from waking up to cooking to cuddling to having sex.
— His favorite word is wife. Every time he talks to you, he uses the word, and you realize that he loves calling you his wife.
— He feels like he belongs somewhere instead of feeling lost and unhappy.
When he feels down:
— Whenever you interact with different men, he feels down. He usually thinks that you only got him to use, abandon, and not commit to a relationship. He is afraid that you will leave him for someone else.
— Secretly, this man wants reassurance about everything, about being your husband and being in a relationship with you.
— One day he was extremely upset, but you comforted him. You reminded him that if he wants to leave, he can leave. But that idea repulsed him. Leaving you felt like burning in the fire. He can't imagine a life without you.
— You reminded him that he is your husband, his own person, has his own life, and is free to do whatever he wants. But at the end of the day, you will always choose him. Because he was there for you when no one was.
— Those words of reassurance are enough to bring a smile to his face and make him happy again. He knows that you truly love him. He knows that you would never leave him, trade him for anything.
Showing Affection:
— Your love language is affection. Whenever you are near, you have to kiss and hug. He also loves that. It makes him smile.
— If you're doing anything like a chore and walk past, you kiss him. Making him blush, he can't explain the feelings, but he loves it too much.
— You can never get enough of his kisses and touch. He learned that whenever he does something, you'll kiss him, so often he does something on purpose, making you laugh and kiss.
— You love it when those moments end in happiness and a smile on his face.
Night:
— Before you had a hard time sleeping, but now you melt in his arms and immediately fall asleep. He also sleeps better with you by his side.
— This man loves cockwarming; when it's time to sleep, he slides inside. Loves the feeling of your walls and warmness, which provides him comfort. You have agreed to this beforehand.
— Sometimes, he'll stare at you as you sleep. You don't question anything he does but find it adorable.
My favorite part — THE SEX.
— This man is extremely big; by "big" I mean more than 11 inches. The first time you saw it, you were laughing with shock. You did not know how that was going to fit inside. This made him blush.
— Bucky provided you with comfort and slowly opened you up first, making sure there's no discomfort for you. The first few times it was hard, but then your body got used to him.
— You both established no protection; you loved feeling him raw. His cock always reached the depths of your walls. Reached your G-spot, always making you squirt. And he came bucket full.
— You always felt his cock all the way into your stomach, sometimes you'd say your chest, but it felt impossible to be there. Your stomach always outlined the bulge, which he loved touching when he would fuck into you.
— Sex with him was amazing; you always tried out different positions. His favorite was missionary and cowgirl since he loved seeing your face when you came. He loved knowing that he brought you this pleasure.
— Sometimes he would only eat you out; his big nose would press up into your clit, making you roll your eyes in pleasure. His big tongue, had texture and was just as powerful as his cock.
— Bucky humps the bed while he eats you out, constantly bringing you to pleasure. His favorite part was overstimulating you, knowing you would beg for him to slow down, but he wouldn't (discussed pre-sex).
— Whenever he ate you out, you'd grab his hair and grind onto his face. His body texture made it even more fun to bring you an orgasm.
— After sex, he offers aftercare. Something you explained to him before. Wipes you down, brings you water and snack as he cuddles you. Sometimes when it gets even messier he runs you a bath.
Summary: you meet Bucky as you move in, his gentleman ways quickly win you over, but Bucky's negative thoughts might stand in his way of love. Takes places after The Falcon and The Winter Soldier, and before Thunderbolts.
Warnings: a lotttt of fluff, a single guys empty apartment, stress induced arguing, fluffy end.
You had just finished unloading the rented uhaul, leaving a small cardboard box tower standing on the side of New York. Your back already aches by the thought of having to carry them all up the three flights of stairs leading to your new apartment. Tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear you stack two boxes and make your way up. Opening the door with no hands and an armful of boxes seemed to be the first challenge of many, but you managed. The stairway seemed more narrow now, it didn’t take long before your grunts of frustration could be heard from a few flights up. When the first set of boxes had been placed in the empty living room, you hurried back down, hoping the abandoned boxes on the street were still there.
A quiet routine started, two boxes at a time, leaving your arms more sore with every step up the stairs. With just a couple boxes left, two in your arms and three still on the sideway, you managed to keep the frustrations at bay while the rebellious strands of hair told a different story.
You had been struggling with the door into the apartment complex for a couple minutes, stubbornness making you continue trying with the boxes still in hand. Bucky had seen the struggle from further away, as he’d moved closer to the building. Furrowed in amusement at the scene, the two boxes threatened to fall, while you balanced them trying to use your pinky to open the door. Bucky had watched for a little while, now standing only a few feet away from the spectacle, wondering when would be the right time to butt in.
“You need some help with that?” you hadn’t registered his presence and his sudden comment made you jump slightly, causing the boxes to start tumbling over. A big, metal, hand caught them before they hit the ground. You turned to look at who had made you jump, and your heart beat half out of your chest. His striking blue eyes and reserved but amused smile caused your heart to beat for a completely different reason, which left you lost for words, just for a minute. “Thanks” you breathed out and rolled your eyes in embarrassment, “I think this door has it out for me, I can’t open it”. Bucky chuckled at your comment, keeping eye contact as he shifted the two boxes, now only holding them with his metal arm. He reached behind you, moving you ever so slightly and politely, and with a quick tug opened the door.
“It’s tricky, you’ll get used to it” he gestured for you to move inside, and you did, feeling more embarrassed at his ease. “Thanks… again, I’m lucky you know how to open it, you know, if it takes a while to get used to” you stuttered a bit, feeling heat rush to your cheeks. You moved forward, your arms out toward the boxes, ready to take them from him. With a shift he, knowingly, diverted your attempt at taking back the boxes. “Where can I put the boxes?” his old-fashioned attitude made you chuckle slightly and shake your head. “It’s okay, I can get them up myself, but thanks for the offer” you were quick to dismiss, which made Bucky furrow his eyebrows slightly. “It’s fine, I don’t mind it really, besides I live on the 4th floor, let me take them some of the way” he offered.
“I can’t ask you to do that, you already helped me twice” you declined, and this time you grabbed the boxes out of his arms. He saw you struggle slightly with the new weight in your arms, and the stubborn look he’d seen outside the building returned to your eyes. With small grunts and muttering, you turned towards the stairs and started your climb. “Thanks for the help, friendly neighbor” you quipped from over your shoulder, a laugh stuck in your throat. Bucky shook his head in amusement, looking back out the door seeing the three boxes with scribbled handwriting spelling out what he assumed was your name.
You had just gotten to the third floor, now outside your door you turned to put down the boxes, to open the door. But someone beat you to it. The glinting of metal made you laugh, but as you turned around you saw the three boxes he was holding with ease. Your eyes shamelessly caught how his bicep flexed, as you met his eyes, a patient smirk was painted on his lips. “After you, doll” the nickname made your cheeks burn a little harder, and you scurried inside to put down the boxes. As soon as they had left your hands, you smoothed out your shirt and tried to tame your hair to the best of your ability. “Thank you, you really didn't have to do that” you smiled, as you stepped a bit closer to him, still feeling a little flustered.
“Of course, I'm happy to help, Y/n” he said, chuckling slightly at your raised brows when he mentioned your name. A small point of his finger toward the boxes, makes you hum in understanding. The silence lingered for a small second, until Bucky made a shift move towards the door. “I better get going, good luck unpacking” he walked outside, turning around to meet you with a smile you wanted to study up close, “name's Bucky”. Just as abruptly as he'd appeared, just as abruptly had he left. The door now gaping with an empty hallway as his footsteps echoed in the background. You were screwed, your very attractive, and a gentleman, neighbor lived just above you. With a click the door locked, just in sync with the sigh that left your lips.
Settling in had gone mostly without any big drama, if you don’t count the many struggles with the door. Now at 9.12pm you had gotten home from your office job, finally getting tired of moving around the same table lamp trying to get a lid room. The electrician wasn’t coming for another week, and another week was exactly the time it would take for you to crash out over this. After searching through a couple boxes you finally found your drill and started sending a little prayer out to the universe. You lined up the screw, hoping you weren’t hitting anything important in the ceiling, and started drilling. The loud noise made you flinch slightly, causing the ladder to shake a little. Another sharp inhale, coughing lightly at the dust gathering in the wind. Another attempt at drilling the screws in the ceiling, only for it to end up bent and flinging out of its position. You grumbled loudly and huffed, you weren’t going to let this get to you. But when you audibly started yelling and almost tossed the drill, you accepted defeat and climbed down the ladder.
Three short knocks at the door made you freeze. Seeing the clock, on a weekday, you worried another resident had complaints to make. Through the peephole you saw the same pair of eyes you hadn’t been able to get out of your head the past week. As you opened the door you were greeted by a warm, but tired, smile. “Hi Bucky, can I help you with something?” you tried to steady your voice, and the internal cringing of worry that he was the neighbor coming to complain.
“Hi doll” your knees weakened slightly, “if you wanted to talk to me you could’ve just said so, no need for you to try and drill a hole through my floor”. Shut eyes and pinching your nose bridge was all you could respond at first, feeling embarrassed at the situation. “I’m so sorry Bucky, I just got so fed up with not having proper lighting, I guess I kind of forgot the time” you fiddled with your fingers, glancing up at him. “Since you got all the way down here, can I at least see the finished result?” he chuckled, but seemed to quickly become aware of the fact he just shamelessly invited himself into your apartment.
“Of course- well… You won’t be able to see it, since, no lights and I apparently can’t be trusted with power tools” the joke made Bucky let out an airy laugh. You stepped aside and gestured for him to enter, you both made your way over to the lamp, inspecting it seriously. “Where’s the drill?” Bucky asked, not looking away from the discarded lamp on the floor. With a little shrug you pointed to where the drill was buried in manuals and broken screws. Before you had time to ask why, Bucky had already climbed up the ladder with the drill in hand.
“What are you doing, Bucky!?” you exclaimed as you held the ladder, trying to steady it for him. He looked down at you, damn, why did he have to look so good from above, your mind was killing you. Your cheeks heating up caused a smirk to slip its way onto his lips. “I’m fixing your lamp” Bucky sounded like he had just said the most obvious thing in the world, almost making you feel crazy for asking. “I can see that! But why?” you laughed in disbelief as he started drilling the holes, he answered without looking down at you. “How else would I get to see your pretty face?” you thanked god for the dimly lit room, you were sure your cheeks would be bright red, maybe you wouldn’t need a lamp after all?
Your silence made Bucky look down, your wide eyes were answer enough, which made him chuckle. “Besides, if I ever want to get some sleep, it would help you won’t be drilling holes through my floor” this made you snicker, helping the tension release from your shoulders. A mischievous glint crossed your eyes. “So I’ll just have to keep tinkering with the drill and you will come running?” you gave a pause for dramatic thinking effect, “that’s definitely noted”. Now it was Bucky’s turn to shy away and keep his eyes focused on the drill and screws, and not let his beating heart affect his balance. He kept working for a few more minutes, and at last he climbed down the ladder, setting down the drill.
The grey shirt clung tightly to his body, as he brushed himself clean from the dust. You weren’t afraid to admit you had slightly wandering eyes. “You should probably test out the light, make sure it actually works” he commented, making you flick the switch and light shine up your apartment. “It works!” the exclamation made Bucky huff a laugh and look up to see your bright smile, “thank you so much Bucky!”. Instinctively you pulled him into a quick hug, which made Bucky tense up and you realize the boundary you might’ve crossed. You pulled back from the hug, and got ready to apologize but Bucky beat you to it. “It’s no worries, as I said, I’m happy to help” Bucky kept on replaying the hug in his mind, “and next time, you can just come knock”.
With an enthusiastic nod you giggled slightly, “I’ll have to start paying you for your work soon”. Bucky dismissed the joke, he started moving toward the door. “Consider it a welcome gift from a friendly neighbor” you followed him to your door. “Roger that, Bucky” you joked, and he laughed, and suddenly your knees were like jello again. “I’ll see you around Y/n” you nodded, “sweet dreams, doll”, and with that had he left again. Leaving you to deal with jelly knees and a thundering heart.
A couple of days go by with small smiles and even smaller hi’s exchanged whenever your ways crossed in the stairway but nothing more. That’s until a Saturday afternoon when you mustered up enough courage to walk up to Bucky’s door. The smell of failed, and burned, baked goods linger slightly in your hair, and the two beers in hand was the second best alternative. A deep breath is followed by two knocks on his door, and a second later he is standing in the doorway.
“Hi” you fidget slightly as you hold up the beers as explanation, “I tried baking cookies, and uh, failed, so think of this as a ‘thank you’ beer”. His smile widened in time with your rambling, and as you put the two beers in his hands, he moved to the side. “Do you wanna come in?” his nod, a gesture of invitation, but he continued talking when he saw you looking a bit dumbfounded, “it’s kind of sad to drink alone, besides I wouldn’t mind the company”. With that he walked deeper into his apartment, leaving you standing for a minute before you hurried in behind him, closing the door on your way.
“Thanks again for your help, I think I would’ve made the whole building collapse if I’d continued trying to hang my lamp” you giggle bashfully and grab the open beer Bucky hands you. You take in the living room, it’s bare, not even just for a guy. A two person couch standing against a wall, on the other side a TV propped onto a small coffee table. Underneath documents and books is a dinner table, which you guessed wasn’t being used often, by the state of it. Bucky saw you taking in his place, heat creeping in at the base of his neck. “Yeah, you’re welcome, how’s the move in going?” he asked, politely directed your eyes away from his slightly depressing living room. The one ‘thank you’ beer turned into two, and another after that, as you ended up talking for a few hours on the couch.
“-and then he hit me square in my face!” Bucky had just finished telling you about a training session he’d have with Sam. He was careful not to mention his name, not wanting to talk about his work. Bucky hoped you had never heard of him, at least not in the Avengers context, but knowing his reputation you most definitely had. “It must be a demanding job you have, I can’t imagine” your earnest voice tugged at his heart strings, it almost sounded like concern. “It’s fine, as long as I get the job done, and with the best outcome for everyone” he dismissed your analyzing eyes, his own too busy staring at the bottle in his hands.
“And for you” your voice broke his trance, and when he looked back up your eyes met his instantly, “you have to take care of yourself out there”. Bucky took you in, sitting in his dimly lit living room, being concerned about his well-being. It flustered him to the point of no words. Sensing the sincere moment you placed your hand on top of his arm, squeezing it a little bit, trying to bring him back down. As you went to take your hand back, his hand grabbed yours and held it. “Thank you” he said, now staring at his hand holding yours. “Of course Bucky”, your voice now timid and shy, he saw your cheeks heating up slightly, and your lips flare up in a rosy color.
The sudden ring of a phone made you both jump, your hand clutching your heart as you let out an airy laugh. You saw Bucky’s phone light up with the name ‘Sam’, alongside a picture of him in a compromising position. Bucky awkwardly looked at his phone, he let it ring out, until Sam got impatient and stopped trying. “Sorry ‘bout that” his sheepish smile made you forget your sudden scare, as you shook your head, “don’t worry about it” you reassured.
Bucky reached his hand over to yours, slowly, he tested the water, letting you retreat if you changed your mind. Just as he was about to touch your hand, the phone lit up again, Sam calling again. In your flustered mind, you realized what the time was and a sudden feeling of overstaying settled in your stomach. “Uhm, I should… get going” your hesitant announcement came alongside you standing awkwardly by the couch. You swear you saw a disappointed shimmer in Bucky’s eyes but you tried not to think too far ahead of yourself. “Sure, uh, thanks for the beer” Bucky cringed at his words, they definitely left out all the other things he would’ve wanted to thank her for. You hurried towards the door, and opened it just as Bucky arrived behind you. Turning around and meeting his eyes, Bucky realized how closed he’d actually been standing to you. “Thanks for tonight, it was nice” you looked away, heat rising to your cheeks, which you blamed the alcohol. Bucky agreed, “get home safe, doll” and with that it was your turn to leave the doorway quickly, leaving Bucky wanting more and gazing at the spot you had just been standing.
It was late one night, you were on your way home from meeting with a couple of friends, and Bucky had been standing outside the apartment building. He looked in his head, furrowed brows and a half-smoked cigarette that had been lit a long time ago. Your steps slowed down, as you approached carefully. “Hey there” his eyes snapped to you, his eyes dark and set in a deep exhaustion. He grunted a greeting. “Long day at work?” you settled onto the brick steps besides him, tugging your coat tighter to your body. “Something like that” he settled down beside you, tossing the cigarette into a bin.
“D’you want to talk about it?” you puffed his arm with your shoulder, making him give you a tired smile. “No, but thanks for the offer” you nodded, returning to a solemn silence, observing the bustling city life in front of you. That was until something in Bucky woke up, maybe from the tiredness of the day, or the feelings he’d been questioning and working through his head every day.
“What are you even doing?” his question came out harsher than intended, and you just blinked up at him in confusion, not understanding the question. “I mean… I just help you a little, nothing anybody wouldn’t do, and you bring me beer and sit on my couch longer than any one ever has” he explained, his eyebrows furrowing. As did yours.
“Yeah, you did help me, and I wanted to thank you for that… But I also wanted to get to know you” his eyes let you know that, that answer wasn’t enough for him. “I guess I thought you were worth knowing since you helped me so much, that takes a good man” you placed a hand on his shoulder. Unfortunately, after the day he’d had, being reminded of his failures and past mistakes, his body reacted before his mind could. Bucky quickly stood up, making you drop your hand, a hand dragging over his face. He sighed in frustration until he turned around to face you.
“You know who I am right?” you had thought it was a rhetorical question at first, but he expected an answer from you. “Yeah, I know you’re Bucky, uhm, that you worked with Captain America” you stuttered, your mind racing due to his sudden change in behaviour. Bucky scoffs. It hits you directly in your gut, without you truly understanding why. “If you know that, you know that’s not only who I am, what I did” his glare now becoming too much for you to meet, you have to avert your eyes. “I know, you had to do some things against your will” your voice is hush, uncomfortable due to the energy.
“I killed people, Y/n, I’m not a good man” his voice is icy and his stature seems frozen to his spot, just out of your reach. You don’t know how to respond, but you shake your head in confusion. “I don’t know if you pity me, or if you wanted to get a closer look at the spectacle” now you’re furrowing your brows even more, you’re worried they might get stuck, “I don’t know what you’re doing or why”. Now it was your turn to stand up, walking over to him, your stubbornness overtaking. “I don’t pity you, and I’m not trying to get a front row seat to some show, that’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said, Bucky” you can’t wrap your head around his thoughts, “I like you, I want to get to know you” your frustrations seeps into your voice.
At first you think you’ve reached Bucky, but then you sense the dismissal in his eyes. His slight head shake and his down-turned mouth. “That’s not right, it can’t be… I’m not stupid, Y/n” his voice is laced with venom, “there’s a catch, there always is”. Now it’s your turn to shake your head, as you try to control the frustrations welling up in your body, your shaking hands giving you away.
“You’re being unfair, Bucky” you couldn’t look him in the eyes, the tension overwhelming you, “how dare you think I have some ill intentions, I’m pouring my heart out to you and you reject it? Why?” you paused, giving yourself time to breathe. “It’s not fair that you twist my actions, when all I’ve done is be nice to you, I’ve shown you no reason to be insecure” you feel your eyes sting, and curse yourself for it, not wanting to feel weak in front of him. “I want you, Bucky, but you have to realize it for yourself” with that you turn around, and the first tear drops to your cheek. You tug a couple times at the door until it gives way for you to hurriedly climb your stairs, wanting to be far away from him right now.
Another week passed, this time, when your eyes met you would turn to look at the floor in front of you. Bucky had been cursing himself ever since he’d heard you sniffle as you walked away, realizing the stress of the day had gotten to him. Not only that, but it’d made him question your acts of kindness. Bucky had been too nervous to talk to you, worried you would turn him down before he could apologize. This had led him to stand in front of your door, for several minutes, many times a day, this past week.
This day, you were on your way out, when you were met with him and Sam, walking upstairs and taking up the entire stairway. Wanting to be polite you stuttered a small ‘hi’, but your voice was so timid you wondered if they had even heard it. The sound of your voice made Bucky’s focus shift entirely onto you, stopping mid-sentence in the conversation he’d just had with Sam. Sam’s eyebrows raised in confusion until he saw you.
“Hi Y/n” Bucky’s voice was surprised, he had thought that you would ignore him if your paths had crossed. Your eyes met, his clear as day displayed regret, it was too much and you had to look away. The feelings from that night resurfacing all too well. Bucky was about to say something more, when a booming voice from beside him interrupted his train of thought.
“Y/n? As in the Y/n?” Sam was smirking, looking between the both of you. Bucky’s jab to Sam’s side only confirmed his theory, causing his smile to widen, as he stepped towards you. “I’m Sam, Bucky’s best buddy” Bucky rolled his eyes at his antics, “I’ve heard a lot about you”. Now it was your turn to blush a deep crimson red, looking over at Bucky for answers, only being met with a confirming blush across his cheeks. “Nice to meet you Sam” you politely shook his hand, before moving a bit further down the stairs, stopping awkwardly besides Bucky.
You looked at him expectantly, you didn’t even know what you were waiting for, but the hope was burning inside of you. “It’s good to see you” Bucky cringed at his own words, another minute passed and the staring was only dissolved due to Sam clearing his throat. “Uhm, I better get… I need to go… Bye, Bucky” you mumbled and hurried down the stairs, the outside air calling your name.
Inside the building Bucky stood looking back where you’d left, making Sam laugh at the man, he looked like a lost puppy. “The day has come, a woman melted the winter soldier” Sam grabs Bucky’s shoulder with excitement. Bucky just sighed before returning to face his friend, “I messed it up Sam”. Sam deadpanned, already done with whatever had happened. His eyebrows raised in question, waiting for Bucky to continue. “After that long day, last week… I came back here and met Y/n outside” he wasn’t proud of how he’d acted, “I was stressed out, and I… confronted her about this, and I kinda blew up on her and she left”.
Sam shook his head in disbelief but turned to his friend, wanting to help. “You talked to her after that, right?” the silence worked as an answer, “Bucky, are you dumb?”. Bucky was about to protest, not wanting to hear Sam’s sass. “I saw the way she looked at you, she gave you a million chances to reach out, and if you don’t you’ll loose the thing that have made you slightly less grumpy these last few weeks” Sam preached to him, while he just nodded, already knowing he had to do something.
“I know, I know…” Bucky searched for his words, “But she could do better, she deserves better than me”. Sam dismissed him immediately, “Nuh-uh, don’t start with that self-depricating talk, you deserve good too, and she clearly decided on you, now you just gotta make it up to her” and with that Sam walked into Bucky’s apartment. The hangout turned into a guiding session in how to make it up to you, and Sam rooting for him as he went home.
A few days later, two knocks rang out against your door. Before opening it you saw it was late, and considered letting it go unanswered. But as soon as she saw Bucky through the peephole, she opened the door, trying not to show her surprise and slight excitement. “Hi, Y/n” Bucky’s controlled voice had a slight tremble to it, “can we talk?”. You nodded and led him into your living room and plopped down on the couch, motioning for him to do the same.
“I’m sorry for how I blew up at you, I shouldn’t have done that” Bucky starts, his eyes fixated on his hands, “I’m sorry I didn’t believe what you said, or didn’t want to believe it”. You couldn’t hold yourself back anymore, your hands grabbed his, effectively stopping his fidgeting and making his eyes meet yours. “I get it Bucky, I just didn’t want you to think all my kindness had some scheming intent” he nodded, gripping your hands tighter, never wanting to let go. “My thoughts clouded my mind, I should have talked to you instead of letting my mind wander” at his words, you caressed his hands softly, “you definitely should’ve just talked to me… But I’m happy you decided to do it now”.
He feels himself be swallowed up under your gaze, wanting to stay there forever. Without thinking he moved closer to you, pushing a few pieces of loose hair behind your ear. The color returned to your cheeks and you were scared he might be able to hear your wild heartbeat. Bucky could feel your breath getting caught in your throat, his own heart running wild, matching yours. He leaned in, his breath touching your lips, “can I kiss you?” his voice just above a whisper, filled with a certain hunger. Instead of answering him with words, you lean forwards to meet his lips. His hand cupping your cheek, as you grab onto his arm, needing the support if your heart was going to give up on you.
When you finally pulled apart, your bodies were up against each other, and without thinking you leaned into him. In between kisses you ended up lying in his arms, cramped up on the couch, resting your head against his firm chest. His human hand weaving through your hair, while he admired his girl. “What took you so long?” you broke the silence, glancing up at Bucky. “I had a lot of courage to gather up” he smiles softly at you, seeing your lips turn into a smirk. “I could tell, if you hadn’t knocked today I would’ve gone up to you” his eyebrows raised in confusion, “I couldn’t keep seeing your hurt face on my ring camera, it was getting out of hand” you joke, making his cheeks turn deep red at the realization.
Imagine Bucky's so obsessed with going down on you that he gets off just from the taste and sounds while rutting against the bed.
Tastes Like Heaven
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content, smut, oral sex, dry humping, all consensual.
Word count: 1.4k
The mattress sank under Bucky’s weight as he got comfortable in his favorite place— between your thighs. Vibranium braced against your hips while his warm flesh hand splayed across your lower abdomen, holding you still. He was hungry. Eager. Ravenous even. You were laid out before him. Temptation. The tantalizing scent of your arousal was too much for him to resist. He hadn’t even taken off his boxers yet. He didn’t really need to for you to see how much this affected him. The front was already soaked through, the thick outline of him strained and twitched every time your hips rolled needily in his direction.
“Patience, princess,” he rasped, his voice rough. His normally blue eyes were almost black with desire. “Just— fuck— just let me. Need to taste you.”
You nodded. Breathless. Your fingers twisted in the sheets. Ready. For him. You loved when he got like this. Wound up tight. He’d been like that all evening. Hands restless. Constant glances. Jaw working like he was trying to find the right words for what he wanted. You were ashamed of how long it took you to understand. To read into the meaning of his stares.
Now you knew. He was starving.
The first drag of his tongue was slow. Deliberate. Starting from your entrance, it moved flat and hot, right to your clit. You gasped. Spine arching off the bed. And he groaned. As if he’d been punched in the chest by a wave of pleasure. The sound vibrated straight through your core.
Of course, then he did it again. Taking his time. Curling the tip of his tongue just enough to catch your sensitive bundle with more pressure than before. Just enough to make your core clench, before he flattened out to lap at you. Like he was trying to drink you whole. The sounds he made were obscene. And it felt devastating.
Every pass of his tongue sent a fresh flow of liquid heat spilling through your core. It pooled low in your pelvis, making your thighs tremble with anticipation. There was something unique about him. About his tongue. The texture was perfect. Soft. Wet. Insistent. He wasn’t teasing you. He was worshipping your body.
The broad strokes made your clit throb. Swollen and needy. While the pointed flicks against your entrance made your walls flutter, clench around nothing. You could feel yourself getting wetter, slicker. Every time his lips sealed around your clit, he sucked. Gentle, then harder. You swore you could feel your heartbeat pulse there. Just there. Loud and lascivious in your ears.
“Bucky—”
His name cracked as it fell from your lips.
His answer was a low broken moan against your cunt. Accompanied by a swift jerking of his hips. The mattress dipped under his weight as he ground down. Hard. Cock rubbing against the sheets, through damp cotton. You felt the rhythm under you. Slow at first. Then faster. It matched the way his tongue worked you. Every roll of his hips pushed his face deeper. His nose nudged your clit when his mouth slid lower to fuck into you with slow, filthy thrusts.
It was too much. And not enough. The pressure inside you built in thick, heavy waves. Your clit felt huge. Oversensitive. Every suck drew out a bright spark, sending it shooting up your spine. Your thighs shook harder than ever. To the point where you couldn’t even keep them open. He didn’t care. He just hooked his arms under each knee and pushed them wider, opening you completely. The cool vibranium pressed against your left thigh felt like ice against your fever-hot skin and you moaned. A sound so unrestrained that it echoed off the headboard.
It wasn’t just you feeling the heat. He was leaking. You could sense it. The wet slide of his boxer fabric. The way his breathing hitched every time he rutted forward. His tongue never stopped. Licking. Sucking. Circling. Dipping inside again and again. Like he couldn’t decide which part of you tasted best. Your hips started chasing him without permission. Grinding up into his mouth. Smearing yourself across his lips. His chin. His stubble scraped so perfectly against your tender skin.
“Oh God… Bucky, your mouth…”
Your words dissolved into a whimper when he sucked hard. Cheeks hollowed. Tongue flicking fast and merciless over your clit. Your whole body locked up. Heat coiled tighter. A molten knot right behind your pubic bone. Right inside your core. Every muscle in your pelvis fluttered. Clenched. Fluttered again. You were dripping down his chin. Down the crease of your thigh. Soaking the sheets beneath you.
He moaned again. Right into your cunt. Thunderous. Wrecked. And his hips… they snapped down harder. Even the mattress springs sang their protests. You felt the way his cock dragged against the fabric. You pictured the way the head must be catching. Leaking. Precum making everything slicker. His rhythm faltered for half a second, like he was picking up on your thoughts. He looked up, smirking, then started up again. Desperate.
You were close. So close it hurt.
Your pleasure had a life of its own now. A feral beast eager to be fed. Teeth bared. Sharp. Bright. Almost painful. Each pull of his lips sent sharp bolts of lightning arcing through your clit. Up your spine. Down your thighs. Your walls pulsed. Empty and aching. Begging to clamp down on something. Your fingers found his hair. Gripping tight. Trying to hold him in the place you needed most while your hips rolled shamelessly against his face.
He let you ride him. Let you use his tongue. His lips. Even the bridge of his nose. He let you smear yourself all over him while he ground his cock into the mattress like a teenager who’d never touched anyone before. His breaths came in harsh pants against your cunt. Hot and erratic. His fingers dug into your thighs hard enough to bruise. They anchored you from getting lost in your haze of ecstasy. Kept you pinned exactly where he wanted you.
You broke first. The orgasm hit you like a freight train. Sudden. Brutal. White-hot bliss. Your back bowed. Mouth opened in a silent scream that morphed into his name. Your clit throbbed under his tongue but he kept sucking through it. Drawing out your climax until your thighs clamped around his ears and your whole body shook apart. Slick gushed against his lips. He drank it down like a man parched. A guttural sound on his lips that vibrated straight into your overstimulated nerves.
And then he came. Hard.
You felt it in the way his whole body seized. Hips stuttering. Grinding down into the mattress with short, helpless jerks. A broken moan tore out of him. Muffled against your cunt. His shoulders were hunched. Muscles locked. Cock pulsed again and again as he spilled into his boxers. Onto the sheets. Rutting through the aftershocks while his tongue gave one last slow, trembling lick over your drenched pussy.
He didn’t pull away. Even after you stopped shaking. Even after your hands went lax in his hair. He stayed. Pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses against your swollen folds. He gently lapped up the mess he’d made. Even though his breathing was ragged. Chest heaving. And finally, when he lifted his head, his face was wrecked. Lips swollen and shiny. Chin dripping. Eyes glassy and dazed.
You reached down, thumb brushing over his wet bottom lip. “You okay, baby?”
He laughed once. Voice hoarse. “Think I just came harder than I have in seventy years… just from eating you out and humping the goddamn bed.” His cheek rested against your lower belly now. Exhausted.
“You’re easy,” you grinned, mind still floating as you ran your fingers through his hair.
“I’m yours,” he corrected, voice low, reverent. And with that, he crawled up your body. Careful. Moving slowly until he could drop his forehead against yours. His boxers were a disaster. Dark, clinging and sticky. But he didn’t seem to care. “You taste like heaven. And I’m never gonna get enough.”
Your laugh turned into a soft moan when he kissed you. One of those slow, deep kisses where you could taste yourself on his tongue.
The worst— no, best— thing thing about it all was that he was already half-hard again. And you had a feeling the sheets weren’t surviving the night.
Loved your smutty Valentine! I'm kinda in the mood for something fluffy and intimate though!
Could you please write Bucky coming home super late from a mission covered in glowing green alien goo, apologizing for ruining your romantic Valentine's plans. You're sweet about it and then later you help clean/maintain his vibranium arm socket because it's sensitive and he trusts only you with it?🥺👉👈
Glow-in-the-dark Valentine
Warnings: light angst (mission-related guilt and exhaustion), mentions of scars/injuries from past trauma, implied romantic/sexual plans (no explicit content), domestic fluff and hurt/comfort, canon-typical superhero elements (e.g., alien slime monster fight referenced but not detailed).
Word count: 2.5k
Plans had been made. Romantic plans. Ones which involved strawberries and chocolate and sexy lingerie. Unfortunately, romantic plans with Bucky were like trying to herd cats while riding a unicycle on fire— adorable in theory, chaotic disaster in practice.
To his credit, he did communicate. He sent a text saying he would be late. Don’t wait up had been the message which made you blow out the dinner candles. At nine, you started munching on the strawberries to stop your stomach’s attempt to digest itself. Finally at eleven, you’d reluctantly taken off the one piece you’d bought for the occasion and slipped on a pair of booty shorts and one of his t-shirts which you had conveniently claimed.
He finally arrived just before midnight, the door opening with a creak and a strange wet squelch that made you look up. Bucky stood in the doorway, his profile lit by the hallway light— his hair plastered to his forehead, his tactical gear looked like he’d been dunked in radioactive Jell-O. His vibranium arm looked like it glowed as rivulets of the goo flowed over the gold plating and onto the floor. The scowl he was sporting was deep, brows furrowed so hard that it looked painful. His jaw was clenched like he was chewing on rocks. Worst of all, he looked exhausted, maybe mildly furious and somehow, amidst all the mess, he still looked unfairly handsome.
You sat up straighter, a chocolate coated strawberry frozen half way to your mouth. Bucky didn’t move. He stood at the threshold practically dripping, shoulders hunched over as though he was bracing for impact. He scanned the room, immediately locating you on the couch and his scowl softened a fraction into something that looked a little like sheepish guilt.
“Hi, baby,” he rasped, voice rough from whatever hell he'd crawled out of. “Thought I told you not to wait up for me.”
You rose from the couch— strawberry still in hand— and sauntered over to him. “And miss the chance to see you look like you fought a Ghostbusters'-reject villain?”
He huffed a laugh, only it sounded more like a sigh. “Close. Some kinda... symbiote knockoff. Or maybe just really pissed-off mutated slime mold with teeth. Sam called it 'the goo from hell.' Tried to eat my arm. Twice.” He lifted the metal one slightly— green ooze clung stubbornly between the plates, glowing faintly. “It didn't win, obviously. But it was... enthusiastic.”
You padded over to him barefoot, picking a careful path to avoid slipping on the trail of ooze he’s already starting making on the floor. As you reached him, you sniffed cautiously— he smelt like sweat and something sweet, like burnt sugar mixed with citrus. Real charming, you thought.
“Shower?” you asked, tilting your head.
He nodded miserably. “Please. Before I ruin the carpet. Or you.”
Before you stepped aside to let him pass, you reached up and brushed a glob of slime off his cheek— it was warm and weirdly viscous. It clung to his skin slightly before finally coming away on your thumb. He watched as you played with it between your fingers before his eyes flicked to yours— blue-gray and tired.
“This stuff's not dangerous, right?” you asked with a scrunched up nose.
Bucky shook his head.
“Good,” you smiled, wiping your fingers on the cleanest spot of his tactical vest.
“Look, I’m sorry about tonight,” he muttered. “Seems like you had something perfect planned. I wanted to be here. I really did,” he insisted.
“I know, honey.” You smiled, holding up your strawberry for him to take a bite. “We can still have our evening. Just... delayed. And messier.”
He blinked in surprise, the corner of his mouth twitching dangerously. The first real hint of amusement finally breaking through his grumpy facade.
“You're gonna make me shower first, aren't you?”
“Damn straight. You're not touching me— or the bed— until that glow-in-the-dark nightmare is gone.” You poked his chest plate lightly, grimacing as it squelched under pressure. “Go. I'll heat up the last of the chocolate. And maybe… just maybe, I’ll save you a strawberry. If you're nice.”
Bucky leant in for a soft kiss before ambling to the bathroom while you went to re-heated dinner.
Dinner was a subdued affair. Bucky’s spirit was dampened by guilt over the ruined night, the adrenaline crash from the mission hitting him hard, and the quiet realization that he'd let you down— yet again. You sat cross-legged on the worn couch watching him. He was freshly showered, hair still damp and tousled, falling in dark, wet strands across his forehead and curling slightly at the ends. The scent of his soap was mixing with the faint chocolate lingering in the air, making him look softer now— less like a battle-worn soldier and more like your Bucky. He was wearing a clean tee and he had placed his vibranium arm— fresh out of the dishwasher— on the coffee table beside his finished dinner plate. It rested there like a center-piece of high tech sculpture from Wakanda.
You nudged him gently with your knee. “You planning on sitting there brooding all night? Or we gonna try and salvage what’s left of our Valentine’s date?”
He smirked softly, resting his head on the back of the sofa. “Broodin’s my brand, babe.” He tried to hide it, but you caught the way he subtly rolled shoulder.
“Uh huh. And that little wince is just for what? Dramatic effect?”
You got a low chuckle out of him. “Busted,” he confessed, looking down at the vibranium prosthetic on the table. “Honestly though,” he looked over at you sheepishly, “the socket’s a little raw. That alien residue got into the gap and no arm to balance the feedback… it’s like pins and needles that won’t quit. Usually I can ignore it, but…” He looks at you with a small smile. “You always make it better.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, baby. Think you could work your magic? Warm cloth, that fancy Wakandan oil Shuri sent? I promise I'll behave— no squirming this time.”
You grinned back at him. “Yeah… famous last words.”
He holds up his flesh hand in surrender. “Scout's honor. Just... need you.” He finished quietly.
You retrieved the bottle of oil and some clean cotton fiber cloths from the bathroom and sat down beside him, closer this time. He had stripped off his t-shirt and moved to sit closer to the lamp behind the couch.
The vibranium plate socket gleamed under the lap light, but what got your attention was the scarred skin that spread out around his shoulder.
“Alright, Sergeant Barnes,” you said with mock seriousness. You dipped the cloth in a bowl of warm water and covered your index finger with it. “Time for your tune-up. Do Not Squirm.”
Bucky raised an eyebrow, his blue eyes twinkling with a mix of amusement and affection that never failed to make your heart skip a beat. “Baby please, I fought Nazis and aliens. A little cleaning ain't gonna make me squirm.”
A snort escaped before you had the chance to alter the inelegant sound. But you kept working, gently pressing the cloth against the edges of the socket. The skin there was made up of a patchwork of old and new scars from where Princess Shuri had made upgrades. Bucky tensed just a little as you started wiping away the grime at the edges of the metal, where the neural interfaces met flesh. He hated admitting how hypersensitive the area was, even to you.
“Easy there, angel,” he murmured. He reached around with his hand, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face and tucked it behind your ear.
“Sorry, honey.”
“No, you're good at this. But it kinda makes me feel like a damn car in the shop.”
You grinned, leaning in closer to inspect your work. “Well, you are kinda like a classic muscle car— vintage… powerful… in need of regular maintenance to stop rusting.” You paused, tongue between your teeth as you dabbed at a stubborn spot with careful and gentle precision. “Only hotter. And with waaay better mileage.”
He chuckled. You loved the way the sound rumbled through his chest and how you could feel his whole body vibrate when you sat close to him like this. It was moments like this that reminded you how far he had come. How much he had changed since you first met him. From the haunted veteran to this Bucky, your Bucky, the kindhearted man who let you see him vulnerable like this. No arm, no defenses, just him.
As you worked, you felt him relax under your touch. The water was mixed with an unscented cleanser that Shuri had recommended and you soaked the cloth in it just enough for it to feel soothing. You traced the diamond shaped rivets, mindful of the purple crystals which powered the arm. Slowly you moved to the edge, massaging lightly to ease the phantom tension that often lingered. Bucky's eyes fluttered half-closed, his breathing steadying into a contented rhythm.
You kept working. Taking your time. Showing Bucky that he mattered in ways that we’re just related to the sexual intimacy you had planned for the evening. You didn’t complain, even though your fingers were starting the cramp from holding them up. You definitely weren’t going to stop until the task was complete.
After a few minutes of letting you work in complete silence, Bucky spoke up. “You know… back in my day, dames really didn’t have to deal with this kinda thing.”
“This kinda thing? Needy men who come home late?” you laughed. “I’m sure that women have been dealing with that since the dawn of time.”
Bucky rolled his head so he was facing you, opening his eyes just to give you a playful glare. “No, I mean things were simpler. You just had a guy with two arms… maybe a bad haircut. None of this… technical maintenance.”
“Lucky for you then that I’m not from ‘back in your day’. But I’d take one-armed Bucky over any two-armed schmuck from the 40s.” You leaned back to admire your work. The skin around the vibranium socket was looking slightly pink and irritated from the attention but otherwise the vibranium practically gleamed under the lamp’s halo. “Plus, I like having a boyfriend with built-in tech support—” You smiled, then winked cheekily. “Vibrates on command.
Bucky huffed quietly, lips curving up into a smirk for a moment before his eyes landed back on you with a softer gaze. “You're somethin' else, you know that?” He sat up, wincing as a twinge shot through the socket— probably from the neural feedback without the arm to ground it.
Your sharp eyes caught the brief flicker in his expression. “Hey, does that hurt? Be honest.”
“Nah,” he lied smoothly, not giving in immediately, even after you shot him a look that said you weren't buying it. He sighed, slowly conceding, but only after you glared at him. “Fine, maybe a little. Feels like pins and needles sometimes. But, your hands... they make it better.”
The tenderness of his words made your heart melt. You set the cloth aside and cupped his face with one hand, your thumb stroking his stubbled jaw. “You're such a tough guy until it comes to admitting you're human.” Leaning in, you pressed a soft kiss to his lips, lingering just long enough to feel him melt into it.
When you pulled back, he was smiling. One of the real ones. One that crinkled the corners of his eyes. One that was reserved for you and you only. “Human? With this setup?” He nodded toward the detached arm. “More like a cyborg. But yeah, your tough guy.”
You rolled your eyes playfully but then picked up the moisturizing oil next. Bucky had brought it home after he had been having a lot of trouble with the lubrication of the joint. The instructions explained that it was designed to keep the interface supple and to prevent irritation. Squeezing a few drops onto your palm, you warmed it between your fingers before applying it in slow, circular motions to the edges of the disc. Bucky let out a low hum of approval, his head tipping back against the couch.
“God, that feels good,” he admitted, voice husky. “You got magic hands, sweetheart.”
“Magic? Nah, just practiced, mostly just from dealing with your stubborn ass.” You teased, but your touch was feather-light, almost reverent. This was intimate in a way that went beyond the physical. He trusted you with the most vulnerable part of him. The thing that had once been weaponized, tortured, rebuilt. It was a privilege, and you treated it as such.
Halfway through the process, Bucky's hand sneaked around your waist, pulling you onto his lap with effortless strength. You gasped in surprise, nearly spilling the oil. “Buckyyyy! I'm not done yet!”
He grinned mischievously, nuzzling his nose against your neck. “You're takin' too long. Thought I'd speed things up.” His lips brushed your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.
You swatted his chest with the back of your hand, laughing along with him. “Oh, sure, distract the mechanic in the middle of the job. That… buddy—” you prodded him in the chest with a clean finger— “is how you end up with a squeaky arm.”
Despite your chastizing, you didn't pull away, instead settling against him, your fingers continuing to work even as he held you close.
“Fine, fine,” he relented, though his hand stayed splayed across your back, warm and possessive. “But seriously, doll... thank you. For this. For being so patient. For… everything.”
You leaned into his warmth until the oil application was complete. Then you wiped your hands on the damp cloth before wrapping your arms around his neck.
The sincerity in his voice made your heart ache in the best way. You finished applying the oil, wiping your hands on a towel before wrapping your arms around his neck. “You don't have to thank me, Buck. I love you— all of you. Metal arm or nothing at all.”
He kissed you then, deep, unhurried, pouring all the words he sometimes struggled to say into the gesture. When you broke apart, your foreheads rested together and he murmured, “Love you too. More than you know.”
Suddenly— without any warning— Bucky slid his flesh hand under your thighs and with his thick bicep steady at your back, he lifted you effortlessly against his chest.
“Bucky—” you shrieked in surprise.
“Shh, baby. Mechanic’s orders are done. Time for bed.” His voice was a low murmur. Warm and tired but content.
You looped your arms around his neck as he stood. With one arm, he carried you down the hall like you weighed nothing at all. The vibranium prosthetic stayed on the table. Tonight, it was just him— human. And in your eyes: whole.
He slowly eased you down onto the mattress, crawling under the covers right after you. You pulled the covers over both of you once his feet were tangled with yours. There was no rushing, no heat, just his heartbeat against yours as he held you close. Your head lay beside his on his pillow, his damp hair tickling your cheek
“Best Valentine’s ever,” he murmured into your ear.
You hummed softly in agreement. “Better than perfect.”
And for once, the chaos stayed outside. Just you, him, and sleep.
Summary: A girls' trip has an all-too-common ending, but Bucky has no time for drama that hurts this girl.
WC: 1.1K Pairing: Bucky x f!reader Warnings: Language, mean girls, feelings of loneliness
A/n: This is definitely just a work of fiction and totally not a real life experience🥹. Don't be a mean girl, it looks bad on everyone.
Friendship has always felt a little tricky to you. It’s not that you were ever really alone, it’s just that you also never really felt like you fit in. As time went by and your teenage years clawed their way into adulthood, a sense of loneliness became your one true and constant companion. It seemed as though a pattern was emerging in adulthood, one where people who called themselves friends only were interested in the title when you served a purpose.
Bucky knows the feeling all too well, and it’s part of what drew you to each other. You both found a shared sense of peace knowing that the other was their ride or die. Comforted by the fact that there was not even an ounce of superficial bullshit in your relationship. He helped you through the bad days just as you helped him. It was the most healing either of you had done in a while.
That being said, it also means that he could read you like a well loved book, able to anticipate all your tattered edges. That little tidbit, while endearing, is not always convenient.
“What’s wrong?” His voice is gruff as he answers your call, already on edge like he knows what’s going on in the cute little beach villa hundreds of miles away from him.
“Hi to you too, handsome.” You giggle, but even you can tell it’s forced.
A silent moment passes, and you know he’s weighing his countermeasures. “Are you safe?”
“Yes, yes I’m safe.” A small, betraying sigh escapes you…maybe he’ll miss it.
Of course he’s trained in nuances, especially yours, and clocks it immediately.
“Spill it, now.” It's the tone he knows you won’t resist, and the fact he’s pulling it out for this lets you know he’s genuinely concerned.
“It’s nothing…” It’s all you manage before your voice hitches, revealing your hand completely.
“I’ll fly you home right now, say the words.”
“No, Bucky. I’m an adult, I can handle a little girl drama. It’s just I’m tired…they said I wasn’t being a good friend. I really clicked with the new girl and they got jealous. They gave me the third degree and I had a panic attack.”
“Excuse me? Who is responsible for that?” His tone is sharp, dangerous.
“It’s fine. I overestimated my worth in this group, so at the very least this was a learning experience. I won’t be going on a girl’s trip again any time soon.”
The silence from the other end makes you nervous because Bucky wasn’t exactly patient in general, but when it came to you all bets were off.
“They also ate my bacon.” You say with a tired laugh, trying to lighten the mood.
“Are you with them?” He asks, as if gathering information for a mission. “Or are you alone?”
“I’m here at the villa by myself. They all went out to get lunch, but I didn’t really feel like it. My feelings were really hurt and I was tired from the panic attack. They said I may be depressed but I could still go out and do things.”
“I love you.” He says it as if it’s a threat to anyone who wrongs you. It gets cut off by the familiar rumble of his motorcycle and you can’t help but feel thankful he’s on his way.
The others come back a little later, moving about inside as if nothing had gone awry, laughing pointedly at inside jokes that had apparently been carefully cultivated over lunch. The solitude of the back patio suits you fine, enjoying the sound of the waves more than the company anyways. Half lost in a thought you jump when a firm and distinct knock sounds at the door.
A bunch of squeals sound off from inside, the one who thinks of herself as the leader moving to check the peephole.
“Oh my god… is that?” She cries, voice openly filled with desire.
“Move, lemme see!” Another whispers, poorly.
“I can hear you all, so I suggest opening the door if you would like your deposit back.” His voice is strained, and you know he’s trying to be civilized, if only for your account.
“Why is he here?” They twitter, proving they haven’t paid attention to anything you’ve ever said.
Finally they open the door, revealing a Bucky who looks more pissed than you had ever seen, even more so than the time that teenager had backed into your car at the mall.
“Where is she?” He seethes, moving inside the doorway with an air that makes them shrink back. It’s a sight to behold from your chair that you’ve turned to watch through the window.
“I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong villa we’re-”
“You three are the only ones who made a mistake today. You earned yourself an enemy and I don’t mean her. I’m so much worse.”
“No, surely you don’t mean…”
Four pairs of eyes turn towards you, but there’s only one set you care about. Once he finds you his face softens, a smile pulling at his lips.
“You ready?” He asks, moving past gawking faces.
“Yeah.” You mumble against him as he pulls you into a squeezing hug. “I already packed my bag, I just need to grab it.”
“I’ll get it, just head outside.” You lift a brow, but he motions towards the door with a look that leaves no room for discussion.
“Ok.” You shrug, stealing a kiss before moving through the still gawking group with a pleased smile.
A few moments later he strides out, your bag thrown over his shoulder. He’s shaking his head as he approaches, mumbling to himself as he places it in a sidebag.
“ You know,” He says as he straddles the bike “I thought talking to Sam was taxing, but those women are far worse.”
“Yeah, that’s my bad,” You say, putting on the helmet he hands you. “sometimes the little girl in me gets too excited when someone calls me their friend and my judgement kinda goes screwy.”
“Nothing about this situation is your fault.” He rebuts, tone serious.
“Let’s go home, Bucky.”
“Oh no, we’re not going home… I booked us an even nicer Villa and we’re gonna have the getaway you deserve. I plan on showing you just how happy I am to have you in my life.”
“You’re such a softie.” You sigh, head against his back as the bike rumbles to life beneath you.
“Just for you.” He says, words drowning in the wind.
Bucky figured out he had feelings for you somewhere between the third mission and the second month. The quiet in his head got softer when you were around.
The problem isn't the feeling — the problem is that Bucky, with zero remaining social calibration and the full backing of Steve and Sam's catastrophic advice, has decided to do something about it.
With no context and no warning, you're on the receiving end. It goes about as well as you'd expect.
PART 1
// bucky has a crush on you, and he's doing his best; his best is just terrifying. you've catalogued enough experiences around the tower to note this as "stalking" instead of "admiring".
PART 2
// a giddy, crushing bucky spots you speaking with steve. he may or may not be jealous and gruelling from the sidelines. you literally just wanted advice, you didn't expect you'd get stared down by the literal babadook behind you.
PART 3
// bucky has a lot of feelings with no idea how to say them. you have a lot of anxiety and absolutely no idea what he means. also, alpine is immeasurably annoyed by his and yours flaky confessions.
summary: you feel comfortable enough going to bucky when your pms is bring you you down. you aren’t prepared to bleed on his sheets.
warnings: this is my first fanfic so that’s something to be wary off. this is just fluffy comfortability with best friends in love.
———————————————————————
You were a couple days away from your period, and the time before your period is always hard. You get anxious, tearful, and an overall feeling of blah. Like there’s a disconnect between your brain and your body.
When you get this way it can be hard to find comfort in anything. You just have to sift through these days with that heavy feeling on your bones.
Tonight was hard—you felt small, weepy, and torn. You didn’t want to bother Bucky, but you longed just to be with him. Ever since you two became friends, something about his presence made you feel…still.
Still in the way your thoughts aren’t all jumbled and racing, but clear and smooth. Still, like sitting on the beach—feeling the wind rustle through your clothes, hearing the ocean creating white noise—and all you do is just enjoy the present moment.
Your friendship with Bucky was not automatic by any means. He is the way he is, so of course he was guarded, closed off, constant grump face. Slowly, you chipped away at his walls. You were yourself to a fault, and Bucky couldn’t help being sucked into your orbit.
He became looser around you—he’d crack a dry joke instead of just grunting in response, he let himself smile instead of pretending your jokes annoyed him.
Your bond grew over time—small jokes became easy banter, smiles became full laughs. You got to see his charming goofy side, and he got to see your quiet soft side. Late night talks on the balcony overlooking the lake—learning about each other’s deepest struggles, happiest memories, biggest fears.
You two became very close. Always looking out for one another, knowing when the other is feeling off. You were never bored when together, even if you’re just in the same room doing separate tasks. Sure you could annoy the crap out of each other, but you’d also be protective and caring for each other at the same moment.
On bad nights, you two would find solace in each other’s rooms. Bucky had more of those night than you. Tonight wasn’t even that bad—you just didn’t want to be alone.
You wrap your favorite blanket around your shoulders, and quietly shuffle down the hallway to his room. It’s not late, but you still knock softly just in case he could actually sleep tonight.
Bucky is propped up against his headboard reading ‘The Great Gatsby’, he’s been trying to read the modern classics he’s missed out on. His gaze lifts to the door, immediately he knew it was your knock.
“Come in,” he calls out, lowering the book with a thumb holding his place. He can tell when you open the door you aren’t feeling quite yourself.
“Can I just lay in here? I don’t need to talk, just don’t feel like being alone,” you ask. Holding your blanket securely around you.
“Come here,” his voice already becoming the gentle version, for when you’re like this. He sets his book on the nightstand, then lifts the covers for you to climb in.
“Thank you,” you say, gently nudging the door shut, then crossing the room to your designated side of his bed. You slide under the covers—nestling your head into the pillow.
“What’s wrong?” He asks, while he drapes your blanket on top of you.
“I just feel… off.” While you speak, he shifts to lie down on his side. His gaze is devoted to yours—trying to be see whatever you feel. “My period is in a couple of days. You know how I can get.” You shrug.
Bucky does know how hard it can be on you sometimes. It breaks his heart seeing you like this. He tried his best to learn what helps you during this monthly depressive episode. Usually it’s just support to get through it.
“I’m sorry, doll,” he says softly. He tugs the covers further up on you, before resting his hand on your shoulder.
“I’m okay. I just wanted to be with you,” you give him a soft smile. His eyes soften even more, and his thumb begins rubbing circles over the fabric of your shirt.
“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks, no pressure in his tone, just care.
“Not really. You keep reading. I’m just gonna sleep, if that’s okay?”
“Whatever you need, sweetheart,” his hand gently squeezes your shoulder.
“Thank you, Buck.” You already feel relief from the dark cloud that settled over you. Bucky leans over to place a kiss on your head. You huff air from your nose, and a small teasing smile pulls your lips. “Dork,” you murmur as a term of endearment.
“Weirdo,” he replies as usual. Smiling softly, feeling a little better that you still have some teasing in you.
Bucky adjusts back to his sitting position, and resumes his book. He looks over at you snuggling deeper into the bed.
“The light not gonna bother you?” He asks, voice a juxtaposition of rough and soft.
“Doesn’t bother me at all. Plus, your big head is blocking it pretty well,” you tease softly, a small lazy smile pulls my mouth.
“You’re a punk,” he huffs in amusement, shaking his head. You chuckle softly.
Every couple of minutes Bucky notices you move just a hair closer to him—a shift of your leg or subtle move of your hand. Whether you’re conscious of it or not, he doesn’t know.
Bucky looks over—you’re curled up facing him, forehead only a few inches from his elbow. He smiles softly to himself. He scoots further down the pillows—so he’s mostly lying now. He reaches his human arm, the one closest to you, over to pull you into his side.
You crack your eyes open, when you feel his hand pressed against your back. He gives you a soft knowing smile. A sleepy smile grows on your face, then you scoot completely into his side—head on his shoulder, right arm draping over his torso.
He hears the content exhale as your body relaxes. He cranes his neck to see your eyes are already closed again, hints of your sleepy smile still remain. He feels his chest tighten with affection for you. He wants to wrap you up in a cocoon of blankets, hold you tight in the safety of his arms, and plant kisses all over your cute sleepy face.
Instead he just savors what he has been given. Relishes in the love he feels he doesn’t deserve. He lets himself love you like this, even though he knows he could love you more. He’ll just never let himself.
His fingers tickle your back lightly, while his metal hand holds his book. Finagling with the book to turn each page without having to take his hand off of you.
After a while, he feels his eyes are getting heavier, and hears your quiet snores start against his shirt. He carefully sets his book on the nightstand, and stretches to turn off his lamp but keeps his arm around you. The movement pulls you from your slumber— making you mumble sleepily.
“Bucky?” You rasp, eyes barely cracking open. As soon as he hears your voice he goes to soothe you.
“Just turning off the light, doll.” He says softly, making you mumble incoherently. After the darkness takes over the room, he turns his body to yours, pulling you into his chest.
“Go back to sleep,” Bucky whispers, as his arms settle around you. Metal arm careful but firm over your waist, hand splayed against your back. His flesh arm is under your neck, hand cradling your head that is tucked into his chest.
“You okay?” You mumble, voice showing you aren’t really awake. The care in your voice despite being asleep makes the loving ache in his chest grow.
“Always okay with you.” He whispers, fingers card through your hair soothingly. You hum something incoherent, and Bucky knows you’re not conscious.
As he falls asleep, he lets himself pretend he’s not afraid of loving you. He lets himself feel not like a monster, but a man who loves a woman.
—————————
In the very early morning, you are awoken to the feeling of a baby alien trying to rip through your uterus, aka period cramps. You lift your head off of the pillow, which you come to realize is Bucky’s bicep.
Bucky is sound asleep—he always sleeps better when he’s with you. That doesn’t change the fact he’s been trained to be a light sleeper. Your quiet whimper pulls him right awake.
His eyes fly open to see you hunched over, eyes closed like you’re still trying to milk the last ounces of sleep in you. He sits up, placing his warm hand on your back.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Bucky’s voice rough with sleep. You open your eyes, face turning to his.
“I’m sorry. Did I wake you?” You rasp, discomfort evident in your voice.
“What’s wrong?” He asks again, ignoring your concern for waking him.
“I’m cramping,” you make a small noise of pain. “My period must be starting.”
“Stay right here. I’m going to get you something for the pain.” Bucky is on his feet, and walking out the door.
You don’t want to move, but you know you need to go to the bathroom to put something on before the blood starts. With a weak groan you slide out of Bucky’s bed.
You switch on the lamp to check the sheets, just in case, even though you can’t imagine anything has actually started yet—you freeze when you see the fresh blood on his gray sheets.
“No. No, no, no, no, no.” Tears automatically come to your eyes, panicking over what to do. You immediately start stripping the bed. Your mind is a cloudy mixture of pain, embarrassment, and sleep disrupted weepiness.
You’ve barely moved the pillows out of the way, when Bucky returns with a glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen. You whip your head to him, putting your hands out as if that would stop him from coming closer.
“Wait, stop!” You try to tell him, but he’s already making his way to you.
“Hey, what are you doing?” He asks in confused worry. Setting down the glass and pills on the nightstand, so he can move grab onto you. His eyes almost frantically taking in your expression, then he looks past you to the bed. It clicks in his brain when he sees the blood on the sheets.
“Oh, doll,” his voice painfully tender. You step back trying to block the bed.
“I’m so sorry. Give me a second and i’ll fix it,” your voice a sad plead. His heart breaking over the look on your face.
“What? No. Come here,” he shushes you. He steps forward, closing the distance, and pulling you into his chest.
Your mind is too cloudy with embarrassment to stop. You try to push off of him, but he holds you tighter—not in a painful way, but in a reassuring way.
“Bucky,” you cry weakly into his shirt. He shushes you, one hand stroking the back of your head.
“It’s alright, doll,” he coos. He understands why you’re upset, but this is nothing to be embarrassed over. Especially not with him.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know I was gonna start tonight,” you sob into his chest. He feels the dampness of your tears through the fabric.
“Stop it. It’s okay,” his voice is so tender it makes you cry more. He says your name like a gentle plea.
“You can go lay in my bed and i’ll change your sheets, okay?” You hiccup, lifting your head off of him. Immediately, Bucky is shaking his head.
“Absolutely not,” both of his hands come up to cradle your face, and make sure you listen. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna take care of this while you go sit in a warm bath.” Your brow furrows in disagreement. He can’t help but find it adorable. You shake your head, but before you can speak, Bucky says your name with such sure care.
“I can’t let you deal with this. It’s gross,” you try, but he just scoffs in reply.
“Nothing about this is gross, you got me?” He lowers himself so he’s eye level with you. “You’re hurting. Let me take care of you.” The sincerity in his eyes, and the stabbing pain in your uterus, makes you lose your ability to protest anymore.
“Are you sure?” You cry pitifully.
“Sweetheart,” he pulls you back into his chest, “please stop crying. I’ve got you.” He kisses your head, then rests his cheek against your hair.
You let yourself melt against him, arm finally coming up around him. Once your crying becomes a soft sniffle, he pulls back just enough to look at you. The tears made your face puffy and splotchy—it breaks his heart.
“Here,” he reaches for the glass, handing it to you. He grabs the ibuprofen, shaking some into his hand. “That enough?”
You nod, reaching out to take the pills. Rasping a quiet, “Thank you,” after swallowing them.
“Attagirl,” he praises, while taking the glass from your hands to set it down. His hands come to rest on both of your biceps. “Now, hows a bath sound?”
“Yeah…” you nod, “that sounds good.” Bucky feels a sense of relief you aren’t fighting him on this anymore.
“Yeah?” He gives you a gentle encouraging smile. “Let’s go get you a bath then.”
Bucky guides you, carefully, down the hall to your room. You turned down his offer to carry you, cause you were worried about blood somehow getting on him.
“Why don’t you grab you some fresh clothes, while I run the bath?” He suggests. You give him a small ‘okay’. You shuffle to your dresser to grab some designated period underwear, a big oversized shirt, and some gray sweatpants.
When you walk into your bathroom, you notice only some of the lights are on—casting the room in a dim warm light. Bucky is sitting on the edge of the tub ensuring the water is not too hot. He notices you when you set your clothes on the counter. He stands up moving over to you.
“There’s my girl,” he gives a supportive smile. If your stomach wasn’t in so much pain, you would’ve felt butterflies when he said that. “I’m gonna go change the sheets, then i’ll be back to check on you.”
Your eyes tear up at the embarrassing thought of him having to change his sheets. He quickly notices and goes to shut it down.
“Hey, hey, hey. None of that.” His rough yet oddly soft hand brushes away a tear from your cheek. “I just want you to feel better.”
You wrap your arms tightly around his torso. He’s taken aback at first, then tightly hugs you back. “I’m really sorry,” you apologize again.
“Stop that,” he gives you a squeeze before pulling back. “Just try to relax. I’ll be back soon,” he kisses your forehead, then leaves the bathroom.
————————
The heat of the water soothes your discomfort. Dulling the pain of your cramps. Relaxing your muscles from the tension they’ve been holding. You sink deeper into the water—your hair tied dryly atop your head. Probably not safe, but you almost fell asleep. A soft knock on the door made you come to.
“Doll, I’m back. You doing okay?” Bucky’s voice comes through the door. Hearing his voice reminds you of the embarrassment—bleeding on his bed, sobbing in his arms.
“I’m good,” you call back, cringing at yourself for simply existing.
“The pain any better?” He asks.
“Yeah, some,” you reply. You feel awkward talking through the door when you’re currently in the tub.
“Good, hopefully the meds are kicking in,” his tone indicates he’s not feeling awkward at all, he just wants to help you. “Do you need anything else?”
“I’m okay, thank you. You don’t have to worry about me. You should go back to bed,” your voice sweet in way that makes Bucky frown.
“Doll, stop that,” he sighs through the door. He knows you are embarrassed, and you don’t need to be alone stewing on it.
“What?” You say, acting like you don’t know what he’s talking about.
“You take your time, and i’ll be out here when you’re done,” he says, giving you no room to argue.
—————————
When you finally climb out of the tub, the pain is a dull whisper. Your muscles warm and relaxed, making your movements slow. You dry off, make sure whatever period product you use is secure, and get dressed in the fresh pajamas you set out.
Bucky stands from your bed when you exit the bathroom. His heart skips at your appearance—shoulders hunched, baggy clothes, hair a half fallen mess tied up on your head. To him you’re so beautiful.
“Buck, you shouldn’t have waited for me,” you say softly, wrapping your arms around yourself to shield your warm skin from the cool air.
“How many times do I have to tell you I want to be here, before it gets through that hard head of yours?” He closes the distance between you, and pulls you into his arms. You let your tired self melt into his hold.
“I feel bad,” you murmur against his chest.
“Enough of that,” his flesh hand comes up to angle your face up at his. He feels unworthy to be able to touch something so soft.
“But Buc-“ you start but he shakes his head.
“Now do you want to lay in your bed or mine?” Bucky asks simply. “Either one you pick i’ll be there,” he adds. Making you huff softly. That feels like a win to him.
“My bed,” you say quietly. He smiles softly, thumb stroking your cheek once more.
“Your bed it is,” he nods. He gently guides you to lay down. He climbs in beside you, and automatically you find yourself in his arms. You’re curl into him, hands tucking against his chest.
“I’m really sorry about everything,” you mumble quietly against him, you still feel embarrassed despite how tired you are.
“Please stop apologizing,” Bucky’s voice just above a whisper. His metal hand cradling the back of your head, while his warm flesh hand rubs up and down your back.
“It’s so embarrassing,” you mumble sadly.
“Hey, look at me,” he pulls back enough to angle your head upwards. His eyes lock onto yours, trying to get the point across. “It’s not embarrassing, especially not with me.”
“How are you not upset?” You asks, tired lip pouting.
“How could I be upset?,” he exhales, shaking his head in disbelief that you could even think he was upset. “I just hated it for you, so stop apologizing. Okay?”
“…Okay,” you exhale softly. Your eyes have a shine of love as you look up at him. “I hope you know how grateful I am for you.”
Bucky presses a soft kiss to your forehead, your eyes flutter closed. He reaches up to gently brush a stray strand from your head. He notices the slight furrow in your brow. “Headache?” He whispers.
“Not too bad,” you open your eyes.
“Let’s get your hair down,” he hums softly. You rest your forehead against his chest, while his hands carefully unwind your hairtie. His hands so large and rough, yet so delicate with you.
Once your hair is free, Bucky slides the hairtie onto his wrist, then runs his fingers over your scalp. You felt like you could’ve purred from the touch. It released any left of tension in your body.
“That better?” He whispers. Your hum is all the response he needed to hear. It makes a small smile grow on his lips.
He rolls onto his back, pulling you with him. You settle on top of him, as he pulls the covers higher over you.
“You okay?” He hums.
“Mhmm,” you nod against him.
Bucky keeps his flesh hand on your back and the metal one gently rubs your scalp. He knows the coolness helps with your headaches. It’s very obvious by the way you go limp against him and start drooling on his shirt. He smiles to himself, pressing a kiss to your temple.
“Sleep good, pretty girl.”
———————————————————————
i hope you guys enjoyed my first fic ! let me know what you think !
❝ roomate!bucky x female reader ❞
── bucky moves into your spare room expecting nothing more than four walls and a place to sleep. instead, he finds floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, sticky note conversations, late-night takeout, and a girl who always puts herself last.
⤷ tags: roommates trope, post tfatws, sticky note communication, friends to lovers, roommates to lovers, slow burn, domestic fluff, many many hot dog mentions, anxiety, work stress/burnout, author has mini geek speak moments, anthropology reader, emotional intimacy, quiet romance, self-doubt, mild emotional hurt/comfort, sticky note love language, reader insecurity, loneliness, not beta read we die like men. ⋮ no warnings just fluff and sappy love :)
˗ˏˋ ꒰ june’s note ꒱ ˎˊ˗
── and they were roommates.... oh my god they were roommates
The number sits in his phone for three days before he uses it.
Three days of bad apartments and worse brokers. Places with paper-thin walls and windows that looked directly into brick. Places that smelled like mildew and old cigarettes. Places so expensive they made his jaw lock before the realtor even finished speaking.
He tells himself he's only looking because he has to. Not because he misses hearing another person in the next room. Not because going back to the apartment in Brooklyn every night feels too much like walking into a museum exhibit dedicated to a man he doesn't know how to be anymore.
Louisiana had almost made sense for a second.
He can still picture the dock at sunset, the water catching orange light, the sound of Sam's nephews shouting somewhere down the road. He can still hear Sam leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, pretending not to look too concerned.
“You could stay here for a while,” Sam had said.
“No.”
“You don't even gotta stay with me. The VA's offering assistance out here now. They can help you get your own place.”
“No.”
Sam had looked at him for a long second then, the kind of look people get right before they decide whether or not to push.
“You know, accepting help doesn't mean you're weak.”
Bucky had laughed once under his breath, sharp and humorless. “Not taking charity.”
“It ain't charity.”
“Feels like it.”
Sam had sighed through his nose, digging through a kitchen drawer before pulling out a scrap of paper with a number scribbled across it.
“I know somebody in New York. Friend of mine has a spare room.”
Bucky remembers immediately opening his mouth to refuse, Sam had beaten him to it.
“You won't be coddled or given the sugar treatment,” he said. “You'll pay rent, keep your mess clean, same as anywhere else. I bet you'll like it too.”
That had been the only reason Bucky took the number at all.
Now, three days later, he stares at it again from the edge of a too-small hotel bed in Queens. The room hums around him. Old air conditioner rattling in the window. Pipes knocking somewhere in the walls. The smell of industrial detergent trapped in the sheets.
He types the message before he can talk himself out of it.
Sam Wilson gave me your number. He said you had a room for rent.
The response comes less than ten minutes later, not much text, no small talk. Just a picture. The room is simple. Bigger than he expected. A bed frame without a mattress, a dresser by the wall, a window overlooking the street below. Hardwood floors. Clean lines. Nothing flashy.
Underneath the picture is the address and rent amount. Reasonable, more than reasonable, honestly.
Then another message.
He told me you'd message. If you're interested, you can come look at it tomorrow. I work late tonight.
What would probably seem forward to others Bucky sees as efficient, Sam's recommendation is starting to make sense now. The building is in Brooklyn, far enough from the center of everything to be quiet but not isolated. The brick outside is old, the kind that has survived decades without anybody bothering to make it prettier.
There is a sticky note taped to the front door when he gets there.
Spare key is under the plant. Let yourself in.
He stares at the note for a second longer than he needs to. Something about it feels strangely normal. The kind of thing people do when they trust that the world isn't always waiting to hurt them.
The apartment is quiet when he steps inside, his shoes echoing off the walls. It's not empty per say, just still.
There are a pair of sneakers and loafers by the door lined up neatly on a tray. A light jacket tossed over the back of the couch, s mug sitting in the sink, a blanket folded over the armrest like somebody had smoothed it down before rushing out the door.
The place is nice. Not too fancy, not overly cluttered. There are soft colors everywhere. Cream walls. Warm wood floors. A kitchen with magnets on the fridge and a bowl of fruit on the counter. It feels lived in in small ways, like somebody exists here just hardly.
The bedroom at the end of the hall is bigger than he expected. Master bedroom with a bathroom attached, an amenity he hadn't lived with in too many years to count. Enough room for his duffel bags and the few boxes he still carries from place to place without unpacking.
But it isn't the room that makes him stop.
It's the hallway.
Bookshelves run from floor to ceiling along both sides of it, turning the narrow stretch between the living room and bedrooms into something else entirely. There are hundreds of books. Maybe more. Old hardcovers with cracked spines. Paperbacks with folded corners. New glossy editions wedged beside books that look older than he is.
His eyes catch on familiar titles. The Great Gatsby, A Farewell to Arms, The Hobbit. A worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye sits crooked on a shelf near the middle. Some of the older books have faded cloth covers, titles nearly rubbed away with time. He reaches out before he can stop himself, fingertips brushing the spine of one that looks like it has been opened a hundred times.
It reassures him in a way he can't explain. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, he can picture himself somewhere without immediately wanting to leave.
He pulls his phone out.
Nice place. I'll take it if it's still up for offer.
The reply comes before he even reaches the kitchen.
It's all yours. Lease is on the kitchen counter. Bring your stuff in whenever. I won't be back until late again.
He looks over at the stack of papers sitting beside the fruit bowl. A little strange and fast, maybe. But he isn't complaining. The lease is simple. Month to month, rent due on the first. No smoking inside, clean up after yourself. No coffee grounds down the drain.
That last one almost makes him smile.
He signs his name at the bottom then he goes back downstairs to start bringing his things in. Which, after a century of life, turns out to be less than he thought it'd be. It only takes him three days to move in.
Three days of hauling boxes up narrow stairs and carrying duffel bags that feel heavier than they should. Three days of unpacking only half of his things because there isn't much point in settling too deeply into anywhere anymore.
He never sees you once.
The first night, he hears the front door unlock sometime after midnight, quiet footsteps, the soft rustle of a jacket being hung up. Cabinet doors opening and closing in the kitchen. He stands frozen in the doorway of his room for a second, listening.
Then he hears the bathroom door shut down the hall and waits for some awkward introduction that never comes. By the time he wakes up the next morning, you're gone again.
There is a sticky note on the fridge.
Working late all week. Feel free to use anything in the kitchen except the leftover Chinese food. Learned that lesson already.
He pulls the note off the fridge after reading it, folding it once before sticking it in the pocket of his sweatshirt without really knowing why.
The second note comes two days later, left beside the coffee maker.
Heading upstate for work tomorrow. Back Friday night.
Then another on the kitchen counter.
If the sink in the kitchen makes that awful screeching noise again, jiggle the cold water handle.
It's strange, living with someone he has never met.
You exist in pieces to him. A mug left drying by the sink, a pair of shoes by the door one night and gone again by morning, a blanket folded on the couch in a different way than he remembers leaving it.
The faint smell of shampoo lingering in the hallway bathroom after he knows you've been home.
Sometimes he catches the sound of you moving around at night. The creak of floorboards in the hall. The soft thud of something being set on the kitchen counter. Once, half asleep, he hears quiet music drifting from somewhere in the apartment before it disappears again.
You are becoming something blurry around the edges, more presence than person, a ghost.
Not that he's one to complain. The arrangement works and for the first few weeks, he mostly keeps to his room anyway. He gets used to the attached bathroom. The way the pipes knock whenever somebody runs hot water. The patch of afternoon sun that lands across the floor by the window around three o'clock every day.
He unpacks slowly. One shirt at a time, one book at a time. He leaves most of his things in boxes because it feels safer that way. Temporary. Like if he has to leave suddenly, he can.
He still goes out most nights, he doesn't cook much.
The kitchen feels too personal somehow, like crossing into territory that belongs more to you than him. So he eats at diners, cheap takeout places, little delis with too-bright lights and menus that haven't changed in twenty years.
Eventually he starts stopping at the same hot dog stand three blocks from the apartment. The guy who runs it is older. Loud, talks too much, calls everyone sweetheart regardless of age or gender. The first time Bucky goes there, the guy takes one look at him and says, “You look like you need two hot dogs and a nap.”
By the third visit, he doesn't even have to order.
“Mustard, onions, no kraut,” the guy says, already reaching for the buns. “And a Coke.”
“You're getting too comfortable,” Bucky tells him.
“You keep showing up, that's on you.”
He reminds Bucky of Sam if Sam were louder and somehow even more annoying.
The guy asks questions constantly.
You got a girl? No. Job? Sort of. Why do you always look like somebody just kicked your dog?
Bucky never answers half of them, still, he keeps coming back. Mostly because the hot dogs are decent. Partly because it is nice, sometimes, to have somebody expect you to show up somewhere.
Back at the apartment, another sticky note waits for him on the kitchen counter.
Sorry for basically haunting the place. Work has been insane lately.
He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. A ghost with good handwriting, at least now he knows you know it too.
The first time he sees you, it feels a little like walking into the wrong apartment.
He comes back later than usual, the city already washed in blue evening light, a paper tray from the hot dog stand balanced in one hand and a soda in the other. The apartment door sticks a little when he pushes it open.
He hears your voice before he sees you. It's soft, firm yet an edge of exhaustion to it.
“You can tell them whatever you want, but I'm not driving six hours for a meeting that could've been an email.”
He stops just inside the doorway.
You're standing by the living room windows with your back to him, one arm folded across your middle, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder.
For a second, he just stares. Because he had almost forgotten, not completely, but enough. Enough that your existence had turned into sticky notes and moving shadows in the hallway. Coffee mugs in the sink. A coat that appeared on the hook by the door and disappeared again before morning.
He had built you into something abstract in his head.
Not a real person.
Certainly not a woman.
Not because Sam had said otherwise. Sam hadn't said much at all.
Just because there had been nothing obvious about you in the apartment. No perfume bottles cluttering the bathroom counter. No makeup bags. No floral blankets or pastel throw pillows or whatever other lazy stereotypes his brain had apparently reached for without him realizing it.
The place is sparse, practical. Books and soft lighting and a single plant by the window that looks one missed watering away from death. He mentally scolds himself for the assumptions.
You don't turn around right away, you're still talking and Bucky begins to wonder if he should walk out. Keep to the ghostly sticky notes and mugs in the sink.
“Yeah, well, that's not my problem,” you say into the phone, quieter now. “I sent everything over already.”
Then your eyes flick toward the entryway. Toward him.
You freeze.
It happens so quickly he almost misses it. The slight widening of your eyes. The way your mouth parts for a second before you catch yourself. It's clear you hadn't expected to see him either.
“Hold on,” you murmur into the phone.
For a second, neither of you says anything.
You are not what he expected either. You're standing barefoot on the hardwood floor with your heels kicked off next to you, hair a little messy like you've been running your hands through it all day and a suitskirt that's been smoothed down one too many times.
There are tired shadows under your eyes that make you look… real. Not like the blurry version of you he'd made up from scraps. He realizes, distantly, that this is probably the first time you've really seen him too. Not just the sound of boots in the hallway or the evidence of him in the sink.
The metal arm. The size of him. The way he takes up space without meaning to.
You recover first.
“Sorry,” you say, pulling the phone away from your mouth. “I didn't know you were coming home.”
“Yeah.”Brilliant move.
You blink at him once, then glance down at the hot dog tray in his hand. “Hope that's not dinner.”
He looks down too. “It was the plan.”
You huff a laugh through your nose, small and tired. “You eat like a divorced dad.”
He doesn't know why that almost makes him smile. Into the phone, you say, “I have to call you back,” before hanging up without waiting for an answer.
The apartment goes quiet, not awkward exactly. Well it's a little awkward but it's more unfamiliar than anything. Up close, he notices things he couldn't piece together from the notes. You look younger than he expected. Softer too, somehow. Not fragile, just... warm around the edges, like somebody people trust without thinking about it.
“Sorry about that,” you say, gesturing vaguely with your phone. “Work call, you know. I, uh... didn't expect it to go like this.”
There's something awkward in the air still, that strange lingering feeling of two people trying to fit reality over the outline they'd already made of each other.
“Don't worry about it.”
You shift your phone into one hand and hold the other out toward him.
“I don't think we've actually been properly introduced.” You say, offering your name. He looks down at your hand for a second before taking it carefully.
“No. I don't think we have.” His hand slips from yours after only a moment. “I'm Bucky.”
“I know. I suppose that's mainly my fault.” You give him a small apologetic smile. “I'm sorry. My job is very… time demanding and that won't really be changing anytime soon. But I'm glad to meet you, Bucky.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Good to meet you too.”
Silence settles between you again, not uncomfortable, just unsure. Then both of you speak at once.
“So what do you do?”
“How are you liking the place?”
You stop. He stops.
“Sorry,” he says, motioning for you to go first.
“I was just asking how you're liking the place.” Your arms fold loosely over yourself again. “Have you settled in well?”
“Oh, yeah.” He nods once. “Place is great. Thank you.”
And it is.
He likes the quiet. The neighborhood. The bookshelves. The fact that the apartment feels like somewhere a person could stay for a while without being swallowed by it.
You smile a little at his answer. “Good.”
More silence, then you clear your throat slightly.
“And you? Were gonna say...?”
“Oh.” He glances down for a second like he'd forgotten his own question. “I was just wondering what you do... that's so...” He makes a vague motion with one hand. “Time demanding.”
“Oh. Right.” You shift your weight against the windowsill. “I work in the anthropology division at the American Museum of Natural History.”
He blinks once. “Wow.”
You laugh softly at the look on his face.
“That sounds awesome.”
“It used to be,” you say with a wry little smile. “Now it's mostly a thousand phone calls and endless trips upstate to deal with the collections.”
He leans back slightly against the doorframe.
“If you work down there, why live in Brooklyn?” he asks. “Nasty commute.”
You glance around the apartment like you haven't looked at it properly in a while.
“I got this place before I got that job,” you say. “And I liked it.” Then, quieter, “Still like it.”
Your eyes move briefly toward the hallway. Toward the bookshelves, the kitchen, the little corners of the apartment that feel soft even when no one's in them.
“That's actually why I wanted a roommate,” you admit. “I love this place, and I want it to be loved, but...” You shrug one shoulder. “I just don't have the time to do that.”
Something in his chest shifts a little at that, because he understands. More than he wants to. What it feels like to care about something and still not know how to be present for it.
“Well,” he says, voice quieter now, “I'll... I'll do my best.”
You smile then, not the tired, polite kind you've been giving him all evening. Something warmer. Something that catches him off guard a little, like maybe you believe him.
“I'm sorry I've basically been living here like some weird cryptid,” you say. “Work's been insane.”
“You leave good notes.”
The second the words leave his mouth, he wants them back.
Your eyebrows lift. “That's maybe the weirdest compliment I've ever gotten.”
You open your mouth, like you're about to say something else, then your phone rings. The sound cuts through the room sharply. You look down at the screen and make a face.
“Sorry,” you say, already answering it. “I have to take this.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
You offer him one last apologetic smile before turning and disappearing down the hallway toward your bedroom.
A second later he hears your door close softly, then your voice again through the wall. Professional, calm and little tired. He stands in the entryway for another minute after that, hot dog gone cold in his hand. The apartment feels different now, smaller somehow. Not because there is less space. Just because now, finally, you are real.
The apartment feels different after he meets you.
Not immediately and nothing dramatic.
You still leave before sunrise some mornings, slipping out with your bag over your shoulder and your hair still damp from the shower. You still come home long after dark, moving quietly through the apartment like you're trying not to wake someone even when he isn't asleep.
But now there is shape to your absence. Before, the apartment had just been quiet, now it feels empty. Bucky notices things he shouldn't. Whether your shoes are by the door, whether the light under your bedroom door is on.
The difference between the sound of the upstairs neighbors moving furniture and the sound of you dropping your keys onto the kitchen counter.
He lingers in the kitchen longer now too. Sometimes with coffee growing cold in his hands while he leans against the counter pretending not to listen for the front door. Sometimes he catches himself glancing toward the hallway whenever the building creaks.
You still leave notes. One waits for him on the fridge Tuesday morning, tucked beneath a magnet shaped like a pear.
Upstate again. Back Thursday night. There's soup in the fridge if it hasn't gone bad.
He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. Before he can overthink it, he grabs a pen from the junk drawer and flips the note over.
Soup is still alive. I think.
He leaves it on the counter and immediately regrets it. Wondering if it's too weird, or too familiar. But when he gets back from a walk later that night, the note is gone.
Thursday comes, then Thursday night. He is standing in the kitchen making coffee he doesn't need when he hears the front door unlock. You walk in looking exhausted. Hair messy, tote bag slipping off your shoulder, coat half falling down your arms.
You stop when you see him.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
Your eyes land on the counter and you laugh. It's quiet, tired around the edges, but real.
“Soup still alive?” you ask.
“Barely.”
You drop your bag onto a chair.
“Well.” You glance toward the fridge. “Soup can't technically expire if you're brave enough.”
Bucky blinks, you smile a little wider and something warm settles low in his chest.
After that, the notes become something else. Not just reminders but conversations. You leave one on the coffee maker.
Radiator makes weird banging noises around midnight. Ignore it unless it sounds haunted.
He leaves one by the fruit bowl the next morning.
Upstairs neighbors were fighting at 2 a.m. Pretty sure someone threw a lamp.
Another day:
Please water the plant by the window before it starts holding a grudge.
He forgets. Two days later, there is another note waiting beside the drooping leaves.
You had one job.
Bucky snorts to himself, then digs out a pen.
Sorry. It does kinda look like one bad day away from death.
You leave back:
So do I.
He folds that note into the pocket of his jacket and carries it around for three days. Slowly, without either of you meaning for it to happen, the notes stop being practical.
One afternoon he comes home to find one waiting by the sink.
New coffee filters are under the sink. Also, if you ate my leftover pad thai I forgive you because it was probably bad anyway.
He smiles before he can stop himself, then writes back underneath it.
Didn't eat it. Thought about it though.
The next morning there is another note sitting beside the coffee pot.
I appreciate your honesty in this difficult time.
And just like that, the apartment doesn't feel quite so empty anymore.
As great as everything else is, Bucky gets tired of hot dogs eventually.
Not completely. He still goes to the stand a few times a week, still listens to the guy behind the cart talk too loud and ask too many questions, but after a while the thought of another hot dog starts to make him feel vaguely ill.
So one night he cooks, nothing complicated. Just pasta.
Too much of it, because he has never quite figured out how to cook for one person and because some part of him has started thinking in twos without permission.
The apartment smells different afterward, warmer. Like garlic and tomato sauce and something softer underneath it.
He leaves you a bowl in the fridge with a note stuck to the top.
Made too much. There's pasta in the fridge if you want it.
You don't come home until after midnight. He's already in bed when he hears the faint sounds of you moving around in the kitchen.
The fridge opening, a plate clinking against the counter. Silence. Then the microwave.
The next morning, he wakes up to a note sitting beside the coffee maker.
This is the first non-takeout meal I've had in two weeks. Marry me?
He stares at it for an embarrassing amount of time. Long enough that his coffee goes cold. Long enough that he folds the note once, then again, before sliding it into the drawer beside his bed with the others.
After that, you start seeing each other more. Not on purpose exactly. Just in the little spaces between everything else. Six in the morning in the kitchen while the city outside is still gray and quiet.
You standing in one of his sweatshirts that got mixed up in the laundry over leggings, blinking sleepily into your coffee cup while he leans against the counter waiting for toast to pop up.
Passing each other in the hallway at night. Your shoulder brushing his as you move around each other in the narrow space between the dining room and kitchen.
Once, on a rainy Thursday, you both end up home at the same time. You sit on opposite ends of the couch, you with your laptop balanced on your knees, him with a book open in his lap.
The television hums quietly in the background, something neither of you is actually watching. At some point, without looking up from your screen, you stretch your legs out until your socked feet bump lightly against his thigh.
You don't move them away. Neither does he and slowly, you become easier around each other. You stop apologizing every time you leave dishes in the sink. He stops retreating to his room the second he hears you come home.
One night he brings back burgers and fries from a diner down the street.
You appear in the kitchen halfway through, hair damp from the shower, looking at his takeout bag like it personally offended you that he didn't ask if you wanted anything.
“Rude,” you say.
“You weren't home yet.”
“You could've texted.”
He tears the bag open and slides the fries toward you. You grin immediately and steal three before he even sits down.
“You're lucky you're cute,” he mutters.
You freeze for half a second, then keep eating like you didn't hear him. He fixes the sink handle one weekend after it starts making that awful screeching noise every time you turn it.
You come home to find him under the sink with a wrench in one hand and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
“What are you doing?”
“Fixing it.”
You lean in the doorway watching him for a second. “You know, normal people usually just call maintenance.”
“Normal people don't have metal arms.”
That makes you laugh. “Fair point.”
Then one evening he comes home and finds you asleep on the couch. The apartment is dark except for the lamp in the corner, there are papers everywhere. Open folders spread across the coffee table. A legal pad on the floor. Your laptop still glowing beside you, your glasses sit crooked on your face, one hand is still wrapped loosely around a pen.
You look exhausted. Like you've simply run out of steam halfway through existing. He stands there for a second longer than he means to, then quietly sets his keys down.
He grabs the blanket folded over the arm of the couch and drapes it carefully over you.
You stir a little, brows furrowing, but you don't wake up. His hand lingers for half a second near your shoulder before he pulls it back. Then he turns off the kitchen light and disappears down the hallway.
The next morning, the blanket is folded neatly over the back of the couch again. And beside the coffee maker, there is a note.
Thanks for the blanket.
Below it, in smaller handwriting:
That was very disgustingly nice of you.
A few nights later, Bucky wakes up thirsty. The apartment is dark except for the light over the stove.
He can hear pages turning before he even reaches the kitchen.
You're sitting at the table in one of your giant sweatshirts, laptop open, papers spread out around you in messy little stacks. There are sticky notes stuck to the edge of your screen, a half-drunk cup of coffee by your elbow, and your glasses are slipping down your nose again.
You don't notice him at first. Your mouth is moving slightly while you read through something under your breath.
He leans against the doorway. “Do you ever sleep?”
You jump a little in your seat, then you look up at him and huff out a tired laugh.
“Sometimes.”
“You sure?”
“Not particularly.”
He moves farther into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet. “You know it's two in the morning, right?”
You glance down at your laptop clock. “Oh.”
“You didn't know?”
“I thought it was maybe midnight.”
He shakes his head a little as he fills his glass. “What are you even doing?”
You look down at the folders spread around you and for a second, you seem like you're deciding whether or not to tell him. Then you let out a breath.
“I'm… up for a promotion.”
Bucky looks over at you. “What kind?”
“A curator position.”
He leans back against the counter. “At the museum?”
You nod.
“In the anthropology division.” Your fingers start absently straightening the edge of one of your papers. “If I got it, I'd oversee acquisitions, exhibits, research trips. Most of the collections work too.”
As you talk, something about you changes, your shoulders loosen and your face softens. There is something brighter in your voice than he's heard before. You look almost younger like this, less tired, more like the version of you that exists underneath all the stress and late nights and rushed mornings.
“That sounds...” He shakes his head once. “That sounds awesome.”
“It would be.” You smile a little, staring down at your notes. “I mean, it would be everything.”
You glance around at the papers spread across the table. “I've wanted it for years.”
Then, just as quickly, you pull back from it. You shrug one shoulder like it doesn't matter as much as it clearly does.
“But it's probably unrealistic anyway.”
Bucky frowns. “Why?”
You laugh softly to yourself.
“Because you don't just get the job to be a curator at the American Museum of Natural History,” you say. “It's something holy that gets bestowed upon you with the anointed oil they gave Queen Elizabeth II.”
That gets a surprised laugh out of him. You smile faintly, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.
“It's just wishful thinking,” you say quietly. “Then you die trying.”
He hates how fast you do that. How quickly you take something you want and turn it into something impossible before anyone else can.
He sets his glass down on the counter. “That sounds like exactly the kind of job you'd be good at.”
You look up at him, really look at him. Like you're waiting for the joke, but there isn't one.
“You know that, right?” he says. “The way you talk about it.”
Your expression shifts a little, because most people do not usually say things to you that plainly. You look down at your hands.
“I don't know,” you say after a second.
“Yeah, you do.”
The kitchen goes quiet, the radiator knocks somewhere in the wall. You sit there with your hands wrapped around your coffee cup, staring at him like he has said something far more important than he meant to.
Then you smile. “Thanks, Buck.”
And for some reason, it feels like being handed something fragile.
A few days later, Bucky finds himself standing in the hallway again.
It happens more often now. He'll be on his way to the kitchen or coming back from the shower and suddenly stop in front of the bookshelves like he forgot where he was going.
The shelves are uneven in places.
Some rows are organized by author, others by size or color or absolutely no logic at all. There are books stacked sideways on top of other books, faded bookmarks sticking out between pages, cracked spines and bent corners and little slips of paper tucked into random places.
It feels lived in, it feels like you.
He stands there for a minute, eyes tracing over the titles. Then he grabs a sticky note from the kitchen and presses it onto the edge of one of the shelves.
You actually read all of these?
He forgets about it after that. Until later that night when he gets home and notices something tucked into the spine of a book halfway down the shelf.
He pulls it free.
Used to. A lot. Some are mine, some were my dad's, some I found secondhand. I used to collect old editions too before work swallowed my entire personality.
He reads it twice. Then, without really meaning to, he starts paying closer attention. Not just to the titles, to the books themselves.
There are old clothbound covers with gold lettering worn thin at the edges. Tiny notes scribbled in pencil in the margins. Bookstore stamps from places all over the city. One copy of a novel has a dried flower pressed between the pages.
Some of them are old enough that even he remembers when they were new. One night he pauses in front of a shelf near the living room and pulls out a familiar green book.
The cover is faded, the spine is worn soft from use. He turns it over in his hands, then glances down at the copyright page. 1942. He stares for a second, then reaches for another sticky note.
You have a 1942 copy of The Hobbit.
The response is waiting for him when he wakes up the next morning, tucked beneath his coffee mug.
I know. Found it in a shop upstate for twenty dollars because the owner didn't know what he had. Second greatest moment of my life.
He smiles despite himself, and there is another note beneath it.
You can read whatever you want, by the way. And if there are books you like, you can add them.
He stands there in the kitchen holding that note a little longer than he should. Because nobody has said something like that to him in a very long time. To make yourself at home, that there's room for you here. It's such a small thing, just books, just shelves.
But it feels like more than that. That night he pulls one of the older novels from the shelf and reads half of it sitting on the couch while rain taps softly against the windows.
A few days later, when he finishes it, he leaves it on the coffee table. When he comes back from a walk the next morning, there is a sticky note tucked inside the front cover.
Well?
He snorts quietly to himself and grabs a pen.
Liked it. Ending was more depressing than I remember.
The next day:
That's because you have bad taste and no appreciation for tragedy.
He leaves another book out after that, then another. And you start leaving notes inside all of them. Little questions in the margins. Favorite character? Did you cry? Be honest, did you skip the boring parts? And without really realizing it, the shelves stop feeling like just yours.
They start feeling like something the two of you are building together.
One evening Bucky comes back from a walk and stops in the hallway without meaning to. Something looks different. It takes him a second to realize what it is. Wedged between two thick hardcovers near the end of the second shelf is one of his books, old and worn.
A history book about the forties that he'd unpacked weeks ago and left sitting on the edge of the end table next to the couch because he never knew where to put it. Now it's there between the others like it has always belonged.
Like you made room for it without asking. He reaches out and pulls it from the shelf. Inside the front cover, there's a sticky note with your handwriting:
Thought this looked lonely.
Something in his chest aches a little. Because it's such a small thing, nobody has made space for him somewhere in a very long time, but it shifts something inside of him. Something warm and soft blooming beneath his ribs as he slides the book back onto the shelf.
After that, you start spending more actual time together. Not just in passing, not just in notes and hallway conversations. Real time. He brings home takeout and the two of you end up sitting cross-legged on the living room floor because neither of you feels like cleaning off the coffee table.
You steal pieces of chicken off his plate. He lets you. You start walking to get coffee together on mornings you're both free, slow and sleepy and still half wrapped in hoodies.
Sometimes you don't talk much, sometimes you talk about everything. The museum. His nightmares. Books. Childhoods. Things that happened too long ago and things that happened yesterday.
One afternoon he comes back from the hot dog stand carrying two paper trays instead of one. You're in the kitchen when he gets home.
“You got me one?”
“You looked tired.”
You smile at him in a way that feels dangerous.
The hot dog guy notices eventually.
“Where's the pretty museum girl?” he asks one day while handing Bucky his usual order.
Bucky frowns. “Who?”
“The roommate you said you have.” The guy grins. “I wanna meet her.”
“No. Not happening.”
The guy laughs. “Oh, so that's what we're doing now.”
Bucky grabs the food and leaves before he can say anything else. You notice his mood immediately when he gets back.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Mm.”
You take the hot dog from his hand. “You have a very specific face when you're annoyed, you know.”
He mutters something under his breath that makes you smile. That night the two of you are sitting on the floor in front of the couch, books spread around you, some old movie playing in the background.
Bucky glances over at the shelf. “You said finding that copy of The Hobbit was the second greatest moment of your life.”
You look up from your book. “Yeah.”
“So what was the first?”
You smile immediately.
“There was this used bookstore in Queens,” you say. “I was seventeen. They had this old locked case near the register and inside was the first book from a vintage set of The Canterbury Tales.”
He watches your face change as you talk.
“The cover was all cracked leather and gold leaf and completely falling apart. It was beautiful.”
You tuck your legs up closer to yourself.
“I used all the money I had to buy it.”
“And then?”
“And then I spent the next ten years trying to find the rest.” You laugh softly. “That was kind of it. That was the start of the whole problem.”
“You found all of them?”
“Almost.” You shake your head. “Never found the last one.”
There's something quietly sad in the way you say it. Like it's less about the book and more about what it meant to give up looking. Bucky watches the way your face slowly changes, something in the edge of your eyes shifting until you're looking at the floor. It hurts, and it makes him think that he would do anything to see you smile.
In a weak attempt he pushes the last of his fries to you, claiming they're too salty for him. You both know they're not but the small quirk of the corner of your mouth makes it worth it. The rest of the night passes in between condiements and bubbled laughter at the QVC channel, listening in to the televised conversations like they're the next hit reality show.
After a few days Bucky notices the calendar in the kitchen. Not because he is looking for anything in particular. Just because he is waiting for the coffee to finish brewing and his eyes drift to the wall.
The square for next Thursday is crowded with your handwriting.
Your own birthday is written last. Small enough that it almost disappears between everything else. Something about that sits badly in his chest. Because of course it does. Because even on your birthday, you have managed to make yourself the least important thing on the list.
He knows immediately you're going to forget it.
And you do. The morning of, you're rushing around the apartment before sunrise with one shoe on and your phone wedged between your ear and shoulder.
“I already sent the file,” you say into the phone, trying to shove your arm through the sleeve of your coat. “No, I know, but if they wanted changes they should've said that yesterday—”
Your bag slips off your shoulder and your keys hit the floor making you curse under your breath. Bucky is standing in the kitchen holding a mug of coffee when he says it.
“Happy birthday.”
You stop and blink at him.
“Oh,” you say after a second. “Right.”
You laugh softly, but it sounds tired. “I completely forgot.”
Then the person on the phone says your name and you hurry out the door with a quick apology before he can say anything else. It bothers him more than it should because birthdays are supposed to mean something. Yours especially.
So after you leave, he decides to do something about it. He remembers the bakery on the corner had a strawberry shortcake in the display case. Just something small, nothing flashy, whipped cream and strawberries layered across the top.
It reminds him of you somehow. Soft-looking and sweet to the core. He buys candles too. Then he spends the rest of the afternoon searching for the perfect gift. It takes him a few blocks of wandering around to think of what to get, but when it hits him he knew he found his mission.
He spends hours going from used bookstore to used bookstore. By the sixth one, he's almost ready to give up. Then, in a dusty little shop that smells like old paper and mildew, he finds it. Old leather cover, gold embossing faded at the edges a slight water stain on the back. Perfect.
That night, the apartment is dark except for the kitchen light. Bucky stands awkwardly by the counter with the cake in front of him, candles lit, the wrapped gift sitting beside it.
He has no idea what he's doing. But there's no going back now.
The front door opens a little after ten. You walk in looking exhausted, shoulders slumped, shoes dragging. Your hair falling out of whatever messy attempt you made to keep it back this morning. You stop dead when you see him. Then the cake lit with candles, the small box beside it.
Bucky shrugs one shoulder like he suddenly regrets all of it.
“You forgot your birthday,” he says.
You stare at him for a second too long. Nobody has done something like this for you in a very long time. Maybe ever. You don't look like you know what to do with being cared for.
“Bucky...” is all you manage.
He gets flustered immediately.
“It's not a big deal,” he says quickly, motioning vaguely toward the cake. “I just...” He looks down for a second. “Figured somebody should celebrate you.”
The look on your face almost undoes him. You set your bag down slowly and walk over.
“You got me a cake?”
“Yeah.”
“With candles?”
He glances at the little crooked row of them.
“That's usually how birthdays work.”
You laugh then. A little watery around the edges. You walk farther into the kitchen like you're afraid if you move too quickly the whole thing will disappear.
The candles flicker softly between you.
“You didn't have to do this,” you say quietly.
“I know.”
“But you did anyway. Why?”
He doesn't know what to say to that. So he just shrugs again.
You look down at the cake then back up at him.
“Okay,” you say softly. “Then I guess I should make a wish.”
You lean down and hover there for just a moment, the golden glow of the flames casting a light across your face that highlights features he doesn't think he's ever seen. A small beauty mark tucked under your eyebrow, a slight jagged silver scar down the bridge of your nose. He'll never not see them now, a gift of his own he thinks. You close your eyes and hum quietly to yourself before letting out a short breath to blow out the candles.
The apartment goes dark for a second after the smoke curls up into the air. He flicks the stove light on, then Bucky reaches for the wrapped book beside him and holds it out awkwardly.
“And this is... also a thing.”
You blink. “You got me a present?”
“You don't have to sound so surprised.”
You take it from him carefully, with a growing smirk on your face. The paper crinkles softly beneath your fingers as you unwrap it. Then you go still. Completely still. He watches your eyes move over the cover. The old leather, the faded gold lettering.
Your fingers hover over it like you're afraid touching it too hard will make it disappear.
“The last one,” you whisper. Your voice sounds a little broken around the edges. “The last volume of The Canterbury Tales.”
Bucky shifts awkwardly on his feet as you look up at him. Your face is fallen with a joy he's never seen, as if he just hung the moon and painted the stars.
You shake your head in disbelief. “Where did you even—”
“Just found it.” He shrugs.
“Bucky.”
“Took a couple bookstores. Made a deal with the owner once I found it, he was an old history buff on WW2 so…” he admits.
You look up at him then. And there is something in your face he has never seen directed at him before. Something soft, something overwhelming as a clear line starts to well at your eyes. You clutch the book to your chest like you don't know what else to do with it.
"Thank you, Bucky," you whisper, shaky lip tucked betwen your teeth.
A warm silence blooms between you two and Bucky is stuck under your stare, watching the soft dialtion of your pupils. Entranced by them he didn't even notice you had gotten so close, not until he felt the gentle brush of your lips against his cheek.
Words have never failed him like now, stuck and jumbled in the back of his throat only to come out like a garbled hum.
“What'd you wish for?” Bucky asks abrutly as he starts pulling the candles out one by one.
You smile a little, wiping quickly beneath one eye.
“Can't tell you,” you say. “State secrets now.”
He snorts quietly and grabs two spoons from the drawer. You end up on the couch sharing the cake straight from the container, knees brushing every so often in the small space between you. The television is on, though neither of you is paying attention to it. You eat strawberries off the top first and work your way down and Bucky follows suit.
You stay on the couch long after the cake is gone.
The empty container sits forgotten on the coffee table, two spoons abandoned beside it. The book never leaves your lap. At some point, you curl your legs up beneath you and start telling him about the first time you found one of the volumes. How you were seventeen and awkward and had spent an hour pretending to browse because you were too nervous to ask the owner to unlock the glass case.
Bucky laughs.
“So you've always been weird about books.”
“That's rich coming from a hundred-year-old man who still reads history books for fun.”
“Those are different.”
“They're really not.”
You grin when you say it. That soft, sleepy grin he thinks he could spend years chasing. Eventually the conversation drifts. To old bookstores, to the hot dog guy, to Sam, then to terrible movies. You insist he has never properly experienced bad cinema until he has seen Attack of the 50 Foot Woman.
He insists there is no way it can be as ridiculous as you are making it sound. Twenty minutes in, he realizes you were underselling it. By the middle of the movie, you're both laughing. Not polite little laughs either, real ones. The kind that make your stomach hurt and your eyes water and force you to pause because neither of you can hear the dialogue over the sound of the other person losing it.
He can't remember the last time he laughed like this.
By the time the movie is ending, your head is tipped against the back of the couch and your eyes are half closed.
He notices you fighting sleep before you do.
“You're falling asleep.”
“No, I'm not.” You yawn immediately after saying it.
He smiles. “You absolutely are.”
You make a soft noise of protest, but it doesn't have much conviction behind it.And a few minutes later, when he glances over again, you're out completely. Your head has tipped against his shoulder at some point, one hand still loosely wrapped around the book in your lap.
For a second, he just sits there. Listening to the sound of your breathing, the soft hum of the television, the city outside the windows. Then he carefully takes the book from your hands and sets it on the coffee table. He slips one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back.
You stir a little when he lifts you, brows furrowing for a second before you settle again against him.
“Buck?” you mumble sleepily.
“I got you.”
You make another quiet sound and let your head fall against his chest as he carries you down the hallway and into your room. The bedside lamp is still on, there are clothes draped over the chair in the corner and papers stacked haphazardly on your desk, everything is so utterly you.
He sets you down carefully on the bed and pulls the blankets up around you. You don't wake up, not really, you just shift a little beneath the covers and settle. He brushes a piece of hair back from your face and his hand lingers there for a second longer than it should.
Something overcomes him and he leans down, and presses a kiss to your forehead.
“Happy birthday,” he whispers.
As he walked out of you room he saw the book on the table, with a gentle hand he picked it up, brushing a thumb over the pages as he walks down the hall. The rest of the set is on the second highest shelf, lined up together. He slides in the last edition, eyeing the aligned spines with a ghost of a smile before walking off to his room.
The call comes on a Tuesday.
Bucky knows because you walk into the apartment looking vaguely shell-shocked, still clutching your phone in one hand.
You don't even make it all the way into the kitchen before blurting it out. “I got an interview.”
He looks up from where he's sitting at the table. “What?”
“For the curator position.” You blink at him like you still don't believe it yourself. “Next week.”
For a second, all he sees is the excitement on your face. Bright and hopeful, then it disappears almost as quickly as it came.
“Oh,” you say quietly. “Oh no.”
The spiral starts immediately after that. By the end of the week, the apartment is covered in notes. Practice questions taped to the bathroom mirror, flashcards on the kitchen counter, museum reports spread across the couch cushions.
You pace while talking to yourself, you stop sleeping, you definitely stop eating properly. The night before the interview, Bucky finds you sitting cross-legged on the living room floor in sweatpants and one of his old shirts, papers spread around you in uneven piles.
Your glasses are slipping down your nose and your hair is a mess. You look like you're about ten minutes away from a complete breakdown.
“You okay?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
“No,” you say immediately.
He sits down across from you. “What's wrong?”
You stare down at the papers in your lap. “What if I embarrass myself?”
“You won't.”
“What if they ask me something I don't know?”
“You'll know it.”
“What if I freeze?”
“You won't.”
You glare at him a little. “You don't know that.”
He leans back against the couch.
“I know you.”
That quiets you for a second.
Only for a second. Then you start rambling after that. About the anthropology wing. About acquisitions. About field research and exhibit planning and the exact kind of curator you would want to be if anyone ever actually gave you the chance. You talk about preserving history, about wanting people to care. About how every object in the museum used to belong to someone. How every piece of history was once just somebody's normal day.
Bucky listens every time. He listens while you talk yourself into circles. Listens while you explain all the reasons you think you aren't good enough for this.
“I didn't go to the right schools,” you say finally. “I don't know the right people. Everyone else interviewing for this is probably smarter than me and more qualified and—”
“They're gonna be lucky if they get you.”
You stop and the apartment goes quiet around you, scattered notes and pages from your journal fluttering in the air current. Bucky looks at you from across the floor, expression calm like he hasn't just said something that cracked you open right down the middle.
“You mean that?” you ask softly.
“Yeah.” He doesn't even hesitate. “I do.”
You stare at him for a second. Then you move before you can think too hard about it. You lean across the space between you and kiss him. It's quick and impulsive, your hand catches against his shoulder and your mouth brushes his once, soft and startled.
Then you freeze.
“Oh my God,” you whisper, pulling back immediately. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—”
Bucky cuts you off by kissing you again, this time slower. Deliberate. His hand comes up to cup your face and suddenly the whole world narrows down to the warmth of his mouth and the way he is holding you like you're something precious.
You melt into it, your hand tangles in the front of his shirt and a soft hum slipping past your lips against his as his thumb brushes softly along your cheek.
When you finally pull apart, both of you look a little stunned. Like neither of you knows what to do with the fact that this has been here all along.
“Okay,” you say softly.
“Okay,” he echoes.
After that, the air between you changes, not in some huge dramatic way. Just softer. He starts brushing his hand against your back when he passes you in the kitchen. You lean against his shoulder on the couch without thinking about it. He kisses your forehead when you leave for work. You steal his hoodies and stop pretending they're yours.
Sometimes you fall asleep together on the couch with the television still on and your legs tangled beneath the blanket. Somewhere in the middle of all of it, Bucky realizes he's stopped thinking of the apartment as somewhere he lives.
Now it just feels like home.
Bucky tries to wake up before you the morning of the interview.
He fails.
By the time he walks into the kitchen, you're already there in nice clothes, standing in front of the coffee maker with your arms crossed and that thousand-yard stare people get right before something important. You look beautiful, terrified and a little bit sick. Your hair is done. Your makeup is subtle. There is a necklace at your throat he thinks he's seen maybe twice before.
You don't notice him at first. You're staring at the coffee pot like if you look away it'll stop working.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
You blink. “No.”
He smiles a little. “You're gonna do great.”
You snort quietly and reach for your mug. “You legally have to say that because you live with me.”
“No,” he says. “I have to say it because it's true.”
That makes you look down for a second as you take a sip of coffee.
“Still feels like I'm gonna throw up.”
“You'll throw up after,” he says. “Like a professional.”
That earns him a small laugh. By the time you're ready to leave, you're standing by the front door shoving things into your bag with shaky hands.
“Keys,” you mutter to yourself. “Wallet. Phone. Museum badge—”
“Hey.”
You look up. Bucky steps closer and reaches for the necklace at your throat.
“It's crooked.”
“Oh.”
His fingers brush softly against your skin as he straightens it and your breath catches a little. So does his. For a second, neither of you says anything. Then he leans down and kisses you. It's quick and soft but it leaves your cheeks warm when he pulls away.
“You got this,” he says.
You nod once then you're gone.
The whole day, Bucky is restless. He tells himself he isn't waiting for you but he definitely is. He tries reading, and ends up readin gthe same page three times. He almost goes to the hot dog stand twice. He paces around the apartment, reorganizes the fridge for no reason, checks the clock so many times it starts to feel personal.
By the time the front door finally opens that night, he looks up so fast it nearly gives him away. You walk in looking different immediately. Not upset exactly, just strange and quiet. Very quiet. Like your thoughts are somewhere else entirely.
He assumes that means you got it. That you're in shock, that you're already halfway out the door toward whatever comes next.
“Hey,” he says carefully from the couch. “How'd it go?”
You stop in the doorway. You still have your bag over your shoulder, coat still on. You look at him for a second before letting out a slow breath.
“I didn't get it.”
The words land strangely between you, it makes Bucky sits up a little straighter.
“Oh.”
You laugh softly, but there isn't much humor in it. “Yeah. They said they wanted to move in a different direction.”
He doesn't know what to say to that. Because he knows how badly you wanted it, knows how much time and sleep and pieces of yourself you've poured into this thing.
But then you shrug one shoulder.
“But...” You look down for a second. “They gave me a raise.”
He blinks, surpised. “Okay.”
“And they're opening a new assistant position to ‘lessen my workload.’”
That takes him a second to process.
“So...” He leans forward a little. “You still got something?”
“I guess.” You look exhausted more than anything. “I don't know if I'm supposed to be happy or devastated.”
Bucky nods slowly.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I get that.”
Because he does. Because sometimes life gives you something almost-good and you don't know what to do with that. He watches you for another second, then he stands.
“Come on.”
You look up. “What?”
“Let's go get hot dogs.”
You stare at him for a second. Then, finally, you smile.
“Okay.”
The hot dog guy takes one look at the two of you and immediately points his tongs in your direction.
“Uh oh,” he says. “This feels emotional.”
You laugh for the first time all day. Real laughter. Bucky feels something unclench in his chest at the sound of it.
“Don't encourage him,” he mutters.
“Too late,” the guy says. “I like her.”
Bucky rolls his eyes and you smile into your sleeve. He pays before you can argue about it, and when you open your mouth to protest, he just gives you a look.
“You had a bad day.”
“So?”
“So let me buy you a hot dog.”
You don't fight him after that.
On the walk back, you stop for ice cream too. Now you're both carrying melting cones down the sidewalk, the city quieter around you than usual. Streetlights glow gold against the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, somebody is playing music with their windows open.
It feels a little like being kids. Or maybe just people who don't know exactly where their lives are going yet. It warms your chest either way. You walk beside him in comfortable silence for a while.
“Hey, Buck?”
“Yeah?”
“You ever hear that whole ‘rejection is just redirection' thing?”
He glances over at you. “...No?”
You laugh softly under your breath. “It's just this thing people say.”
“Okay.” He nods once.
“But that's not what I was getting at.”
He waits as you look down at your ice cream for a second before looking back up at him.
“You know on my birthday you told me to make a wish?”
“Yeah?”
Your smile is smaller now.
"I think it just came true.”
He frowns a little. “You… wished to get passed up on the promotion?”
“No,” you say with a breath of laughter. “No.”
You look at him then, really look at him.
“I wished...” Your voice goes quiet. “That I could spend more time with you.”
Everything in him goes still.
The city. The sidewalk, the half-melted ice cream in his hand. All of it. For a second, neither of you moves. Then Bucky smiles, small at first then bigger.
He ducks his head, shaking it a little.
“State secrets, huh?” he teases softly.
You blush immediately. “Shut up.”
But you're smiling too. You slip your arm through his as you keep walking and Bucky thinks maybe this is what happiness feels like. Small and warm and a little sticky from melted ice cream.
A week later, you come home before sunset.
Bucky is in the kitchen making coffee when he hears the front door open.
“You're home early,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. You lean against the doorway with your bag still hanging off one shoulder.
“I know. Weird, right?”
He smiles a little. “You get fired?”
“Not yet.” You step farther into the kitchen. “I actually have tomorrow afternoon off.”
“Wow.”
“I know,” you say again. “I'm trying not to be overwhelmed by all the free time.”
He laughs quietly and you watch him for a second, seemingly contemplating.
“Do you wanna come by the museum?”
He looks up. “The museum?”
“Yeah.” You shrug one shoulder, suddenly looking a little shy about it. “I could show you around. My favorite exhibits and stuff.”
He tries to act casual. “Sure.”
But secretly, he's thrilled. Because this is your world. He's seen pieces of it before in papers spread across the table and half-finished stories told at two in the morning, but this is different. This is you handing him something important.
The next afternoon, he meets you outside the American Museum of Natural History.
You're waiting near the steps in your work clothes with your ID badge around your neck. You look different now, more awake than he has seen you in weeks, more comfortable.
Like this place fits around you in a way most things don't.
You smile the second you spot him.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
You take him inside to see the old fossils first. You tell him which dinosaur skeletons kids always lose their minds over and which exhibits people walk right past even though they're some of the coolest things in the building.
You talk with your hands when you're excited.
You move quickly from one thing to the next, almost tripping over your own thoughts because there is so much you want to show him.
“And this one,” you say, pointing toward an old display case, “people never pay attention to, but it's one of my favorites.”
Inside are old tools and worn pieces of pottery. Tiny, simple things. You tell him where they came from, who used them, how old they are. Every exhibit comes with a story.
Bucky spends half the time looking at the displays and the other half looking at you. Because you light up here. Your voice gets faster, your smile gets bigger, you stop apologizing for caring too much. It's the happiest he has ever seen you.
At one point, you take him into the giant blue whale room. The enormous whale hangs suspended overhead, casting soft shadows across the floor below. You tilt your head back to look up at it.
“Every museum employee has a designated crying-under-the-whale moment at least once,” you say.
Bucky looks over at you. “Yours probably happened after a meeting.”
You scoff. “No. Mine happened because somebody mislabeled a Bronze Age artifact.”
He laughs harder than he should an you grin.
“I'm serious. It was humiliating.”
“You cried over a label?”
“I care deeply about accuracy.”
“You're insane.”
“Maybe,” you say, smiling up at the whale. “But I'm right.”
He shakes his head, still laughing quietly, standing there beneath the whale with you smiling beside him, he thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful. Eventually, you take him into the Milky Way exhibit.
The room is dark and cool, lit only by thousands of projected stars stretching across the ceiling and walls. Soft bands of white and blue curve overhead, and everything echoes slightly. Your footsteps, his breathing, the sound of the door shutting quietly behind you.
You lead him to one of the benches in the center of the room and sit together. For a while, neither of you says anything. The quiet feels different here. Not empty but peaceful. Bucky leans back and looks up at the stars overhead.
They're beautiful.
But not as beautiful as the look on your face when you stare up at them.
“I used to come here when I first got the job,” you say softly.
He looks over at you, your eyes stay fixed on the ceiling.
“I'd get so stressed and overwhelmed and convinced I wasn't cut out for it.” You smile faintly to yourself. “So I'd come sit in here.”
You lean back a little farther against the bench.
“It helped me remember how small I am.” A pause. “How insignificant everything is.”
You glance over at him. He looks down at his hands for a second before looking back up.
“You're probably the most important thing...” He swallows a little. “To me.”
The room goes quiet again. You blush immediately and turn your face back toward the stars and Bucky does too. For a second. Then he looks back at you, the way the light from the projections catches in your eyes and across your face. It softens every edge of you.
You turn toward him slightly, feeling the gaze from him.
“It's pretty, huh?”
He smiles.
“Yeah...”
But he isn't looking at the stars, you realize after a second, and the mood shifts. Like all the air between you changes. He leans in first this time, a soft breath fans across your face before you meet him halfway. The kiss is slow and gentle, the kind that feels like something settling into place. Your hand finds his without thinking about it, his thumb brushes softly across your knuckles.
When he pulls back, you're both smiling a little and he looks up at the stars again, then back at you.
“What are you gonna do now?”
You blink. “With what?”
“No promotion on the horizon. New assistant to keep you free. What's the future have in hold now?”
You let out a quiet breath, thinking.
“You know,” you say, “I have no idea.”
You lean your head against his shoulder. “For as long as I've been doing this, all I've ever wanted was that job.”
He tilts his head lightly against yours. “What do you want now?”
You look up at him and smile softly.
“You.” Then, after a second, "and a hot dog.”
He laughs and the sound echoes quietly through the stars, you both lean into each other, and suddenly the future doesn't feel so frightening. Because whatever it looks like now, you'll be in it together.
