My Universe

Hey my names Zuza I will be getting back into writing after 3 years I'm hoping my gramme and spelling has improved 😂 send requests as I'm going to need some inspiration. Bucky x reader Any supernatural x reader Damon Salvatore x reader

[heldbybarnes]

NO NUT NOVEMBER: EDGE THE SOLDIER

30 days of bucky barnes losing his mind each day brings a new challenge that bucky must endure...can he make it the whole month?

WEEK 1 — Soft Hands, Hard Rules

Good Morning, Sergeant — You kiss him awake, slow and deep… then roll out of bed and leave him aching.

Coffee and Control — You sit on his lap while he drinks; the only thing hotter than the mug is his temper.

Count to Ten — Each number earns him one slow stroke; if he moans, you start over.

Cold Front — He’s not ready for the ice cube tracing your throat—and definitely not for where it goes next.

Mission Brief — You call mid-meeting with nothing but a whimper and his name.

Hands On — A massage turns filthy when your thumbs slide too low; his orders dissolve into begging.

Permission Denied — “Touch yourself,” you whisper, “but stop when I say.” He lasts fifteen seconds.

WEEK 2 — Public Enemy

8. Dinner Disaster — Your hand under the restaurant table ruins his appetite and his composure. 9. Gym Rules — You squat in front of the mirror; he forgets every rep. 10. Steam Test — You leave the shower door cracked—fog, reflection, and a soldier’s restraint. 11. Off Limits — “You can look,” you murmur, “but you can’t taste.” 12. Knee Jerk Reaction — You ride his thigh until he’s shaking; still, he’s not allowed to finish. 13. Open Secret — Whispering filth in public is one thing; doing it at Stark’s gala is another. 14. Lights Out — You strip down in candlelight, blow them out, and leave him hard in the dark.

WEEK 3 — Break Him Beautifully

15. Blind Obedience — Blindfolded, he flinches at every touch of your feather. 16. Rope Lesson — You tie him to the chair, kiss him once, and walk away. 17. Numbers Game — “Count every edge, baby.” By ten, his voice is wrecked. 18. Halfway There — Your tongue finds him; he swears he’ll behave if you just don’t stop. 19. Fragile Thing — He trembles when you whisper, “You like being ruined, don’t you?” 20. Mirror Image — You make him watch what he can’t have. 21. Start Over — He breaks a rule—so you start the night from scratch.

WEEK 4 — The Final Countdown

22. Slow Vibration — You set the remote vibrator to low and send him to work. 23. Beg Properly — “Try again, soldier. That didn’t sound like begging.” 24. Taste Test — You ride his face till dawn, never letting him come. 25. Edge Drill — You time him with military precision; his discipline collapses first. 26. Hands Behind Your Back — He obeys perfectly until you praise him for it. 27. Overload — A single fingertip, over and over, until he’s incoherent. 28. The Offer — “You’ve earned one release—if you can last through it.” 29. Slip-Up — He breaks. You make him confess every filthy second." 30. Punishment or Reward? — At midnight, he finally comes—on your terms.

i did not include my permanent taglist on this series as i didn't want to annoy with 30 micro fics🫣 HOWEVER, if you would like to be tagged, please comment below or send me a message!!

red divider: @chateaubarnes floral divider: @diviniyae

[salem-s]

HIS AND HIS ONLY... FOR 24 HOURS (18+) — BUCKY BARNES ONE SHOT

SYNOPSIS The last person you would ever consider dating — much less touching with a ten foot pole — is Bucky Barnes. Yet somehow here you are: packing a bag to spend the night of the Fourth of July as his fake girlfriend, all to get his pestering family off his case. But admittedly you can’t help but lean into the bit. Just a tad. Especially when his ex-girlfriend makes it very clear she wants him back.

WORD COUNT 25k. dont. literally dont. im so sorry.

WARNINGS & NOTES contains fluff, angst, smmmut (oral sex- fem receiving, penetrative sex (p-in-v, unprotected oops do not take after them), sprinkles of orgasm denial and a whole lotta fondling). 18+ MDNI. slight friends-to-lovers trope? more so that reader can't stand him and he can't stop riling her up? so actually one-sided-friends-to-lovers, if you will. he fell first, but he fell harder buuuut she definitely is in some sort of internal denial. fake dating tropes will genuinely be the death of me, oops, also not edited.

You never would’ve stopped by Natasha and Steve’s apartment if you had known Bucky was going to be here. Again.

He always loiters whenever he’s bored — which is almost always — because he claims they have better snacks, a better couch, a better aura (whatever that means, you sometimes think he says shit like that just to hear the sound of his own voice). Whenever you stop by, Bucky’s either in the kitchen cooking with food that isn’t his, which is usually what Natasha makes him do since he hangs around so much, or sprawled out audaciously on their love seat couch watching a show you’ve never heard of, or interrupting their movie night by asking too many questions and guessing the ending in the first five minutes.

Granted, you interrupt them too, but that’s because you get invited along with Natasha’s other girlfriends. Bucky just shows up most of the time.

Sometimes you think he has a tracker embedded in your skin somewhere, because he’s always conveniently here whenever you are. Or he has some sort of sixth sense that he can predict when you’re stopping by, and beats you here first.

Your eyes instantly roll when he’s the first person you spot in an apartment that doesn't even belong to him, an autopilot gesture that he’s grown used to seeing. Bucky’s leaning against the kitchen island, phone to his ear and, uncharacteristically, looks agitated. Nervous. Especially as he picks anxiously at his nail beds.

Setting the container full of soup down on the counter (rest in peace to Natasha’s sinuses), you quirk a brow at his stature. Normally Bucky’s all talk, because the first course of action on his agenda whenever he sees you is some lewd comment, a disastrously stupid joke, or anything under the sun to annoy you. It’s almost like bothering you is his day job. Sometimes it's yanking the ends of your hair or throwing a dish towel at you.

Contrary to right now, because he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else right now.

But, of course, that doesn't stop him from giving you a once over, blue eyes raking up and down your body as he takes in your outfit, your pretty shoes up to what hairstyle you've gone with today. Shameless, really, he's not even trying to hide it. Morning, noon, and night he's thinking about getting some, because handling something serious over the phone doesn't mean that he's stopped being a prick. No, that's his default setting.

"Yeah, Ma, I hear ya," he says monotonously into the phone.

You snort. He's lamented before about getting stuck on the phone with his mother more times than you can count, knowing he's probably at a breaking point with his patience. He claims he loves the woman dearly, but sometimes she just doesn't let up about anything, especially about her precious baby boy.

His words, not yours, because precious is not the word you'd use to describe Bucky Barnes.

Faux pouting at him, you saunter into his space as he shoos you away, trying to listen to the half-nonsense his mother is spewing over the phone (but how can he? Especially when you look like this in that godforsaken top that trips him up every time you wear it) and half-trying not to verbally crash out with you. At least you're quiet, but the teasing look on your face and the way your teeth sink into your bottom lip forces him to look away.

When he shakes his head at you, annoyed, you jab a finger into his ribcage upon passing him. Hard.

"Stop it," he mouths low to you, not in the mood for playing.

You respond by doing it again.

"Ow," Bucky hisses as your name falls from his lips, this time audible. Then, his brows pinch as he sighs in irritation. "No, yeah, fine, that's just...uh..."

His mother says something on the other line that makes him freeze, his bright blue eyes slowly morphing from annoyance to indifference.

Bucky stares at you. He really stares at you, as if the gears are turning in his head about something you can't know to be good. And you just... stand there, your next move of attack on hold simply because you're frozen as he looks at you. No smirk. No lewd comment. No cocky expression. Just...Bucky. Thinking. Which is never a good sign, because he never takes the time to simply think of anything. He doesn't even think before he speaks half the time, let alone ponder anything outside of which girl he's going to make a move on at the bar.

Then, his expression turns into something you can't recognize, as if he has a bright idea, a revelation, an epiphany, because a slow grin etches on his pretty lips, showcasing dimples as he shifts his gaze between your eyes. You frown. Immediately. That's not good. Not at all.

All of a sudden, you're squeamish under his stare. Why is he looking at you like that? Smiling like he has something to prove? A grin that should come with a warning?

You tense when he says your name, loud and clear.

"Yeah," he continues slowly, eyes not leaving you. "My girlfriend."

If you eyes haven't popped out of the sockets before, they have now.

Instantly, you're lunging forward, reaching for the phone to end this godforsaken call. But the attempt to end the call is fruitless, because Bucky simply laughs into the ringer as if he has all the time in the world, low and easy and too nonchalant for your rising blood pressure. He defends against your grabby-hands easily, too strong for his own good, pawing your hands away as you frantically try and snatch his phone.

When you get close and your fingers brush the metal, he easily hums and puts the phone on speaker, proceeding to raise his arm as high as he can so that there's no way you're reaching it now with his freakishly tall stature. And, oh, he peers down at you so fucking smug that you want to slap it off. Immediately. Especially when he barely flinches when you shove at his chest, try and hit his armpit to get him to lower his arm (spoiler, he's not ticklish), as you hear his mother's chirpy tone on the other end.

"—nderful, James!" His mother beams through the speaker, unknowing to the way you're practically fighting her son right now. "Please tell me you're bringing her to the lake this weekend."

"N—!"

Bucky immediately covers your mouth with his palm, something that shouldn't have been as easy as he just did so. "She is, she can't stop talking about how excited she is."

When you lick his palm as an attempt to get his hand off, he barely flinches. Instead, he presses harder.

"I can't wait to meet her," she chirps happily. "This is good, James. Very good. It's time for you to show everyone what a respectable young man you are."

"Respectable?" You reiterate incredulously under his palm, but instead it comes out muffled as if you're underwater.

Bucky rolls his eyes, either at the respectable comment or the way you treat that as a joke, or at both. Regardless, you swear you see the tips of his ears burn pink, almost sheepish at his mother's words and how you're witness to it.

She doesn't hear you. Of course.

"When you get in," she adds nonchalantly, bubbling with excitement, "Pa can take you to that jeweler on the other side of the lake. You know the one? Where he got my engagement ring—"

"Okay!" Bucky interrupts hurriedly, wincing when you stomp on his foot. "Ow— Yeah, sure, Ma. Gotta skate, talk later, love you bye!"

Bucky barely lets his mother respond before he's hanging up the phone, tossing it carelessly on the granite counter before removing his hand from your mouth, which is definitely the wrong course of action, because the first thing you do is—

"What the fuck?"

"Okay," Bucky mediates immediately, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Before you freak—"

"I am freaking."

"Hear me out." His tone is calmer than you've ever heard him.

"Absolutely not."

"I didn't even pitch it to you."

"I actually couldn't give less of a fuck."

Bucky sighs your name, as if this whole ordeal that he started is one, big inconvenience.

But you're not letting him off the hook that easy. "Nope. Not doing it."

"You don't even know what it is." His hands flex at his sides.

"I didn't think I needed to?"

Cautiously, he takes a step towards you, eyes low with intent, as he says your name gently. When you don't back up, or when you don't stand down from this discussion, he takes it as a sign to take another step closer, until he's suddenly right in front of you, hands hovering over your biceps with an expression so serious it gives you whiplash, especially when he looks fucking exhausted. No witty comment on the back burner. No bribe that gets you to raise a brow and kick his groin. No nonsense that you're so used to from him.

Just Bucky. Raw. Unfiltered... Nervous?

"It's two days," he says eventually, voice calm even though you swear you can see his heart beating through his t-shirt. "Just one night, really. Forty-eight hours of pretending to like me in front of my family."

You hate how quiet his tone is. How understanding, like he's already preparing for you to say no, to head to his family function empty handed with empty promises so they can uphold their disappointed image of him, as if he's used to it. Another year of being single, another year of refusing to settle down, another year of reaffirming everything his family already thinks of him. Reckless. Unlovable. Difficult.

"Why should I?" You ask equally as quiet.

Bucky thinks for a second, eyes darting to your collarbone for one, two seconds before coming back up to meet yours.

"It could be fun."

"Are you kidding?"

"Easy," he muses, a smile ghosting his lips, but not that lopsided smirk that you absolutely can't stand, a genuine smile, as if he's amused. "I'm standing right here."

"Yeah," you snort. "A little too close, might I add."

This is when he grins, lopsided and easy (and too fucking handsome for you to even comprehend right now) as his palms have gently braced on your shoulders, one hot and the other cool, as if he knows he's overstepping boundaries and figured to get them all out of the way now while your guard is down, while you're allowing him to be this close. Last time he got this close to you — he went in for a hug on New Year's — you panicked and knocked him into the bar.

"Haven't pushed me away yet."

Immediately, your hands are bracing on his chest and shoving him away, ignoring the way your heart races at his low laugh and how you allowed him to even get that close to you without some heinous comment (also avoiding how you never noticed his hands on your shoulder, how natural they felt, and how much you hate your sudden complicity). It's one thing to let your guard down to a guy, but to a guy like Bucky Barnes? Consider yourself a dead woman the day that actually happens.

So, to combat the weird growing feeling bubbling in your gut, you put on a sneer and wear it like a badge of honor.

"How am I supposed to convince anyone I like you?"

Bucky cocks his head to the side, unfazed. "Uh, I dunno, by acting?"

Deadpan stare.

He laughs boyishly, throwing his hands up lazily. "What? Scared you can't handle it?"

Your brows skyrocket, patience wearing thin.

"You don't think I can't handle it?" You reiterate incredulously, offended. "Handle you?"

"No," Bucky says immediately, never sure of anything else in his life. "I know you can. That's why I said your name and no one else's."

The words settle in the air like a thick, suffocating fog, because you hate how certain he sounds, like what he just said isn't making your heart convulse inside your ribcage. Because you know that deep down, he really means that, no matter how much your brain wants you to think otherwise. It's not like you can't trust the guy, for fuck's sake he's been a part of your friend group for years (even though you avoid him as much as you want for reasons you don't want to get into right now), he's going to be Steve's Best Man next fall and Natasha treats him like a big, annoying older brother. They vouch for him. They love him, damn it.

Say what you want about him, but you know for a fact that Bucky Barnes isn't a liar, at least not a very good one. Sure, he's more annoying than a twelve year old school boy and has the emotional capacities of a brick wall, he's always said it as it is. No sugarcoating, no dancing around the subject, just straight forward and to the point. That's the difficult thing that you juggle in this very moment, that no matter how pissed off you are and more revolted by the fact that the Prince Prick of All Pricks is asking — no, begging — for your help, you know it's truthful.

You sigh. Long and deep and guttural.

He literally couldn't have said any other name? Not the girl you saw him flirting with two nights ago at the bar down the street? Not the pretty barista that always writes a heart on his cup and shoots you death glares whenever you go in? Not any other hookup he's had in the past month to give his mom the impression that he's tied down? Did it have to be you? The girl he can never have?

Suddenly, you remember a conversation you accidentally overheard between him and Steve a few months ago. It was right after Christmas, since that's when your friend group celebrates their own version of the holiday, more so as an excuse to get together and drink and hang out. You walked into Steve's bedroom, looking for him to help Nat with the furnace, only to discover the fire escape window open with Bucky and Steve's back to you, sharing a joint in the cold.

"You're not this monster they're making you out to be," Steve said sincerely. "You know that, right?"

It was a tone so low that you froze, knowing you weren't supposed to be hearing this, something so private that you clearly were interrupting. But part of you stayed in curiosity, because Bucky had been uncharacteristically quiet all night and dodging all opportunities to poke fun at your Christmas sweater, so you automatically knew something was wrong. Not that you ever had the heart to ask, because you knew there was no way he'd open up to someone like you, regardless if you actually cared.

And you never forgot Bucky's next words. "They'll never see me as anything worth caring about."

You had left before you could hear anything else, telling Natasha you couldn't find them.

But you sometimes think of that moment, how upset Bucky sounded, as if the opinions of his family — and even his extended family that he says he doesn't care about — really matter to him, make a mark on his soul, make him feel less of an obligation and more of a person who's wanted. Loved. Cared for. Not some mouthy fuck-boy who has nothing more to his name than a reputation. A bad one, at that.

So now, as you look at him, really look at him, you're reminded of the Bucky sitting broken on that fire escape, where all he wants is his family's approval. You can't say you blame him. But you can't let him off that easily.

"What do I get in return?" You say eventually.

Stunned, Bucky blinks at you once, twice stupidly, certainly not expecting that from you.

"If I do this for you," you add pointedly, steadily. "It's not for nothing."

He clears his throat almost immediately, desperately. "Anything you want."

You narrow your eyes at him, studying his expression as you ponder your course of action. Sure, you could make him do your laundry for a month. Or clean your apartment head to toe, yet how much of his cleaning skills are up to par? Where's the fun in that? The sense of desperation? Buy your meals for the next month? Hm, too expensive. Be your personal chauffeur? Bleh, the thought of spending confined time in a car with him, no thanks. Makeshift masseuse? Scratch that, he'd definitely be too into that.

Then you grin. It makes his brows skyrocket.

"I want Alpine."

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Okay, anything besides that."

"You just said whatever I wanted."

His lips twitch. "Sweet girl, that's my cat."

Oh, you hate the way your heart skips at the name. "So? And don't call me that."

"Gotta practice somehow."

"Haven't said yes yet," you snap pointedly.

Yet Bucky just beams. "Yet?"

You groan, feigning annoyance when your blood pressure is skyrocketing to regions so unknown, a primary care doctor would faint at the numbers. How he manages to do this every time you interact with him is beyond you, sending your bodily functions into panic mode as well as kickstarting migraines like a light switch as if he was put on this earth to do so. He knows what he's doing, he knows what buttons to push, how to prolong all of your interactions to get the most reactions out of you. He's relentless.

"Fine, deal's off," you say amidst his laughter, spinning heel and beelining for the door to refrain from actually throwing a pot or something at his head.

But, of course, he's not letting you go that easily.

"Wait!" Bucky pleads behind you, boyish laughter simmering down as he catches your wrist between his fingers, pads of the tips pressing against your raging pulse point as he spins you around to face him. "Just— Fuck— Wait a second."

God, he's so close, smiling so beautiful it makes you reel. No, you think immediately, not beautiful. Not at all. Not his hair threatening to fall over his eyes, those pretty ceruleans and those dimples on a smile that seems to be reserved just for you. It fucking sucks that he's handsome, as it would make this whole turning him down to save my dignity thing much easier than it is now, because you're fucking struggling.

Especially when his hand is warm and he smells intoxicating, like everything you're into trapped in a cologne bottle. You hate how you like him close, close enough to feel like you're the only person in the room (you are) and the only girl he will ever has eyes on (you aren't). It's horrible, feeling like you're wanted by a guy like him, knowing he probably said your name as a matter of convenience, since you walked right into the room as the topic came up. You guarantee if it was any other girl, he would've said her name.

Christ. You can't debate the semantics. You'll go fucking crazy if you do.

"Okay," he bargains slow, unknowing to your internal battle between self pity and self deprecation. "You can have Alpine for a month."

You quirk a brow.

He rolls his eyes. "Fine. Two. And unlimited visitation rights after."

For a second, you actually consider it. Because despite how much you can't stand him nor can stand to be in his apartment because that means he's there, you adore that cat. You love her like she's your own, and it's unfortunate she has such an annoying owner because you'd be over there much more than you already are simply to hang out with her.

The hardest part is that she loves you, too. You watch her when he's away and you take her out in your bag into the city (safely, of course). She lays on your chest and purrs like a motor about to takeoff and head to space. On the off chance he FaceTimes you about something irrelevant or if he's on with Steve and you're in the room, you make him put her on the phone. It's ridiculous, you know, but the fact that she's sweet on you and practically hates his other friends makes you feel special, like you've got a cosmic connection to a damned cat.

You sigh deeply.

"Three," you counter-argue.

"Done," he says easily. "See? Told you we could work it out."

You refrain from head-butting him. "You never said that."

He still hasn't let go of your wrist.

"Must've said it in my head." He shrugs and you roll your eyes. Prick.

And as if life couldn't get any worse, Natasha decides to emerge from her cocoon of a bedroom, sniffling with a red nose and sunken eyes looking like death reincarnated. A blanket is wrapped around her small frame, swallowing her whole, as Steve walks in behind her and nearly running into her back given the way she freezes in the doorway, staring at you and Bucky a little too close for comfort like you've grown three heads. Four. Five. Si—

"Did I...miss something?" She croaks, blinking blearily.

As you open your mouth to respond, Bucky beats you to it, throwing a lanky arm around your shoulders and pulling you taut to his body to which you immediately grimace. His grin is light, easy, so fucking smug and pleased with himself that you wish you could take it alllllll back, wishing you weren't a good friend who drops off soup for your sick friend in the first place.

"You didn't hear?" Bucky says amusedly. "We're dating."

You should've said no.

Christ, you should've laughed in his face for coming up with such a stupid idea. You should've shoved him as hard as humanly possible and slapped him upside the head for even bringing you into this mess. You should've packed and left town before he could drag you into his car and drive you all the way to the (admittedly stunning) lake house in the middle of nowhere.

Because here you are: tucked under his arm like it's your god-given right and forcing a smile so bright it almost hurts.

When the two of you pulled onto the street, you admittedly had no idea what to expect as you'd practically been thrust into this one-sided agreement. But the house sitting before you is no home, more like a mansion with beautiful stone and an exterior build that's something straight out of a magazine. Or an architect's wet dream. It's no doubt the biggest house you've ever seen, a three car garage with plenty of cars parked in the driveway which makes you think they'd need more than three garages, perhaps a dozen.

The front lawn is long and flat, outstretching a perfect green up until a short rock wall that separates the property from the water. Literally right on the water, as gentle waves lap up against the rock wall with a pontoon and speed boat adorning the long L-shaped dock. Right by the shore, there's a fire-pit along with about twelve chairs encompassing around it, along with a cabana next to the dock that looks like there's a bar inside.

Holy fuck. Holy trust fund. Holy Christ.

The words escape you. Truly. You know you're fucked when you had to pause mid-insult to Bucky as soon as you pulled up, too stunned to even speak.

But instead of flaunting or making your reaction the butt of a joke, Bucky simply shrugs, puts the car in park, and pats the back of your hand once, twice, before exiting the car.

Now you're here. Meeting his family whilst simultaneously trying not to catch flies in your mouth.

(And also really, really trying to ignore how good his cologne smells and how he's holding you in a way that makes you think he's enjoying this.)

Especially when his mother stands in front of said-mansion and beams at you, thoroughly pleased at the thought of her son having the capacities to settle down with someone who's remotely normal (loose term, the less she knows, the better). She doesn't even let you get a word in before she's rushing forward, the white wine in her glass sloshing precariously.

"James!" His mother scolds with a look of disbelief. "You didn't mention how beautiful she is!"

Bucky's hand squeezes your waist, whether he means to or not, but it makes you shudder all the same.

Shrugging the feeling off almost immediately, you stick your hand out and muster a smile that hopefully doesn't let her know how much you want to murder her son in sixteen different ways.

"You're too kind, Mrs. Barnes," you greet politely. "It's nice to meet you."

She takes your hand instantly, encasing it gingerly with a warmth that makes Bucky's fingers twitch against your waist. Her nails are filed and freshly manicured, skin smooth as if she just got back from the salon. Makes sense, given the almost perfect shimmer of her nail beds.

"Oh, please, Mrs. Barnes is his grandmother," she says with a playful scoff and a tone that makes it seem like she didn't like said-grandmother very much. "Call me Winnie. None of those formalities around me, honey. James has already told me so much about you, no need to be so proper."

You stifle a snort as you peer up at Bucky in faux-shock, noticing the tips of his ears burning red.

"Oh, did he?"

Winnie drops your hand as she laughs, and two things are obvious by the way her eyes crinkle and her smile widens: she loves her son and she loves her wine.

"Plenty," she muses, lunging forward to place a ginger kiss on Bucky's hot cheek. "Oh, don't give me that look. Everyone is just so excited that you’re becoming a young man."

He shakes off her welcoming gesture, squeezing your waist once more. You can practically feel the heat radiating off his cheeks, flushed with embarrassment that you of all people are hearing this right now. At this point, you think it's a coping mechanism for him.

"Dad didn't want to be a part of the welcoming committee?" He asks coolly, switching the subject as he looks beyond Winnie towards the house, waiting for a person who is probably never going to come greet them.

You shove that assumption way, way, way down.

Whether Winnie can see the nerves coming from her son, she doesn't comment on it, instead ignoring it altogether. "Don't start with that, James. He's grilling in the back with Mr. Townes."

Bucky snaps his gaze to his mother. "What?"

You brows furrow at the sudden tone shift.

His mother doesn't notice, instead moving towards the house. "Come inside, Izzy's making tequila sunrises."

If possible, Bucky stiffens even more. At this point, he could be as rigid as a board.

"Izzy's here?" He asks incredulously, almost...angry?

Not noticing her son's clear apprehension, Winnie nods and takes another hearty sip of her wine, still smiling bright as can be as she ushers the two of you inside. If the moment wasn't so full of tension, you'd take the time to admire the sunset. The smell of a cookout. The sound of the waves lapping against the rocks with the cadence of a lullaby.

"Yes, yes." Winnie interrupts your feel of the senses cheerfully. "She's here for the night to see the fireworks. The Townes are staying at the Clearwater's next door. Now come! Everyone wants to meet your girlfriend, honey.”

Before anyone can elaborate further or escalate the conversation, Winnie is turning tail and waving you two inside once again, this time sauntering back into the mansion as her shoes crunch under the soft gravel of the driveway, humming a common tune to herself and clearly giddy as can be. She’s unknowing to the chaos she just inadvertently caused, unknowing to the way her son practically seized up at the mere mention of someone. You assume it’s detrimental, given the iron grip on your waist and the way he hasn’t breathed in what feels like a minute.

The silence becomes palpable as you can practically see the steam coming out of his ears.

Swallowing thickly, you step away from him to grab your bag (in the process of doing so, his hand leaves your waist and you try to ignore how much you hate not having it there), slinging it over your shoulder as you ponder for a moment, eyeing his duffle. Feeling gracious for a second, you grab his as well and you slam the car door shut.

The sound seems to jolt him from his internal self-inflicted pity party, blinking his blue eyes once, twice, before shaking his head, taking his bag from your extended hand and tightening his grip around the straps and muttering something incoherent under his breath.

"We've been here for two minutes and you're already grumbling," you joke lightly as you try and clear the thick air. "Personally, I would've bet on five."

Bucky takes a long, deep breath. One from the soul. One that is obviously an attempt to avoid a crash-out mere minutes into the weekend. For a moment, you almost want to immediately apologize for the ill-timed comment as you feel your face get hot.

Fucking idiot, you think, who are you to comment on that?

But instead of snapping at you or defaulting to his asshole nature, he simply takes another deep breath.

"Izzy's my ex," he says eventually. Low and calm.

Your heart sinks. Great. Perfect. Another one of Bucky's past flings coming back to haunt you. Again. (Don't ask about the again. You had a pretty black and blue shiner to the cheekbone last Christmas when his winter situationship thought you two were seeing each other when you obviously weren't. You learned very quickly in that moment that these women do not play about Bucky Barnes. Not at all.)

"She's..." Bucky continues steadily, looking up the sky for a mere moment as he tries to find the words. "...territorial."

You roll your eyes. "Great. Am I gonna have to fight this one, too?"

Bucky's lips twitch barely. Just barely. But there. A crack in his horrible mood. It makes your pride swell slightly.

"Careful, baby." He draws out smoothly. "Startin' to sound a little jealous."

Aaaaaand your pride is extinguished. Gone with the wind. Dissipated into thin air. You're halfway to the house after the pet name, hating the way your heart thumps as you hear his jovial laughter behind you as he follows you in the house.

diver

His hand doesn't leave you the entire time you're introduced to his family.

You have every single urge to shove him off, because it seems like the fucker is enjoying this. Enjoying the feel of your smooth skin under his hand, charting territories that have been off limits for the entire duration of your friendship (god, how long has it been now?) and taking full advantage of being able to cart you around and show you off to his family. That's what he wanted, isn't it? To practically flaunt you as living proof he's not what they make him out to be?

Bucky talks about you to his aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and neighbors like you've hung the stars yourself, showcasing your career accomplishments and hobbies that you didn't even know he knew.

When you pulled him aside after the third fun fact, he simply shrugged as he fixed your hair.

"Did my research," is all he says, before putting on that million dollar smirk and moving onto the next introduction.

And he does not leave your side. Not once. Not physically. At all.

Meeting his chirpy aunt with glimmering earrings and a bright red lip? Bucky's fingers are playing with the ends of your hair. Chatting up his second cousin about the nuances of implementing more solar energy? His thumb is rubbing circles on your shoulder. Being introduced to his father and the ring of grown man crowding around the grill as if they're all waiting for their turn to be grill-master? A palm is pressed firmly to the small of your back, grounding and steady almost as a coping mechanism himself because his father does not seem to have an ounce of the warmth his mother does.

Mr. Barnes is stern. Stoic. Giving Bucky a simply once over before politely introducing himself to you. Then returning to his conversation with the rest of the guys at the grill.

Bucky takes that as his cue to steer you away, and you pretend not to notice the way his fingers tremble against your back.

And now here you are: seeking refuge in the (giant) empty kitchen, where the leftover appetizers are sitting idly on the counter while the main course, burgers and hot dogs, are about to be served outside on the back patio. From here, you can hear the faint chatter and laughter, no doubt a rich sound, but from your little corner of solace, the sound acts as a buffer between the two of you and the stuffy atmosphere.

You and Bucky lean on counters opposite each other, sipping on tequila sunrises as you carefully study his body language. Closed off. Quiet. Already in his head. Sometimes you hate being empathetic, because why do you have the urge to cheer him up? To push the hair away from his eyes? To grab his hand and tell him that it'll be alright?

Frankly, you can’t even begin to understand the dynamic Bucky has with his father. He’s never spoken highly of the man, and you’ve only heard few rumblings about him in your years of friendship (if you can call it that) with the man standing in front of you. Yet you’re no idiot, you can assume it’s nothing pleasant or warm given the constant drive Bucky has to please him, whether he outright says it or not, because despite the anger and resentment he has towards his father, you can tell there’s a still a part of him that is a boy simply wanting his father’s approval, his father’s love, his father’s respect. You can’t necessarily blame him for that. You don’t understand it, perhaps you never will, but you still hate the insinuation that he doesn’t feel like he’s enough just because his father thinks so.

"Hey," you say quietly, nudging your foot against his ankle as he peers up at you with distant eyes. "How long you think your cousin's been cheating on that old jizzbag she married last year?"

Bucky's lips twitch just barely.

"Because she's been making fuck-me eyes towards that one guy," you add pointedly. "Quite obviously, might I add, that I'm starting to get a little turned on from it. Fuck, what's his name? I think he's the neighbor, uh..."

"Dan," Bucky responds quietly, but a small smile ghosts his lips. "And at least three months. Since spring break."

You gasp dramatically. "Scandalous. You think he knows?"

"The— Christ, what'd you call him? The old jizzbag?"

Nodding animatedly, Bucky chuckles gently and shakes his head at you, slowly starting to thaw from the slump he'd been in ever since the run in with his father and returning back to the person you know.

"No shot. Or he's pretending not to notice."

"Oh?" You hum curiously. "That adds a twist. I can already smell the headline: Billionaire fossil makes shocking discovery of his lifetime, his trophy wife half his age is getting devious back shots from the stud of a neighbor, doesn't reveal their secret so long as they set up a cuck chair for him in the corner. Got a nice ring to it, no?"

Bucky laughs boyishly, and god if the noise doesn't do something weird to your gut.

(Especially when his smile is so fucking pretty it almost hurts.)

He clutches his abdomen, nudging your ankle to mirror your action from before. "I think you missed your calling. TMZ would kill to have someone like you."

"Someone like me?" You challenge, feigning offense. "You mean someone so creative and talented and—"

"There you are!"

An unknown third voice interrupts you, both you and Bucky whipping your heads to the kitchen entrance to see... probably the most beautiful woman you've ever seen in your life standing there.

Her long blonde hair is braided neatly and folded over her shoulder, accompanied with a silk ribbon tying the pieces together. Bright green eyes blink between the two of you, along with a wide (almost forced) pearly smile as she takes in the scene before her. She's genuinely one of the most stunning people you've ever seen, and with the way her eyes keep lingering on him, your heart stills. Is that..? No, you don't think that's—

"Izzy," Bucky breathes out evenly, almost pained. "Hey."

Izzy steps into the room like she owns it.

"So this is where you've been hiding out? Can't really say I blame you. It's a snooze-fest out there." Suddenly she's right here. In your bubble, sliding next to the counter and bumping your shoulder as if she's been your pal all your life. God, she even smells good. "Seems like way more fun in here."

You hum casually, remembering Bucky's thoughtfully in-depth description of her. Territorial.

Yeah. Sure. You can be territorial, too. You can totally sink your talons into him, stake your claim, assert your dominance. It's not like you're a stranger to people trying to one-up you, you're practically a professional asshole. Hopefully you won't have to use any of that side of you. But. It's there. Even if it's dormant.

"If by fun you mean raiding the liquor cabinet, then sure," you muse.

Izzy chuckles sweetly at you, then lulling her head forward to eye Bucky up and down. "I like her."

"Didn't think I needed your approval," he shoots back jokingly, but half of you thinks he was partially being serious.

Slightly, just slightly, Izzy stiffens next to you. But it lingers for less than a second, because her pretty smile is back up as she brings her cocktail up to her glossy lips.

"Just being friendly, Jamie," she murmurs into her glass, taking a sip before ahhing graciously.

Bucky's brows pinch at the nickname.

Christ, you can feel his irritation from here. He should start calling you a modern day Superman given the way you've been cutting corners at the expense of his well-being (and his blood pressure).

"You're the mixologist of the night, right?" You converse casually, lifting your glass to your lips.

Izzy's gaze lingers on Bucky (or Jamie?) for one, two beats before turning to you, eyes drifting down to your cocktail and then back up to meet yours. Her expression holds no indication of a vendetta, so trying to stay in her good graces couldn't hurt. You hope. Especially when Bucky looks at you incredulously, almost trying to warn you with his eyes not to engage.

After a moment, she nods and flashes that sweet smile once again.

No wonder Bucky fell for her, Christ. She could sway battalions by simply asking nicely.

A faint buzzing gains everyone's attention, filling the gaping silence and nearly making Bucky jump three feet in the air.

"Shit," Bucky curses all of a sudden, digging his phone out of his pocket and wincing at the caller ID. "Uh, it's Sam. He's watching Alpine, probably scratched his eye out or something."

He pauses, gaze darting between you and Izzy with skepticism.

But you're an adult. At least you try to be.

So you nod towards the other room. "We're good. Let me know if his eye's still in tact."

His blue eyes settle on you, a wordless question. And you respond with yours, smiling gently and giving him all the reassurance he needs to leave you here. With his ex. Alone. The supposed territorial girl who broke up with him so detrimentally horrific last year he lost twenty pounds. No biggie. The call can't be too long anyway, right? Sam's probably calling to send a proof of life. Five minutes, tops.

Then, Bucky does something you never expect.

The fucker leans forward, places a chaste kiss on your cheek, and promptly leaves the room.

He just— Okay. Yeah. No, totally. He just kissed you. Literally no big deal. Actually, it can't be a big deal, because you're his girlfriend. Loving, doting, caring girlfriend. Sitting next to his ex-girlfriend, who's no doubt watching your reaction like a hawk, gaging your dynamic, your vibe, your...everything. That's an everyday act for people who are dating. It's actually pretty prude-ish for people who are together. Normally it's the lips. The forehead. The back of the hand. Below the belt—

Christ. Stop. Stop. Stop.

You still have a job to do. A role to play. You can't be hung up on the semantics. You can curse him out later, you pointedly decide. That'll make you feel better. For sure.

You lift your glass in a feeble attempt to regain half your brain back. "Nice work. I'll have to ask for some pointers."

"Trick is a pinch of lemon juice," she whispers playfully. "Not that you really care, anyway."

Any ounce of formalities dissipate into thin air, rising and dying in your throat. Your head snaps up, looking into her green eyes with utter confusion, partially at the sudden tonal shift but also at the fucking audacity. Once you realize that she's not joking around, your heart skips a beat at the anticipation of a confrontation.

You... heard her correct, right? You're not just making things up based on the preconceptions you already have of her, right? She didn't just completely flip a switch and confirm all the previous suspicions you had of her, right? Right?

"Pardon?" You ask calmly.

Izzy smiles again, but this time it's nothing nice. It's calculated. Cold.

"I know what you're doing," she says gently, but the tone carries the backbone. "Trying to be my friend when you're frankly the opposite."

Oh. No mistake here. Your intuition was correct. You weren't hearing things or making scary stories up to tell in the dark. She's being fucking serious, and she's looking at you like you're her next meal, her next target, a canary to a cat. The conversation she struck up wasn't to be friendly, it was to get Bucky's guard down, to let him feel comfortable enough to leave you two in a room together with the naive belief his ex has changed.

Doesn't seem like it, though.

But two can play this game. She wants Bucky back? Too fucking bad, bitch, you think bitterly. If you weren't selling the fuck out of the girlfriend role earlier to his family, you're about to seal the deal right here, right now, starting with her.

"I think the term you're searching for is common decency," you deadpan. "A general misconception, though, so don't feel too bad."

The blonde snorts at that. Fuck, even that's a pretty sound.

"You're witty, I'll give you that. Jamie always liked the mouthy ones," she purrs, practically bleeding green.

"You think that's you?"

Izzy swirls her drink around as if she has all the time in the world to do so, bumping your shoulder with the gesture with little to no regard for your personal space. You're three seconds away from shoving her off, as you've gotten your fair fucking share of being touched tonight.

She sighs dreamily as if the whole conversation is already beneath her. "You know, if you weren't with him, I feel like we could've been friends."

Your response is immediate. "I normally don't pick up hitchhikers."

The deadpan makes her laugh, a genuine laugh, as if she's pleased with the way she's grinding your gears, as if that was the goal all along, as if your words do nothing to pierce her thick skin.

"And Jamie normally doesn't go for..." Izzy pauses, taking a long moment to look you up and down in a way that instantly pisses you off. "...girls like you."

Your brow quirks.

"But I guess it looks like everyone's changing," she adds innocently, clinking your glass with hers in a way that isn't ceremonial in the slightest, pushing herself off the counter and slowly sauntering towards the exit.

Yet you don't falter. You don't let her get to you.

Instead, you send her a warm smile that she definitely doesn't deserve as you tip your glass politely towards her.

"Don't worry," you respond coolly. "You still have time."

Izzy's grin slips, giving you another detrimentally judge-mental once over before turning heel and slipping out of the kitchen without another word, blonde braid swiveling with the abrupt movement as the scent of her pretty perfume slowly wafts out of your sphere.

Once you know she's out of sight and out of mind, you let out a long, deep sigh before downing the rest of your drink.

Conveniently, that's when Bucky decides to return, unknowing to the previous altercation.

"Well, good news is that he has both eyes," he says casually, sliding back in the spot he occupied earlier. "Bad news is that he now has the scratches to prove—"

Bucky trails off immediately when he notices your expression, your body language, how you're just about ready to throw hands at the next person who sparks up a conversation with you, clutching onto the cocktail glass as if it had done something to personally offend you. All conveniently without Izzy in sight, and he's no idiot to put two and two together in an instant.

He bites cautiously. "You alright?"

You quirk a brow. "Peachy."

Bucky carefully plucks the glass out of your hands and sets it on the counter, his hands moving back to encase yours. His fingers are cool against your flaming skin, but admittedly it calms you down in more ways than one — not that you'd ever tell him that. Not even if the world depended on it. Even though he can probably tell from the way your shoulders instantly relax.

"You look like you're seconds from snapping my neck, which is normal for you. But..." He winces, already knowing. "What'd she say?"

"Enough," you say curtly, shaking your head. "She's about to have the worst fucking weekend of her life."

His head tilts in confusion, and you're still pretending not to notice that his hands are still holding yours.

"Christ," he murmurs after a moment, brows pinched in worry. "You're not gonna kill her, are you?"

Sighing, you roll your eyes. "No. But I'm gonna remind her that she's the one who left you. That's all."

God, you hate the way he instantly grins, squeezing your hands as if it's his right to do so in the first place and suddenly occupying the space right in front of you, showing little to no fear of the giant chance you shove him where he stands. He's so close, blue eyes shining with a sense of pride that makes you want to slap the smug expression right off his pretty face.

No. Nope. His normal face. His perfectly adequate and average looking face. Nothing more. Nothing less.

It isn't until he ducks down, faces inches from yours, where your fight or flight instincts both fail you, because you just fucking freeze. Stationary. Still as a board as he holds you here, knowing damn well this is a win for him given how you haven't kneed him in the balls yet. And he grins like he knows it, wears it like a badge of honor, and you're so fucking close, closer than you've ever been. Encompassed by his broad stature and the intoxicating scent of his cologne, with a faint lingering of tequila.

His voice is low, laced with a honey cadence that almost, almost, distracts you from what he actually says.

"You're pretty hot when you're jealous."

Aaaand that's when you shove him off. He doesn't even flinch, not when the base of his spine smacks against the island counter from the force, not from the scowl on your face, not from anything. Because he won.

Bucky rides that high all night.

Especially you two sit thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder on an outside patio couch, getting absolutely hounded by a round-up rodeo of tipsy aunts and cousins who have nothing better to do than to learn the nuances of your supposed love life over way-too-strong cocktails and insultingly bland pasta salad.

"She's phenomenal at taking care of people," Bucky beams through a bite of a burger, saying it too nonchalant to be considered casual. This is probably the seventh question they've asked him about keen characteristics of yours, and the one that makes you quirk your brow. "She's got, like, a magic touch or something. Healed Steve when he was sick with a 104 fever."

You snort into your second (third?) cocktail glass. Yeah, you put a cool rag on Steve's forehead when he was enduring the worst hangover of his life after New Year's last year, forced him to pull-trig when he kept pushing it off, made sure he drank water and had small doses of food throughout the day (that he could stomach, which wasn't much). Your friends started coming to you after that when they were facing hangovers worse than death. Not really the same as a fever, but you'll take it.

His aunts eat it up, though, awwing at the anecdote.

"Such a sweet girl," his aunt Margaret coos endearingly.

God, you wish the world would swallow you whole.

Especially when you feel the pad of Bucky's thumb swipe the corner of your mouth with such eased nonchalance that you don't have time to register it, nearly swatting his hand away and cursing his bloodline into next Tuesday, but you remember your audience, and remain still as a statue. Because if you can't use your spitting words or hands to shove him off, then... what else can you do besides sit here like an idiot and take it? And, oh, he knows how badly you want to smack that grin right off his face, and it only spurs him in further.

"Mhm," Bucky hums low, eyes lingering on your bottom lip for a second too long before flashing a charming grin back to his family. "My sweet girl," he repeats low, certain. "But such a messy eater."

The smile on your face probably looks more like a grimace.

But whether his aunt or anyone in this little meet-cute circle notices, no one lets on.

Instead, Aunt Margaret beams as she darts her gaze between the two of you, looking like she’s about to simultaneously combust or erupt in a fit of awws, which you don’t think you can take much more of. She holds onto a printed napkin from some chain department store as if it’s an emotional tether to her soul, manicured nails digging into the soft fabric.

“It’s so nice to see you like this with someone again, James,” she says earnestly. “It’s heartwarming to know she’s making you better.”

Her words make your stomach do a weird flip. They’re simple. Kind. Nothing out of the ordinary. But the kettlebell in your gut would defer otherwise, plagued with a phantom ache that you can quite pinpoint on what emotion you’re feeling. Prideful? Guilty? Fraudulent (if that’s a state of being?) or downright evil for making these people believe something that isn’t true.

He isn’t…being real. He’s being Bucky. Charming. Playful. Playing his strengths to woo a crowd and get them to believe one thing. He’s acting. Being a (fake) doting boyfriend, doing acts that will get the people to get off his back, to believe he’s capable of moving on and functioning like a normal adult. That’s all. Nothing more.

But why’d Margaret say again?

You wonder. What the fuck did Izzy do to him all that time ago to warrant such a sudden character flip? What did she do to his brain to make him the epitome of a womanizer, to make him never trust an emotional connection that crosses the line of friendship? What emotional damage did she do to make his own family lose interest in caring for him? To make them believe he’s this awful person who will never find love again? And if what she did to him was so detrimental to his once-jovial character, why the fuck was she invited here?

You know you’re here to prove that Bucky has the capabilities to move on. You know that. Truly. You’re here as his friend, as a favor, that’s all. There’s nothing more you need to do than what you’ve already been doing.

But just because he has a supposed “girlfriend” doesn’t make him any less of a person, and fuck these people for making him believe that’s the case.

All Bucky does is hum, smile faltering only slightly to which no one notices.

But you do.

Fuck. You notice.

And your heart just… breaks.

How do they not know what a wonderful person he is? How selfless he is? How he constantly puts everyone over himself, catering to the needs of his beloved friends and even strangers before even considering his own well being? How many times have you seen Bucky carry groceries for his elderly neighbor who doesn’t do well with stairs? How many seats has he given up for others on the subway and how many visits did he make when Sam was in the hospital for a week? How many times has he saved you the last (and best) bite of a meal he made you? How can they not know the person he is? How can they only his worth as having a partner?

Don’t say anything to make it worse, you repeat to yourself over and over and over.

“Yes, honey,” his cousin Gemma pipes up. “Having such a wonderful girl is so respectable. She makes you look great.”

Fuck. Don’t say anything. Not your place.

Margaret hums in agreement. “You’re on a good path now. We can already tell. Thanks to this one!”

She nods in your direction, a warm smile adorning her cheeks.

But it only breaks the dam.

God damn it.

“Actually,” you say before you can stop yourself, gentle yet firm. “If anyone should be getting praise, it’s Bucky.”

Bucky says your name softly, almost in warning to not even bother with it.

But you brush him off, because what? You’re not going to sit here and let these people have one misconception about him running amuck in the mud. They don’t even know him, know an ounce of the person he truly is. How can they even think he’s not remotely enough? Physically? Emotionally? As a fucking human being? As someone who’s more than a partner, a boyfriend, a prop?

You know you butt heads with him. You know he drives you up the wall with every opportunity he gets, and you know he knows it makes you crazy. But at the end of the day, he’s your friend. A good one, at that. Contrary to popular belief, he cares a lot and he loves deep and he’s one of the best people on the godforsaken planet to have in your corner. Even though he grinds your gears. Even though he relishes in your irritation. Even though he's chatty and bold and boisterous.

Before the aunts and cousins can protest and stammer to get back in your good graces, you continue.

"He's the one who made me better." Well, there's no stopping it now. "When we met, I was going through a rough patch. Not sleeping, eating, taking care of myself, the whole nine yards." Not partially a lie unless you count meeting him a week within the worst breakup of your life, then yeah. "Bucky's the one who brought me out of that hole. Even though I wanted to smack him upside the head most of the time." Meaning he distracted you from your sorrows with his natural wit and charm so detrimentally that your ex was a lingering forethought in a quick matter of time. Sure, let's go with that.

Bucky's hand somehow finds yours. Aunt Margaret chuckles nervously.

“I’m sure you weren’t implying that he’s less of a person when single,” you add pointedly. Then, “Right?”

The stammering is immediate.

“No!” Margaret defends quickly, eyes wide and panicked. “Of course not. James, that’s not what we meant at all. We just—“

“That’s good,” you interrupt sweetly, frankly not interested in the half-assed apologies but also not trying to get in a tousle with people who you don’t even know like that. “I just wanted to make sure.”

“Of course,” Gemma parrots her aunt, blinking with wide eyes to try and scramble. “We love you, James, we just want you to be happy.”

And Bucky?

His hand is encasing the back of yours, fingers wrapped tight over your knuckles.

"All good," he says smoothly, as if being belittled by his family is a normal instance he's used to at this point. "I'm happy. Very much so. She's protective, 's all."

Gemma takes a particularly large gulp of her drink. "Yes, we see that. You know, James, your cousins started a bonfire by the water, why don't you join them?"

You nearly snort. That's gotta be some polite suburban code for get this girl out of my face before she tries to humiliate me further. Or something like that. Frankly, you definitely could've given them more grief, but with the way everyones faces are burning a bright crimson leads you to think that your words were the beginning of someone standing up for Bucky. Part of you hates that you're probably the first to do so given the panicked response from your defense of him, the other part of you would do it all again in a heartbeat. Regardless of the secondhand embarrassment.

Yet instead of escalating and having more choice words for his so-called family, you smile sweetly, putting the little hiccup behind you as you upturn your palm in Bucky's grasp, lacing your fingers with his so gingerly that you see him whip his head towards yours in your peripheral. He's been the catalyst of touch all night, as you've kept your paws relatively to yourself for the duration of him showing you off. But now... You're reciprocating. Leaning into the bit. Fueling the fire. And with the way he squeezes your hand in return, it's a wordless promise. I got you.

"I could go for a s'more." Your tone is light, sweet. Like a flavored creamer. You turn to Bucky, whose bright blue eyes search yours incredulously. "You?"

He takes a beat. Registering your words.

Then, he nods. "Read my mind."

You're standing before you know it, Bucky in tow, as you toss your empty plate in the trash bag lying underneath the table. Grabbing your drink and throwing one more sweet smile to his bewildered family members, you give a once-over of the mini-crowd before you.

"It was nice meeting you all," is all you simply say, before turning heel and walking towards the water.

Bucky's hand is hot against yours, burning bright and prominent as yours stays cool. You have half a mind to pull away now that you've given some distance between you and the people you're supposed to be convincing, but he doesn't allow that as he falls into step with you, bumping your shoulder in Bucky-like-fashion and giving you a gentle squeeze, a form of a thank you he can't formulate into words. The act makes your heart thrum all the same, and there's this nagging voice in the back of your mind telling you how nice it is to feel his touch, to be in his vicinity without having to worry about the next time you're scheduled to push him away.

It's... achingly comfortable.

God, you shake that thought away. Immediately.

The two of you are halfway to the bonfire when he speaks up.

"You could've gone easy on 'em," Bucky muses low and playfully, avoiding the real reason for your intervention. "You nearly scared them out of their Tory Burch dresses."

You frown instantly. "...That was me going easy on them."

He laughs boyishly, swinging your conjoined hands back and forth, clearly relishing in the way you haven't pushed him off. For once, you don't really see the urge to shove him away just yet, and that revelation nearly stuns you, but it aches in familiarity, as if you could get used to it. Especially when you see a familiar blonde sitting in one of the bonfire chairs up ahead that makes your chest burn with a fire you didn't know ignited.

"Sweet girl," he says in warning. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were seconds from throttling a sixty year old woman. I think that's considered elder abuse."

"I'm just about ready to throttle everyone here."

His hand squeezes yours once, twice. You pretend to ignore the way your heart lurches at the gesture. "Being a knight in shining armor looks hot on you."

"And now I'm seconds away from throttling you."

"Yet you're still holding my hand." You don't have to look at him to know he's grinning. "Christ, you'd be sexy in steel."

"Bucky."

"Like my own personal Joan of Arc. Oh my god."

"Do you ever think before you speak?"

"Never with you, my sweet, sweet girl." His voice is saccharine, almost sounding genuine.

You eyes roll so far back the whites are showing.

But the next quip rises and dies in your throat as you approach the bonfire, an expensive stone pit with burning embers flying high in the air surrounded by all of his cousins and family friends in similar age, who all laugh at a previous anecdote that fills the air with a warm buzz. The sun setting behind the tree-line across the lake is almost picturesque, letting the real glow of the flames cast a shadow over everyone's face, including Izzy roasting a perfect golden marshmallow.

...Sitting next to the only vacant seat.

When you and Bucky emerge to the group, all heads pick up, including the blonde's, who hums innocently inviting with that killer of a smile. But you're not fooled by a second, nor will you ever forget the absolutely audacity she had towards you in the kitchen earlier.

"Hey guys," she says cooly, blowing off the small flame of her marshmallow as she looks you dead in the eye. "Sorry, maybe there's another chair in the garage?"

The group goes quiet for a moment, holding their breaths and waiting. It's no secret Izzy's been attempting to sink her talons into her ex-boyfriend all night, stealing glances across the yard and talking him up to his family behind his back to stay in their good graces. She probably wasn't expecting you to show up this weekend, someone who will definitely put up a fight, a threat, a challenge to her endgame to get her Jamie back once and for all. There's no doubt everyone sitting in this circle knows that, especially when they all look between you and her with the anticipation of something snarky.

But you shrug nonchalantly. "No biggie."

When you peer up at Bucky and nod towards the chair, he blinks at you once, twice, before getting the hint and sitting down without much prompting, manspreading deliciously wide and audacious in a way you'd normally scold him for — as you've done so many times in the past.

This time, however, you simply let him get comfortable before settling in his lap.

...And Bucky fucking freezes.

Thankfully, almost instantly one of his cousins, a shaggy-haired late-teen who definitely shouldn't be nursing a beer, kickstarts the previous conversation with little to no regard for the clear tension between you and the person sitting one chair away, and you nearly sigh in relief at the subject change and let yourself slowly lean back until your back his brushing his broad chest.

He's not breathing. You can feel that he's not breathing because his chest doesn't rise and fall against your body, still as a board as you settle in casually. On his lap. Perched pretty on his lap. Flush to his chest. While sitting on his lap. Practically a second skin to him. Was it mentioned that you're on his lap?

The hands that have been wandering uncharted territories on your body all night are conveniently stiff on the arms of the chair, not sure whether or not they're suppose to stay politely off or if they can heighten the experience all the more. You can practically hear him thinking behind you, and you don't even need to turn around to know that or read his facial expression.

It makes you stifle a grin.

"Someone's a little quiet." You start innocently, practically cheek to cheek with him as you both stare at the burning embers. "What happened to all that sweet talk?"

You hear and feel his breath falter, as if he's just remembered how to breathe.

Bucky lets out a small huff of air, half annoyed and half amused that you're finding his internal crisis entertaining. More importantly still computing the fact that you're sitting in his lap. Willingly. Practically brushing cheeks. No big deal. Not at all. Not in the slightest. Not something he's been dreaming about for what feels like years now. Totally chill. Platonic, one may say.

"You seemed eager," he manages to get out, trying to act normal. "Still denying your feelings for me?"

You scoff. Cute of him to think he's in control here. Two can play that game.

You shift your hips barely. Just barely. A minute sliver to the left.

His hands immediately grip your waist, stilling your movements, both of you inherently shocked at the bold moves on each side but not putting a stop to the escalation, either. It's...thrilling. Especially surrounded by other people, unknowing to your objectively monumental moment. Especially sitting two feet from his raging bitch of an ex-girlfriend, whose eyes have been glued to the two of you finagling the whole time.

There's an odd sense of pride — perhaps dormant cave-woman primal instincts beginning to thaw — that instantly make you lean into the bit in response to seeing Izzy staring at you in your peripheral. You're shifting your body to splay sideways in his lap, as if he's about to pick you up bridal style and march you back into the house, splaying a hand in his hair as one of his palms remains a little too low on the base of your spine and the other resting on your bare thigh, a little too high than what friends would normally do. However, that excuse is completely out the window now, so why not run with it?

And... You're on cloud nine. Even more so when you meet Izzy's envious green eyes, smiling so sweetly it'll make your tooth rot.

Bucky hums at the sensation of your fingers in his hair whether he means to or not. "Remind me why we don't do this often?"

"Uh, probably because I can't stand you," you say as if it's law.

"Debatable."

"Is it?"

"You tell me, sweet girl." Your faces are inches apart. Have his eyes always been this blue? "You're the one sitting pretty in my lap."

"For show," you add pointedly.

Bucky grins boyishly (it's so beautiful). "Nah, I think you're doing it for the love of the game."

"That's presumptuous."

"Is it?" He mirrors your question from earlier.

God, he's so close. "Mhm. I'm simply helping a friend."

Bucky pauses at your words, eyes darting between yours almost in disbelief. The silence only lasts a few seconds, but it's palpable all the same, as those seconds feel like eons as he stares hard and deep into your eyes, practically into your soul. His grin morphs into something smaller, softer, steering away from the jovial playfulness you're familiar with and leaning into something deeper, something more serious. It makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck.

"That's what we're calling this? Friends?" He muses low, dangerous, calculated.

Your brows pinch slightly.

"Because I don't think friends do this," Bucky continues in the same tone, and you almost miss the way his thumb slips under your shirt, tracing over the lower bones of your vertebrae in admiration, curiosity, need. "I don't think friends feel like this."

It takes you a moment to find your words, still trying to hold your ground. "And what kind of feeling is that?"

His lips twitch. "I think you know, sweet girl."

"Do I?"

"Mhm." His response is immediate. "You're smart. Think about it."

...You do.

You think about what it would be like to wake up in the morning next to him, hair tousled and pretty blues bleary with sleep, reaching for you through half-lidded eyes and pulling you taut to him to get an extra few minutes of peace and quiet, or pulling you close for entirely different reasons. Would he fuck you slow and deliberate or fast and rough? Would he roll you onto your side and sink in deep with his chest against your back? Or would he crawl under the covers and bury his head between your thighs until the sun truly rises?

You think about holding his hand in public, dragging him through crowds of farmer's markets or sitting next to him on the subway. Touching him at all possible times. Him touching you at all possible times. Hands together. A hand on your thigh, on the small of your back, on the back of your neck. Endless places. Constantly. Protective. Possessive.

You think about his words. You've grown accustomed to the normal vulgarities that spill from his pretty puffed lips, but what about his true feelings? Is right now — this very moment — a glimpse of that reality? A shroud of seriousness? Would he confess through the implications his actions or would he actually find the words? Would he tell you how much you mean to him or would he show you? Would the flirting cease or tenfold if you truly told him your thoughts and feelings? How would he react to your greatest fears and nightmares, with sweet nothings or a comforting hug? Would he talk you through having sex? Tell you how pretty you are and how well you're taking him?

"You're thinking about it."

Blinking, you snap out of your disassociation to discover him still staring intently, a smile tugging the ends of his lips no matter how hard he tries not to let it slip.

"I wasn't," you defend bitterly, a weak attempt at remaining indifferent.

He truly doesn't buy it. "You totally are. It'd be a nice life, no?"

"Bucky."

"You and me. Me and you. Cooking together. Going out. Christening every room—"

"You're insufferable."

His smile is infectious, voice saccharine. "Yet you're still thinking about it, aren't you?"

Your scowl is prominent, face flushing a temperature comparable to the pits of hell. "Nope."

"Oh, Natasha's gonna love this."

"If you even consider telling Natasha, I'll cut your eyes out."

"Hot."

"Bucky."

"What?" He asks incredulously. "You can't expect me to be chill about this."

You roll your eyes. "I can, and I am. So chill." Can he feel your heart beating?

Probably, given the way his grin hasn't faltered the entire exchange, clearly soaking this up like a greedy sponge. The pads of his fingertips dig into your flesh like a staked claim, a reckless promise that doesn't need words to fill the gaps of what he truly means, what he truly wants. It's obvious, painfully so, and you're starting to slip. You wonder if he knows, if he can see the way you're subtly inching closer, if he can feel the thrum of your heartbeat in anticipation, if he can skim past your dismissive words and look into your eyes to understand your true intentions.

Fuuuuuuuuuck. You're in deep. Shit. God fucking damn it. Has he always been this pretty or is he emitting some toxic scent that makes people's brains all fuzzy and discombobulated? It must be the latter. It has to be the latter. Because absolutely no fucking way you're falling for—

God, you can't even say it. Falling for—

"Bucky!"

The shaggy-haired cousin pipes up from across the bonfire, breaking you both from your little moment and popping the bubble of unrelieved tension and rising blood pressure. Your neck twists to meet the gaze of his cousin, unknowingly continuing without a shroud of concern for interrupting the fact that you almost just kissed Bucky Barnes. On the lips. Willingly. Without a gun to your head or not from a dare. Did you mention willingly?

"Remember that burly dude who stole my skateboard in middle school?" He prompts nasally. "And ya bet him to a halfpipe competition to get it back?"

Bucky's grip on your waist and thigh are iron. "Yeah, man."

"And then he said..." Shaggy trails off, looking up into the air momentarily as if that'll help him remember the rest of the anecdote. "Fuck, I don't remember. Can you tell the story? Jason's never heard it, apparently."

While Bucky — quite reluctantly — recounts the story for the crowd, you sit idly on his lap. Thinking about it. All of it.

And you're absolutely, irrevocably, without a doubt fucked.

When the embers start to die and the people gradually trudge back to the house, you realize how late it's gotten.

Fireworks went off ages ago, illuminating the sky in hues of yellow, orange, red, sprinkles of blue and white to celebrate the holiday. Though your mind is elsewhere the whole time, solely focused on the man beneath you as he pulls you a fraction closer at the light show, cheeks brushing as you try to ignore the rapid thumping of your heart, using the fireworks as an excuse not to turn an inch to look at him. When it’s all done and over, conversations resume around the fire, more s’mores are eaten, more drinks are opened.

The half moon rises high in the sky on a cloudless night, shimmering gently over the waves on the water and pushing and pulling the soft tide. The quiet chatter from the last few people around the fire echos across the lake, the idea of s'mores long forgotten as everyone now takes the remaining sips of their drinks, bids a farewell, and disappears into the house or walks down the street to their respective homes.

Once she realized you weren't moving from his lap, Izzy packed up camp a little while ago, loudly announcing her departure to earn a few polite goodbyes and weaving into the night. It feels like a breath of fresh air when she's no longer watching your every move, but when you also feel no inclination to move off his lap (despite having nothing to prove anymore), your heart settles like a kettlebell in your gut, knowing the reason is deeper than just simply being too lazy to get up and take your own seat.

Bucky's fingers have been tracing up and down your spine for the past twenty minutes, slow and deliberate while he casually converses with his cousin. You sit still as a statue, relishing in the sensation but also not wanting to make it seem like you're enjoying this. But he knows. Because he knows you would've shrugged his touch off if you didn't want it.

It isn't until you're the last two remaining where you rediscover your motor functions.

Carefully slipping off his lap and standing on wobbly legs, your eyes drift down to his sitting figure, still manspreading so godforsaken arrogant as he peers up at you, head cocked to the side and blue eyes twinkling with pride. It's almost criminal how good he looks like this, unguarded and domestic with his hair slightly mussed and his plain white tee sitting snugly across his chest and around his biceps. His demeanor drips in smugness, absolutely eating up the way you're shamelessly staring down at him, and for a moment you brace for one of his incessant flirt tactics or forward one liners.

But it never comes. The silence says everything he wants to tell you.

Bucky simply stares up at you. Calculated. Morphing into something deeper than just lust. Maybe admiration? As one would admire the tedious brushstrokes of an intricate painting. He's thinking intently, raking his eyes over the slope of your nose, the curve of your lips, the dips of your collarbone poking through your tank top, your bare thighs where his hand took solace just moments ago. The once over isn't intimidating or intense, it's comfortable, strangely enough. As if he's taking the permission of being able to to heart, running with the opportunity to do so to the girl who never let him get too close.

"If there's something you want," Bucky says quietly after a moment, low and deliberate, "just ask."

A bratty retort rises and dies in your throat, your default response to whenever he makes a move (or an insinuation to one?), and instead linger in the moment, letting his words hang in the air as an actual testament instead of a joke.

Because the tension between you is shifted, ever since you decided to slide into his lap like you owned him and ever since his hand slipped up your shirt to hold you like he had every right to do so. It's uncharted waters, something you've never experienced with him in all your years of friendship. Sure, you've hugged once or twice and hit him feebly more times than you can count, but this is different. You allowed it, you're still allowing it, and he's taking that opportunity and making the most of it while he can.

A particularly rogue, loud wave drifts you from your thoughts, pulling your attention towards the shore.

You consider it for a moment, turning your head to see if anyone's still outside, and then back to the water, and then finally down at his figure.

"I wanna swim."

Bucky's brows skyrocket, certainly not expecting that. "What?"

Tilting your head to the side in playfulness, your fingers skim the bottom hem of your tank. "You heard me."

His eyes lock onto the sliver of skin that's exposed when you mess with the fabric, mouth agape as if he has an excuse right at the tip of his tongue. As if on autopilot, Bucky sits up, arms reaching up to pull your tank top down to where you bunched it up (or simply to have his hands on you again).

But you swerve his grabby hands, bare feet dipping into the stone patio after kicking off your flip flops, walking backwards towards the dock while still maintaining eye contact with him, challenging him, daring him, keeping him on his toes. Especially when you see him swallow a particularly harsh breath when you push your tank top up and off your body, discarding it carelessly as you're left in your bra and fumbling with the belt of your shorts.

A grin widens on your lips. "Scared?"

Bucky scoffs, the taunt kickstarting his motor functions as he subconsciously stands, flicking off his shoes and shirt in the same motion. He closes the space you created in just a few audacious steps, his broad shoulders shielding the light of the dying fire so that his body backlights the flames, making him look like some sort of angel reincarnated. Well, that comparison also aids to the fact that his shirt is off, and it's definitely a heavenly sight. Objectively speaking.

"I think you're forgetting who you're talking to," he teases low, eyes glued to the way you shimmy out of your shorts.

Yeah, he's seen you in a bikini before plenty of times (each time more enjoyable for him than the last), but this is entirely different. He nearly groans at the sight in front of him, the concept of you standing out here in the open in your matching bra and underwear simply for the love of the game. And you can tell he's tattooing this visual in his brain, the first time ever seeing you in actual undergarments looking like sin.

"No, I remember," you challenge immediately. "Clear as day."

His shorts are pooled around his ankles in a matter of milliseconds, and now you're both here: standing in the middle of a dock in the dead of the night in your underwear, the only light now from the half moon cascading light across the lake. The fire's burned out, the lights in the house are off, only the moon and the lightning bugs flickering shed a glow on the moment. It's dark, but just light enough to see the silhouette of his face, the slope of his nose, the steady rise and fall of his bare chest mere inches away from you.

After a moment of simply standing and staring, you turn towards the open water, walking slowly towards the edge as you fumble with the back clasp of your bra, letting the material fall onto the dock along with pushing your underwear down over the curve of your ass, suppressing a shit eating grin knowing he's watching your every movement behind you, especially when you hear his breath hitch audibly.

You don't turn. You don't say anything. Instead you let your toes curl the edge of the dock for one, two, moments before jumping into the cool water.

The coldness engulfs you immediately, black water surrounding you everywhere. You feel the bottom of the lake briefly, but when you come up to surface you're treading on the waves, the water being just deep enough where you can't touch.

However, your fleeting moment of staying afloat doesn't last too long before you feel the catastrophic splash of him jumping in beside you, shaking his hair out like a dog as soon as he surfaces.

"Agh—"

You groan in annoyance, attempting to shove him away as your default response but he knows you too well, anticipating this move and grabbing your wrists before they can make contact with his chest. Then, his hands immediate find your bare waist under the water and tugs you taut to his just-as-bare body.

Your arms instinctively wrap around his shoulders as the waves lap up to your collarbone, shielding your body under the near-black water. But he can feel you all the same, skin to skin, chest to chest, especially when your legs hook around his waist and his fingers dig a little deeper in the soft skin of your flesh, anchoring himself to the moment, to the feel of your body, to the sensation he's been fantasizing about for what feels like forever. When your pubic bone meets his, you realize he's just as naked as you are.

"You're evil for that."

You feign innocence. "What? I love swimming. Sue a girl for wanting to get some laps in."

Bucky shakes his head, and despite the darkness you can make out the blues of his eyes, how they're focused on nothing but you, you, you.

"Sweet girl, this isn't about the swimming and you know that." His voice is low, deliberate, edging on playfulness and genuine pain.

Still, you lean into the bit, figuratively and literally. "Maybe. But where's the fun in that?"

His lips barely brush yours. "Fun? You think teasing me all night is fun?"

"I'd say so."

"Yeah. For you."

"What would you consider it?"

He grins. "Someone who's dodging her real feelings."

“Oh?”

“Yeah. One may say euro-stepping.”

"Sure," you murmur against his lips. "Because calling it that is much more appropriate."

Then you kiss him.

And the whole world stops spinning. Because you never knew, you never ever would fucking suspect that this is where your dignity goes to die, tangled up in Bucky Barnes' arms and making out with him like your life depends on it. You never knew how nice it could be, taut against his body and tasting the lingering tequila on his lips as he groans into your mouth as if it's been killing him to not know what you feel like for all this time spent as his friend. His pal. His weirdly annoying acquaintance that he can seemingly never get enough of.

Bucky kisses you like a man starved, oxygen escaping his lungs the longer he spends seeking solace in the way you taste, feel, smell. He makes a noise, a sigh of relief and pleasure perhaps, and the sound goes straight to your core as you wrap your legs a fraction tighter around his middle, sending the message loud and clear without actually having to say anything. And he notices. Obviously. Because his cock is hard and throbbing and the mere feel of his size makes you dizzy.

"Oh my god," Bucky mumbles against your lips, drunk off the feeling of you. "Knew you'd taste so sweet."

"Sweeter somewhere else," you say gently, coaxing him.

"Fuck," he curses immediately. "You can't— You can't just say that."

Your hands slide over his cool skin, a palm pressing on his erratic heartbeat and the other seeking solace in the column of his neck, feeling both pulse points and how the rhythm skyrockets at the sensation.

"I can't?"

"No." The response is sharp, pained, as if he's barely holding it together. "Because I'm losing my fucking mind here."

You lean down, brushing your cheek with his as your lips attach to his jaw, to the stubble on his neck, to the soft skin of his earlobe that makes him sigh so gutturally that it sends a shiver down your spine. His hands trail experimentally down over the globes of your ass, breath hitching with the anticipation you’ll shove him off, but you don’t. You fucking don’t. You hum pleasingly so he squeezes, pulling you closer, fingertips digging in your flesh and rocking your hips against his so subtly that you feel the length of his cock pressing against your front.

Now it’s your turn to curse.

“Fuck.” You shift your hips against his once more. “Of course you’d have a big dick.”

Bucky chuckles boyishly, seemingly pleased with your approval. Yet you feel his neck get hot with the compliment, a bit flustered at the sudden remark, and it makes you zoom out for a moment, because behind all the sweet talk and flirting and charming persona, he’s just a guy. Flustered with a bit of flirting back. Folding immediately after a bit of touching and soft words. Not only does it make a nice swell of pride in your chest, it makes your heart flutter. Knowing he’s just a man.

“Makes up for being an asshole,” is all he’s able to get out.

You hum against his vocal cord, purposefully pressing your breasts further into his chest and skimming your palm over his heartbeat.

“You’re not an asshole,” you say genuinely, softly, too kind to be kidding. “Not actually.”

“Careful, baby,” he warns. “It’s starting to sound as if you like me or something.”

“I can totally swim away if you want me to—“

“Nope.” His hands are iron grip. “Not a chance. You’re stuck with me.”

You scoff. “I’m never being nice to you again.”

Bucky kisses your temple, a display of intimate affection that makes your heart thrum with all notes of lust aside. It’s delicate. Simple. Promising. Something you can definitely get used to.

“I can live with that,” he says simply, as if it’s certain as law.

That’s when you pull back to look at him. To truly look at him.

How pretty he looks in the moonlight, skin soft with water droplets cascading down his cheeks from his damp hair. How soft his gaze is as he stares right back at you, reaching a hand up to the crown of your head to wipe away your hair that’s fallen onto your face, tucking it gingerly behind your ear and letting his palm idly lay on your jaw, holding you there as if he has all the time in the world to do so. Deliberate. Meaningful. Purposeful.

It isn’t until a fish swims up against your leg, scaly and slimy and absolutely ruining the moment as you yelp, scrambling in his arms.

“Argh— What the fuck!”

Bucky laughs. Hard. Shoulders shaking and everything, hardly panicked in the slightest as you grimace, practically koala clinging to him and scanning the inky water for any more proof of aquatic life.

“Easy,” he muses gently, beginning to walk towards shore with you still in his arms. “All this big, bad talk and you’re scared of a fish.”

You scoff, cheek to cheek with him as you rest your chin on his shoulder, scanning the ripples of waves forming behind him (and totally not staring at his ass in the act of doing so). Your palms lie on his upper back, feeling the planes and muscles move as he trudges out of the water and not even feeling an ounce of shame about it.

“That wasn’t a fish,” you defend instantly, hating the way he’s still literally laughing at you. “That was… It was a three tailed shark, or something.”

Bucky’s footsteps gradually stop, leaving him in thigh-deep as your naked body is completely out in the open as you still cling to him, suddenly fucking freezing despite the warm air and frustrating that he’s not moving, instead standing audaciously still. In this moment you realize just how incredible naked you are — him, too — hanging onto him like a second skin as he holds you like a lifeline.

His words are slow and calculated. “A three tailed shark?”

You groan, annoyed he’s not moving. “Or something.”

“…Or something. Don’t sharks have fins? Not tails?”

His tone makes it sound like he’s on the verge of barking out laughter.

"Can we go inside and stop lingering in creature infested waters please?"

"Oh, god," Bucky says, feigning horror. "It must've bit and infected you with something. You're saying please."

"Bucky."

"It's worse than I thought."

"I'm going to kill you."

"Just like any other day."

When he (eventually) starts moving again, he sets you down gently on the small shore as you immediately give him a shove which earns a hearty laugh from him, stomping away from the beautiful sound to retrieve your scattered clothes on the dock and bonfire patio. The embers have gone out long ago, leaving the two of you coated in a comfortable darkness illuminated solely from the moonlight.

As you gather his clothing as well — even though you throw it at him as he continues to laugh right in your face — you noticed a dim light flicked on in the house on the first floor. If that isn't motivation to get dressed, then you don't know what is. So you slip your tank top and shorts back on despite your sopping wet figure, noticing Bucky following suit as you're already halfway to the house.

"Wait— fuck," Bucky curses, picking up a light job to fall into stride with you, audaciously bumping your shoulder now that he has the right to do so. "The three tailed fish almost got me, and you weren't there to save me."

Your eye roll kickstarts a migraine.

Shamelessly, he slides his hand in yours, interlacing your fingers. "I could've died," he says incredulously.

Truly you try to ignore how nice it feels to be holding his hand, how is palm encases yours and how his thumb glides over your smooth skin in admiration, such a simple gesture but...sweet in its own. Christ, get it together, you're not in middle school. Even though his incessant teasing makes your face feel hot and even though you try and hide your smile (impossible), you don't dream of pulling away like you normally would. You...let yourself have the moment, even if your dignity is the price.

"I think you're having way too much fun overanalyzing a moment of weakness," you mumble bitterly, walking up the porch stairs and avoiding his gaze.

He hums low. "Am I?"

"Clearly."

"Couldn't you argue I'm on cloud nine because I kissed a pretty girl instead?"

God, your face is burning. How do words come so easy for him? "Do you ever stop talking?"

"Never with you."

He squeezes your hand once, twice in a way that makes you think he probably doesn't even realize he's doing so. When you get to the door, Bucky's quicker than you, reaching his unoccupied hand up to quietly turn the knob and open the door with a gentle creak, gesturing you to enter first like the grandeur gentleman he is (debatable) and hot on your tail so he can close the door behind the two of you (probably making you go in first so he can take a sneak peak at your ass).

Once you're both inside, Bucky stands broad behind you, still gingerly holding your hand as the other one comes to lay refuge on your waist, guiding you towards the grand stairs just on the other side of the dimly lit kitchen. He's right at your back, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against your spine as he pushes you into the next room—

...To where you're not alone.

You freeze when you see a figure standing at the kitchen island, the spot where you stood with Bucky and Izzy a few mere hours ago where you learned her true character, and your heart drops when you realize it's Bucky's dad, nursing a half drank whiskey in his pajamas. He's peering at the two of you intently, and you realize they have the same bright blue eyes, as if you're looking at his carbon copy. You wonder if he's who Bucky sees every time he looks in the mirror.

Mr. Barnes stares at you and his son through tired eyes, almost as if he was expecting this to happen, a little midnight rendevous involving his prone-to-risky-behavior kid. This probably isn't the first time his father has caught him in a predicament like this, unfortunately, given the way Bucky absolutely stills behind you and how his grip becomes iron.

"James," his father says eventually, low and rough around the edges with exhaustion. "It's one in the morning."

Although Bucky doesn't cower. "I'm aware. We were being quiet."

His father does a quick (and rather judge mental) once over of the two of you: hair dripping, bodies sopping wet, water staining through previously dried clothes and probably making a puddle the longer you stand stagnant in one place. You can imagine how this doesn't look great, especially for Bucky whose been trying to render the rebellious image his family has of him.

All of that hard work today is seemingly put down the drain, because you think that — at the end of the day — the only approval your supposed-boyfriend has been seeking is his father's...who doesn't look very happy in this given moment.

The up-curl of his father's lip is nothing nice. "You really thought it'd be a good idea to mess around in the water this late?"

Bucky narrows his eyes. "I'm not a kid."

"You're my kid," he corrects pointedly, not saving room for argument. "Acting like an idiot."

"Can we not— Can we not do this right now? In front of my girlfriend?"

A shiver runs down your spine, both at the incoming confrontation and the forbidden g-word.

But Mr. Barnes doesn't flinch at the attempt to diffuse the escalating situation.

"You're an adult acting like a child." His father's voice is quiet in volume, but laced with venom at the undertones. "So I'm going to speak to you like one."

Before Bucky can say anything else, you unexpectedly clear your throat.

"The swimming was my idea," you defend gently, trying to diffuse the growing tension with an ounce of the sweetness everyone seems to think you have. "Not his. Really. I practically forced him to."

Your name is said softly behind you, defeated and partially in warning to not get involved.

But you are. Oh, you fucking are getting involved. Because Bucky's been subconsciously throwing looks over his shoulder to see if his father was seeking him out for anything special, to see if he was needed for any task whether it be helping man the grill or even take out the trash, for fuck's sake. It's not your place to say you noticed, but you did, and your heart breaks for him, for the small shroud of hope he always holds for the mere possibility he'll be loved. Appreciated. Cared for in a way he yearns to be.

Besides, you're not scared of this man. Granted, you've been wanting to fight him for years given the way Bucky's shoulders always sag without meaning to whenever parents get brought up, but you've always had something personal set out for his father despite wanting to strangle Bucky half the time you've known him. But this is different. This is love, we're talking about. A basic human emotion. Something everyone should have, feel, give out. And his father just...doesn't.

His father's eyes set on you. "That's very chivalrous, honey, but James knows better—"

"I do too," you interrupt firmly, yet gentle enough to not escalate with volume. You need to get out of this kitchen. Stat. Not for your sake but for the man standing behind you, still as a statue. "Definitely irresponsible, but still. I'm sorry for bringing water into the house, where do you keep your towels so I can clean it up?"

"That's not—"

Bucky's father trails off, cutting his sentence in half as he sighs instead, peering at your innocent gaze and pondering for one, two beats before sighing again, ultimately deciding that this little dominance back and forth act is simply not worth the trouble. Nor the headache. Because there's no way you're not taking the blame and there's no way his father wants to pin the blame on anyone other than his son, the easy way out.

"No need for that," Mr. Barnes secedes eventually. "The two of you just... head to bed and we'll forget this happened in the morning."

You furrow your brows, a retort rising in your throat.

But Bucky squeezes your hand, leaning down so his lips ghost the shell of your ear.

"C'mon." His voice is merely a whisper. "Let's go."

Bidding a soft goodnight to his father, you allow Bucky to guide you out of the kitchen, still right behind you but without the same smile from earlier, the same pep in his step. Instead he's quiet — too quiet — as he trails your path up the stairs, down the hallway all the way to the left, and into his childhood bedroom where you brought your bags up to earlier today.

When he shuts the door behind you and flicks on the old Superman lamp he's had since he was a kid, you're engulfed in a gentle light, illuminating the old comic book collection gathering dust in the corner and the old super-hero posters hanging on the wall, edges creased from aging. Most of the recent decor he brought to his apartment, so everything in here are the scraps, the old testaments to his childhood that make your heart swell detrimentally.

"You wanna shower?"

Bucky's voice startles you as you shamelessly study his wall decor, turning your heel to discover him on the other side of the room plugging his phone in.

He can barely look you in the eye as he continues. "Room's on the other side of the house where everyone's sleeping. It won't wake anyone up, if that's what you're thinking."

You frown.

...No. That's not what you're thinking.

You're thinking about him pretending to be fine, pretending not to care about the emotional toll his father has on his life, pretending not to acknowledge the astronomical tonal shift from when you were in the lake to now, two opposite ends of the same stick, planets apart. You're thinking about how he always goes into panic mode whenever his father's around, and you assume it's him bracing for the anticipation of being insulted or belittled or completely ignored all together. You're thinking about the fact that no one's probably defended him in his life. Maybe besides his sister, but she's not here this weekend, so he would've had to muster it alone if you didn't show.

But you can easily tell he doesn't want to talk about it given the way he barely looks in your direction. He probably needs a moment, you think logically, so no big deal. You'll take a quick shower, maybe he'll go after you or he'll fall asleep. The activities from the lake can wait. Truly, they can, because you want him to be in the right headspace.

So you shower. Quickly. Not bothering with half of your normal routine, just a simple body and hair wash before stepping out, and you barely get a word in because he enters the bathroom right after you, following your actions. In the time he takes under the hot water, you slip into your pajamas and slide into his childhood bed, claiming a side you hope isn't his and staring at the ceiling. You count down the minutes until the water shuts off, wringing the thin blanket in your hands as some sort of pathetic coping mechanism to fuel your bubbling nerves.

Bucky emerges from the backroom in basketball shorts, his normal sleeping attire, as he maneuvers swiftly around the room to shut the lights off and eventually slide into the bed next to you.

Your fingers twitch in his direction, aching to hold him.

The silence between you is palpable, and you teeter between wanting to fill the gap or let it coarse you into a deep sleep. However that internal debacle doesn't last very long, because when he adjusts his position and his arm brushes yours, you take a long deep breath. Well, so much for trying to mind your own business.

"Hey." You nudge his arm with yours. "You asleep?"

"It's been thirty seconds since I've laid down."

"...So, no?"

Bucky chuckles softly in the darkness, and you count that as a win in your books. "No, sweet girl."

You hum contently, biting your lip as a million questions rise and die in your throat. How do you...broach it? Do you outright ask if he's alright? Simply reach over and hold him instead of opting for your words? Or do you make him use his words, talk through his bubbling feelings. That will most likely make him feel better (you'd hope) but then again, he most definitely does not want to do that, not with you, especially since he'll probably label is as a serial mood killer.

His voice startles you. "I can hear you thinking."

You blink stupidly.

"Sorry," you say immediately, unsure of why you're apologizing. "I just— I'm sorry. I wanna know if you're alright, but I feel like I know the answer, but I also didn't want to say anything to remind you— I don't even— Sorry. I don't know anymore."

Bucky doesn't say anything, and the silence is almost unbearable. Granted it's only a few seconds between your last breath and the long stretch of quiet elongating between you, but it feels like eons, days stretched into nights, weeks into months and months into years. Your panicked incessant rambling lingers like a cloud in the air, unforgiving and soft but so fucking obvious.

God, why isn't he saying anything?

You only make it worse. "That sucked. Hearing him speak to you like that. I hate that it's normal. It shouldn't be." Fucking christ, stop talking. "Even today with your aunts, I don't understand it. You didn't deserve that. You don't deserve that. That's not... That isn't how you speak to people you love." Shut the fuck up. "I just... I'm sorry. That's all. I'm here if you want to talk. Uhm. Yeah."

Bucky's still quiet for a moment.

Then, "Will you c'mere?"

At his words you blink once, twice, unsure you heard him right, but the longer it lingers in the air, the more certain you are of the request, swallowing the lump in your throat and cautiously shifting towards him, heart racing from your panicked little speech at the fear of crossing boundaries or making him feel like even more shit than he already probably does.

You place a light palm on his bare chest experimentally, and his hand immediately encases over your knuckles, fingers calloused and rough and cool from the water. Cautiously, you rest your cheek on his shoulder as he wraps an arm around your body to splay his hand on your spine, tugging you closer.

And you just... hug him.

Truthfully, you're not really sure why you do so, but you assume it's stemming from the kettlebell settled in your gut from the interaction with his father, how easy it was for him to speak down at his son as if it was any other day. God, it make your chest ache with something you're not necessarily ready to confront and understand, but that feeling lingers and spreads in your body like a wildfire, hot and burning and impossible to ignore.

The whole thing makes Bucky stiffen, not from the act of having you close but from the implication behind it, the way you're trying to comfort him instead of brush it off like everyone else does, caring for him in a way that feels foreign, performative, fake. He's not used to it, used to this, to the simplicity of your rambling words to the warmth of your arms, literally and figuratively.

You swallow thickly and it feels like sandpaper.

The sound makes Bucky snort, chest jerking underneath you. "I'm alright."

"Okay."

"I think you're more upset about it than I am."

You huff, half playful and half in disbelief that he's finding the energy to kid around. "Upset is an understatement. I think I'm ready to take on your whole family, Scott Pilgrim style."

Bucky's thumb smoothes over your knuckles delicately, as if he's skimming the topography of a map. "That fighting technique is for evil exes, sweet girl."

"Still applicable here," you murmur without thinking, flashes of a pretty blonde popping into mind.

All he does is hum teasingly, but it's gentler, as if his eyes are shut and sleep is beginning to overtake. Despite desperately wanting to continue the activities from the lake, you know it's not the time nor place for that kind of mood. And, genuinely, you're fine with that. Because you want that moment, whenever it may come, to be in good graces, to be in the right headspace.

It's quiet again for a while, the two of you basking in the now-comfortable silence as you hold each other as if life itself depends on it. The concept of being here, laid in his arms, seeking his warmth and touching him for longer than ten seconds would've seemed like a fever dream yesterday, but now that it's something that you've experienced, there's little to no possibility of ever returning to what it once was. Not when you know how nice it is to be held by him, touched by him, kissed by him.

You're inches from sleep when his baritone voice lulls you.

"Izzy and I were together when I was in my snowboarding accident."

His voice is all but a whisper, a hushed breath, but you hear him all the same, now wide awake with the anticipation of his anecdote. You've heard about his accident in high school, how his arm was the price of his life. Granted, you've never really asked him about it not knowing if it's a sensitive topic, but he's mentioned it a few times in the duration of your friendship casually. Snowboarding accident, months of trial testing bionic limbs, a whole nightmare for him. Sure, he's infinitely better now, but sometimes you notice the way he rolls out his shoulder where flesh meets metal, never quite comfortable in skin that isn't his.

You feel the cool metal against your back, calming you in more ways than you'd care to admit.

"At first, she was there for me as much as any seventeen year old could." Bucky's fingers trace over your vertebrae, perhaps as a coping mechanism. "Tied my shoes. Fixed my hair. Carried things for me. Drove me to appointments when my mom couldn't. Basic caretaker tasks like that."

Your stomach fills with dread imagining a seventeen year old Bucky faced with such an incomprehensible struggle, a life-changing alteration. Just a kid. Having to re-learn everything he already knew.

Then he pauses for a moment, finding the correct words.

"It got to the point where I was inconsolable. Treatment was rough, the bionic matches kept falling through. I think it got too hard for her because I was so negative all the time," he excuses quietly.

Your defense is immediate. "No shit you were negative, Bucky. You went through something incomprehensible."

"Easy, sweet girl." His voice is saccharine, light and playful at your irritation as if he's finding your rising blood pressure funny. "It was a long time ago. I'm over it. I'm telling you because I want you to know, not because I'm still bitter, okay?"

With a small sigh, you secede, digging your cheek further into his shoulder to prevent a pout. "M'kay."

Bucky hums. "Good girl," he murmurs with certainty.

(Your breath hitches. You disguise it as a yawn.)

He either ignores it and lets you suffer or doesn't notice. "But basically she just slowly pulled away. Stopped checking in, brushed me off at school like she was embarrassed by the whole thing. The amount of times I made Steve and Becca do my hair or get that one itch on my back was concerning. However, I did learn how to chop fruit one handed. Felt a bit like Soul Surfer."

"Bucky."

He chuckles boyishly. "Sorry. But true. It was right before prom when she left me officially when I got a bionic match for a new arm." His fingers wiggle against your spine, making you laugh into his warm skin. "I thought...you know... we'd be good. I was getting better, actually had a working limb," he continues, trailing off because you both know how the story ends.

You ask anyway. "What happened?"

"Her dress was navy," he says simply. "Didn't match with black."

Your filter leaves the room. Immediately.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

Bucky just laughs. Hard. Honest. As if he was totally expecting the reaction.

"Nope," he says simply, still coming down from his laughter (that is normally such a beautiful noise but you're too busy seeing red to process anything other than how bad you want to fight her right now). "Took Becca as my date and had loads more fun, anyway."

The anecdote still does nothing to soothe your frustration. "How could she—? When you were— Did she even—? And then she has the audacity to try and get you back—"

"Easy." A playful warning.

"No. I'm fighting her in the morning."

He snorts as if this is the most entertaining bit of the day. "You're not fighting anyone. I'm okay, I'm over it." Then he pauses. "But I'm flattered you'd fight someone for me, baby."

The pet name makes your face flush, and instead of commenting on it (because he can probably feel your heat on his skin), all he does is hum with contentment, because you can deny it all you want, but he's right. You will go to bat for him, and you have multiple times in the past twenty four hours, despite how much you love to tell him you won't. It's almost a bit embarrassing how well he can read you, even in the dark, unknowing to the extent of which he knows you, how much he's been paying attention to your mannerisms, demeanor, behavior the last few years of knowing him.

You yawn gently despite your bubbling anger, squeezing him just a fraction tighter as a wordless gesture that you're here, you're not running, and you're in his corner no matter how much he riles you up, makes you want to punch a wall, or smack him upside the head. Preferably in that order.

Then his lips meet your hairline, pressing gently as a show of good faith as your eyes flutter shut, relishing pathetically in the moment.

"Sleep it off, Rocky," Bucky jokes low, voice rough with sleep and admiration. "You'll be back to sweet girl in the morning."

"Wait." You find yourself saying a little more desperate than you hoped. "We're not— Uh— Are we not— Like, you know..."

Bucky pauses, your babble of an incoherent sentence lingering in the air.

"Are we not..?" He asks in clarification, trailing off. “…what?”

But he’s connecting the dots anyway, trying to suppress a grin you can practically hear in the darkness and how deliciously it spreads on his lips. The rapid thumping of your heart is a dead giveaway as to what you’re referring to, and Bucky’s too smart to not know the nuance of your words, too in tune with your semantics and too fucking keen on you as a whole. It sometimes it feels like he knows your reactions and responses before you even know them yourself.

The pause between you is palpable, because he knows what you’re asking for. But he’s never made things easy for you — why would he? Especially when he has the opportunity to hear you use your words, plea for continuing the events from earlier, something he’s been dreaming about for far too long in such a pathetic way that it makes him practically oozing with smugness. He wants to hear you beg for him, to say please like the sweet girl you are, and then he’ll have you every single way you want him.

You groan irritably. “You’re really gonna make me say it?”

“Yup.” Prick.

“This should be considered a form of medieval torture.”

“What’s torture is every second you’re delaying the inevitable.”

You roll your eyes even though you know he can’t see it. “For you.”

The sigh that comes from his mouth is dreamy, almost mockingly as you build up the courage to give him what he wants. “Who knew I’d get cracked in my childhood bedroom.”

“Seriously? Can you not phrase it like that?”

His fingers skim the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow and deliberate and dangerously low on your back. The baritone hum emitting from his throat does nothing to settle the bubbling nerves in your stomach.

“Sorry,” he says, completely unapologetic. “Who knew that you’d get cracked in my childhood bedroom.”

“Bucky.”

He repeats your name back with a mirrored cadence.

You sigh, knowing that you might as well be talking directly to a brick wall.

But it isn’t until he shifts up onto his side, ducking down in the darkness to find the curve of your jaw with his lips. He places one, two chaste kisses on your soft skin, a plea of sorts, and then moves lower to the column of your neck, shamelessly inhaling the faint scent of shampoo as he sucks a sweet spot just below your jaw. When he groans quietly — yet loud to you all the same because he’s right there by your earlobe — your hands immediately seek solace on his broad shoulders, fingers dancing in the ends of his hair as some sort of coping mechanism.

“Tell me to stop,” Bucky mumbles against your pulse point, his hushed whisper sounding pained.

Your response is immediate. “Don’t.”

With one swift guidance, you’re suddenly on your back with your hair splayed against the pillow, and Bucky’s hovering over you, chest to chest, as his lips immediately connect with yours, full of hunger and admiration and straight disbelief that you’re both in this scenario right now. He slots himself between your open legs, barely — just barely — connecting his hips with yours. The faintest brush of his hard cock to your cunt makes you both intake a sharp breath, and it isn’t until you’re ignoring the steps to take it slow and hooking your legs around his waist, tugging him closer by digging your heels in the base of his spine so that you feel him. All of him. Up against you.

Bucky moans into your mouth at the contact, minimal but there and prominent.

It makes you feel dizzy. Buzzed off one drink. Floaty off one hit. Intoxicated and airy and light as if you’re not even on the planet. You kiss him back with fervor as you feel his hands push the hem of your sleep shirt up over your ribs, just stopping shy of the swell of your breasts.

You answer before he can put the request into words. “Off.”

Bucky obeys, but not without him grinning against your lips. “Bossy.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Your shirt is discarded somewhere carelessly in the darkness, leaving your chest bare. “Would you rather me be quiet and complicit?”

His hands waste no time fondling your breast, pushing and pulling the flesh and rolling the pad of his thumb over your pebbled nipple. The act is done in pure admiration, the need to explore and simply feel your body, to learn what makes your toes curl and eyes roll back.

“No,” he says immediately before ducking down to attach his mouth to your chest.

Sighing, your back arches into his mold, one hand fisting the ends of his hair and the other splayed on his broad back. The sensation of his mouth on one breast and the cool metal fingers fondling the other gives you a shock of pleasure that’s almost embarrassing to admit. It’s hot and cold, your body confused with the temperature it’s supposed to be feeling, but it sends a jolt of pleasure down your spine nonetheless.

You think you sigh his name. Maybe you moan it. At this point, you’ve lost control of your motor and speech functions.

Christ, it’s humiliating how wet you are. You can feel it in your sleep shorts, and perhaps you were dripping for him ever since his hand grabbed your ass to initiate this little rendezvous. Regardless of the semantics, he’s bound to discover the remnants of your pleasure sooner or later, probably in seconds given the way his hand slowly skims down your ribcage, over your stomach, eventually settling on the waistband of your sleep shorts and dipping his fingers inside to tug down.

This time, Bucky does ask. He takes. And within seconds, your shorts are added to the discarded pile of scattered clothing.

When his fingers meet the slick wetness between your slit, you sigh unabashedly loud from the mere teasing, not missing the way his breath hitches from where his mouth kisses your breast almost as if it’s stolen from him. Ragged and pained and you swear you feel his cock twitch in his shorts.

“Oh my god.” His fingers spread you open, feeling your obscene wetness. The act is nothing short of slow and deliberate, as if in disbelief. “All this for me, sweet girl?”

Your face flushes. “Bucky.”

Your attempt at a deadpan falls short, and it merely comes out as a breathy sigh that’s music to his ears.

He’s in heaven. He must be, given the dreamy sigh that falls from his lips. “Knew you liked me.”

“Shut up.”

Bucky laughs again at your attempt to stay tough, maneuvering down your torso with kisses peppered to your breasts, ribcage, stomach, hip bone, all the way to your inner thighs where he nestles in between your legs, hooking your thighs over his shoulders with one hand remaining on one of your breasts. He gives it a gentle squeeze, a reaffirmation, as you brush some hair out of his eyes that you can just make out in the moonlight poking through the sliver of the curtain.

“I think you should be a little nicer to the guy who’s about to eat you out.”

You scoff, ignoring the way you twitch when his hot breath fans over your cunt. “I think you should—“

You don’t finish. He doesn’t let you, prick, because his mouth attaches to your core to shut you up immediately.

And it works, because ho— holy fu— fuck—

Bucky hums greedily low into your cunt at the effectiveness of making you speechless, plunging his tongue that’s hot and needy as his nose nudges into your clit every time his jaw tightens. One hand squeezes your breast, rolling his thumb over your nipple, as the other splays on your hipbone to effectively keep your hips tethered to the bed. God, you’re trying to move against his face, writhing with pleasure that he’s too good at giving, and he’s only making it worse by keeping you still. Your thighs shake around his head at the attempts, back arched against the mattress as if it’s done something to personally offend you.

A minute passing feels like eons. He eats you out like a man starved, thoroughly pleased with the way you’re breathily moaning curses and his name as if they’re mantras spilling from your lips. It’s a beautiful sound, one he’s thought about more than once with his hand down his pants picturing it was your hand. Now it only makes his cock throb achingly, and his hips rutting into the mattress somewhat relieves the pressure in his groin.

He shifts his body, freeing a shoulder. When he adds his fingers to the mix after another minute of greedily letting his mouth do all the work, the pad of his thumb searches the darkness for that special sweet spot. Bucky misses once, twice, three times, but when a ragged moan escapes your lips at the fourth attempt, he doesn’t miss again. Instead, he presses harder circles, keeping the same rhythm that makes you squirm and whine and clutch his hair so tight it makes his eyes roll back into his head.

The coil builds in your lower tummy, sparking like a lit match and gradually getting brighter with a sense of euphoria that’s blinding, dismantling all your default settings and making you into a big pile of mush and moans. Your heels dig into his lower back and your thighs clamp against his head, and instead of pulling away or teasing you, it only spurs him on further, as if suffocating is part of his endgame.

“Bucky,” you babble clumsily. “Fuck— Right th— Fuck, I’m close—“

A low hum escapes his throat, vibrating your pleasure to tenfold as it comes crashing over embarrassingly fast, blinking away the blurry spots in your vision as you come hard on his mouth, writhing against his face as his tongue and fingers fuck you through it nice and firm, the sound wet and obscene and straight pornographic. You feel his lower body jerk forward particularly harsh, as he’s been rutting the mattress the whole time, groaning low into your cunt and it’s such a beautiful sound, a practical whine, sounding irrevocably wrecked just from eating you out.

Bucky Barnes. Whining into your cunt. Fucking you with his mouth so good you practically see stars. Definitely did not see that on your radar.

The aftershocks make your back arch off the mattress, thighs trembling achingly so against the sides of his head, especially when he dives into your cunt for more — after you’ve already come — and the overstimulation makes your thighs jerk closed on instinct. But the notion of tightening your hold around his head only makes Bucky pant into your core, out of breath but not detaching his mouth under any circumstance, as if he wants to die between your thighs as if he was put on this earth to do so.

You shake and babble something incoherent, mind fuzzy and still trying to come down from the intensity of the moment, whining as his tongue continues to lap up the remnants of your orgasm with all the time in the world. The concept of him going in for more, not wanting to stop tasting you, only spurs you on further.

It isn’t until his thumb finds your clit again to where you physically jerk, letting out a shameless moan from the overstimulation.

“I need you,” you murmur raggedly, sounding absolutely fucking wrecked. “C’mere.”

“Wanna give you another,” Bucky mumbles, resting his cheek on your inner thigh as he pants from the work, his fingers replacing his tongue as they plunge in and out of your cunt, curling into sweet spots you thought unimaginable.

You paw around clumsily in the darkness to reattach your fingers to his hair. “Wanna feel you.”

“Fuck,” he whines. Whines. “I need a— need a minute.”

“Please,” you plea into the darkness, throwing your dignity out the window given the sheer desperation in your voice. “I want your cock. Please, Bucky.”

His teeth gently bite down on your inner thigh, making you jerk at the sensation as he bites back a moan — literally.

“God, you’re killing me.” Bucky crawls up your body, needy and desperate and clumsy as his lips find the column of your neck. “Want you too, baby. I just— I need— I can’t—“

Your hand reaches down to cup his length, his achingly hard cock straining his shorts. Bucky physically jerks, practically trembling as you feel his cock literally twitch in your grasp. Especially when your fingers smooth down his length over his shirts, your thumb finding his tip and brushing over—

You gasp.

Brushing over the prominent wet spot.

The cool sensation against your thumb makes you both viscerally react, you intaking a sharp breath of disbelief and Bucky moaning into the hot skin of your neck, his hand iron gripping your waist and the other elbow holding up his body so he doesn’t entirely collapse on you, but given the way he’s melting from simply touching his dick over his clothes, you figure that might happen soon.

He came from eating you out. You hadn’t— You didn’t even need to touch him. And he’s still hard.

So you find yourself smiling. No, grinning.

“All this for me, sweet boy?” You murmur back at him, reiterating his words from earlier.

Bucky scoffs against your neck, burying his face in the crook of it as he sucks a sweet spot on your vocal point. But he doesn’t say anything. He can’t. Not when your hand feels like heaven and sin mixed together in the same breath. Unashamed of his clear want and desire and lust, letting you do whatever you want and placing proverbial knife in your hand and hoping you don’t stab him with it.

You let it happen for a minute. Maybe two, while you essentially jerk him off over the shorts as he assaults your neck. But you need more, clearly not done if the night will allow it. Especially when he sounds this hot, this wrecked as if you have his lifeline in the palm of your hand (in some ways, you do).

“Lie back,” you say gently in his ear, finally not panting after the intensity of your orgasm and speaking coherently.

Bucky hums teasingly, but obeys nonetheless, shifting off of you, sliding his shorts off and propping himself up against the headboard.

“You gonna take care of me, baby?” His gravely voice makes you bite your lip.

You clumsily scramble up to perch in his lap, his hands greedily on you before you can even settle in. It’s dark, no doubt, but you can just make out the outline of his cock standing straight against his stomach, hard and leaking and ready for you again. Gently, you reach down and take him in your hand, thumb brushing over the wet tip and slowly — achingly slow — jerk him off as you feel him tense beneath you, especially when you trace over a vein.

God, he’s big. You don’t need the light to know that.

Bucky’s hand grabs your wrist. “I don’t… I don’t have condoms here.”

You continue your movements. “‘M safe. It’s okay.”

You adjust your hips, lifting them on trembling thighs as you guide his dick through your wet folds, keeping him there as you coat him with the remnants of your previous orgasm.

The sensation makes you both moan pathetically. Bucky’s hands are squeezing the flesh of your ass as he shakily aids your movements, and one of your hands braces on his shoulder, the other smoothing over the lines of his abdomen in admiration. And you just…rub on him for a bit. Feeling his length. (Also to partially hear his breathy whines when his tip nearly enters your cunt with every shift of your hips.)

“You feel like a fucking dream,” Bucky sighs. “Taste like one. Smell like one.”

Instinctively, you lean forward and place a chaste kiss on his lips, one that he chases when you pull back, capturing you in another filthy kiss as your hand guides his cock towards your entrance. With the wet slick of both your arousals, his tip slips right in, and Bucky intakes a sharp breath at the sensation, his hands iron and immediately halting your movements.

“Shit,” he curses. “Shit. Give me a second.”

“Gonna come from just the tip?”

“Shit. Maybe.”

You laugh, and the vibration makes him swear again, nearly sounding pained. Bucky says your name low in warning, but you just pepper kisses on his cheek, jaw, neck, as he slowly — at his pace — lowers your body onto him until he’s buried to the hilt, and you’ve never felt so fucking full, stretched, fulfilled.

Adjusting your hips subtly to accommodate all of him, Bucky’s hand comes up to the crook of your jaw.

“Breathe,” he muses gently.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, so caught up in the mere size of him and how he’s undoubtedly the biggest dick you’ve ever had, stretching you to regions unknown and places you never knew you had. But it’s delectable, delicious, and in this moment in your dazed mind you know that he’s ruined you for anyone else.

His fingers brush hair away from your face. “You okay?”

You nod against his hand. “Feel so full.”

“Do you want me to come immediately?”

His deadpan makes you shakily laugh, now somehow understanding the full effect you have on him, how the mere taste of you made him finish and how he’s still rock hard after doing so, eagerly waiting for me, wanting more, needing more.

“Wanna make you feel good,” you mumble incoherently, blink with pleasure.

But he understands you all the same. “You are. Doing such a great job taking all of me.”

You roll your hips experimentally once, twice, and he doesn’t stop you. Instead, Bucky spurs you on.

“Good girl, that’s it,” he coaxes gently, tone dreamy. “Take what you need.”

So you do.

Well, you try to. Your trembling thighs don’t do much to help you in your movements, but Bucky’s hands planted firmly on the backs of your thighs (practically your ass) aide your bounces, rocking you sensually over his length to take all of him, nearly pull out, just to have you sitting back down on him again, buried to the hilt. Your clit rubs against his pubic bone, nudging every time you sink into him completely. The feel of it makes you whine every time, and he swallows them up when he kisses you, or praises you against your lips.

You’re a pathetic mess, writhing on his lap and taking what you need while you feel him thrust up into you to bury himself that much more. The sensation of his cock reaching spots in your cunt that you’ve never explored before only furthers your arousal, makes you whine into his mouth and dig your fingers into his shoulders to indent crescent moons on his delicate skin.

It isn’t until after a minute or two of his, one of his hands leaves your ass to meet your front, his thumb finding your clit and pressing firm circles on it, making your back arch and your movements jerk, messy, sloppy, lazy, so fucking hot that his hips snap up to meet your discombobulated thrusts. The combination of his cock so fucking deep plus his thumb plus the sound of his breathy moans synonymous to yours makes your head spin, your legs tremble, your heart thump rapidly.

“This what you needed, hm?” Bucky’s voice is absolutely wrecked, a low growl that kickstarts that familiar coil in your lower belly. “Someone to fuck you nice?”

“Wh—Who said you f—fuck me nice?” Your question is humiliatingly answered when his thumb pressed harder onto your clit, eliciting a ragged moan from your pretty lips. “No one s—said that.”

The sound only makes Bucky scoff, or what appears to be one. “Me giving you your second orgasm says otherwise.”

God, how can you read you like a book in the dark? How does he know your body already? Has he felt that way your movements are getting quicker, sloppier, desperate? How your breath is shallow and whiny and wrecked? How the coil building in your gut is already hotter, more blinding, agonizingly more detrimental than the last one? How it’s practically making you see stars already when it hasn’t even climaxed?

“You—You’re not.”

“Oh?” Bucky removes his fingers from your clit and stops thrusting up into you, suddenly still as a statue as a protest immediately rips out of your throat. “I’m not?”

Your desperate is downright humiliating, gasping from being on the brink of an earth shattering orgasm. “Bucky, why’d— Don’t stop— Please— I need—“

“Need what, sweet girl?” Oh, you can hear his fucking grin in the darkness, enjoying this, relishing in your cries as you desperately paw at his shoulders to get him to continue. “I told you to take it, so take it.”

Tears brim your waterline at the denial, god, your orgasm is right there, it’s aching, white hot and searing and almost there, so closed just reachable, but you need his hands, his cock thrusting up into you, his mouth, you can’t do it on your own, your thighs are jelly and you’re hands are shaking.

A ragged breath leaves your mouth and it doesn’t even sound like you, so wrecked. “F—Fuck, baby, I need it, I’m close—“

“Thought you said I wasn’t giving you one?”

Your frustrated groan makes him chuckle meanly.

But he’s not done, cock achingly hard and probably close behind you anyway, so he gives in. Just slightly. With one small, minute, step to be done before he continues anything.

“Just say you need me, sweet girl.” His voice is laced with honey cadence.

You secede. Immediately. Writhing as your orgasm edges you, inhabiting your entire motor and speech functions.

“I need you.” You feel a tear roll down your cheek, desperately trying to find release. “I’m yours.”

That makes Bucky intake a sharp breath, but your request is granted as he thrusts up into you almost without meaning to, thumb clumsily finding your clit again in the dark. And it makes you realize that he’s just as fucking close to finishing as you are, especially with his whimper at your words which is a sound so beautiful it snaps the coil in your lower stomach.

“Fuck—“ Bucky’s voice is desperate. “How are you—? When I—? Holy— Such a— a sweet fuck— fucking—“

You come. Hard. Blinding. It washes over you with a wrecked moan and desperate bounces on his achingly hard cock, as Bucky meets your movements from underneath, rutting and thrusting up into you to chase his own release that comes immediately after, filling you up with hot spurts that make the most obscene noise, his release trickling down your thighs with the combination of yours making a downright filthy mess of sex.

You face buries in the crook of his neck, and you feel him bear-wrap his arms around you to thrust up into you, riding out both of your highs with wrecked moans and a squelching sound straight out of a pornographic film.

Bucky’s movements gradually slow, chests bumping together as you both heave from the intensity of it all, working down to you simply sitting in his lap, still buried to the hilt as the remnants of your shared orgasm dribble down your thighs and onto his, and you make the mistake of twitching (completely out of your control) that shifts your hips, and you let out a soft moan of overstimulation as he softens in you, thighs trembling and hands shaking against his shoulders.

His hands butterfly splay on your spine, tracing soothingly up and down the vertebrae as you catch your breath and blink back your vision. The whole thing is achingly sweet, patient, kind as he waits for you to regain your senses, still buried deep in his neck as you breathe intermittently ragged, wrecked, fucked out.

“You okay?” His voice is gravelly.

You mumble something incoherent, a testament that you hear him but don’t quite have your speech functions back completely yet.

Bucky makes a noise that’s a mix between a laugh and a sigh. “You did so well for me.”

You hum, eyes fluttering shut and your lashes butterfly kiss his soft skin.

“Thank you.”

Did he just—

Steadily, you manage to lift your head, inches from his face. “Did you—“ Your voice is hoarse. “Did you just thank me?”

“Mhm,” he murmurs, completely unashamed. “Had to.”

“For sleeping with you?”

“No. For letting me sleep with you.”

You try to laugh but instead it comes out as a noise of disbelief, skepticism. Because… no. There’s no way he actually— he hasn’t been plotting on you, right? No, there’s genuinely no way. You’ve been friends. Just friends. You’ve never thought about him with his shirt off or what he’s like with other girls or if he’s ever fucked against the wall or in the back of a car—

“Why’re you so surprised?” Bucky says gently, interrupting your thoughts (for the better).

Now you’re sort of regaining your brain as your dizziness fades, the post orgasmic clarity hitting more than ever at the sincerity of his words. He’s being completely serious, and you know that because you feel his fingers drumming on your spine, a nervous tick of his that you’ve seen him do before on countless occasions. It calms him for some reason, as some sort of coping mechanism to stay rooted to the moment.

But you are surprised. You’ve been friends for years, never crossed a boundary further than that and instead used your vernacular as your way of bonding with him. He’s teased, you’ve swore, he’s riled you up, you’ve shoved him, but you’ve always stayed friends, stepping up when it mattered most despite your on and off banter. It’s not— You’ve never considered yourself an actual player on his roster, a forethought, an option as something more than friends to him, because it’s never crossed that line, and frankly you never assumed you were his type. At all.

All this thinking and you realize he’s waiting for an answer.

“Uh,” you say immediately, unsure of where to start. “Well, I don’t know. We’re friends.”

“I’m literally inside you right now.”

You shove gently at his shoulder with what little strength you have. “Idiot. Not counting right now.”

Bucky hums, biding you to continue.

Thank god it’s dark because your face flushes at the sudden flip to something serious, something real and vulnerable that makes your heart lurch in a weird and discomforting way.

“I just—“ You find yourself saying. “I’m not your type.”

“What?” He asks incredulously. “Who told you that?”

You tilt your head to the side, confused. “Uh, every girl I’ve ever seen you with ever?”

“Sweet girl, do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for you?”

You freeze. “Huh?”

His metal hand comes to cradle your face and it nearly makes you jolt from the sensation. “Why do you think I said your name on the phone, hm?”

Bucky leans forward and places a chaste kiss to your right cheek.

“Why do you think I crash girl’s night and come to your apartment unprompted?”

Your left cheek.

“How come I live to rile you up?”

Your lips. You find yourself chasing him when he pulls away.

His voice is saccharine, yet laced with a twang of disbelief that he actually had to be explaining this to you right now. The feeling of his lips makes you dizzy all over again, but also from the meaning behind his words. All this time… All those nights spent bickering and bantering and cursing his name in your sleep, he’s been… into you? Wanting you? Yet waiting patiently for you to eventually come to him?

Your heart is thumping, can he hear it?

“Uh—“ Your voice is coarse. “Wh— You’re into me?”

“Took you long enough.”

Your head is spinning. “Like, as of recent?”

Bucky snorts. “As of three years ago, more like.”

“You—“ You’re trying to wrap your head around this. “Okay. Three— Okay.”

“Take your time.”

“No, yeah.” You clear your throat. “Totally. Thanks.”

Bucky’s other hand soothingly rubs up and down your back. “Want me to make you a cup of tea while we wait?” His voice is teasing, yet full of admiration as if he’s finding the whole encounter perfectly comical.

“Funny,” you deadpan. “I think you’re wasting your potential by not pursuing stand up comedy.”

His lips find the corner of your mouth, pressing gingerly. “Such a sweet girl.” Another kiss. “Always looking out for my best interests,” he mumbles against your lips.

All this time, all this talk, all come to realize you’re still inside him.

It makes your heart flutter. “Uh—“ Suddenly you’re fumbling, losing that sliver of control that you barely had in the first place as you feel his cock inside you still. He peppers you with kisses, your lips, jaw, cheek, nose, an utter display of intimate affection that makes your chest constrict with something unfamiliar. It’s a phantom ache in your heart, longing for something you can’t quite pinpoint. You’ve never…been treated like this. So delicately and full of appreciation. Adored, even. Who knew that the person to do so would be Bucky Barnes.

Said-guy who is making you feel something unexplainable.

At your silence, he hums. “I know it’s a lot. I’m a lot. But I’m yours. Whenever you want me, I’ll be here.”

Your heart skips. “I think I…”

The words escape you.

Bucky presses a chaste kiss on the corner of your mouth. “You think what, sweet girl?”

“You’re really gonna make me say it?”

“Obviously.”

You groan, but there’s no backbone behind it, no real malice, no irritation that you normally have with his incessant wit. Instead it’s one of admiration, eased affection and something so unfamiliar it makes your heart flutter with uncertainty. But you’re here. With him. And somehow you’ve never felt more reassured.

“I think I’ve been yours,” you say with no shroud of dignity left. “Even though I want to kill you half the time.”

Bucky gingerly hums, so content as his nose nudges your jaw. “I’ll take it.”

It isn’t much later when he eases you up off his lap, slipping his arms around you to guide you towards the en suite bathroom. You mewl quietly from the loss of his stretch, ignoring the cool fluid burning between your thighs as you blink blearily at the light, no doubt looking like a hot wet disaster. You use the restroom and let him wash the sweat off your face, also cleaning up the mess between your thighs with a warm soapy rag. Yeah, he snorts at your wobbly legs as if you’re a baby fawn learning to walk, but holds you steady nonetheless and kisses the crown of your head all in the same breath. He coos and calls you baby when you swipe the hair away from his eyes, and dresses you in one of his overtly big t-shirts with something ridiculous on the front as he slips on a pair of boxers.

Bucky guides you back towards the bed after exiting the bathroom, laying you down gently so your back splays delicately on the mattress. You mewl quietly from the loss of his stretch, ignoring the cool fluid burning between your thighs as your head hits the pillow. Bucky kisses you once, lingering a little longer than he should before pulling back, sliding in next to you and pulling you taut to his chest.

You murmur something incoherent, completely bliss in the warmth of his arms and surrounded in his scent. Territorial. Possessive. Practically claimed by him. Not that you’re complaining. At all.

“Easy,” Bucky hums, tucking his chin at the crown of your head. “Sleep.”

“‘M not tired.” Your eyes are shut and your fingers twitch, moments from sleep.

His hands splay against your back under his shirt. “Sure.”

Your nose nudges his vocal cord. “I think you’re just keen to praying on my downfall,” you say laced with sleep.

“Try reciting the alphabet backwards and maybe I’ll believe you.”

“Shut up,” you mumble, words blending together in exhaustion. “You love me.”

A pause.

Then, quietly. “Yeah.” His voice is certain. “I probably do.”

You’re asleep moments after that, lulled by the deep baritone of his voice and the steady syncopated thumping of his heart. But also from the sincerity of his voice, anchoring you in ways you can’t explain nor want to try to understand. Sure, he’s a royal pain in your ass more than ninety percent of the time he’s in your presence. But he’s real. Genuine. Ready to be the man everyone thinks he isn’t.

And he’s solid, broad against you and holding you with the notion that you’ll float away if he lets go. The sound of your soft snores make him follow suite, calmed in more ways than he can ever imagine, finally able to breathe with a clarity he hasn’t felt in a really long time.

And when you leave the next morning, opting to leave the boating adventures behind the two of you and instead choosing to go home to his real family, his mother protests. His father says nothing. His cousins beg him to stay so they can wake board and drink in the sunshine. Sure he’s inclined to say yes solely to see you in a bathing suit, but he doesn’t have anything to prove anymore, not to these people.

Especially Izzy, when she inserts herself as part of the departing committee and giving you a hug that’s nothing genuine, solely for show in front of everyone else.

“You can’t leave!” She protests innocently, green eyes deceiving everyone as they surround the trunk of Bucky’s car as you throw your bags in the backseat. “Winnie and I wanted your opinion on the foyer decor.”

“Right, honey,” Winnie chimes in, grabbing your hand delicately as Bucky shuts the door, solidifying your decision to leave. “We’re going for a rustic ocean entourage. Silvers, navy, whites, darks. We’d love your input.”

"Well, I think navy and black go pretty well together," you say before you can stop yourself.

Bucky fails to suppress a snort. Izzy's head whips towards you, as the whole ordeal goes over Winnie’s head. Green eyes immediately narrow at you, her pretty tanned skin burning at the memory of her worst decision all those years ago, the whole reason she left him in the first place. But you hold your ground, sending her a sweet smile as you curl a hand over Bucky’s bicep, a wordless claim and reminder of what she lost. Who she lost.

And you leave just like that, with his family gathering dust in the rear view mirror as he drives away. With his hand settled on your bare thigh and the soft music gently caressing your ears, you realize he doesn’t look back. Only onward.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work unless given permission.

notes holy fucking god. this was too long. im unplugging for the unforseeable future. happy kinktober????? sort of????

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

Give Me The Blame - Part 2

Summary: The reader wakes up in the back of an SUV and knows things are not going great for her. But as the night unfolds, she starts to learn why she was taken and that her odds of making it out alive are slim to none. But at least perhaps she can give Tim one last message...

Part 1

Pairing: Tim Bradford x Rookie!reader

Word Count: 5,900ish

Warnings: language, thriller vibes, violence, kidnapping, forbidden romance, smutty talk, near death experience

A/N: Here we go! Jumping right back into the action!

Reader POV

You wearily woke up in the back of SUV, your skull throbbing. Not a good start to consciousness. You tried to look around but all you saw was black. Great, there was probably a hood or some kind of bag over your head. Judging by the sweat sticking to your face, it wasn’t very breathable either. Slowly, you shifted your jaw, trying to part your lips and found them stuck together. You tried again, harder this time, now feeling the flat, sticky tape covering your cheeks and mouth. God fucking dammit shit balls. This was extra not good.

A small kernel of hope in your gut said maybe this was one of Tim’s tests? That thought quickly dissipated though. Tim would gladly fuck with you but he’d never harm you, never do something traumatic just to test you. 

You winced, biting down down the sound when your skull quaked against hard carpet. Focus. Don’t panic. Figure out how to get free and go from there.

But it was so hard to concentrate when a sleepy haze kept creeping in. The nagging sensation that you’d been drugged was washing over your limbs, keeping them heavy and dull. Okay, okay. Drugging meant this was pre-planned. Which wasn’t great news but it meant they wanted to get you to a secondary location. Again, not great news if you wanted to live through another day but it gave you some time to think, to fight off the sedation coursing through your veins.

You’d gotten up to pee around what, four in the morning? Then you went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water, gulping it down in the hallway. Spun around to put it back on the counter and…three dudes in black were right there. Glass thrown at one, foot shot out and kicked the second in the nuts. The third tackled you down to the floor. You grabbed a glass shard, went for the guys neck. He turned at the last second though and you only managed to graze his throat. 

Violent headbutt to his head which is where the headache came from but it had shocked your tackler, knocking him back on his ass. Guy number two had recovered though, slamming into you, guy number one coming in and stepping on your wrist, forcing you to drop the glass. Sharp stab in your arm and then…here you were, wherever the fuck that was.

The sound outside shifted, gravel under the tires for a short drive before you were slowing, coming to a stop. Doors opened, a trunk lid, a strong hand grabbing your leg and pulling your limp form towards the back. You swung out wildly, connecting with something.

“Fuck!” someone shouted. A fist clocked you in the stomach before you were quite literally tossed on the ground, bits of hard stone biting through your duck covered pajama shorts and gray tank top. While you tried to get your bearings, you breathed deeply, catching a familiar scent from childhood you couldn’t quite place. A boot landed squarely against your ribs, blinding pain flashing through your mind. 

Two pairs of arms yanked you up, dragging you across the gravel, turning to concrete before entering a building. There wasn’t much you could do and before you knew it, you’d made your way deeper inside and were sat down in a chair. One arm and then the other were restrained to the arm rests, same with your legs, hood ripped off fast. You blinked furiously, a bright light in your face. 

The three men were joined by a fourth now, none of them wearing masks anymore. Super not good.

“Why do you three look like you got your asses kicked?” said the one that wasn’t actively bleeding, frowning at the others. You got a few glares, one man holding his still slightly bleeding neck. “You going to live?”

“I want to kill the bitch,” said neck bleeder, another one scoffing. “You got a problem with that?”

“She kicked me in the balls. Twice,” growled the tall one.

“Do you two have glass stuck out of your fucking forehead?” snapped another, this one with blood streaked down his face. You ignored Larry, Moe and Curly, instead focusing on the fourth man, the one who must have been here waiting for you. He raised his chin, waving the others off to clean up themselves. When they’d left the open former warehouse type room, the man, late forties or early fifties, walked over, carefully peeling off the tape over your mouth.

“It’s hard to find good help these days,” he said with an indifferent shrug.

“If you’re looking for a job opening, one of me is worth way more than those three bozos. I’m cheaper too.” He smirked, shaking his head. 

“Considering it looks like you almost won that fight, I’d say that’s fair. Normally, I might consider that, having a cop of the take. It would be good for me. But unfortunately today is not going to be your day. I have a feeling you already figured that out once the masks came off,” he said. You swallowed, looking to the right where a table with a bag and a zip tie sat on top. He turned his head, frowning. “Again, unfortunately, it’s got to hurt a little before we get to that step. But it’ll just be like falling asleep.”

“May I ask why you’ve decided to kidnap me, plan to torture me and then tie a bag over my head? Did I arrest you?” He laughed, grabbing a nearby chair and sitting down on it, leaning back with crossed arms.

“No, nothing like that, sweetie. It’s not personal. Well, not for you. See, there’s someone I do want to hurt but he’s…let’s just say the three bozos stand no chance against him, myself included. Now a family member would be the next logical step but I have a soft spot for single moms so I couldn’t go after his sister.”

“How compassionate of you,” you deadpanned, the man laughing.

“He’s got other friends but you? You’re going to hurt the most.” You tilted your head, still lost on who he was talking about. He sighed quietly. “He’s supposed to protect his little trainee, isn’t he?”

Oh fuck.

“Tim,” you breathed out, the man nodding. “Buddy-”

“You can call me Jim,” he said. “I feel like we can both cut through the bullshit. You’re going to die today and I want you to know that this has nothing to do with you. It’s all Bradford’s fault.”

“Jim, you have no idea…Tim doesn’t care about me,” you said, shaking your head, Jim rolling his eyes. “He doesn’t. I’m his boot. His rookie. It’s his job…he’s almost failed me a dozen times. Believe me, I’m not the way to hurt him.”

“I won’t pretend to know the intricacies of your relationship but it’ll haunt him which is the point. A day won’t go by where he won’t think about how this is all his fault. Nothing personal,” said Jim, a darkness setting into his features you didn’t like. You watched his eyes narrow, his feigned-friendliness slip away. “Or…maybe it is personal. Two birds, one stone. I have been watching him over a year. I know things I shouldn’t, hm?”

You clenched your fists, Jim flexing his jaw as he stood. “If you manage to kill me, then you know that Tim is going to-”

“Do jack shit. Your Captain America ass buddy at most would arrest me. He’s a fucking boy scout.” You smirked up at him now, making it crooked and wrong, an unease paling Jim’s face.

“Go ahead and do what you’re going to do then. Just know that I will enjoy every second of him making you beg for death because my boy scout will go John Wick on your ass, just you wait. Now the smart thing to do would be take the morons and leave town before he catches up with you but if you want to play it this way, fine. It’s your funeral.” His eye ticked in response to you eyeing him up and down like he was nothing more than a trash heap. “Nice to cut through the bullshit, isn’t that what you said?”

“I’ll make sure to send Bradford a sympathy card,” he said, just before pulling his fist back and landing it straight against your cheek.

Tim POV

“I need a full list of people that have made threats against Y/L/N and Bradford, now,” said Harper into her phone in Y/N’s kitchen. The house was swarmed with officers, techs, detectives. Angela and Harper were walking around barking orders, looking through odds and ends. The whole department was ripping her life apart for any shred of a clue.

I watched in a fog as Angela stormed back from the hallway, giving me a nod to follow her outside. “Find anything?”

“Not here.” I frowned, walking further with her, down the steps and around to over near Y/N’s car, away from prying ears. She reached over to my body cam, turning it off. My eyes flicked up and caught hers, Angela frowning. “Were you and Y/N sleeping together?”

“What? No,” I snapped. Angela crossed her arms, giving me that fucking annoying smug look of hers. “I’m not sleeping with her.”

“Timothy.” I ran a hand through my hair, the strands probably sticking straight up at this point. “You guys really haven’t since…”

“Since we fucked the week before she became my boot? Back when I thought, wow, this woman’s incredible, I could see a real future with this girl and then she walks in her first day as my fucking boot because god likes to see me suffer? No, Angela. I haven’t slept with her in a year, before we knew who each other was. You are the only person that knows.”

“You’re sure she never told anyone?”

“I put the fear of god in her day one if she ever said a word to anyone. I’ve since been as awful of a human being as possible on purpose and it’s been working just fine before you ask.” She narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“Maybe you’re not sleeping together but I know you’ve fallen in love with her this past year, no matter how dickish you are to her.” I frowned, Angela’s eyes softening. “I am not judging you, Tim. I like Y/N and she is smart. We’ve got two different blood samples in there. She’s clearly not going down without a fight and you are not going to start the blame game. Help me find her now and you can wallow later. Now tell me anything that’ll help.”

I nodded, the haze lifting, anger filling it’s place. “No one would have known. Someone took her because they wanted to hurt me which…my sister and nephews are a much easier target than a cop.”

“Exactly. This person has no problem going after a woman so why Y/N and not your family?” 

“...Okay, these motherfuckers clearly have some moral compass to not potentially harm kids. Gah but they have no problem fucking up a thirty three year old single woman? I don’t get it.”

“Which is why I was asking, who else knows that Y/L/N is a bigger trigger point for you than your own flesh and blood? Did a suspect ever see you looking at her or something?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I kept that shit locked down, especially in front of other people. Y/N and I haven’t discussed it since her second week. We…” I blinked, pressing my palm to my temple. “The fucking arson case last month.”

“The one where Y/N-”

“Dragged me out and got madder than hell at me for going in after her, all in view of the public.”

“#GrumpyCopGetsGrilledByHisPartner. I remember that video. You were both…” she trailed off, my eyebrow raising. “Listen, the only people that scream at each other like that are people that care deeply about each other in my experience. Someone could have seen that and decided to target Y/N to get to you.”

I sighed, running my hand through my hair. Angela smacked me, pointing a finger. “Stop doing that. Who’s at the top of your list of who you pissed off?”

“At this moment? Y/N.” She put a hand on her hip, both our radios crackling. “I don’t know. It’s got to be someone not in prison right now.”

“Thanks for all the help, Sherlock,” she deadpanned, grabbing her phone as it rang. “Lopez. Wait, what?”

She grabbed my arm, walking me over to her car. “I’ve got Bradford, we’ll be there in less than ten.”

“What’s going on?” I asked, shrugging her off.

“Someone just posted a video online of Y/N. Now get in the damn car.”

Seven minutes later I was in the conference room at the station with Grey, Lopez and a few others. Lucy came in when she saw me, her face pale, giving my hand a squeeze. Grey frowned, nodding to one of our techs. 

“Bradford, this isn’t pretty-“

“Is she alive?” I asked, voice too high. Grey sighed but nodded. “What did they demand?”

“Nothing,” he said, too on edge. He looked down and back up quickly, a crease forming between his brows. “I highly suggest you don’t watch this.”

“All due respect sir, that is my boot. Play it.” He nodded to a tech, a video coming up the TV screen. “Jesus.”

Y/N was littered in bruises, covered in blood. Her face was swollen and was that a stab mark in her thigh? She breathed hard, body shaking and covered in a layer of sweat all at once. Her light gray tank was coated in dried blood and something else. She wasn’t even speaking and my hopes of finding her alive were crashing.

“S-sergeant Bradford,” she said after a beat, forcing her head up, eyes off to the side of the camera. 

“She’s reading something,” said Lucy by my side, Grey holding up a finger. Y/N’s hands gripped the edge of the metal arm rests they were tied to, her eye twitching, jaw clenched.

“What happens to me…” she breathed deeply again, ragged, probably bruised or broken ribs under her shirt. She looked so fucking…small, broken. Why was there a deep red blood track dried on her face? Why was she shaking so fucking hard? Was she scared? Of course she was fucking scared. She was probably in shock too from the looks of her.

My heart pounded in my ears, my skin prickling. She was dead. She was going to die and it was all because of me. But her face shifted, a dark look in her eyes as she looked straight at the camera. “What is she doing?”

“Tim,” she said, raising her chin. “This is not your fault. None of this-”

“Read the fucking card!” shouted an angry voice off screen. Y/N looked over the camera, her face just fucking…creepy as she smiled at whoever it was. 

“4 white males. One calls themselves Jim, late forties to early fifties, says he’s been stalking you over a year. 3 others are hired thugs, two I injured and left blood at my house,” she said as something crashed in the background, Y/N flipping off the cameraman. “Warehouse. Smells like eerie fair and there’s a gravel road. He looks like he’s about to kill me but I ain’t sayin’ the shit on that card no matter what he does. So you might as fucking well get on with it, Jimbo.”

“She knows she’s going to die,” said Angela, Grey turning away from the screen when a man in a mask appeared. “What-”

Y/N screamed bloody murder when a knife came down in her leg, my whole body flinching, fresh tears running down her face. “T-That all-ll y-y-you got?”

The video cut off when another scream cut through the room, Grey’s face finding mine. I put a hand on a table, leaning on it, shivering as her scream rattled around in my brain. “Y/N is uh, she’s clearly trying to buy herself time for us to find her. Pissing off this Jim guy.”

“This person is stalking you according to Y/N. You’re on lockdown until further notice.” I blinked slowly at him, both Lucy and Angela taking clear steps back. A wave of anger washed over me, Grey frowning when I took a step towards him. “You are not to leave the station, is that understood? I don’t need another cop to go missing.”

“Oh, it’s very understood,” I shot back, storming past him for the door.

“Bradford!”

“I’ll be out on the fuckin’ streets looking for my fuckin’ rookie before that psycho kills her. Sir.” I left before he or anyone could stop me, keys to a new shop in hand, war bags on my shoulders. One minute later, I was in the garage, shop ready to go, tactical vest on and a flurry of footsteps against concrete making me cringe. 

Lucy, Nolan and Celina all stood at the end of my shop, arms crossed. Angela came into the garage, her blazer gone, a vest of her own on. “Lopez, you can’t stop me.”

“Wasn’t planning to. Harper’s got the house and there’s plenty of people going through your arrest list to compare with the info she gave in the video. You know Y/N best. Where do you want to start?”

“She said it smelled like an eerie fair. I’m thinking a rundown amusement park, carnival. Possibly open ones but that’s too risky to me,” I said. 

“Celina, ride with me. I know there’s one in San Bernadino,” said Lucy, the pair rushing off. 

“We’ve got one in Newberry Springs,” said Nolen as he scrolled on his phone. “Luna Park in San Jose too. Guys, there are a lot of these in the area.”

“Text me the list,” said Angela, heading back towards the station. “I’ll get units on every location.”

“I’ll take San Jose,” I said, ripping open my door. “Let’s move it people!”

I flipped my lights on once I got on the street, skin itchy as I drove faster down the roads than I should have. It was entirely possible she was already dead. 

An icy cold pain raced through my heart and my grip wobbled, the shop swerving for barely a split second before I had both hands on the wheel hard.

“Focus,” I said quietly. “She’s not dead until there’s a body. It’s not over yet.”

I could see a traffic jam up ahead, growling as I had to turn down a side street to get around it, slowing me down. “Come on, come on.” My mind wandered as I turned down Conkers, throat tight.

“You know I scored higher than you on the road driving course. Advanced pursuit tactics too.” I turned in my seat, glaring at the little shit of a boot sitting there with a smirk on her face, staring out the window not two weeks into her training. “Yes, Sergeant Bradford? Would you like to quiz me on something?”

Yes I would, you little asshole. Why is it so hot you scored higher than me? And why is it so hot that every time I give you a tongue lashing, threaten to kick your ass to the curb, you say yes sir and all I want to do is drag you into the backseat? 

I pulled over to the side of the road, grabbing the radio while I narrowed my eyes at Y/N. “Dispatch, show 7 Adam 100 as code 6 at 708 Conkers Ave.” I didn’t wait for a response and flew out of my seat, Y/N following after. She waited by her door like a puppy struggling to be patient, nothing but her watchful eyes taking in the scene.

God, she was actively trying to learn and I still wanted to shove her against the side of the shop and see who would give in first.

I reached over to her, flipping off her camera. She frowned when she looked up, eyes confused. “Sir, body cameras are supposed to be on-”

“What did I tell you about calling me sir?” I growled, poking her in the chest. She tilted her head, my little boot gone, the woman I’d had the most incredible sex of my life with suddenly back.

“It’s not my fault you get a stiffy every time I speak. Sir,” she shot back, her eyes all kinds of sultry.

“I should fucking fire you for speaking to me that way,” I said, stepping closer, closer, backing her into her door, so close if I move an inch her mouth would be right there for the taking.

“Eight days ago you told me to never bring up what happened two weeks ago. The sex, the date, the more sex. How I had to cancel a date with that really nice, really hot, guy I was supposed to have last Friday because it turns out he’s my fuckin’ TO. I am keeping my mouth shut and treating you like a stranger just like you asked, no, told me to. You know, you never even asked me. I would have never jeopardized your career. I would have said we need to stop if you’d just talked to me, not threaten my job before it even started.” She huffed, her chest rising and falling fast. She growled, eye twitching. “You just got turned on by me yelling at you, didn’t you?”

“We both know I like doing what you tell me to,” I said quietly, Y/N’s anger slipping some. “What happened is in the past.”

“Then tell me you don’t jerk it every night to the marathon sex weekend we had with a straight face.” I clenched my jaw, Y/N scoffing. “I’m not the one that needs to maintain professionalism here. You-”

I snatched her by her uniform, Y/N’s breath hitching, a sliver of fear? No, fuck, that was desire in her eyes. 

“There is no us. I do not give a shit about you. You were a good fuck, understand me? We never would have worked. That’s all you were.” Her eyes shifted, her bravado cracking. Good. I had to nip this in the bud, for both of us. I grabbed harder, Y/N’s chin wobbling. “Aw, you scared boot? This is the job, being terrified every second of every day. You are small and weak and I will do my damn best to get you removed from the program. Until that day, I’m going to make your life a living hell. Now say yes sir and get in the fucking shop.”

Her eyes watered, Y/N swallowing thickly before I let her go. “Y-yes-”

“What was that, boot?” I barked. She flinched. “Fucking jumpy? You think you get to be jumpy? You get to show fear?”

“Sorry sir. I’ll do better.”

“Get in the damn shop and find a felony arrest. Someone big. I want to see how you do in a fight.” She turned and slipped inside the vehicle, angling her body away from me. I spun around and went to the back of the shop, squeezing my eyes shut.

I was officially going to hell.

I turned down another street, pulling over to a curb, resting my head against the wheel. I never should have threatened her like that. That was the beginning of the end. She barely spoke for a month after that incident. Slowly her attitude had shifted. While she’d grown into an excellent officer with stellar confidence, she clearly hated me. At first it was fearful, then indifferent. She’d settled on annoying me with useless facts during the day, grating on my nerves, always adding a pointed “sir” on the end, shooting daggers with her eyes at me.

Great job Bradford. You made a badass cop that would happily shank you in a dark alley if given the opportunity. All because I was too much of a coward to go to Grey and tell him I had gone on a date with my new boot and she should be assigned to a different station because hey, I really like her and want to explore a relationship with this really cool and sweet woman. What I wouldn’t give right now to have done that, to have her sitting beside me telling me something about donkeys or snowfall rates or a field trip she went on as a…

“Eerie. Not eerie.” My head snapped up, my hand shooting for my radio. “Nolan answer me right now.”

“Nolan for Bradford,” he said, a new shot of adrenaline in my veins for the hundredth time in the past hour.

“Y/N’s from Buffalo. She didn’t mean eerie fair as in creepy. She mean Eerie as in the fucking Eerie county fair she went to as a kid…and I have no idea what that means. Do you?” I waited, gripping the radio too tight, Nolan taking his sweet ass time to respond while Lopez and Grey started sounding off different orders.

“I’ve been a few times. It smells like…grease and sugar for the most part, maybe a hint of farm animals but primarily grease and sugar,” he said. 

“Resturants, bakeries, fast food joints, commercial food buildings…warehouse,” I said. “Empty warehouses near those things with gravel parking lots.”

“We’ve got…two potential spots. No three, maybe. Two main ones,” said Angela. “Sending locations to all units.”

My eyes darted across my computer screen, landing on the last one, the furthest one out. “I’m taking Wilderban.”

“Bradford, that’s a long shot,” said Grey. “The other two locations have known gravel roads and are located around active restaurants. Wilderban isn’t LAPD jurisdiction. Let county check it out. They’ll get there before you anyways.”

“7 Adam 100 taking Wilderban,” I said again, spinning my tires as I sped down the road for the north side of the city. 

“7 Adam 15 also taking Wilderban,” Celina said, joined by Nolan’s shop a moment later.

“None of you do anything stupid,” sighed Grey, a few more units joining, all from our station, all who knew Y/N. 

Minutes ticked by as I flew down the freeway, Lucy’s voice breaking the silence. “7 Adam 100 switch to channel 23.”

“What, Chen?” I barked, wincing at myself. I was too on edge, too reckless as I watched my speedometer tick over 125, pushing the limits of this fucking SUV.

“Slow down. You’re going to kill yourself.” 

“How far out is everyone?” I asked instead. “I’m less than five.”

“Jesus, Tim,” muttered Lucy. “We’re about nine.”

“I’m not waiting for anyone to go in.” A chorus of loud, angry rebuttals came over the channel and I hung up the radio, flooring it even harder. She had to be there. 

Wilderban? That’s where I fuckin’ met her at the bar and this psycho knew it.

“7 Adam 100 arriving at Wilderban location,” I said three minutes later, wide eyed at the gravel lot, construction equipment off in the far side of the parking lot. I jumped out of the vehicle, grabbing my rifle from the back as I looked around, no cars in sight. The warehouse wasn’t extremely large, two stories but square, compact. I ran up a loading dock, ducking under an open bay door and was cascaded in darkness. Quietly, I ran through the open space, finding a back wall and slipping through an open door. I found myself in a maze of hallways, turning through them until I saw bright light at the end of one.

The whole place was silent. Not good. Quickly I moved again, turning a corner, in a space overwhelmed with light.

And smack dab in the middle of the room was Y/N, tied to that chair. 

With a plastic bag over her head.

“No, no,” I said, running for her, clearing the room sloppily on my way, squeezing the radio on my shoulder. “I’ve got Officer Y/L/N at Wilderban, back of the warehouse. I need help.”

I slid across the floor and pulled out my knife in one move, tearing open the thick plastic, catching the zip tie around her neck and slicing that too. Her skin got nicked and I made quick work of removing the other restraints.

“Y/N,” I said, laying her down on the ground. She was warm and sticky with blood. Fuck, she looked even worse in person. I leaned my head down, taking her pulse at the same time. Shit, where was it? “No, no, no, no.”

I pressed down hard on her chest, moving my hands fast, trying to get her to start breathing again. Her body only moved when I pushed it, limp and lethargic, like it had nothing left to give.

“Come on, Y/N. Come on. Tell me how much of a dickhead I am,” I panted, shoving over and over and over. She didn’t move and I bent down, pressing my mouth to hers and blowing hard. I did it once more, returning to chest compressions.

She lay still, blood in her messy hair, rage wrapping around my body, snapping tightly. I heard a crack, one of her ribs breaking, my arms moving too hard for her battered body.

“You’re not dying because of me,” I whispered, pressing down, over and over. “You’re not giving up yet. Fucking fight for it.”

Nothing happened though, not one minute, not two, not three later, my eyes watering, lip wobbling. “Don’t go. I have to tell you how sorry I am,” I breathed out. “Stay for me. Please. Please.”

I heard car doors and footsteps, sharp intakes of air. I glanced upwards, our friends staring down at Y/N’s lifeless form, the sweat dripping from my temple as I kept compressing.

“I don’t know what to-” Y/N jerked underneath me, sucking in air, everyone in the room jumping. I stared down at her, Y/N coughing violently once, twice, before releasing a guttural scream that’d be starring in my nightmares for the rest of my life.

She shook on the ground, looking at me but not really, another scream ready on the tip of her tongue when I leaned over her close, touching her cheek. “It’s me, honey, it’s Tim. You’re safe.”

Something clicked in her brain, some animalistic part turning off, another switching on that had her sitting upright, clutching my vest and shirt for dear life, her whole body trying to hide in mine. I wrapped her up tight, probably hurting her in the process but she just clung harder, starting to sob into my neck. 

“Sh,” I cooed, petting her hair, trying to get her to stop shaking, scooting her up to sit in my lap off the cold ground. “I got you. It’s okay.”

“Finish clearing the building,” said Lucy after a moment to a few others, Y/N cringing when she heard fast footsteps. “Air medic’s on the way.”

“I want to take her outside,” I said, slowly raising with her in my arms, hers clung around my neck. I glanced down, spotting a white poster board nearby.

Sergeant Bradford. What happens to me is entirely your fault. You’re the reason I’m going to die, slowly, painfully, alone. My death is on your hands. 

“Sergeant. Sergeant Bradford. Tim.” I blinked, looking up from the ground, Nolan standing right there, his face sympathetic. I nodded, following him outside, someone having opened the back of my shop. I sat in the open back, Y/N shivering and crying, not seeming to even recognize she was outside in the lowering afternoon sun.

“I have a jacket in that bag to put on her,” I said hoarsely, Celina quickly opening it and draping it over Y/N, making her shriek again. I tucked it around her, catching a glimpse of her blood soaked ducky pajama shorts, a wave of nausea hitting me. 

How was there so much damn blood?

“That’s better,” I said softly, fixing it tight, moving the hair from her face. “Nice and warm. Yeah, we’ll get you some nice clean clothes and-”

Her body went lax all of a sudden, my eyes shooting to Celina’s, her hands instantly on Y/N’s neck. “She has a pulse.”

I waited a beat, her breath hot against my skin. “And she’s breathing. It’s the shock. She needs a hospital, right now.”

“Air is three minutes out,” said Lucy, joining us with a frown. “No sign of anyone else here. We must have just missed them.”

“I didn’t clear the whole building. They were probably inside when I got here,” I said, Y/N stirring again based on the death grip she had on my neck. She tugged on my hair, making me wince. “Hey, hey. S’okay. I’m right here.”

“You made the right call,” said Lucy, smiling sadly at Y/N’s back. “You did, Tim.”

“We’ll find who did this,” said Nolan, resting a hand on Y/N’s shoulder. Her head snapped up, eyes wild as she nearly bit off Nolan’s hand if I hadn’t trapped her in my arms. He took a big step back, Y/N still fighting me.

“Relax,” I whispered in her ear. “That’s our annoying buddy, Nolan, yeah? No one’s going to hurt you.”

“Is that…blood on her mouth?” asked Nolan. I rolled my eyes, tucking Y/N’s head under my chin.

“Look at her face, of course-”

“Tim,” said Celina, all three of them staring at me, a few other officers joining and staring at Y/N. 

“What?”

“That’s too much blood on her for one person.” I frowned, feeling over her collarbone, her arms, no sign of a visible wound to the skin despite the blood staining her throat. “Did she…bite someone?”

“Good girl,” I mumbled against her temple, Y/N burrowing against me, getting twitchy. I kissed her forehead despite the audience, no one thinking anything of it as she settled, her cries starting to turn into exhausted sniffles. My gaze drifted up when I heard a chopper, Y/N tensing at the sound. It took a moment for it to land in the lot, my body curling around hers to protect it from the rocks that got kicked up.

“Y/N, you have to let go of Tim,” said Celina gently, Y/N’s grip digging in even harder. 

“I got it,” I said, picking her up, carrying her halfway across the lot towards the chopper where a stretcher and two EMT’s waited. When we were out of earshot, I stopped, pressing my lips to her bruised forehead. “I’m so sorry. For all of it. I take the blame for everything.”

She didn’t speak, kept her head low as I set her down on the stretcher. She didn’t correct me as tears spilled down her cheeks, as I forced her hands away, as they wrapped her up in blankets and strapped her down. For some reason I laid my jacket back on top of her before turning away, feeling her heated gaze on my back before the chopper was winding back up and taking off.

She was alive, that was all that mattered. Alive and hated me but that was okay. 

I hated me too.

A/N: The reader's safe but not doing great. Do you think she actually blames Tim for what happened? Do you think he'll be able to forgive himself? Where do you think these two will go from here? 👀 Let me know in the comments!

[zulas-world]

Jesus.... Girl.... like please part 3 4 5 6!!! How many are you planning? i need more i need them all !!!! Love your writing like aways 😍😍

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

Hahaha I don't have a set number of parts planned out buuuuut based on where I want the story to go and all that entails, we're looking a meaty chunk of a fic, like probably 5 more parts minimum 😅 We've got a loooot to cover!

[zulas-world]

Yes !!!! OMG yes is there anyway you can tag me.🫣 I can't wait to see where you go with this. 🥰

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

Give Me The Blame - Part 2

Summary: The reader wakes up in the back of an SUV and knows things are not going great for her. But as the night unfolds, she starts to learn why she was taken and that her odds of making it out alive are slim to none. But at least perhaps she can give Tim one last message...

Part 1

Pairing: Tim Bradford x Rookie!reader

Word Count: 5,900ish

Warnings: language, thriller vibes, violence, kidnapping, forbidden romance, smutty talk, near death experience

A/N: Here we go! Jumping right back into the action!

Reader POV

You wearily woke up in the back of SUV, your skull throbbing. Not a good start to consciousness. You tried to look around but all you saw was black. Great, there was probably a hood or some kind of bag over your head. Judging by the sweat sticking to your face, it wasn’t very breathable either. Slowly, you shifted your jaw, trying to part your lips and found them stuck together. You tried again, harder this time, now feeling the flat, sticky tape covering your cheeks and mouth. God fucking dammit shit balls. This was extra not good.

A small kernel of hope in your gut said maybe this was one of Tim’s tests? That thought quickly dissipated though. Tim would gladly fuck with you but he’d never harm you, never do something traumatic just to test you. 

You winced, biting down down the sound when your skull quaked against hard carpet. Focus. Don’t panic. Figure out how to get free and go from there.

But it was so hard to concentrate when a sleepy haze kept creeping in. The nagging sensation that you’d been drugged was washing over your limbs, keeping them heavy and dull. Okay, okay. Drugging meant this was pre-planned. Which wasn’t great news but it meant they wanted to get you to a secondary location. Again, not great news if you wanted to live through another day but it gave you some time to think, to fight off the sedation coursing through your veins.

You’d gotten up to pee around what, four in the morning? Then you went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water, gulping it down in the hallway. Spun around to put it back on the counter and…three dudes in black were right there. Glass thrown at one, foot shot out and kicked the second in the nuts. The third tackled you down to the floor. You grabbed a glass shard, went for the guys neck. He turned at the last second though and you only managed to graze his throat. 

Violent headbutt to his head which is where the headache came from but it had shocked your tackler, knocking him back on his ass. Guy number two had recovered though, slamming into you, guy number one coming in and stepping on your wrist, forcing you to drop the glass. Sharp stab in your arm and then…here you were, wherever the fuck that was.

The sound outside shifted, gravel under the tires for a short drive before you were slowing, coming to a stop. Doors opened, a trunk lid, a strong hand grabbing your leg and pulling your limp form towards the back. You swung out wildly, connecting with something.

“Fuck!” someone shouted. A fist clocked you in the stomach before you were quite literally tossed on the ground, bits of hard stone biting through your duck covered pajama shorts and gray tank top. While you tried to get your bearings, you breathed deeply, catching a familiar scent from childhood you couldn’t quite place. A boot landed squarely against your ribs, blinding pain flashing through your mind. 

Two pairs of arms yanked you up, dragging you across the gravel, turning to concrete before entering a building. There wasn’t much you could do and before you knew it, you’d made your way deeper inside and were sat down in a chair. One arm and then the other were restrained to the arm rests, same with your legs, hood ripped off fast. You blinked furiously, a bright light in your face. 

The three men were joined by a fourth now, none of them wearing masks anymore. Super not good.

“Why do you three look like you got your asses kicked?” said the one that wasn’t actively bleeding, frowning at the others. You got a few glares, one man holding his still slightly bleeding neck. “You going to live?”

“I want to kill the bitch,” said neck bleeder, another one scoffing. “You got a problem with that?”

“She kicked me in the balls. Twice,” growled the tall one.

“Do you two have glass stuck out of your fucking forehead?” snapped another, this one with blood streaked down his face. You ignored Larry, Moe and Curly, instead focusing on the fourth man, the one who must have been here waiting for you. He raised his chin, waving the others off to clean up themselves. When they’d left the open former warehouse type room, the man, late forties or early fifties, walked over, carefully peeling off the tape over your mouth.

“It’s hard to find good help these days,” he said with an indifferent shrug.

“If you’re looking for a job opening, one of me is worth way more than those three bozos. I’m cheaper too.” He smirked, shaking his head. 

“Considering it looks like you almost won that fight, I’d say that’s fair. Normally, I might consider that, having a cop of the take. It would be good for me. But unfortunately today is not going to be your day. I have a feeling you already figured that out once the masks came off,” he said. You swallowed, looking to the right where a table with a bag and a zip tie sat on top. He turned his head, frowning. “Again, unfortunately, it’s got to hurt a little before we get to that step. But it’ll just be like falling asleep.”

“May I ask why you’ve decided to kidnap me, plan to torture me and then tie a bag over my head? Did I arrest you?” He laughed, grabbing a nearby chair and sitting down on it, leaning back with crossed arms.

“No, nothing like that, sweetie. It’s not personal. Well, not for you. See, there’s someone I do want to hurt but he’s…let’s just say the three bozos stand no chance against him, myself included. Now a family member would be the next logical step but I have a soft spot for single moms so I couldn’t go after his sister.”

“How compassionate of you,” you deadpanned, the man laughing.

“He’s got other friends but you? You’re going to hurt the most.” You tilted your head, still lost on who he was talking about. He sighed quietly. “He’s supposed to protect his little trainee, isn’t he?”

Oh fuck.

“Tim,” you breathed out, the man nodding. “Buddy-”

“You can call me Jim,” he said. “I feel like we can both cut through the bullshit. You’re going to die today and I want you to know that this has nothing to do with you. It’s all Bradford’s fault.”

“Jim, you have no idea…Tim doesn’t care about me,” you said, shaking your head, Jim rolling his eyes. “He doesn’t. I’m his boot. His rookie. It’s his job…he’s almost failed me a dozen times. Believe me, I’m not the way to hurt him.”

“I won’t pretend to know the intricacies of your relationship but it’ll haunt him which is the point. A day won’t go by where he won’t think about how this is all his fault. Nothing personal,” said Jim, a darkness setting into his features you didn’t like. You watched his eyes narrow, his feigned-friendliness slip away. “Or…maybe it is personal. Two birds, one stone. I have been watching him over a year. I know things I shouldn’t, hm?”

You clenched your fists, Jim flexing his jaw as he stood. “If you manage to kill me, then you know that Tim is going to-”

“Do jack shit. Your Captain America ass buddy at most would arrest me. He’s a fucking boy scout.” You smirked up at him now, making it crooked and wrong, an unease paling Jim’s face.

“Go ahead and do what you’re going to do then. Just know that I will enjoy every second of him making you beg for death because my boy scout will go John Wick on your ass, just you wait. Now the smart thing to do would be take the morons and leave town before he catches up with you but if you want to play it this way, fine. It’s your funeral.” His eye ticked in response to you eyeing him up and down like he was nothing more than a trash heap. “Nice to cut through the bullshit, isn’t that what you said?”

“I’ll make sure to send Bradford a sympathy card,” he said, just before pulling his fist back and landing it straight against your cheek.

Tim POV

“I need a full list of people that have made threats against Y/L/N and Bradford, now,” said Harper into her phone in Y/N’s kitchen. The house was swarmed with officers, techs, detectives. Angela and Harper were walking around barking orders, looking through odds and ends. The whole department was ripping her life apart for any shred of a clue.

I watched in a fog as Angela stormed back from the hallway, giving me a nod to follow her outside. “Find anything?”

“Not here.” I frowned, walking further with her, down the steps and around to over near Y/N’s car, away from prying ears. She reached over to my body cam, turning it off. My eyes flicked up and caught hers, Angela frowning. “Were you and Y/N sleeping together?”

“What? No,” I snapped. Angela crossed her arms, giving me that fucking annoying smug look of hers. “I’m not sleeping with her.”

“Timothy.” I ran a hand through my hair, the strands probably sticking straight up at this point. “You guys really haven’t since…”

“Since we fucked the week before she became my boot? Back when I thought, wow, this woman’s incredible, I could see a real future with this girl and then she walks in her first day as my fucking boot because god likes to see me suffer? No, Angela. I haven’t slept with her in a year, before we knew who each other was. You are the only person that knows.”

“You’re sure she never told anyone?”

“I put the fear of god in her day one if she ever said a word to anyone. I’ve since been as awful of a human being as possible on purpose and it’s been working just fine before you ask.” She narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“Maybe you’re not sleeping together but I know you’ve fallen in love with her this past year, no matter how dickish you are to her.” I frowned, Angela’s eyes softening. “I am not judging you, Tim. I like Y/N and she is smart. We’ve got two different blood samples in there. She’s clearly not going down without a fight and you are not going to start the blame game. Help me find her now and you can wallow later. Now tell me anything that’ll help.”

I nodded, the haze lifting, anger filling it’s place. “No one would have known. Someone took her because they wanted to hurt me which…my sister and nephews are a much easier target than a cop.”

“Exactly. This person has no problem going after a woman so why Y/N and not your family?” 

“...Okay, these motherfuckers clearly have some moral compass to not potentially harm kids. Gah but they have no problem fucking up a thirty three year old single woman? I don’t get it.”

“Which is why I was asking, who else knows that Y/L/N is a bigger trigger point for you than your own flesh and blood? Did a suspect ever see you looking at her or something?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I kept that shit locked down, especially in front of other people. Y/N and I haven’t discussed it since her second week. We…” I blinked, pressing my palm to my temple. “The fucking arson case last month.”

“The one where Y/N-”

“Dragged me out and got madder than hell at me for going in after her, all in view of the public.”

“#GrumpyCopGetsGrilledByHisPartner. I remember that video. You were both…” she trailed off, my eyebrow raising. “Listen, the only people that scream at each other like that are people that care deeply about each other in my experience. Someone could have seen that and decided to target Y/N to get to you.”

I sighed, running my hand through my hair. Angela smacked me, pointing a finger. “Stop doing that. Who’s at the top of your list of who you pissed off?”

“At this moment? Y/N.” She put a hand on her hip, both our radios crackling. “I don’t know. It’s got to be someone not in prison right now.”

“Thanks for all the help, Sherlock,” she deadpanned, grabbing her phone as it rang. “Lopez. Wait, what?”

She grabbed my arm, walking me over to her car. “I’ve got Bradford, we’ll be there in less than ten.”

“What’s going on?” I asked, shrugging her off.

“Someone just posted a video online of Y/N. Now get in the damn car.”

Seven minutes later I was in the conference room at the station with Grey, Lopez and a few others. Lucy came in when she saw me, her face pale, giving my hand a squeeze. Grey frowned, nodding to one of our techs. 

“Bradford, this isn’t pretty-“

“Is she alive?” I asked, voice too high. Grey sighed but nodded. “What did they demand?”

“Nothing,” he said, too on edge. He looked down and back up quickly, a crease forming between his brows. “I highly suggest you don’t watch this.”

“All due respect sir, that is my boot. Play it.” He nodded to a tech, a video coming up the TV screen. “Jesus.”

Y/N was littered in bruises, covered in blood. Her face was swollen and was that a stab mark in her thigh? She breathed hard, body shaking and covered in a layer of sweat all at once. Her light gray tank was coated in dried blood and something else. She wasn’t even speaking and my hopes of finding her alive were crashing.

“S-sergeant Bradford,” she said after a beat, forcing her head up, eyes off to the side of the camera. 

“She’s reading something,” said Lucy by my side, Grey holding up a finger. Y/N’s hands gripped the edge of the metal arm rests they were tied to, her eye twitching, jaw clenched.

“What happens to me…” she breathed deeply again, ragged, probably bruised or broken ribs under her shirt. She looked so fucking…small, broken. Why was there a deep red blood track dried on her face? Why was she shaking so fucking hard? Was she scared? Of course she was fucking scared. She was probably in shock too from the looks of her.

My heart pounded in my ears, my skin prickling. She was dead. She was going to die and it was all because of me. But her face shifted, a dark look in her eyes as she looked straight at the camera. “What is she doing?”

“Tim,” she said, raising her chin. “This is not your fault. None of this-”

“Read the fucking card!” shouted an angry voice off screen. Y/N looked over the camera, her face just fucking…creepy as she smiled at whoever it was. 

“4 white males. One calls themselves Jim, late forties to early fifties, says he’s been stalking you over a year. 3 others are hired thugs, two I injured and left blood at my house,” she said as something crashed in the background, Y/N flipping off the cameraman. “Warehouse. Smells like eerie fair and there’s a gravel road. He looks like he’s about to kill me but I ain’t sayin’ the shit on that card no matter what he does. So you might as fucking well get on with it, Jimbo.”

“She knows she’s going to die,” said Angela, Grey turning away from the screen when a man in a mask appeared. “What-”

Y/N screamed bloody murder when a knife came down in her leg, my whole body flinching, fresh tears running down her face. “T-That all-ll y-y-you got?”

The video cut off when another scream cut through the room, Grey’s face finding mine. I put a hand on a table, leaning on it, shivering as her scream rattled around in my brain. “Y/N is uh, she’s clearly trying to buy herself time for us to find her. Pissing off this Jim guy.”

“This person is stalking you according to Y/N. You’re on lockdown until further notice.” I blinked slowly at him, both Lucy and Angela taking clear steps back. A wave of anger washed over me, Grey frowning when I took a step towards him. “You are not to leave the station, is that understood? I don’t need another cop to go missing.”

“Oh, it’s very understood,” I shot back, storming past him for the door.

“Bradford!”

“I’ll be out on the fuckin’ streets looking for my fuckin’ rookie before that psycho kills her. Sir.” I left before he or anyone could stop me, keys to a new shop in hand, war bags on my shoulders. One minute later, I was in the garage, shop ready to go, tactical vest on and a flurry of footsteps against concrete making me cringe. 

Lucy, Nolan and Celina all stood at the end of my shop, arms crossed. Angela came into the garage, her blazer gone, a vest of her own on. “Lopez, you can’t stop me.”

“Wasn’t planning to. Harper’s got the house and there’s plenty of people going through your arrest list to compare with the info she gave in the video. You know Y/N best. Where do you want to start?”

“She said it smelled like an eerie fair. I’m thinking a rundown amusement park, carnival. Possibly open ones but that’s too risky to me,” I said. 

“Celina, ride with me. I know there’s one in San Bernadino,” said Lucy, the pair rushing off. 

“We’ve got one in Newberry Springs,” said Nolen as he scrolled on his phone. “Luna Park in San Jose too. Guys, there are a lot of these in the area.”

“Text me the list,” said Angela, heading back towards the station. “I’ll get units on every location.”

“I’ll take San Jose,” I said, ripping open my door. “Let’s move it people!”

I flipped my lights on once I got on the street, skin itchy as I drove faster down the roads than I should have. It was entirely possible she was already dead. 

An icy cold pain raced through my heart and my grip wobbled, the shop swerving for barely a split second before I had both hands on the wheel hard.

“Focus,” I said quietly. “She’s not dead until there’s a body. It’s not over yet.”

I could see a traffic jam up ahead, growling as I had to turn down a side street to get around it, slowing me down. “Come on, come on.” My mind wandered as I turned down Conkers, throat tight.

“You know I scored higher than you on the road driving course. Advanced pursuit tactics too.” I turned in my seat, glaring at the little shit of a boot sitting there with a smirk on her face, staring out the window not two weeks into her training. “Yes, Sergeant Bradford? Would you like to quiz me on something?”

Yes I would, you little asshole. Why is it so hot you scored higher than me? And why is it so hot that every time I give you a tongue lashing, threaten to kick your ass to the curb, you say yes sir and all I want to do is drag you into the backseat? 

I pulled over to the side of the road, grabbing the radio while I narrowed my eyes at Y/N. “Dispatch, show 7 Adam 100 as code 6 at 708 Conkers Ave.” I didn’t wait for a response and flew out of my seat, Y/N following after. She waited by her door like a puppy struggling to be patient, nothing but her watchful eyes taking in the scene.

God, she was actively trying to learn and I still wanted to shove her against the side of the shop and see who would give in first.

I reached over to her, flipping off her camera. She frowned when she looked up, eyes confused. “Sir, body cameras are supposed to be on-”

“What did I tell you about calling me sir?” I growled, poking her in the chest. She tilted her head, my little boot gone, the woman I’d had the most incredible sex of my life with suddenly back.

“It’s not my fault you get a stiffy every time I speak. Sir,” she shot back, her eyes all kinds of sultry.

“I should fucking fire you for speaking to me that way,” I said, stepping closer, closer, backing her into her door, so close if I move an inch her mouth would be right there for the taking.

“Eight days ago you told me to never bring up what happened two weeks ago. The sex, the date, the more sex. How I had to cancel a date with that really nice, really hot, guy I was supposed to have last Friday because it turns out he’s my fuckin’ TO. I am keeping my mouth shut and treating you like a stranger just like you asked, no, told me to. You know, you never even asked me. I would have never jeopardized your career. I would have said we need to stop if you’d just talked to me, not threaten my job before it even started.” She huffed, her chest rising and falling fast. She growled, eye twitching. “You just got turned on by me yelling at you, didn’t you?”

“We both know I like doing what you tell me to,” I said quietly, Y/N’s anger slipping some. “What happened is in the past.”

“Then tell me you don’t jerk it every night to the marathon sex weekend we had with a straight face.” I clenched my jaw, Y/N scoffing. “I’m not the one that needs to maintain professionalism here. You-”

I snatched her by her uniform, Y/N’s breath hitching, a sliver of fear? No, fuck, that was desire in her eyes. 

“There is no us. I do not give a shit about you. You were a good fuck, understand me? We never would have worked. That’s all you were.” Her eyes shifted, her bravado cracking. Good. I had to nip this in the bud, for both of us. I grabbed harder, Y/N’s chin wobbling. “Aw, you scared boot? This is the job, being terrified every second of every day. You are small and weak and I will do my damn best to get you removed from the program. Until that day, I’m going to make your life a living hell. Now say yes sir and get in the fucking shop.”

Her eyes watered, Y/N swallowing thickly before I let her go. “Y-yes-”

“What was that, boot?” I barked. She flinched. “Fucking jumpy? You think you get to be jumpy? You get to show fear?”

“Sorry sir. I’ll do better.”

“Get in the damn shop and find a felony arrest. Someone big. I want to see how you do in a fight.” She turned and slipped inside the vehicle, angling her body away from me. I spun around and went to the back of the shop, squeezing my eyes shut.

I was officially going to hell.

I turned down another street, pulling over to a curb, resting my head against the wheel. I never should have threatened her like that. That was the beginning of the end. She barely spoke for a month after that incident. Slowly her attitude had shifted. While she’d grown into an excellent officer with stellar confidence, she clearly hated me. At first it was fearful, then indifferent. She’d settled on annoying me with useless facts during the day, grating on my nerves, always adding a pointed “sir” on the end, shooting daggers with her eyes at me.

Great job Bradford. You made a badass cop that would happily shank you in a dark alley if given the opportunity. All because I was too much of a coward to go to Grey and tell him I had gone on a date with my new boot and she should be assigned to a different station because hey, I really like her and want to explore a relationship with this really cool and sweet woman. What I wouldn’t give right now to have done that, to have her sitting beside me telling me something about donkeys or snowfall rates or a field trip she went on as a…

“Eerie. Not eerie.” My head snapped up, my hand shooting for my radio. “Nolan answer me right now.”

“Nolan for Bradford,” he said, a new shot of adrenaline in my veins for the hundredth time in the past hour.

“Y/N’s from Buffalo. She didn’t mean eerie fair as in creepy. She mean Eerie as in the fucking Eerie county fair she went to as a kid…and I have no idea what that means. Do you?” I waited, gripping the radio too tight, Nolan taking his sweet ass time to respond while Lopez and Grey started sounding off different orders.

“I’ve been a few times. It smells like…grease and sugar for the most part, maybe a hint of farm animals but primarily grease and sugar,” he said. 

“Resturants, bakeries, fast food joints, commercial food buildings…warehouse,” I said. “Empty warehouses near those things with gravel parking lots.”

“We’ve got…two potential spots. No three, maybe. Two main ones,” said Angela. “Sending locations to all units.”

My eyes darted across my computer screen, landing on the last one, the furthest one out. “I’m taking Wilderban.”

“Bradford, that’s a long shot,” said Grey. “The other two locations have known gravel roads and are located around active restaurants. Wilderban isn’t LAPD jurisdiction. Let county check it out. They’ll get there before you anyways.”

“7 Adam 100 taking Wilderban,” I said again, spinning my tires as I sped down the road for the north side of the city. 

“7 Adam 15 also taking Wilderban,” Celina said, joined by Nolan’s shop a moment later.

“None of you do anything stupid,” sighed Grey, a few more units joining, all from our station, all who knew Y/N. 

Minutes ticked by as I flew down the freeway, Lucy’s voice breaking the silence. “7 Adam 100 switch to channel 23.”

“What, Chen?” I barked, wincing at myself. I was too on edge, too reckless as I watched my speedometer tick over 125, pushing the limits of this fucking SUV.

“Slow down. You’re going to kill yourself.” 

“How far out is everyone?” I asked instead. “I’m less than five.”

“Jesus, Tim,” muttered Lucy. “We’re about nine.”

“I’m not waiting for anyone to go in.” A chorus of loud, angry rebuttals came over the channel and I hung up the radio, flooring it even harder. She had to be there. 

Wilderban? That’s where I fuckin’ met her at the bar and this psycho knew it.

“7 Adam 100 arriving at Wilderban location,” I said three minutes later, wide eyed at the gravel lot, construction equipment off in the far side of the parking lot. I jumped out of the vehicle, grabbing my rifle from the back as I looked around, no cars in sight. The warehouse wasn’t extremely large, two stories but square, compact. I ran up a loading dock, ducking under an open bay door and was cascaded in darkness. Quietly, I ran through the open space, finding a back wall and slipping through an open door. I found myself in a maze of hallways, turning through them until I saw bright light at the end of one.

The whole place was silent. Not good. Quickly I moved again, turning a corner, in a space overwhelmed with light.

And smack dab in the middle of the room was Y/N, tied to that chair. 

With a plastic bag over her head.

“No, no,” I said, running for her, clearing the room sloppily on my way, squeezing the radio on my shoulder. “I’ve got Officer Y/L/N at Wilderban, back of the warehouse. I need help.”

I slid across the floor and pulled out my knife in one move, tearing open the thick plastic, catching the zip tie around her neck and slicing that too. Her skin got nicked and I made quick work of removing the other restraints.

“Y/N,” I said, laying her down on the ground. She was warm and sticky with blood. Fuck, she looked even worse in person. I leaned my head down, taking her pulse at the same time. Shit, where was it? “No, no, no, no.”

I pressed down hard on her chest, moving my hands fast, trying to get her to start breathing again. Her body only moved when I pushed it, limp and lethargic, like it had nothing left to give.

“Come on, Y/N. Come on. Tell me how much of a dickhead I am,” I panted, shoving over and over and over. She didn’t move and I bent down, pressing my mouth to hers and blowing hard. I did it once more, returning to chest compressions.

She lay still, blood in her messy hair, rage wrapping around my body, snapping tightly. I heard a crack, one of her ribs breaking, my arms moving too hard for her battered body.

“You’re not dying because of me,” I whispered, pressing down, over and over. “You’re not giving up yet. Fucking fight for it.”

Nothing happened though, not one minute, not two, not three later, my eyes watering, lip wobbling. “Don’t go. I have to tell you how sorry I am,” I breathed out. “Stay for me. Please. Please.”

I heard car doors and footsteps, sharp intakes of air. I glanced upwards, our friends staring down at Y/N’s lifeless form, the sweat dripping from my temple as I kept compressing.

“I don’t know what to-” Y/N jerked underneath me, sucking in air, everyone in the room jumping. I stared down at her, Y/N coughing violently once, twice, before releasing a guttural scream that’d be starring in my nightmares for the rest of my life.

She shook on the ground, looking at me but not really, another scream ready on the tip of her tongue when I leaned over her close, touching her cheek. “It’s me, honey, it’s Tim. You’re safe.”

Something clicked in her brain, some animalistic part turning off, another switching on that had her sitting upright, clutching my vest and shirt for dear life, her whole body trying to hide in mine. I wrapped her up tight, probably hurting her in the process but she just clung harder, starting to sob into my neck. 

“Sh,” I cooed, petting her hair, trying to get her to stop shaking, scooting her up to sit in my lap off the cold ground. “I got you. It’s okay.”

“Finish clearing the building,” said Lucy after a moment to a few others, Y/N cringing when she heard fast footsteps. “Air medic’s on the way.”

“I want to take her outside,” I said, slowly raising with her in my arms, hers clung around my neck. I glanced down, spotting a white poster board nearby.

Sergeant Bradford. What happens to me is entirely your fault. You’re the reason I’m going to die, slowly, painfully, alone. My death is on your hands. 

“Sergeant. Sergeant Bradford. Tim.” I blinked, looking up from the ground, Nolan standing right there, his face sympathetic. I nodded, following him outside, someone having opened the back of my shop. I sat in the open back, Y/N shivering and crying, not seeming to even recognize she was outside in the lowering afternoon sun.

“I have a jacket in that bag to put on her,” I said hoarsely, Celina quickly opening it and draping it over Y/N, making her shriek again. I tucked it around her, catching a glimpse of her blood soaked ducky pajama shorts, a wave of nausea hitting me. 

How was there so much damn blood?

“That’s better,” I said softly, fixing it tight, moving the hair from her face. “Nice and warm. Yeah, we’ll get you some nice clean clothes and-”

Her body went lax all of a sudden, my eyes shooting to Celina’s, her hands instantly on Y/N’s neck. “She has a pulse.”

I waited a beat, her breath hot against my skin. “And she’s breathing. It’s the shock. She needs a hospital, right now.”

“Air is three minutes out,” said Lucy, joining us with a frown. “No sign of anyone else here. We must have just missed them.”

“I didn’t clear the whole building. They were probably inside when I got here,” I said, Y/N stirring again based on the death grip she had on my neck. She tugged on my hair, making me wince. “Hey, hey. S’okay. I’m right here.”

“You made the right call,” said Lucy, smiling sadly at Y/N’s back. “You did, Tim.”

“We’ll find who did this,” said Nolan, resting a hand on Y/N’s shoulder. Her head snapped up, eyes wild as she nearly bit off Nolan’s hand if I hadn’t trapped her in my arms. He took a big step back, Y/N still fighting me.

“Relax,” I whispered in her ear. “That’s our annoying buddy, Nolan, yeah? No one’s going to hurt you.”

“Is that…blood on her mouth?” asked Nolan. I rolled my eyes, tucking Y/N’s head under my chin.

“Look at her face, of course-”

“Tim,” said Celina, all three of them staring at me, a few other officers joining and staring at Y/N. 

“What?”

“That’s too much blood on her for one person.” I frowned, feeling over her collarbone, her arms, no sign of a visible wound to the skin despite the blood staining her throat. “Did she…bite someone?”

“Good girl,” I mumbled against her temple, Y/N burrowing against me, getting twitchy. I kissed her forehead despite the audience, no one thinking anything of it as she settled, her cries starting to turn into exhausted sniffles. My gaze drifted up when I heard a chopper, Y/N tensing at the sound. It took a moment for it to land in the lot, my body curling around hers to protect it from the rocks that got kicked up.

“Y/N, you have to let go of Tim,” said Celina gently, Y/N’s grip digging in even harder. 

“I got it,” I said, picking her up, carrying her halfway across the lot towards the chopper where a stretcher and two EMT’s waited. When we were out of earshot, I stopped, pressing my lips to her bruised forehead. “I’m so sorry. For all of it. I take the blame for everything.”

She didn’t speak, kept her head low as I set her down on the stretcher. She didn’t correct me as tears spilled down her cheeks, as I forced her hands away, as they wrapped her up in blankets and strapped her down. For some reason I laid my jacket back on top of her before turning away, feeling her heated gaze on my back before the chopper was winding back up and taking off.

She was alive, that was all that mattered. Alive and hated me but that was okay. 

I hated me too.

A/N: The reader's safe but not doing great. Do you think she actually blames Tim for what happened? Do you think he'll be able to forgive himself? Where do you think these two will go from here? 👀 Let me know in the comments!

[zulas-world]

Jesus.... Girl.... like please part 3 4 5 6!!! How many are you planning? i need more i need them all !!!! Love your writing like aways 😍😍

[kittyminion]

'till death do us part bucky barnes x soldier!f!reader

₍^. .^₎Ⳋ cece's birthday celebration ⭑.ᐟ -thank you all for such an amazing time on this platform and i'm especially grateful for another year around the sun as an awkward fangirl who writes for funsies..this is my longest fic EVER so hope y'all enjoy!!! -as bucky's fiance, you freaked out when he went MIA during the war, so you went looking for him, not knowing it would end up with you under hydra's command with solar abilites. but when you're woken by tony stark and fight for him during civil war, everything changes, for better and for worse, but you and bucky promised you would be together till death parted you -fluff, angst, language, violence, mind control, reader has solarkinetic abilities, reader is a super soldier, hydra, loose mcu timeline, canon-divergence, the avengers, reader's alias is sunny/solara ('sunny' given by tony), arguing, poc reader, reader has curly/coily hair, bold indicating russian, platonic tony/steve/natasha x reader, forced proximity, a lot of plot, mild slow burn, eventual smut 18+ -word count= 17.6k (yikes)

James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. Your Bucky, was missing. Almost a year had gone by since he'd went to the front, smiling brightly at you and Steve from the train, wearing his military uniform, face clean and innocent. That was the second night the ring was on your finger. Bucky had given it to you in the dead of night, huddled beneath the covers, your bodies naked and sweaty. His kisses were sweet that night because he knew he'd be gone the next day, reeling from the thought of not seeing you.

He slipped it on your finger, giggly and unserious to distract himself and you welcomed it entirely, even as tears streamed down your face and reality barreled into you like a bus. You held him tight, the silver band miniscule but full of love. Maybe it was because the two of you were young and dumb, but you expected to see him again after wishing him off to Europe.

You imagined lying in your bed, his cologne freshly sprayed on the sheets, and Bucky walking through the doorway, face still bright but no longer innocent. You expected him to be tan, and his eyes exhausted, but he'd hold you close nonetheless, muttering how much he missed you and his kisses there to prove it. He'd throw his dufflebag aside and rip his uniform off so he could climb into bed with you, dog tags cold against your fingers as you examined them.

You'd kiss him lightly at first then it'd spread into something passionate and heartfelt. He'd climb ontop of you and show you exactly how a man made love to his fiance and you would think about that specific day for the rest of your life. But that was a fools wish.

Bucky didn't come back, and neither did Steve when he deployed. Steve left you with hugs and kisses to the cheek, saying he'd contact you when he made it to Europe, and although those things came, that didn't distract from how much you missed the both of them. Bucky sent you letters throughout the time he was away. They were long and tear stained, his cologne soaked into the page because he knew you loved it. He'd leave little trinkets he collected inside the envelope, then told you when to expect the next letter.

You kept eveything in a shoe box underneath your bed and pulled it out each time you longed for him. Your heart ached so painfully sometimes you could barely breath. You spent night after night wishing he was there beside you, your pillow soaked, body curled into the tightest ball.

After a while, his letters didn't come and yours were the only ones in the mailbox. You were erratic around that time, calling anyone and everyone to find out where he was and if he was just being restricted from contacting you. But, Steve didn't answer either. Some days, you'd look down at your ring and want to rip your hand off. The reminder was damaging, and most things to do with Bucky were disheartening. The pictures on the walls made you wince, his scent made you nauseous and each thing in the apartment that belonged to him made you freeze.

He was the biggest reminder of sorrow in your life, so you began making him disappear. You boxed his things up and shoved them in the closet, you stuffed old pictures of him, Steve and you underneath furniture and the ring—the ring was the biggest pain, but you couldn't bring yourself to take it off. You loved Bucky, and although you hated how much you missed him, you'd disappoint yourself entirely if you tried to eliminate him wholly from your life.

But nonetheless, you didn't speak his name.

When the DPAA sent a letter in the mail informing you Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers were missing in action, you lost your shit. You talked to anyone you could on the next steps and how to get them back, even if it meant you traveling to Europe to look for them yourself. There wasn't much to do but wait though. The DPAA gave you support, but it wasn't enough.

Your heart had been shattered in two pieces, and nothing could repair it but seeing their faces in person. You distracted yourself with asking around. You spoke to soldiers from their regenment asking what exactly happened and it seemed each person gave you a different retelling that did nothing but confuse you. You spent nights staring at old letters of Bucky's, trying to piece together what happened, but nothing made sense.

That's when you found Peggy Carter. You were quick to schedule an appointment with her, and when she saw your plea, she invited you to her office without a second thought.

"So you're Bucky's fiance?" Peggy sat behind her desk, watching you with concerned brows. You were glancing at the picture of Steve on her desk, your hands trembling at the sight of him. You looked distraught, and had been for so long, so you were used to it by now. "Yes. He proposed four years ago, right before he deployed. Steve deployed a year after that. Then, I was sent papers by the DPAA saying that both of them were M.I.A."

Peggy leaned against her desk, mouth falling open before she shook her head, "love, they're both K.I.A." You paused, shaking your head softly, "no, the papers said—"

"—soldiers in Bucky's infantry watched him fall from a train. He was prounced killed in action days afterwards. Steve on the other hand, was given the super soldier serum in 1943, and he crashed a plane into the Artic."

Your face split with devastation as you shook your head, standing momentarily then sitting back down as tears flooded your vision, "that can't be true! I read the paper and that's what it said—both of them are dead?" You spat, watching her intently and Peggy nodded, moving towards you.

She pressed a gentle hand to your shoulder and kneeled, "both of them were fighting against Hydra, a terrorist organization. I promise you neither of their deaths were in vain." You voice shook with a sob, "he can't be dead, we're supposed to get married!"

Peggy pulled you into a tight hug, her mouth pressed against your head as she nodded slowly, "it'll be alright. He spoke about you often, and I can't tell you how much he loved you." Peggy's voice wavered with a cry and you shook your head, "no one knows about Hydra. It would've been in the papers otherwise."

Peggy pulled away and sat at the edge of her desk, staring at the picture of Steve, "it's hard to put something like that in the media, especially with so much propaganda going around." You inhaled deeply, wiping your tears away roughly, "would it help to get it in the media, then?" Peggy glanced at you and grabbed your hand, "of course it would. Steve and Bucky fought so hard against them, I would hate to see people not know about it. I'll refer you to a few journalists, would that help?"

It was the biggest news you could've ever hoped for. You didn't realize you'd been grieving Bucky and Steve until you heard of their death. You coped better than you did at their disappearance and focused majority of your energy into bringing the truth to light. You sat with mutiple journalists of different media companies and told Bucky and Steve's story to the best of your ability. You spoke of Bucky's loyalty and love, and of Steve's honor and dependency.

You mentioned Hydra and Peggy, and your immense love for your fiance and closest friend and it made headlines across the country. People knew Bucky as you knew him, not just a Sergeant killed in action. They knew Steve beyond his Captain America alias, and it brought peace to your life. You went about life still mourning, but now you could remember the times without feeling agony.

But things didn't stop there.

You were coming home from work when you saw it—your apartment door ajar. You dropped everything and snuck up, ears ringing, your body rigid with alert. You assumed it was a measly break in. Everything was a mess, the cushions of the couch ripped, stuffing on the floor, the television cracked and thrown across the room. Mugs, glasses, and plates were shattered in the kitchen, but the bedroom was the worst.

The mattress was off the frame, your clothes in a pile in the middle of the floor. The shoebox containing Bucky and Steve's letters was lying on the nightstand, but no letters were inside. Your heart spiked with panic as you rushed over, scrambling through all of Bucky's trinkets for the letters, but they were nowhere to be found.

Before you realized, someone was sneaking up behind you. A heavy arm wrapped around your throat and a hand covered your mouth. You screamed, kicked and fought back, but someone else grabbed your legs and bounded them with rope. You couldn't see their faces due to the masks, but you reached out to claw at a face, but was quickly subdued.

The man holding your feet raised a needle and shot the liquid into your thigh. Within a second, you were slumped, senses muffled, eyes blurry, your veins burning and head throbbing.

They lingered above you and muttered, "hail Hydra."

=✪=

Your body ached with exhastion, marks on your wrists and ankles from the bounds. Your back was rigid against the metal table, toes flexing to wake yourself further and the cold seeped into your bones. You were bare, save for your underwear, and you chest heaved with panick as you attempted to get up, but the bounds were digging into your skin.

Chest rising and falling quickly, you tried to scream, but a cloth was shoved into your mouth, soaked with your saliva. You could feel a bruise blooming on your neck from where the Hydra soldier grabbed you earlier, your eyes bloodshot and sore. Your veins were burning still, as if poison was spewing throughout your body. It passed through your heart and you grunted in pain, your chest splitting with sharp pains as you twisted in agony. You glanced up and saw two men in labcoats watching you, one holding a clipboard and noting your reaction while the other was adjusting a drip bag full of glowing blue liquid.

You followed the IV to your arm and your eyes widened as the liquid seeped into your arm. Your body was on fire, skin covered in a neverending sheen of sweat. You bit your cheek to attempt to distract from the pain, but even as blood filled your mouth, you could feel the burning. Then, the first scientist walked over to a huge light and turned it on, and almost immediately, your body was sizzling. You screamed and twisted, trying to pull yourself away. It was like the sun, but worse—a sunburn tenfold, all twenty-seven million degrees of the sun pointed at you. But the serum was keeping you alive. Keeping your heart pumping and your eyes functional.

When the drip bag was empty, you began convulsing, foam pouring from your mouth. The scientist holding the clipboard snatched the cloth from your mouth and hummed distatefully, muttering words in Russian. The second scientist removed the bounds and turned off the sunlight and you fell off the table, clawing at the floor in pain. You shivered as the convulsing stopped, lungs working doubly as you rolled onto your back, staring up at the ceiling.

"She survived the entire thing. Say the trigger words!" The scientist said. The one holding the clipboard pushed the first aside and tugged you up by your arm, staring into your eyes. You didn't move an inch, every muscle in your body frozen and waiting.

"Three, determination. March. Unchanging, twenty, heal. Ghost, time." Your eyes burst like he'd just opened a newfound world, and you muttered the infamous words, "ready to comply."

The scientist smiled sinfully, and turned to the first, "kill him." The scientists' face fell as you raised your hand, a hot sunbeam shooting towards him. He tried to outrun it, moving towards the door, but your palm followed him. The beam singed his clothes and hair, and as he struggled to open the door, you moved closer, raising both hands.

The room smelt like burnt flesh when you were finished, the man's body unrecognizable in a pile of bones and melted flesh. And from then on, you were under Hydra's command.

=✪=

You were glued to the wall, hands flat against it as you peaked around the corner, searching for any signs of life. Your footsteps were light as you pushed open the door to the Avenger's Compound, a knife slid into your thigh holster, your fingers clenched tight. You wore your Hydra uniform—a black combat suit, with padded knees and elbows, buckles on your waist and thigh for weapons. The suit rose to your neck, more padding on your shoulders, while your feet were stuffed into combat boots.

It seemed the Compound was empty as you entered, gun raised as a precaution, your eyes tinted by the shades you wore. Just being outside made you tense, feeling the sun shining on your skin. Sweat dripped down your spine as you moved further inside, checking corners.

But it was empty. Glasses were vacant in the sink, remnents of coffee grounds on the counter. There were mugs personalized to a few of the Avengers—the infamous Iron Man's mug painted red and gold, a white circle in the center.

You had no opinions about it because it didn't matter to your mission. You were told to go in, search for valuable information, then leave—and at any cost, don't get caught. Being under Hydra's command for almost eighty years of your life changed it completely. You were no longer yourself, but instead an assassin, trained so harshly it would be out-of-character for you to fail anything.

You went about life with no thoughts on anything. Your memory was hazy, and at the best of times, that was a good thing, because it meant the mind control was succesful. Of course, they muttered your trigger words every few weeks to make sure you were still compliant, and for as long as you'd been assassinating around the country, you'd never once been woken up.

You didn't remember what it was like to be normal, and your conscious didn't care to. You just understood that there was a mission to be done, and even if it meant laying down your life, you'd complete it.

Moving from the kitchen, you entered the living room, where multiple chairs sat. It was clean, but lived in, personality accompanying each room you entered. When you arrived in Tony Starks office, you knew you'd hit the jackpot. It was impossible to unlock his computer, so instead you moved to the drawers. You ruffled through files, blueprints and cursed low at the lack of anything useful.

Standing up, you placed your hands on your hips, wondering where else you could find valuable information. Just as you glanced out the window, you saw four people approaching the entrance. They were obviously on high alert, Tony Stark and James Rhodes in their suits, Vision out of his humanoid disguise and Natasha Romanoff with her gun out.

Immediately, you crouched, eyes darting from the door to the window. The door would almost immediately lead you directly to them, so as soon as your mind was made up, you ran towards the window, arms raised to cover your face.

The glass shattered at your force and you were sliding down the roof, metal hot against your skin. At the noise, the Avengers rushed back outside, just as you hit the ground feet first. You were already off, pounding towards the treeline.

"Who the fuck is that?" Tony shouted, raising his hand. A beam of electricity shot towards you, but you dodged it swiftly, and turned around, knowing you wouldn't be able to outrun them. Iron Man landed heavily a dozen feet away from you, Rhodey by his side, while Natasha stood back, eyebrows furrowed. Vision hovered in the air, cape flapping heroically.

"Who arre you, and why are you here?" Tony said slowly, like you were a child, and you didn't answer, raising your hand. He hit the ground hard as your sunray knocked against his chest, his suit scratched and beeping wildly from the attack.

Rhodey shot towards you then, delivering a sharp punch at your jaw, but you blocked it, grabbing his fist and twisting it away until he was on his knees. He retreated afterwards, while Tony raised a machine gun from his back and pointed it at you.

You skid behind the nearest car, covering your head as bullets and shattered glass rained down on you, "Tony, that's my car!" Natasha shouted, and suddenly she was beside you, fingers jamming into your side. Your eyes widened at her quickness, your legs swinging out to swipe her off her feet.

She landed roughly on her hip, but got up quickly. When you saw Vision in your periperal, the yellow infinity stone in his head flashing, you raised your hand without even turning his way and shot a heavy ray at him. He hit the ground hard, body flashing white before Rhodey ran to check up on him.

Iron Man and Natasha entered a double fight with you, Natasha at your back while Tony was at your front. He grabbed your leg, but was quickly kicked away, a beam pounding into his chest. Natasha grabbed your arm and pinned it behind you, and you let out a groan, knocking your forehead against her chin and she stumbled back.

Tony lifted into the air, feet screaming with jets, and he raised his hand, a thick beam of light shooting towards you. You raised your fist just in time to match him, your sunrays quickly over powering his, but Tony raised his other hand and you collasped to your knees, grinding your teeth as every muscle in your body tensed, your eyes gleaming golden.

Your body was dripping with sweat, bruises blooming, and you didn't know how or where to escape to. There was nothing for miles, the city almost an hour away, so you couldn't use anyone to your advantage. Your motorcycle was hidden in the forest nearby. Shaking your head, you blocked Natasha's punch, slowly losing the battle against Tony as you pulled away one of your beams to fight her off.

"Rhodey, Vision, get over here!" Natasha shouted, rounding to kick you, but you grabbed her foot and shoved her away. Your strength was immense as she went flying, rolling onto her back, body picking up grass. Rhodey focused his own beam at you, and before you knew, it was three v one—Vision focusing his energy against you while Rhodey raised his hands.

Tony's visor slipped up and he tisked his tongue, "give up, Sunny! I'm sure you know this won't end well!" Tony glanced behind you, then you felt Natasha kick you in the back, you landed roughly, shades smashing into pieces, and you couldn't see anything—the sun far too bright. You raised your hands blindly, rays shooting out, but Natasha restrained you.

You squinted as the others approached, seeing the sun glint off of the suits. Wincing you, tilted your head to the ground.

"Looks like little miss Sunny is sensitive to the very thing that makes her powerful." Natasha muttered, pulling you to your feet roughly. Tony chuckled sarcastically, "ironic isn't it? Who sent you?"

"You think I'll tell you anything?" Tony and Rhodey hummed at your words with confusion and Natasha scoffed, head falling back with surprise, "it's Russian." Her and Vision said simutaniously. Vision approached you, glancing at your suit, where the Hydra logo sat.

"She's Hydra." He pointed at the logo and Tony tapped his chin, feet clinking heavily as he nodded towards the Compound, "bring her inside."

They strapped you to a chair in the workshop, Tony's machinery, blueprints, and technology spread out messily on every surface. "Put these on her wrists, it should dim her powers." He muttered, scrambling through all the mess. When he found the metal bands, he tossed them to Rhodey, who clamped them on your wrists.

"Think I won't get out? Just wait."

Natasha kneeled in front of you, "who activated you, Soldier? Hydra doesn't exist anymore."

You let out a rough chuckle, attempting to conjure beams, but they flickered into nothing, but a skin warming ray. You raised it across the room at Tony who didn't flinch, still busy searching through blueprints.

"We need to wake her—find out who she really is. No telling how long she's been triggered." Natasha nodded standing, "what's your name, Sunny?"

You shrugged, "I don't have a name," fingers clenched against the restraints, and you were trying to reach your knife at your thigh, but Natasha quickly took it, "you do speak English then."

She questioned you for ten minutes and got absolutely nowhere. Ever personal question was met with a shrug, and you were locked down tight whenever she mention Hydra or who was associated. Tony approached you soon after, and lifted your head, finger gentle against your chin. You sneered at him, flinching away, but he grabbed the dogtags linked around your neck then pulled them off.

He read the name lowly, "you're twenty six, activated in 1943—" his eyes widened and he glanced at Natasha who just shook her head, hands on her hips.

"Just like Bucky," Rhodey muttered, and suddenly your eyes flashed with terror, your body trying to force out of the restraints. Natasha raised her eyebrows at you, "I think she's close to waking up. Say her name again!"

Tony did, then said the date you were activated and your age. "In Brooklyn." Your eyes flashed again, fingers alighting as you tried to force beams from them, your chest heaved as you stomped heavily on the ground, teeth clenched, face flashing from hard to soft each time he said your name.

Natasha watched silently, a bit on edge, her hand on her gun, but when you froze, eyes blinking heavily and a rough exhale seeping from your lips, she moved closer.

"Sunny?" She kneeled, locking eyes with you. Your chin stuttered as you cried, "where the fuck am I and who are you? I should be at home, not—" you glanced around the room, "—not here!"

"You're at the Avenger Compound in New York. It's 2016. I'm Natasha, that's Tony, and this is Rhodey. What do you remember?" She immediately removed your restraints, ignoring Rhodey's protest. Tony watched silently, arms crossed.

"I remember being in my apartment in Brooklyn, then these men took me. The next thing I know, they were pumping shit into my veins and burning my skin to a crisp." You raised your hand and the sun ray shot out, burning a little imprint into the floor.

Tony approaching, pushing your hand down gently as he smiled a little falsely. "Let's not do that, yeah? Are you sensitive to light?" You nodded, little flashes of memories entering your mind. You could remember past missions and flashes of previous fights, but you didn't know why. Why were you like this?

"You're a Super Soldier, activated by Hydra, a—"

"—a terriorist organization. I remember back in '45, St—" Natasha interrupted you, eyebrows furrowed, "Sunny, do you understand you've been under the control of Hydra for seventy years? Do you remember your past?"

You scoffed at her, standing, "yes, I remember everything! I remember my fiance—and I remember my life before I was brainwashed."

Natasha glanced at Tony, completely confused. Bucky Barnes barely remembered anything when he was first woken, and although he'd started gaining his memories back now, you were the opposite. You had no lick of amnesia. It was clear you were panicked and traumatized, but neither Natasha nor Tony had encountered other Super Soldiers besides you and Bucky.

"Can you remember your experiences while under control?" Tony questioned. He was fiddling with a whole bunch of parts, a three-dimensional mock up of some sort of wristband at the table.

"No, not well. I remember certain moments, like kills, but nothing specific."

After asking and answering questions for another hour, Rhodey had slipped away and Natasha left soon after that. Tony was forever leaning against his table, asking you all about your solarkinesis.

"Can you manipulate the actual suns' rays or only create your own?" He was completely facinated by your abilities and had never seen anything like you before. You didn't mind it, only if he gave you useful information in return.

"Both actually. I can bend the light easily, and use it to inhance my own abilities. For example, if I'm outside fighting, my powers are stronger."

"But in exchange, your eyes are sensitive to light?" You nodded, watching him dim the lights in response, out of concern for you. You were a bit surprised at his gentleness, especially after you'd fought him and his team. You knew it was pity, but Tony didn't know the extent of what you'd done. You'd killed, stalked, and manipulated whoever you were told, no matter the age.

You were merciless and infamous—Solara they called you. You made headlines as a Super Soldier, and although no one knew what you looked like, they still feared you. And you never even knew it.

"I'm drawing up some containment bands. They won't restrict your powers, but instead enhance and focus them. You said earlier you have no choice whether your light is intense or mild, but these will change that." He inserted his design into an intricate printing machine and the bands glittered into existence, "synthasized Vibranium, a button for sizing, and it's sleek and can blend easily with your skin tone."

You watched him silently, a bit shocked—even as he threw you the bands. You slipped them onto your wrists and stared at them carefully, raising your hand. Instead of a beam appearing, a small orb of light did, like a mini sun. Little tendrils of plasma curling from the small star, getting bigger when you willed it to.

"Why are you doing all this? I tried to kill you." Tony shrugged carelessly, "saw a problem and I fixed it. Nothing personal." You scoffed, standing, "you're arrogant." He ignored you, calling to whatever artifical intelligence he'd built, "FRIDAY, I have a guest staying in the spare room near Barton's. In that area, I need constant dimming, no bright light at all. Lower the blinds too." The AI replied swiftly and you followed Tony out of the work room, still playing with the sun you'd created.

"I'll get you some sort of shades or something, Sunny. But I can't promise it'll be very quick." Tony pushed open the door to the guest bedroom, nodding at the lowered blinds and dimmed lighting.

"I'm gonna try and find out more about you when I can, but I'm in a bit of a spat with a friend." You sat on the bed and hummed, "something Avenger related?" He chuckled at your words, but nodded, "very smart, you. Don't try to kill anyone else, FRIDAY's watching anyway so..." he dragged out the word, eyeing you with a raised brow, then left the room entirely.

You took to examining everything, looking for wherever 'FRIDAY' could be watching you. You felt on edge at the thought of being watched, so you checked the entire room from the floorboards to the ceiling.

You rummaged through drawers in the bathroom, and in cabinets. Dragged your fingers underneath the mattress, and untwisted bulbs looking for flashing lights or microphones, but there was nothing. That led to you ripping outlets and lightswitches from the wall, hand stuffed into the wall to feel for anything.

You weren't used to the modern-ness of everything either. You stared at the large flat screen TV on the wall with confusion, eyebrows screwed up as you tapped the screen gently, trying to figure out how to turn it on, getting more and more fed up until you gave up entirely.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, you huffed, glancing down at your hand, where your wedding band used to be. Now, there was just a little strip of light skin to remind you of him. Bucky hadn't been on your mind in seventy years, and now, he was a constant. Your conscience was muddled, trying to remember what he looked liked exactly. Your remembered his light blue eyes and pink lips.

You remembered his brunette hair, brushing over his ears when he took too long to go to the barber. You also remembered his laugh, deep and brimming—exploding from his mouth so cheerfully it willed you to laugh, even if his reason was childish. You wondered what life would've been like if everything went perfectly. If Bucky stayed home from the military, with you and Steve. Maybe you would've had a kid by now—a girl, with rich skin like yours and thick curly hair that stressed Bucky out.

Bucky would get a job as a broker, and you would be a nurse, like you originally planned. You would move into a midsized house upstate with a large backyard. Bucky would come home from work tired, but still smiling when he saw you and his daughter. He'd kiss you on the forehead, muttering how much he missed the two of you.

At night, he'd curl against your back, hands heavy but comforting. Some night he'd fall straight asleep and other nights he'd kiss you deeply and ask permission. You'd give it, and the night was filled with gentle moans and roaming hands.

If life was that way, you wouldn't be miserable now. Your hands shook as you glanced down at them, eyes flashing as you saw thick, red blood spilling to the floor. A knife was in one hand, a gun in the other, a child kneeled in front of you, the barrel against his head. You cocked the safety back, muttering Russian words beneath your breath, then the shot echoed.

You flinched as someone knocked on your door. You stood quickly, chest heaving as you wiped tears from your face and pulled the door open. Natasha stood there with a pile of neatly folded clothes. She puased at your expression, then stepped inside the room, "got you some clothes. I doubt you'd want to stay here, so I convinced Tony to let you stay at his spare apartment in the city."

You thanked her quietly, taking the clothes, "you guys really don't have to do all of this. I wouldn't be surprised if you just kicked me onto the streets to fend for myself." Natasha rolled her eyes playfully, "you were a bit of an asshole at first, but I understand. Especially the brainwashing part."

You blinked questionably at her and she nodded in recognition, "you don't know our backgrounds, do you?"

"I was asleep then so no. I just understand that there's a team called the Avengers and they pissed off Hydra one too many times. No specifics."

She was quiet, contemplating whether or not she wanted to spew her trauma. In the end, she moved towards the door and grinned softly, "just know, I understand, more than you think."

=✪=

The apartment wasn't just an apartment—but a penthouse. It had five bedrooms and three full bathrooms, along with a large living room, dining room and entertainment room. Tony introduced the entire place to you, giving you unnecessary details about tech he'd installed when he lived there.

"If you press that button right there, FRIDAY will respond. Just in case you're too lazy to speak." Your heart spiked at the though of FRIDAY, "so that means there's cameras here too?"

Tony paused and stared at you, mouth curling into silent words, his eyebrows furrowed, then he nodded slowly, eyes flashing with recognition, "oh, that was a lie. Just wanted to be sure you wouldn't do anything stupid." He chuckled smugly to himself and you scoffed, "you can't say there's camera's watching a former mind controlled Super Soldier and not expect consequences, Stark! I ripped outlets from the walls looking for your bullshit!"

He mocked surrender and pursed his lips, "sorry, won't happen again. Anyway, don't worry about groceries or bills, but I do expect you to start trying to get back on your feet soon." You nodded, sitting on the couch in the living room, "give me a few months and I'll be gone."

Tony waved you off, "there's no rush. Oh—," he reached into his pocket suddenly and you flinched, hand raised cautiously and Tony paused, eyebrows raised as he pulled a pair of glasses from his pocket slowly, "not a weapon, Sunny."

You slumped with relief as Tony handed you the glasses, "I know they look normal, but I created them to dim all light, not just solar rays. Press this little doodad on the side here and they turn thermal." You thanked him with a smile, "has anyone told you how smart you are?"

"All the time." Your smile fell as you scoffed, putting on the glasses and nodding impressively, "wow, these are really good. It's like the whole world is tuned down just the right amount."

He clapped his hands and spun around, heading towards the door, "set you up a bank account, ask FRIDAY for the info. Got about a three-hundred dollars in it, but don't go crazy!"

That led into two months of some what normalcy. You busied yourself wtih trying to find your old belongings. Your apartment in Brooklyn had been modernized and unsurprisingly someone else lived in it. You didn't know what people did with a missing person's belongings, but it was hard to track down anything about you. It was like Hydra scrubbed your existence from the world. There was no evidence of your headline about Bucky and Steve from the 40s, nor any other information.

It was as if you didn't exist. You suspected Hydra took your belongings from your apartment to make the scene unsuspecting, and you really wish you knew where.

You applied for a job at the supermarket as a cashier, and obviously, they were suspicious. You had no resume, and no experience, besides your time as a housekeeper in the 40s, and the time you worked in a hospital around when Bucky and Steve went MIA. But you pleaded your case strongly, and got the job a week later.

You drove Tony's expensive cars he stored in the parking garage, which was awkward considering you worked at a grocery store, but all was well. Tony and Natasha greeted you every few weeks, Tony occasionally returning with little gadgets.

"This bad boy is a combat suit. Take your shoes off." He pressed a small disk on your chest, and Natasha watched quietly, a smirk on her lips. "You'd be surprised how much time he finds for this shit."

You pressed the disk and your suit glittered onto your body. It was similar to Natasha's, with padding, but certain parts were lined with orange that flashed yellow against the light. It covered your hands and feet, the footing soft and soundless against the floor, with straps on your thighs for guns and knives.

"Now, we've never experimented with this before, but ideally, you can use your solarkinesis to fly, I just needed to create someway to contain your abilities safely. So like the metal bands, the suit is threaded with small bits of synthasized Vibranium, which can inhance, but also contain your energy. That means, if you light up like the sun, you can fly." Tony stepped back, face bright, arms crossed as he watched you widen your stance.

You willed your energy out of every part of your body, every emotion you could muster focused. Immediately, your body lit like it was on fire, contained enough that it didn't burn anything, but enough to make you hover. Your feet spewed out more energy and you were mutiple feet in the air. You laughed brightly, spinning around.

Natasha stood, her eyes wide, hands plastered on her hips. She punched Tony in the arm, "you are a genius."

"I know I am. But, Sunny's the real star. She has so much powere it's ridiculous."

More weeks went by and you'd decided it was time for a change. Bucky and Steve were a constant reminder, so much so it kept you up at night—staring up at the ceiling, replaying each and every memory you'd ever had of them. New York reminded you of them too. Especially when you ventured into Brooklyn and saw the same—albeit altered—places the three of you would go together.

So you decided to leave.

"This is stupid! You can't even give me a reason why you want to go to fucking Europe!" Tony knew it had something to do with your previous lifw, but you refused to tell him anything, so he was left in the dark.

"I already bought the ticket, Tony. Non-refundable." He watched you pack your belongings into a suitcase and sighed heavily, arms crossed, "if Natasha was here, she'd call you out on your shit. You're running! Running from whatever fucked up memories you have–that you won't even tell me about!" He grabbed the clothes in your suitcase and threw them back in the closet.

You glared at him, pushing him aside to retrieve them. "I'm not running from anything. And shouldn't you be in Berlin, Tony?" He ignored you, sighing heavily, "I don't give a fuck about Berlin right now. Is this about the penthouse? You can get your own apartment if you want, Sunny. It's not like I'm forcing you to stay here!"

You shook your head, sitting beside him on the bed. He and Natasha had become a close friend in the past few months. You rarely confided in them about personal things, but instead, they were a means of distraction. Natasha would pop by on the weekends for movies and wine, and Tony would talk your ear off all about his newest ideas.

You were their distraction too. They didn't have to talk about Steve or Bucky or how fucked the Avengers were. You were so media blind that you didn't pay attention to any of it, too busy trying to figure out the latest smartphones and electric cars.

Tony didn't want to admit that he would missed you, but you knew anyway. "It's London, Tony. You own a fucking jet, and you and Natasha can visit whenever you like." He shook his head, "you really think you can take care of yourself now? Are you one-hundred-percent confident? Have you even went to the therapist—" you shushed him, "yes, I did. And no there's no progress. I'm still fucked up and not sleeping. I still flinch at the words march and ghost, but I don't have a choice!"

You stood, hand running down your face, "I am almost one-hundred-years-old in a twenty-seven year old's body. I'm still reeled from the death of my fiance that happened in 1945, I cry myself into a headache every night, I don't know how to turn on a TV, I have to ask FRIDAY how to use an iphone, and worst of all, I feel like I'm trapped! So sue me if I want to go to Europe to escape all this bullshit!"

Tony stared at you with wide eyes once you were finished, your cheeks red, chest heaving. You continued packing, eyes watering, but he made no note of it.

"Sorry. Go. And stay for as long as you need. I'll take you to the airport." You didn't decline his offer, giving him a weak smile in return as you zipped your suitcase.

When the airport came into view, Tony frowning in the drivers seat, hand heavy against the wheel, he turned to you, "are you absolutely sure?" You scoffed and nodded, "yes, I am. I already have a place to stay while I wait for the keys to my apartment. And I know well enough how to call you or Natasha if something goes wrong. Which it won't. You could barely land a hit on me, so why would I let someone else?"

He chuckled, nodding, "get out, then. Quickly before I drive off with you still inside." You chuckled, pushing open the door, but you stopped before you stepped out, turning back to hug Tony. He accepted it wholly, mussing your hair playfully, "you're such a freak."

"Says the guy with no heart."

=✪=

The suit came in handy. You spent your sleepless nights as some sort of vigilante, triapsing through the streets of London coming to peoples rescue. It was a form of distraction for you—so instead of thinking of Bucky, Steve and the fact that you were all alone in a new country, you could focus on the girl surrounded by a trio of vicious men.

You walked slowly into the alleyway, face covered by your glasses, which made the top half of you look unsuspecting, just a simple woman who looked nerdy, but the bottom half was the opposite. Your hands raised as small suns formed, "are you sure this is smart?" You called, and the three men turned to you, eyebrows raised.

The woman was pinned to the wall, a hand around her throat. You could tell she was drunk, just by the hiccuping and unstableness as the man pulled away from her. "Who the fuck are you?" He said with a thick accent, and you shrugged, moving closer.

"Does it matter?" The first man shot at you, fist raised, but you kicked him in the stomach and he landed against the wall, bricks falling onto his head. You blocked another punch, hand shooting out. The man screamed as his clothing caught on fire, your sun glittering across his skin like an untamed wildfire.

The girl crouched against the wall, watching you with wide, facinated eyes and you pulled out your knife, slicing the final man across his knees. He collasped and tried to grab your wrists, but you evaded him entire and kneeled, hand wrapping around his throat roughly.

You tilted your head, "if I catch you again, I'll kill you. Think I won't? Look in my eyes." You tugged him closer, hearing his lungs deflate and squeal as he gasped for breath. When his eyes fluttered closed and he started going limp, you pushed him away lazily, stepping over his body to reach out a hand to the girl.

She grabbed it gratefully, muttered words, "thank you so much. What can I call you?" You grabbed her by the arm gently, guiding her from the alley, "Solara. I'll walk you home."

That's mostly what your nights consisted of, and although you didn't want to admit it, you looked forward to it. The adrenaline pumping through your veins was a drug—and such a powerful one that you seeked it out no matter what.

Months passed as you lived in London, building a small community of friends from your job in a medical clinic. You owned a cat named after Bucky, but James you called him, because it made it a little less serious that Bucky was actually gone. You didn't have a car, but instead a bike you'd ride across the city. Your apartment was small, but cozy, dripping in the generic things. You had no pictures of Steve nor Bucky because you wanted to move on.

And you did physically. It made you guilty after, to sleep with men you barely knew, but it was another form of distraction. One part of you thought this was cheating, but Bucky was dead. And he'd want you to move on anyway. The sex wasn't nearly as pleasing as the 'city saving,' but you were much less rough around the edges, something Natasha teased you about through your weekly calls.

She was your best friend, and the closest person you'd had in seventy years. You could ramble to her about orgasms, crushes, and how sore you were after a long day and she did the same. You welcomed her when she visited a month after your arrival in London, and the two of you spent and entire weekend gossiping and eating junk food.

Tony on the other hand was a pain in your ass. You loved him, sure, but he was persistent and a pest. He called you at all times of day for measurements and specs about your suit so he could upgrade it. He texted you dozens of times in an hour about nonsense, and it got so unbearable you had to beg Peggy to keep him away. He missed you and you missed him, but you were just a small factor in his life. Or at least that what you thought. You assumed you were just a burden, but Tony thought the complete opposite.

Within the six months he'd known you, you'd become a staple in his life—like the sister he never had. So sue him if he wanted to bother you on a Monday at two in the morning to ask the circumference of your head.

"I'm making you an upgraded suit, with built in frames—I need this info!" You rolled onto your back tiredly, pushing the phone to your ear as you groaned, "Tony, I will call you in the morning."

In the third month of being in London, things changed.

You walked into your apartment, keys in one hand, bag in the other, your scrubs covered in unfathomable substances. Your hair was covered in a cap, and pulled into a low messy bun, strands of frizzy curls framing your face. You smelt of sweat and iron, glasses slipping off your nose as you reached over to turn on the light.

When you did, you threw aside your belongings, "James? Where are you?" Turning around, you screamed, body tensing at the sight of Tony sitting in the living room, James on his lap. Tony stroked the cat's head and smirked at you, "who names a cat James?"

You ignored him, leaning against the counter as you attempted to catch your breath, "what the hell are you doing here?" Tony set the cat aside and stood, "got a favor to ask, and it's big." He raised his arms as he approached and you hugged him, arms tight around his torso.

"Don't you think it's time for you to come back anyway?" He muttered into the crown of your head and you pulled out of the hug, "let me hear what this favor is, then you'll get an answer."

"Remember when I told you about the spat with my friend?" Nodding you sat on the couch, lazily removing your shoes, smiling lightly as James jumped onto your lap, bumping his head into your stomach.

"Yes. Something about the Sokovia Accords and disagreements, I heard some people speaking about it in the grocery store months ago, but I didn't really pay attention."

Tony nodded, "yep. Well it's come to violence now, so I'm putting together a team. The time and date is already set up."

"You planned a fight with a fellow Avenger?" You raised your eyebrows at him. He shook his head, hands on his hips, "nope. Just heard from a little birdy that their trying to take the Quinjet, so it happens to be at the airport." He didn't bother telling you names because frankly you didn't care. You'd only met three other Avengers, and with bigger things on your mind, you didn't care who Tony was arguing with.

You were practically off the grid, your only information from seldom updated newspapers in London, which rarely, if at all spoke about the Avengers in the west. Which is what you wanted.

"Fine. But what's your condition, 'cause I already hear it coming." He sat beside you, chuckling, "you know me well, Sunny—I want you to move back. Be an Avenger full time, fight crime and dicks with us." He raised his hands as you began to complain, standing, "hear me out! You're a fucking beast on the field, you have military training, and nothing gets past you, Ste—"

"Is this a job or another favor?"

"It's a job, with good pay. You'll have your own room in the Compound, and that weird little freak of a cat can come too." He waved his hand absentmindedly at James and you scoffed, "I would bring him even if you said I couldn't!"

Tony ignored you, reaching over to your coffee table where the disk for you suit sat. He picked it up and tossed it between his hands, "Natasha said you've been putting this thing to use." You rolled your eyes standing and shoving him aside, "you're paying for all the moving bullshit."

"Fine, but just think about it—fighting legally—bad guys, aliens, and a big, cocky, red, white, and blue, bastard with a hero complex."

You hummed at his words with confusion, but rolled your eyes, "I said I'll do it! You don't have to keep trying to convince me."

This led into a long process of trying to move your belongings back to America and into your old room in the Compound. Tony handled it all like you said, with no complaints which was relieving. When you arrived back in New York, Vision, Rhodey, Natasha and another person was waiting.

He was small and insignificant looking, hands raising as he shot little tendrils of white from his wrists. When he saw you and Stark getting out of the car, he waved, "is that her?" He shoved Rhodey who glared lazily at the boy then nodded, "yep, that's Sunny: former Hydra Super Soldier with weird sun powers."

Natasha welcomed you with a big hug, arm hooking on your shoulder as you walked towards the Compound, "who's the little guy?"

"That's Peter, aka Spider Man, he's gonna be fighting with us at the airport tomorrow." You nodded, "nice to meet you, Peter." He gave you a grateful greeting in return, probably not used to being acknowledged properly by people older than him.

Tony followed you with Peter by his side, "don't get too attached, she can be mean."

After you put everything in your room, you met the others in the boardroom. Vision was sitting beside Rhodey, staring at the piss poor drawing Tony had conjured up. Natasha watched silently, clearly bored, throwing a stress ball back and forth with Peter. You sat beside her, knudging Rhodey, "is all this planning really neccessary?"

"Quiet, Sunny, and yes, it is." Tony replied, spinning around to address everyone, "we all go in the morning. They're set to take off at eight, so be there early. I can't be incharge of you adults, just the smooth faced child over there." Peter glanced up confused, pointing to himself, "me?"

Tony ignored him, "we need to restrict them from getting to the Quinjet, and that's the only goal. If they get to Siberia, we're done." Everyone glanced over as a man walked inside, wearing a slick suit, face placcid, "sorry I'm late."

Tony smiled, raising his hands, "thanks for coming, Your Grace. Sunny, that's King T'Challa of Wakanda." You didn't attempt to understand what Wakanda was so you just nodded, standing to shake his hand, "nice to meet you."

=✪=

You were fucking late.

You struggled to put on your undersuit, stepping over a sleeping James, hopping like you were a madman, the tight suit hard to slip up your thighs. Your hair was a mess—frizzy and braided back into plaits, your face bare of any makeup, mouth still sour from waking up. You quickly brushed your face and did what you could to your hair and face, sticking your suit disk to your chest.

It glittered into existence, a burnt orange shimmering cape falling to your ankles that you scoffed at because clearly Tony outdid himself. You put on your eyemask, the lenses tinted orange to dim light. And ran outside, thankful you looked presentable. As soon as you pushed the doors open, you were off, body lit like a flame, pushing you far up into the sky as you shot towards the city.

When you arrived, it was chaos. Vision was fighting a man who shrunk to the size of an ant. Peter avoided an entire truck thrown at him, and a women in red was fighting Natasha, her hands shimmering scarlet. Rhodey, Tony, nor T'Challa were anywhere to be found, and when you saw Peter sling into the airport, a big dust cloud overtaking the building, you knew that's where they were.

Landing on the ground heavily, you raised your hands, shooting a ray at the woman fighting Natasha. She twisted away violently and spun around, glaring at you, "who the hell is that?" She spat, a thick, but unknown accent on her lips.

"Sunny, you're fucking late!" Natasha shouted through the comms and you apologized, shooting towards the red woman, fists heavy, but you were intercepted by a man with a bow and arrow.

"Nice to meet you, I'm Clint!" He said with a grunt, hitting you with his bow, but you grabbed his arm and pushed him away roughly. Clint landed on his back across the airfield, and when you saw glass shattering from inside the airport, you turned to Natasha, "how many are we fighting?"

She ran with you towards the building, avoiding Ant-Man, "Scott Lang—Ant-Man, Wanda Maximoff, aka Scarlet Witch, Sam WIlson, the Falcon, Bu—" before she could finish answering, Tony was ramming towards the two of you. Both of you jumped out of the way at the last second, and Tony hit a van.

Who you assumed was the Falcon appeared after, landing on his feet, large mechanical wings at his shoulders, when he saw you and Natasha, little missils in his back raised. You raised your hands, a thick wall of energy appearing to block the hit. It sent you far though and you landed on your back, body sore, blood dripping from your forehead.

Natasha entered in a fight with Sam, and Tony was busy with Scott and Wanda, Vision by his side. You pushed yourself up quickly, ripping a piece of metal shrapnel from your forehead then flying towards the airport. Rhodey and Peter were still inside.

When you entered, Black Panther was kneeling against the wall, a body shaped imprint in the wall. You saw Peter swing by, following a blurry figure outside. You paused, eyes peeled for signs of another person. You saw a beam of Rhodey's lazer and bounded towards his direction, jumping up the stairs, feet blazing with energy.

When you saw Rhodey fighting a man with a metal arm you moved closer, sliding between the two of them, leg heavy against the mans knee. He collasped, groaning, and you turned to Rhodey, "go, I've got him! Check on Peter, he looked in trouble." You grabbed the mans arm and twisted him around, knee pressed against his back, but he was quick to escape, creating distance between you two.

Black Panther jumped on him and you couldn't see the mans face, "Winter Soldier, you will die for your crimes!" T'Challa shouted, delivering a solid punch to the Winter Soldier's stomach, but he retaliated by kicking T'Challa across the room and you jumped on his back, thighs tight around his throat, "I don't want to kill you, but I will." You muttered, and immediately he stopped fighting, a choked gasp seeping from his lips, hands falling limp by his sides as you tugged him to the ground, arm on his as you stretched it to keep him immobilized.

Him not attempting to break free made you pause, glancing down at him. He was staring up at you, face red, eyes so blue it made you freeze. Those eyes were familiar, as blue as the sky, soft as tender skin. You pulled away slowly, thighs unlocking, mouth agape, even as you pulled off your eyemask. You ignored the brightness around you, eyebrows furrowed as you stared at Bucky. Your Bucky.

He sat up, crouched on his knees, jaw clenched tightly, a heavy shadow covering his eyes. He called your name quietly, nostrils flaring and you nodded, shaky hands reaching towards his, "Bucky, you're alive." Your fingers brushed his face lightly, and he leaned into it hesitantly, eyes watering, "I thought you'd be dead."

You scoffed, flashing a smile, scooting closer, his scent entering your nose and it hadn't changed—even throughout seventy years, Bucky still smelt the same, "I thought you were dead." He didn't smile, which didn't surprise you, because if his name was Winter Soldier, you suspected what had happened.

You wanted to throw yourself into his arms and hug him tight, and even though every aspect of your being wanted to, you could tell he confused, shocked and everything else that kept him frozen in front of you. He opened his mouth to reply, but before he could he was tackled away, T'Challa's fist raised.

WIincing at the heavy punch, you kicked T'Challa's legs out, and raised your hand energy shooting towards him. He skidding across the floor, narrowly blocking your punch, "what are you doing?"

You could feel Bucky's gaze on you as you fought T'Challa, his eyes wide with surprise at your strength. He didn't know how to react at seeing you, but his first thought was god, you were beautiful. The last thought he had before he was triggered was of you—of your personality and care, of the feeling of your hands in his, and the echo of your laugh.

He wanted so badly to hug you, kiss you, anything, but he didn't have the courage. What would you think of him when you learnt of his past? Would you flinch at the stories or at the constant scent of blood? Would you scream and cry when you realized how much of a monster he was? He couldn't possibly taint you. But he didn't know what you'd been through either.

Steve was suddenly by his side, huffing heavily, "we've got to go quick! Scott's huge as fuck, but he can't stay that way for long—who's that?" Steve glanced over at Bucky, watching his horrified face and he knudged the man, "Bucky, who is that?"

When T'Challa was down, you spun around and froze once more, "Steve?" At your voice, Steve put a hand to his head, knees almost buckling. He tucked the shield behind his back and moved towards you, eyes wide. He muttered your name, "you're alive!"

You latched onto him so tightly he stumbled, arms wrapped around you, "how are you alive?" You echoed the same question, but paused when you saw Tony push through a broken window, "what the fuck is going on here? Sunny, you're supposed to be on my side."

Steve scoffed, "'Sunny?'"

"Remember when I told you about my fiance, well that's him." You pointed at Bucky and Tony stared between the two of you with surprise, hands planted on his hips, his visor flipping up. "So you're telling me James Buchanan Barnes is your long lost fiance?" You nodded, stepping away from Steve, "so you understand why I have to do this?"

He tilted his head with confusion, "do what—" your energy shot towards him heavily, a shockwave echoing throughout the airport, causing Steve and Bucky to stumble backwards. Tony shot out of the building, hitting metal beams, vans and the like and you winced, hoping you didn't overdo it.

"Come on, we have to go now! He's going to be pissed." Both men watched you confusingly, but followed you towards the Quinjet nonetheless, even as you spoke to Natasha, explaining things quickly, which—along with the evidence—moved her to Steve's side. You ignored Rhodey, Vision, and Peter's betrayed shouting through the comms and ripped the earpiece out, tossing it away.

Natasha bounded towards the Quinjet with the three of you, "well, if he was my fiance and after seventy years, I found him again, I'd be switching sides too."

You nodded thankfully, "exactly"

=✪=

It was tensely quiet on the Quinjet, you sitting in front of Bucky while Steve was in the cockpit. Bucky stared at you silently, hands resting against the table in hard fists. "You were given the serum too?"

You nodded, picking at your nails, eyes downcast. Your heart was pounding, not only because of the situation you were in but because of him. His eye contact was unwavering, so piercing it made you want to disappear, and you assumed it wasn't intentional‚ but instead the product of the Winter Soldier. Bucky's face was covered in a unkempt shadow of a beard, lips still pink, but a bit cracked, a bruise blooming on his jaw.

His metal arm was the biggest object of your attention, your eyes following the indents and angles, watching his fingers clench and unclench smoothly as if he'd been born with the arm. "Lost it when I fell from the train." He muttered, raising the arm, and examining his fingers with hard eyes.

Bucky was no longer soft. He'd lost the innocence just as you expected and replaced it with harsh and unwavering hatred for the world. Back before all of this, Bucky's eyes would soften when he looked at you. Within a nasty argument while he was upset, lips screwed into a sneer, eyes red from exhaustion, he'd yell. Loud enough to startle you sometimes, but you were just as fierce, but as soon as all was said and done, your words out, he'd look at you and immediately give in.

His shoulders would slacken, the muscles in his neck untensing, veins sinking back beneath his skin. He would sigh and shake his head, hands reaching for you and sometimes you'd comply—most times you didn't. He'd apologize if it was obviously his fault, and if it were yours, he'd quietly move away, waiting for you to admit defeat. When you did, he'd welcome you into his arms.

But now, the stark difference made you sad and angry all the same. You ran a hand down your face as you stood, shaking your head, "you've changed." You muttered, voice splitting with a cry. Bucky didn't get up to console you, his eyes lowered shamefully, and you entered the cockpit, crying. Steve turned to look at you and stood immediately, setting the plane to auto-pilot.

He hugged you with no hesistation, your face stuffed into his shoulder, "what's happened to him, Steve? And what can I do to fix it?" Steve shook his head, "nothing but time can fix it." You pulled away to wipe your tears and you sat in the passengers seat, inhaling deeply to contain your emotion.

Clearly, being under mind control affected him much differently than it did you. You didn't blame Bucky for that though, but you wished he was still the same Bucky from the 40s, but reality said otherwise. He was damaged by trauma and PTSD, making him quiet and angry, and you didn't know how to deal with it because you'd never seen him this way before.

"He still loves you, you know that right? He just doesn't know how to express it anymore." You nodded slowly, staring out at the clouds, tell me what happened to you, Steve."

=✪=

Bucky's arm was gone and Steve was covered in blood. You were sore, nose dripping, your body crouched over Bucky's as Steve delivered punch after punch to Tony's suit. When he raised the shield, face hard with determination, and angled towards Tony's face, you shot towards him, "Steve, stop!" You wrapped your arm around his, trying to tug him away, but Steve shoved you away roughly, digging the shield into Tony's chest.

You let out a relieved breath, thinking Steve was going to kill him, and you pulled yourself to Tony's side, fingers against his forehead, "Tony, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—" he scoffed at you, huffing heavily as Steve stood, yanking the shield free.

"You're just like him—taking sides with a murderer!" A tear slipped down your face as Steve tugged you to your feet, hand tucked on your waist to support you, his other arm wrapped around Bucky.

"I love him, Tony and I have for seventy-fucking-years!" You forced away from Steve and kneeled next to Tony, hand tucking under his back to help him up, but he slapped your hands away, glaring hatefully, "I fucking took care of you, Sunny! I fed you, I clothed you, I housed you, and you go and take up for him?" Tony's voice cracked with distress as he pointed at Bucky, who was watching you.

Steve pulled Bucky towards the exit, and leaned him against the wall, returning to your side as he tossed the shield once Tony told him he didn't deserve it.

"We need to go." You ignored Steve, shoulders shaking as you cried, "please don't hate me, I'm begging you. I've dealt with your shit for six months, but one thing I won't let you do is hate me because I love him!" Bucky suddenly appeared at your side, limping heavily. He grabbed you by the arm gently and tugged you off you knees, "we need to go."

You didn't pull out of Bucky's grip, "Tony, do you hear me?" You suddenly yelled, eyes blazing golden, but Bucky kept dragging you away, "I will not let you hate me!"

"Well I do."

=✪= 

Steve's apartment was small and smack dab in the center of Brooklyn. It had one bedroom with a queen sized bed, the covers tossled and smelling of sweat and dust. The kitchen could barely fit more than two people at a time, the sink was filled with forks, spoons and coffee mugs.

Bucky sat in the living room, staring at himself in a mirror while he patched himself up. Steve was busy trying to straighten things up—kicking piles of clothes in his closet and stuffing dishes in the dishwasher.

You were curled up in an armchair, watching the news—Steve showed you how to turn the TV on. Your face was red and tender from continuously wiping your tears earlier, your nose stuffed, Tony's disk sitting on the coffee table while you wore one of Steve's old t-shirts and sweatpants. Your hair was damp from a shower, the back of the shirt wet, while your legs were pulled up to your chest.

"What's the plan then?" Bucky called to Steve, sitting back against the couch, holding a bag of ice against his jaw. Steve came out of his bedroom and shrugged, "we lay low. No public appearances, no media, nothing."

Steve glanced at you, eyebrows raised, then he looked at Bucky. Steve nodded towards you subtly, mouthing words and Bucky shrugged, shaking his head lightly, "I don't know!" Bucky whispered, and Steve scoffed, sitting beside him, "she's still your fiance, Buck. You love her, don't you?"

Bucky glared, "of course I fucking do! What sort of question is that?"

"Well, she can't tell." That made Bucky pause and he nodded slowly, rising to his feet, but just as he approached you, your eyes fluttered closed. He froze, twisting around to look at Steve, but the man motioned him to keep going.

Bucky hesistated, hand hovering above you. He made a move to push your hair from your face, skin soft against yours. His face softened and he kneeled in front of you, heart pounding so loud his ears rang. Bucky missed you so much it hurt. He wanted to pull you close and never let you go, but he was scared. You'd been through a lot too, so he couldn't use the excuse of tainting you because you were already tainted—by your own trauma. And by all the things you'd been through in the past seven decades.

Not to mention Tony Stark. He could tell the two of you were close, and he felt so guilty for ruining the relationship. All he'd done since he woke up was ruin things. He wanted to live a quiet life, trying to sort out his trauma and stress, but it was practically impossible for him to sit still for more than a few days.

Already—he'd gotten into a violent fight with the Avengers and the Black Panther, found his fiance—or rather you found him—and now he was too cowardice to even approach you. He already hurt you just by not showing the right emotions, and surely he could fuck it up more without even trying.

Steve sighed as Bucky pulled away, hand running through his hair heavily, "fuck, I can't do it man. I can't!" Steve followed Bucky into the kitchen, hands on his hips, "why? What is the problem? Are you fucking scared, Bucky? Is that the reason, because it's a stupid one. She loves you and will for the rest of her fucking life and you're scared she's going to reject you. Are you serious?"

Steve sneered at his best friend, walking away momentarily before he returned, something in his hand. He stuffed it against Bucky's chest and Bucky grabbed it. It was a picture of the two of you. It was a year after high school graduation, and Bucky had just asked you on a first day. You were flustered, staring over at Bucky, but he was the submissive one, turned away, arm wrapped around your shoulder while his face was bright with a smile.

"That is who you are, Bucky. You're not the Winter Soldier, you're not a murderer, you're James Buchanan Barnes, and that's the love of your life, reaching out, and you aren't returning the gesture. Before you know it, she'll pull away for the safety of her heart, and you can't let that happen. I know you're struggling, but she'll support you."

Bucky nodded slowly, staring at the picture, his eyes wide and blurred with tears. Steve pulled him into a tight hug, "take some time, get yourself together, but in the morning, all this needs to change."

You woke up in the middle of the night aching, your body sore, and still covered in bruises and miniscule cuts. Bucky was on the floor next to the coffee table sleeping. His face was serene, eyelashes ghosting his cheeks, chest rising and falling slowly. You glanced at his amputation site, and scoffed sadly, kneeling beside him. You examined the jacked up wires and bent medal, fingers reaching out to press at his shoulder because the skin around it was inflamed and red.

Suddenly, his hand wrapped around your throat tightly. He shoved off the ground with you still in his grip, eyes hardened into a glare, but when he saw you, he quickly pulled away, muttering apologies.

You rubbed at your throat, coughing lightly, "it's okay." You moved towards the bathroom and Bucky followed you, "it's really not." You waved him off, turning on the faucet then splashing water in your face. You could feel Bucky looming against the doorframe, then he sat on the toilet seat, staring ahead, long hair brushing his shoulders.

You lifted the edge of your shirt and stared at the large bruise on your ribs, wincing as you pressed your fingers against it. Bucky's eyes snapped to your figure and his eyebrows furrowed as he leaned closer, grabbing the edge of your shirt gently to peer at the bruise in totality.

"Who did this?"

"Clint Barton—before I switched sides, I guess." Bucky stood, feet impeding on yours as he stepped closer, pulling your shirt up higher until it was tucked above yours boobs. He ignored your sports bra, and twisted your body around to look at a bruise on your back. His chilly fingers made you shiver, "sorry—have you put ice on it yet?"

You shook your head, turning back around and leaning against the sink, your arms crossed. Bucky mimicked you against the doorframe, eyes trained on yours before he glanced behind you, watching himself in the mirror.

"I still love you, alot. I still dream about you and I still wish things were different."

He moved closer, and grabbed your dog tags, examining them, then his hand dragged up your neck, angling your head backwards. "I wish we could've gotten married, and created a family." His chin pressed against your forehead as he hugged you, arm wrapped around your waist, perfect against the curve of your spine.

You inhaled his scent deeply, feeling your knees buckle, but he held you up, "it took me a long time to remember everything, but you—you were there the moment I woke up. I remembered your scent and your face and your laugh."

Everything in you wanted to hug him back, but your arms were limp by your side. You felt something coming—a large but that would surely break your heart. You knew this man like the back of your hand, so you were expecting the worst.

You glanced up at him, eyebrows furrowed and he caught your gaze, a frown resting on his lips. Bucky's hand lifted to your face, and he caressed your lips, head tilting, eyes so soft, but so hard at the same time that it scared you.

"But—" you pushed away, "are you fucking serious, Bucky? You don't want to make this work? We've been together since we were nineteen years old and now you want to give up?" He watched you silently, looking down at his feet as you talked.

"You really have changed. Back then, you'd never do anything to hurt me, but this—this is cowardice."

He exploded then and there, face bursting with anger, "this is me trying to protect you!" He shouted, fist pounding into the wall, leaving a hole, but you didn't flinch—in fact, you moved closer. "Protect me from what? We run from the same people, Bucky! The same people that made me like this—" you raised your hand, a sun appearing, "—are the same people that made you like that."

He moved closer, and you stared up at him, "I'm protecting you from me. I almost fucking killed you ten minutes ago, and now you want to pretend it didn't happen? I go about this world with fire in my eyes, and I won't watch you burn up like everything else." He shoved passed you, but you grabbed his wrist.

"What about Steve? You pretend like nothings changed with him, so what's so different with me?"

You followed him into the living room, ignoring a confused Steve standing in his bedroom. "Answer me, Bucky!" He stomped into the living room and sat down, staring at the TV blankly. "What are you so afraid of? I'm right here, living, breathing, and loving you. So accept it. I can protect myself—"

"—if you could protect yourself, you wouldn't be alive right now." His face burned with the heat of your gaze and you scoffed, "if you were there, I wouldn't have had to." He scoffed, "I was drafted!"

"Then why keep my hopes up by giving me a ring? Why promise a life with me when you know there was a chance you couldn't come home?"

He shrugged honestly, "I didn't know what else to do, sweetheart."

You stood, waving him off, "don't you dare call me sweetheart like everything's okay! And when the day comes that you need me, and trust me, I will show up, you better be on your fucking knees begging for my forgiveness."

For the rest of the day, you didn't even glance in his direction. It hurt, but Bucky thought it was the right thing to do. He didn't want you to be stuck on him because he wasn't worth it. He was the worst version of himself, and you didn't deserve to be dragged down with him.

But that didn't stop the lingering glances and unintentional affection on both your parts. You, Bucky, and Steve were living in an apartment together for two weeks, and those weeks were full of blind love. You made Bucky chamomile tea to help him sleep, he cooked you omelets without being asked. You covered him with a blanket when he slept, and he turned off the bright lights when you entered a room. You clicked his seatbelt on when in the car, he did your laundry.

Steve didn't speak about your relationship at all, because he could see it. He could see the two of you drifting back together without even realizing, so that's why when Natasha came by, saying the media was handled and they no longer needed to lay low, he simply didn't tell the two of you.

"Do you want rice?" Bucky questioned from the kitchen, a plate resting on the counter while he awaited your answer. You were busy texting Natasha all about you and Bucky, but you hummed absentmindedly, nodding. Bucky scooped the rice onto the plate then gave you a few chicken wings.

He walked into the living room and sat beside you, sighing heavily as he did, the plate landing in your lap. You thanked him mildly, scooping the rice into your mouth while watching TV.

When Steve walked into the apartment, you called his name, "I'm going to the Compound today." Steve scoffed, "you can't do that!"

"I can do what I want, besides, I miss Natasha, and Tony still hates me. That's the only reason I haven't moved back yet." Bucky rolled his eyes, leg touching yours as he stretched out. You didn't comment on it, "he's my friend and you're also my friend, and if I'd known it was you, I would've never gotten involved in the first place."

"So you're taking his side?" Steve questioned, sitting in the arm chair and you shook your head, "I'm here now aren't I?" You ignored Steve's protests and turned to Bucky, who was watching TV, albeit blankly.

"Do you need anything from the store?"

"Yeah—shampoo." You nodded, noting it in your head, then standing, "perfect. I'll be back later."

=✪=

Tony wouldn't let you inside. You stared into the camera facing the front doors, face blank and unamused while you rocked back and forth on the balls of your feet, "Tony, let me in!" You shouted, feeling the heavy sun beam down on you—sweat dripping down your back and soaking into the waistband of your pants. You'd think someone who could conjure stars wouldn't be affected by the sun, but obviously that wasn't the case.

You threw you head back and groaned obnoxiously. You knew he was watching you and was either laughing or overcome with unbridled rage. But you couldn't let this fail. You'd gotten Steve back and it felt like no time had even passed, but Bucky—god, Bucky, it was unfortunate the state of your relationship. You missed him so much, and it hurt even more that majority of the days, he was right in front of you.

So you wouldn't let Tony go. Tony had become a sort of brotherly figure for you—not just because he took care of you, but because of the back and forth humor. You rarely put up with him, but he wholeheartedly put up with.

"Natasha!" You said with relief as you saw her appear in front of you, a curt smile on her face as she unlocked the door, "he's resorted to locking you out now? He just let me back in."

You chuckled, knocking your shoulder into hers, "I'm sure he realized he was wrong." She nodded in agreement, glancing at you subtly. When you caught her eye you squinted, "what?"

She pursed her lips and inhaled deeply, "how's the sex life?" You blushed, shaking your head slowly, "very dry since Europe, but now, since Bucky's back, I don't want anyone but him, you know?"

"Yeah, I understand. He's a fool to push you away—even if he thinks it's for the better."

You pulled open the door to Tony's office, and there he was, sitting behind his desk like a mysterious fool. His mouth was drawn into a deep frown, eyes focused on his laptop while a thick cigar sat between his lips. He sucked on it a few times then pulled it away, thick billows of smoke suffocating the room.

You sat quietly in front of him, glancing back at Natasha who gave you a large thumbs up, mouth pulled into a bright smile.

"You're lucky Natasha was here, or else you would've never gotten in." You didn't say anything, hands tucked between you thighs as you glanced down at that band of light skin on your ring finger. Your dogtags were cold against your skin, heart pounding heavily in your chest as Tony bent a judgemental gaze at you.

You felt shameful—and that's what he wanted.

"I'm sorry, but you have to understand—" Tony shook his head, tsking, "you're only apologizing because I'm upset, not because you wouldn't do it again."

You scoffed, "I would do it a million times over! He's my—"

"—your fiance, blah, blah, I know! But I was your friend! You were nothing but a stranger to me a year ago, and for you to stab me in the back like that is unforgiveable!" He snapped out of his chair, hands slamming against the desk as he stared you down.

You watched him silently, turning away as you stared at the Iron Man painting on the wall, "you're still my friend, Tony, and nothing will change that. But, I won't let you push me away because you're angry, and what if it was Pepper?"

He paused at that, sitting defeatingly back in his seat and you stood and leaned against the wall next to the window, "what if Pepper was taken away from you, and you got her back? What if she was a different person after all those years?" Your eyes watered at the thought, throat burning as you forced the tears away.

"You love her so much it's ridiculous, and it's just the same as Bucky and I ar—were." He tilted his head at your words and approached you, shoulders brushing yours.

"Now listen to my side." He interrupted your scoff with a glare and you sighed, nodding. "He killed my parents, Sunny. And I don't care if you say it wasn't him, because it was, to me. That same face, the same body, the same metal fucking arm. So how do you expect me not to kill the bastard after seeing that face? I watched him kill my parents, and you want me to ignore it all because of my love for you? No, I absolutely won't do it."

You inhaled deeply to get ahold of yourself, a cry breaking free from your chest as you shook your head, "Tony, please don't push me away! He's already doing it and I can't loose you too." Tony paused at your words, hands gentle against your arms as his eyebrows furrowed, "he's what?"

You leaned into him, cheek against his chest as he wrapped you up in a firm hug, his hand against your head. "He thinks it's better to let me go—because he's struggling, and I tried to tell him that it wouldn't be the right thing to do, but he won't listen. God, Tony he's so fucking stubborn."

Tony frowned against your head, "what a dumbass." You laughed, sniffing, then you pulled out of the hug and nodded, "a huge dumbass. But it's weird, because we still care for each other, you know, like a—"

"—a married couple in an argument?" You nodded, "exactly like that."

"Well, since you love that asshole so much, hold on, because that's what I'd do with Pepper—matter-of-fact, what I have done. Even when she was angry at me, I still showed my love, and Bucky is doing that too."

Tony still didn't want you back in the Compound, which you understood, but was still disappointed about. You enjoyed living with Steve, but not in a one-bedroom apartment with a shameful Bucky breathing down your neck. But another part of you was a bit happy you couldn't go back yet. The Compound was vastly quiet with just Natasha and Tony—with Wanda and Vision in Europe. All the other Avengers, like Sam and Clint either didn't live in the Compound like the others or Tony was mad at them too.

It was late when you made it back, still upset, your face raw from tears. You dragged yourself back into the apartment, and put your belongings away before leaning against the counter in the kitchen, arms crossed.

Bucky was sleeping on the floor as usual, completely still, his face to the ceiling as his chest rose and fell steadily. This must've been one of his better nights because there was no mumbling or flinching, and after you showered and kneeled beside him, he didn't move an inch.

You pushed the coffee table aside to make more room for yourself, then you slipped underneath the thin cover Bucky was using, your legs tangling with his as your cheek rested against his shoulder. He stirred awake, groaning a bit, his hand coming up to rest on your waist.

You expected him to freak out like he did last time, but Bucky just glanced down at you, steel blue eyes stark in the dim light. Your eyes moved between his quietly, wondering what he was going to do, but Bucky just lied there, hand squeezing your waist firmly, "what happened?"

His lips ghosted over your forehead and you shrugged, "a lot and a little all at the same time. He understood why, but still doesn't want me back."

"Bastard." Bucky muttered and you chuckled lightly, feeling his abdomen tighten as a shiver ran over his body. You could feel the hardness of his muscles and each valley and hill within his abs. You lifted your head, inhaling his scent, "do they still make the cologne you wear?"

His eyelashes fluttered as he blinked, humming, chest vibrating, "yeah, but it's a different formula now. I'm actually surprised they still do."

"I've missed you so much it's unreal." He muttered, and you scoffed, "it's your own fault." You wanted to entirely pull away and really add salt to the wound and prove to him just how much you could make it hurt, but you couldn't bring yourself to do it.

He nodded in agreement, "I'm a fool. And I thought I was doing it for the betterment of you. But I was wrong. As much as I was pushing you away, I was torturing myself. I missed everything about you—your humor, your honesty, your intelligence."

"You really fucking suck, you know that?" You sat up and glared down at him, feeling all of your previous anger hit you at once. "I mourned you before Hydra and then when I finally get you back, you restricted me from even—"

Bucky sat up too, legs surrounding you and he pulled you close, arm wrapped around your head. You sighed as you rested your chin on his shoulder, "all I wanted to do was be with you, but I couldn't."

Bucky nodded, agreeing entirely with you, "you are so right, sweetheart, and I'm sorry. It won't ever happen again." You chuckled humorlessly, "it better not." Bucky pulled away and pressed a kiss to your lips. It was gentle, but bursting with stars, anticipation and longing. His tongue tangled with yours, fingers gripping the hair at the base of your scalp as you caressed his jaw. You could feel his eyelashes brushing your skin as you pushed painfully closer, knee digging into his thigh as you straddled him.

It was a kiss from a romance movie, a kiss depicted right at the end, after two hours of angst, anticipation, and miscommunication. You'd waited so long for this, and even though it was Bucky's fault, he'd wanted it too. He so deeply ached for you, even in the smallest of ways, and he despised himself for even thinking such stupid thoughts. You were the oxygen in his blood, and throughout the past seventy years, he'd went through life half-dead, surviving off of cold kills and heartless masters.

But there was an endless tether between your hearts, and even though mind control and time attempted to cut you apart, you'd made your way back to eachother.

=✪= 

Natasha welcomed you with a hug, a box tucked underneath her arm as she greeted Steve and Bucky, eyes lingering on the latter for a few seconds before she glanced at you with question. You tugged her into Steve's bedroom and closed the door, ignoring his protests.

"What's going on? I feel a shift in the air." She said mysteriously, lying beside you in Steve's bed, her wrist tucked underneath her chin while you laid on your stomach, head resting against a pillow. "it's better now, I think—like nothings ever changed." She smiled, pinching your cheek as you blushed, "and how does that make you feel, Sunny?"

You rolled onto your back, sighing up at the ceiling, "great, like heavenly great. It's like I can heal now, you know, and not have to worry about Bucky being stupid." She chuckled, raising the box and handing it to you.

"So, I went on a solo op to Russia a few weeks ago looking for the Hydra base you told us about, and they had all these compartments there holding all the Super Soldiers' belongings. It was almost like a safe locking away your past lives." You stared at her with astonishment then opened the box so fast you couldn't even rip off the tape well enough. Natasha helped you and pulled the box open, watching your expression as you picked through its contents.

Steve and Bucky's old letters were inside, as well as his trinkets—all the things he'd collected in Europe just for you. There were old pictures, ones from your apartment, and old jewelry you used to where. And at the very bottom of the box was your wedding band, a bit scratched up and dull, but it slid on your finger perfectly.

You raised your hand to stare at it, eyes glittering with the promise of a future. Natasha accepted your hug wholeheartedly, patting down your hair as she kissed your forehead lovingly, her eyes peeled shut as they watered.

When you pulled away, she mimicked your position, staring up at the ceiling, arms crossed over her chest. "How've you been doing mentally?"

You shrugged honestly, "it's weird, because I really don't know. Somtimes I'm perfectly fine, trying to forget it ever happened, then some things trigger me and I get into this closed off mindset. But the therapist has helped." You'd been going to a therapist eversince you were living in Tony's penthouse, and she helped you understand your thoughts and cope with reality.

"Yeah, the Avengers have access to really good therapists." She said with a chuckle and you glanced at her, eyebrows furrowed, "you had a therapist too?"

She scoffed playfully, eyes rolling, "of couse, I did! I'm sure you know, but I was in the Black Widow Program, and it was pure brain wash—psychological abuse, manipulation, forced sterilization." A chilled shiver ran through your body as Natasha listed the things off on her fingers, nose wrinkling in disgust and indignation.

"All under the guise of creating highly skilled assassins, so when I broke off and went rogue, I didn't know what was me and what was them. It was weird, trying to sift through my emotions. Somedays I felt guilty and other days I was numb to it all because I just wanted to be myself." Her voice cracked with a building cry and she shut her eyes tight, accepting your hand as she squeezed it firmly.

"Now, after ten years, I know who I am. I know what I like and what I don't like. I know who I want to surround myself with—but after it all, some nights it haunts me to my core because I can never forget." She lifted her shirt revealing a silvery scar from navel to pelvis, fingers shaking over it.

"I don't want you to be haunted, so accept it all—even the trauma and abuse, all of it. Because if you don't you'll spend the next ten years of your life trying to forget, and it won't do anything but haunt you."

She hugged you tight after that, lips against your shoulder, tears soaking into your shirt, but you didn't care, because she was right. The key wasn't to forget, but instead accept.

Bucky and Steve were happy to see Natasha had returned your belongings. It'd opened a whole new chamber of nostalgia for them, and somehow, Bucky fell more in love with you. He couldn't keep his eyes off of you, even as you sat beside Natasha, recalling old memories, "and he was so small, think of an elementary kid." Natasha chuckled, kneeling next to the table as you sat beside Bucky, a handful of letters in your grip.

He knudged you in the side, nodding at the letters, and you handed them to him, "do you remember writing these?"

"Just the emotion—sorrow, hope." His eyes traveled across the words as he read them, chuckling at the dried teardrops, "I was insanely sad here. It was before Steve deployed." You grinned, arm locking around his, your cheek against his shoulder and Bucky pressed his lips to your forehead, beard scruffy against your skin.

"I missed you so much, but you were motivation, you know? Everytime I woke up, I was high off you, so that pushed me harder and faster."

You ran your hand up his back, fingers chilly and Bucky shivered, eyes dilated and wide with glimmering happiness that he couldn't exactly twist into a smile. But you could feel it—the thrum of his heartbeat underneath your fingerprints. He pushed himself closer to you, "I love you a lot, have I told you that?" He hummed, voice low and rumbling.

"Every single day since I was nineteen."

Bucky winced, shaking his head, "not when Hydra—" you raised your eyebrow, "every day since I was nineteen, and when you didn't voice it, I knew anyway. I'd be a fool not to."

Bucky licked his lips and nodded, arm tucking around your waist to pull you into a partial hug, fingers gripping your hip, "it never faded either."

A week later, Tony was waiting outside the apartment, sitting in his electric Audi, tapping his fingers against the wheel as his phone vibrated, your name across the screen. He really didn't want to come at all—not wanting to risk the chance of encountering Steve or Bucky, but you meant more to him.

He missed you and couldn't let the hurt nor pettiness ruin this funny little relationship he'd built with you. So many times had he messed up with Pepper, testing her love for him, but now, he couldn't risk you, even if it meant putting his pride aside for the better good.

He sighed heavily as you didn't pick up the first time, then when you finally answered and agreed to come down, his shoulders fell with relief, thankful you hadn't given up on him yet. When you climbed inside, face tense with the questions of the future, he glanced over at you, "sorry for making you choose. I understand why and I know you love me—" at your joking well he popped you in the arm and rolled his eyes, "—but you love him too, and either way, it was always a hard choice to begin with. So I want you back in the Compound. Got plenty of ops for you."

Tony didn't look at you, too anxious on your decision. Were you finally done with him, or had you decided to stick around?

"Why the change of heart?" You lifted the center console and plucked one of his peppermints into your mouth, ignoring his stunned look as he slammed it closed, "talked to Pepper and she said the same thing you did."

"You should marry her." He rolled his eyes at your tone, waving you off, "already got all your bullshit moved back in—and you're welcome for taking care of that weird cat—but that bastard can't come back—either of them!"

"You wouldn't give me James back, Tony!"

"You know how weird it would be to drop off a fucking cat like a child caught between a divorce?"

You rolled your eyes, about to get out of the car, but you stopped short, turning back to Tony, "you can't resent me for being with him, Tony. No bringing this shit up during arguments or throwing it back in my face." You raised your finger teasingly, wagging it back and forth and Tony nodded, "I'd rather not bring him up at all actually."

=✪= 

"Where are you going?" Sam questioned, eyebrow raised suspiciously as you entered the living room of the Compound, carrying a small dufflebag. You smiled, plopping beside him momentarily, "I'm going to go see Bucky—I'm staying over at his new apartment for the weekend."

Sam nodded, chuckling, "my man's got his own apartment now? That's great, I need to come by." You agreed with him, sighing heavily as you stared at the football highlights on the TV, "when's your next op?"

Sam hummed, "been a lot of long one's recently‚ but I'll be with Cap this week. We're going off to Yemen. Some group of guys been intercepting American cargo there." You stood afterwards, grabbing your dufflebag, "well good luck then. Tell the others hi for me. I won't be back until Sunday."

Bucky lived on the outskirts of Manhattan in a highrise apartment. It was large and modern, with a perfect view of the New York City skyline. Bucky was just as clean and organized as he used to be, so he ran the place like a factory, and each time you or Steve came over, you had to live by strict rules—no shoes on the carpet, dishes in the dishwasher, take out the trash each time it was full and not when it began overfilling.

You enjoyed seeing him this way though because he finally had control over little things such as how clean he wanted his apartment to be. For so long, he'd abided by others' rules and followed each order with no question. These days, his biggest worry was what to cook for dinner or that ache in his back.

You liked seeing Bucky domestic again, even when he did complete ops with Steve or Sam. Of course, it was still tense between him and Tony, but they'd managed, either out of their love for you, or maybe Tony was starting to accept the past and move on to the future.

Pushing the key into the lock, you walked inside Bucky's apartment, slipping your shoes off then setting your dufflebag beside the door. It was oddly quiet inside, save for the little meows coming from James who was plopped on the kitchen counter.

"Bucky's going to kill you if he sees you up there." You muttered, picking up the cat and pressing a long kiss against his head, cooing when he pressed a gentle paw to your chest. You called for Bucky lightly, peaking into the living room and his office, but he was nowhere to be found.

His apartment—despite its cleanliness—still had pieces of you lying around: hairties on the coffee table, strands of tightly curled hair in the bathroom, and one of his drawers packed tightly with your clothes. He had pictures everywhere all of you, him, and your friends. Sam was underneath the TV in his Falcon suit, raising his arms up in mock victory as he pulled a goofy face.

Natasha and you were on the wall lining the stairs and another picture of Steve and Bucky above that—back when they were in the military. You stepped up the stairs lightly, suspecting where Bucky was, James still clutched in your grip.

You moved quietly, feet light against the carpet as you pushed the bedroom door open. Bucky wasn't on the bed, but you could see his feet peaking out from beside it. A little smile overcame your lips as you put James down and saw Bucky asleep on the floor, a pillow resting underneath his head while his hands were squeezing it loosely.

The fresh Vibranium arm was attached, fingers still and cold to the touch. You kneeled beside him, slipping off your pants as you moved closer, fingers reaching up to move a strand of hair from his face. His eyes fluttered open soon after, pupils dilated—the soft blue of his eyes even lighter due to the sunlight peeking in through the blinds.

He inhaled deeply, letting out a yawn, hands reaching for you. He tugged you into his chest, lips against your forehead lazily and you sniffed up his cologne, never tired of it. "Did you just get here?" He whispered and you nodded, legs tangling with his, your panties hitched up high on your hips.

It was intentional, all of it, but you didn't expect Bucky to have been asleep, so maybe your attempts at allure would go to waste. But Bucky proved you wrong quickly, hand slipping down to the meat of your hip, the Vibranium ice cold against your skin causing you to shiver.

"A beautiful sight to wake up to," he muttered, rolling you onto your back, elbow propping himself up, "just need you to make me laugh then I'm set." You chuckled, which so easily made him do the same, and he kissed you, fingers slipping down your body further.

He trailed light touches over your thigh, hand cupping your knee as he lifted it, eyes trained on yours. "How is Sam?" You scoffed playfully, "Bucky, I don't want to talk about Sam."

He smirked, lips against your chin and you lifted your head, letting out a breathy moan as he finally touched you, fingers featherlight. He rubbed you through your panties, ever the gentleman as he watched you, grinning. "Then what would you like to talk about?"

You shuttered as he moved your panties aside and entered you gently, thumb pressed against your clit all the while he thrusted in and out gently, watching your face like you were the Mona Lisa. And technically you were in his eyes—a masterpiece worth beholding, something not worth money but worth neverending love.

He enjoyed pleasing you, even if it meant in bed or through making you laugh. He lived to see you happy, healed to see you content, and went through his life to see you smile. You were the one person he couldn't live without. Even if he had to tear down the whole world to get to you—which in a way he did—he'd do a million times with no questions.

Bucky groped your breasts, breath hot against your skin as your body fluttered, stomach clenching as pleasure rolled through you—muscles tensing, hand gripping his wrist. "How's that, sweetheart?"

You chuckled sarcastically, eyes falling closed as your breathing halted, "no one would ever know a ninety year old man could treat a lady so well."

He laughed against your cheek, arm tucked beneath your head and when you froze, lungs squeezing, heart beating twofold, he sped up, not stopping until you were gasping and squeezing at every inch of him. Your hand found its way to his dick and you were massaging, watching his face slack with pleasure before he was pressing firmly against your clit.

You slid your hand beneath his pants, rubbing up and down his shaft until he was at your mercy, body tensing as sweat collected on his forehead. You kissed him, drowning his moans, spinning the two of you around as his arm stuttered. And when he came, tendrils of pleasure soaking your hand, you tugged his pants down and straddled him.

Bucky grabbed your waist as you winded your hips, knees scuffing against the carpet, "slow and deep, then?" He muttered, lifting his hips to meet your movements, the tip of him kissing the deepest depths of your body and you pressed your hands against his chest to brace yourself, nodding, "right there, Buck. That's perfect—" you said with a moan, words light and airy and Bucky's torso tightened as he came closer and closer to the edge.

He could barely look at you, eyes watering with divine pleasure, his gaze full of white patches and you—you were wrecked, body stuttering, core full, legs tight around him to get yourself grounded, but it did little to help. You froze as you orgasmed and Bucky kept thrusting, fingernails digging into your sides.

He twisted you to your back, hips kissing yours gently each time he approached.

This was the sort of love he lived for—the sort of soft, gentleness that everyone needed. And the both of you had always been this way: passionate. You didn't need large showings of plesure nor roughness, because Bucky was there to cater to you and you were there to do the same.

When he orgasmed, hips pausing against your own, he stopped completely, exhaling deeply as he lied beside you, fingers gathering your hair into a sort of ponytail as he kissed your cheek, "you were so good, sweetheart."

[itsanerdlife]

Losing 11/22

Character: Bucky Barnes x Barton!Reader

Warnings: Lying, cheating, violence, language (I'll add more as I get more written)

It was supposed to be exciting news. Only the one with the shock was me. Five years of marriage and the trust shattered in the blink of an eye. Where do we go from here? He wants to explain. He’s been keeping secrets in ways I never knew. Am I any better though? Can we fix what he broke, where we went wrong? Do I even want too?

Sam is laughing with the secretary of the state, a prickle at the back of my neck. My eyes scan the room, clocking those I knew were armed. Ayo appears next to me; her eyes do the same. 

“What is it?” She asks in a low voice. 

“Something isn’t right.” I explain in the same tone. 

“Y/N?” Sam is paying attention. 

“Shh.” I put my finger to my lips, listening. Like Clint and Barney taught me, I watch the room, the shadows under the double doors on the edge of the room. 

“Those doors are going to blow.” My hand grips my thick bracelet, fingerprint detection, it comes apart, snapping my wrist out, it connects on its own. 

“Sam the President.” Torres hurries off. 

“Y/N?” James is hurrying towards me. 

“Down!” Throwing myself on Sam. The doors blow, loudly, knocking people down, throwing everyone off balance. My ears ringing from the blast. 

Rolling to my feet, Ayo does the same standing with me.  

She touches my arm; my eyes snap to her. 

“You okay?” I read her lips. Nodding I yank Sam up. My ears ring loudly, almost painfully. 

“I’m going to need a hearing aid next.” I mutter more to myself, pulling my bow apart, allowing it to form completely.  

The long bracelet Ayo wore, wrapped around her wrist to her elbow. Unwrapping it, her spear forms. I grin at her. She smiles before she taps it against the ground, it grows in length, the spear head forming. 

Rubbing my ear, my hearing comes back. 

People yelling, others running. The room flooding with tactical agents, causing a commotion. 

Slipping my other hand under my slit, I unholster my pistol, handing it to Buck. He takes it, flipping the safety, he looks at me. 

“I’m fine.” I assure him. Removing an arrow from the holster on my bow. 

Pulling back the string, letting it fly. 

He hits the ground before he takes another step.  

“Jeffrey Mace?” Sam stares at the man entering the room.  

“Isn’t he on the do not invite list?” I snap at him. 

“Big time!” Sam strips his suit jacket off, playing with his watch. “Run!” He orders. 

“Who?” I blink at him. 

“Bucky!” Sam throws himself on James as someone takes shots. 

“It’s never a quiet evening.” Ayo huffs, she charges forward.  

Kicking off my heels, glancing around the room. Locking eyes with Torres, keeping the President down. Nodding I rush forward, jumping overturned chairs, knocked over people. 

Torres throws his arm across the bar top, clearing it before he drops down, covering the president, back up. My foot meets his back before landing on the bar.  

Lining up my shot for the one shooting. It hits dead on. 

“Go.” I wave Torres and the president away. 

 “Y/N!” Sam yells, letting an arrow fly, my eyes connect with him. “Shield!” He drops his eyes. 

Looking down, indeed the shield behind the bar.  

“Steve Rogers Jr.” I mutter, shaking my head. Looking at the bartender huddled down, I smile sweetly. “Mind handing that to me?” I sigh. Throwing an arrow behind me, I hear it make contact. The body hits the floor. 

He nods; with shaky hands he hurries to hand it to me. 

“Thanks.”   

Turning back to the fight, I test the weight. Finding Ayo, she nods. 

Throwing it at her, her foot connects with it, shooting it towards Bucky and Sam.  

Sam catches it, pulling the shield and force into himself. Bracing he steps out, from cover, ready to fight back. 

My fingers grip my last arrow, sighing. 

“I should know better. You’re going to have to share.” Leaping off the bar on to one of the tactical men. 

Shoving it through his eye, his body falters before going limp. Ripping it back out. 

Another tactical guy storming towards me. I follow his movements, he makes a grab for me, shoving the arrow up and into the soft palette under his chin. He drops at my feet. 

Bucky is standing there. A smirk on his lips. I roll my eyes, a smile forming. Snapping my bow into a Bo staff, throwing it past Buck’s shoulder. Knocking the man to the ground, Bucky catches the recoil of my staff, tossing it up, he hands it back to me. 

He pats his jacket pockets with his left hand, pulling out a thin box. 

“Guess you need these.” He grins, an arrow case.  

My insides do a small melt. 

The click snaps my attention up, throwing myself at James. He catches me, stumbling to the side, dropping to his knee, his body covering mine. 

Sam plants himself between Bucks back and the gun fire. He struggles against the continuous firing. 

Buck sighs when our eyes connect. He nods, letting go of me, he turns helping Sam hold the shield, standing to his full height. They push forward.  

Ayo puts her hand out to me. A smirk on her lips.  

“Why are they here?” I ask, grabbing my staff, snapping it out again for my bow. 

“Your husband.” She lifts her chin. 

“Serum?” Lining up an arrow. 

“They need his blood.” She nods. 

Sucking in a deep breath. I crack my neck from one side to the other.  

“Nobody leaves this room alive.” Pulling my bow up, she smirks. Bracing herself she lines up her spear. With a smirk, we let them fly.  

Rolling across the floor. Pain radiates from my body. Coughing slightly as I push myself up.  

“On their knees.” Jeffrey announces. His goons shove Buck and Sam to their knees.  

My eyes snap over to Ayo shaking her head, she’s bleeding from her lip, her brow split open.  

“The last real, true Super soldier.” Jeffrey is giddy. “The perfect specimen.” He spoke in delight. A man beside him. The two holding Sam and Bucky. 

Pushing myself up, I rip one of the arrows from a victim. Before stumbling forward, I rip another one from someone else. The two holding Sam and Buck, tip their heads to watch me.  

Cocking back, I throw one, sending it through the front of his chest from the back of him. I smirk as he hits his knees, falling over. 

Jeffrey turns to look; his eyes scan me over. 

“The wife.” He grins. 

“I’m a nightmare mother fucker.” I wave the arrow at him.  

“Someone kill her.” He gives an airy command. The last two standing, collapse, exposing Ayo behind them. She gives him an evil grin. 

He looks back at me. 

“I’ll have to kill you myself.” He sighs. 

“I’m going to touch your brain with this, hope you’re not Squeamish.” I grin at him, holding the arrow. Wiping at the blood running down my chin. Charging at him before he can pull his gun, jumping on him, he struggles, fighting for the upper hand. 

Shoving the arrowhead into his ear, his body goes ridged, before he drops. Landing on my feet. 

“That was disgusting.” Ayo’s lip curls at me. 

I shrug, looking down at Jeffrey. Bleeding out on to the floor. 

“Y/N?” James approaches. 

Adrenaline wearing off. Real fear settling in. I throw myself into his arms.  

“I’m okay. Hey now.” He whispers into my ruined hair. Holding me tightly. Part of me still hates him for what he did to me.  

But there are parts of me. Big parts of me that will always love James. That will forever be his wife. 

And I’m torn between who knows best. For now, the only thing I know is I need my husband. 

I cling harder to him. Letting him scoop me up, cling to him. In this moment nothing else we’ve been through matters. 

------- Everything Peaches 9/21/24 @mo320 @ml7010 @babizza @kmc1989 @coley0823 @sexyvixen7 @aiva-gwen-aers @royal-sunflower @camelliasblossom @shinycupcakebaker @purpleeclipseeggsland @daughterofthenight117 @hisredheadedgoddess28

Bucky 'Fuck Me Up' Barnes: @vicmc624 @torntaltos @pattiemac1 @jbbarnesgirl @ozwriterchick @sebastians-love @sebbymybaby21 @kaylaphantomhive @starryeyes-sadmind

[houseofhyde]

emergency contact.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader. mcu timeline. tfatws. synopsis. you and bucky are friends... or, at least you were 2 months ago, before he cut all contact. if you had known an injury and a hostage situation was all you needed to finally get some answers out of the stubborn soldier, you would have handed yourself over to karli morgenthau months ago. requested through dm by @theslayerofthevampires warnings. smut ( unprotected piv, shower sex, silly/sappy sex, doggy style, clit play, switch!bucky with mentions/callbacks to sub!bucky, electricity kink? bestie idk but bucky's gone and got himself his own personal shock collar aka you, implied choking kink - m receiving ) , no use of y/n, reader+bucky's pov, ex-friends to lovers, mutant!reader, ex-avenger!reader, nurse!reader, slow burn, mutual pining/yearning, protectiveness, arguments, does this count as hurt/comfort? idk, implied anxiety+panic attacks, trauma, hostage situations, vomit, canon violence, fire, injuries, blood, mentions of death, angst, fluff, one (1) joke about electro-shock therapy & one (1) use of the word cripple, lord(e) free me from the hell of writing action scenes 😩. this fic ghosts over many of the events in tfatws, please keep this in mind while reading as it could effect it’s readability/the flow of the plot if you are unfamiliar with the events of the show! reader inclusivity. the reader in this fic is implied to have been part of the same program as wanda and pietro, i'm not the best at describing superpowers but, basically, she can manipulate and conjure energy/electricity through her hands. the request did not make it clear if smut was wanted, so i included it at the end of the fic so anyone who doesn't want to read it can skip it <3 wordcount. 11.7k hyde's input. diva down, y'all, send help (it's been a sad week so i decided to haunt y'all with my presence) fic playlist,, for anyone who cares 👉🏻👈🏻 besties aka taglist. @yes-ilovetowrite @strawberryforks

The last time you saw Bucky Barnes, he broke your heart.

Factually, this statement is inaccurate. You could not actually see him when he did it. Yawns have lasted longer than the phone-call, an abysmal fourteen seconds of cold, scripted, rehearsed words fed into your ear through a scratched speaker. Then the line went dead and all that remained was the static sound of silence.

“I am no longer the Winter Soldier. I am James ‘Bucky’ Barnes. Befriending you was part of my efforts to make amends. I’m sorry.”

He wasted no time in blocking your number.

Life takes no prisoners, rolling on and demanding you move forward, trudge through the quicksand of confusion before it swallows you whole and condemns you to a lifetime of wondering why.

Why he walked out your life. Why he chose that day to do so. Why he apologised.

The mind can be a wicked thing in times of distress. In the wake of Bucky’s departure, the rose-tinted frame of friendship cracks, allowing all your memories together to spill over the floor. Picking them up and wiping off the dust, you find yourself staring at captured interactions in a new light, different shades of words and shadows over gestures than you originally remember being there.

Had you hurt him, had you been the one to open the exit door, had you done something wrong that night — even now, you are none-the-wiser to what led him to sever ties.

You’ve always hated police stations.

There’s something sinister about them. A stain on the world, too much grey, and white, and blue lit beneath a sterile light. Metal always seems to clang, all voices fight to yell louder than the rest, and there’s a pervasive stench of bleach — like the building is one big, dirty secret the world is trying to wipe its fingerprints from.

Lump in your throat, you stomach your discomfort for the sake of the soldier. As easy as it was for him to block your number, he forgot to scrub you off his legal records. An emergency contact, a trusted confidant the courts had required him to provide as part of the pardoning agreements — a fail-safe, that’s what you are, someone to call up and pin the blame on should the Winter Soldier ever dare come out to play again.

When the call came in, a tempting siren to rip you from the boat of sleep, a sickness flushed over you, mind racing and heart bracing to hear those awful words. Mr Barnes has fallen off the grid. Reflecting on it now, trapped inside a claustrophobic interrogation room, you’re unsure if fiction would have been worse than the reality of the situation.

Mr Barnes has been arrested. As his registered contact, we cannot release him from custody without your signature. Please make yourself available at the earliest convenience and-

“This only works if you’re all willing to be honest,” declares the woman sitting across from you.

With the little facts you learnt about Dr Raynor, you never pictured her to look so… homely. The blouse almost fools you into thinking this isn’t the sharp-tongue, sharper-minded woman the soldier complained so much about.

“Okay, I’ll go first,” you surprise even yourself. The men sitting at each side of you just about snap their necks as they turn your way. “I honestly do not know why I’m here.”

The soldier was never one for grand displays of affections. Nor minute displays, either. His friendship was not one felt through hugs nor pats on the back, but seen in reassuring glances and the kind of smiles that told you he was still relearning how to form the shape with his lips

Knowing all of this, some foolish part of you had still hoped he would have missed you enough these past few months to lose a little of his composure the moment you walked through the station doors. You’ve flown across state lines just to sign him out of jail, for heaven’s sake!

The least he could do is pretend to still care about you.

“Genius here still has you listed as his handler,” Sam mutters. At least he had been happy to see you, throwing an arm over your shoulder and pulling you in for a side-hug, an silent apology in his eyes.

“No,” you adjust yourself atop the uncomfortable chair. It creaks, far too loudly for a room thick with this much silence. “Why I’m here. In this room. Part of this… weird couples therapy session.”

“Because if James has truly been freed from me by dime-store Captain America, he needs to tie up some loose threads before I let him leave,” the man in question can’t, or won’t, even meet your eyes, stare glued to a corner of the room.

Still, you can feel how you’re infecting his peripheral, can see the way his eyes almost drift towards you, like you’re a magnet drawing them in.

“Oh, trust me, I’m no loose thread. James,” his name is a hiss from your tongue, burning with a foreign flavour. He’s always been Bucky to you — he always was Bucky to you. “Cut me off long ago.”

“I know. That’s exactly why you’re here.”

The guerilla therapy session unfolds about as well as one would expect: in a hypnotic disaster, like a car-wreck you can’t quite tear your eyes away from. Dr Raynor adopts methods used on couples, introducing a seemingly simple prompt: “Suppose that while you’re sleeping, a miracle occurs. When you wake up, what is something you would like to see that would make your life better?”

While the two men busy themselves with snark, you bite back your answer. I’d like to go back in time, to two months ago.

Then a soul gazing exercise comes up, and you’re quick to scoot your chair backwards, out of the soldier’s line of sight, a freshly sharpened knife that promises to pierce the plastic wrap around your heart. But distance can’t save you from the crack in his voice.

“And if he was wrong about you then he was wrong about me!” It would have been less painful to have him dig into your chest and rip your heart clean out from it’s cage.

Hand gripping at the chair beneath you, your fingers jump, a silent plea for your composure to dissipate and allow them to lay themselves atop his shoulder, his brutal aversion to comfort be damned.

You reinforce your hold on the chair, instead, and face Sam, who is halfway through a speech in defence of his decisions. With the blink of an eye, he rises to a stand, smacks a hand atop Bucky’s arm, and turns his sights on you.

“You still a human light-bulb?” The teasing nickname awakens an ache in your soul — Tony used to call you that in the early days of the compound, free for the first time in years and still learning to control your powers. Warmth sizzles through your veins as a crackling light-source ripples from your hands, burning tendrils of electricity warping and dancing between fingertips. “Good, cause I got a favour to ask.”

With that, Sam leaves and lets the door slams on his way out. You’re a moment away from following after him, curiosity itching at your skin that you know he’ll satisfy — unlike the soldier, Sam actually answers when asked a question.

Dr Raynor is quick to intercept, “Ah, no. You sit back down and face James.”

Body barely lifted from the seat, the drop back down still manages to knock the wind out of your lungs. There’s a chance Bucky is to blame for that, a heavyweight gaze that’s pinned itself somewhere past your shoulder, melting you into a blurry stain within his line of sight — not fully in focus, a nuisance in the way of the wall he seems so interested in.

He blinks. Slowly, carefully, an intentional pause taken as he fills his lungs with a stabilising breath. When eyelids reopen, Bucky is finally looking at you.

Blue eyes that do their best to lack any hint of a soul, frozen and robotic in their stare. Humanity, unbeknownst to the soldier, bleeds out of him. It’s in the tightening of his jaw. It’s in the stiffening of his shoulders. It’s in the widening of his pupils.

You itch to ask him how he’s been.

“Now, James, time for a little honesty. And, do me a favour, would you? Really try. You need this more than you think.” The therapist is a horrible reminder of where you are, why you’re here. Bucky doesn’t even flinch at her voice, long ago conditioned to accept being spoken at instead of spoken to. “You crossed her name off your booklet. Why?”

The golden question.

Three simple letters that have shaped your past, present, and future days since the line dropped and Bucky’s number stopped being the one you could dial at any time of the day. Habits die harder than most would think; you sometimes type out the digits, just to tease yourself with the thought of pressing ‘call’ and actually having it go through.

“I completed the assignment you gave me, doc,” Bucky’s response is directed towards Dr Raynor, yet he remains fixated on you, watching you like a predator stalks its prey — too afraid to turn his back, lest you run back off to the burrows with the rest of the cottontails and strays.

“What I told you to do was make amends,” Dr Raynor crosses her arms over her chest, the image of a mother scolding her rebellious teenage son. Any minute now, you expect she’ll drop the classic ‘not mad, just disappointed’ line. “What you did was make a mess. At least tell me you told her the reason.”

Shame overcomes him, casting his stare down to where gloved hands sit fiddling in his lap.

You breath, and it’s like a building has been dropped on your chest. Skipping breakfast is starting to feel more and more like a strategic decision instead of one made on impulse; the cloud of nausea floating around your oesophagus is but an empty threat, no contents in your stomach for it to projectile rain over Bucky’s scuffed boots.

The soldier won’t answer, so you do it for him, “He didn’t.”

“Really, James? I mean, what have you been taking from our sessions? We both agreed her forgiveness would be monumental in your path to reconciliation-”

“I forgive him,” you interrupt, partially because you can’t stand how the pinch between his eyebrows deepens the more she chastises him, and because, as desperate as you are to understand what dictates Bucky’s decisions, you want to hear it from his own mouth, not from the stranger that’s been assigned to analyse his mind. “If that’s all he needed me for, then he’s got my forgiveness.”

The tips of his brows are just about kissing one another.

The soldier lifts his gaze once more, colliding with the intensity of your studying eyes. Red rims the borders of his, spider-webbed and bloodshot with lack of sleep. Who does he call now, when the nightmares leave him stranded and in need of a human life-jacket?

Selfish as you can be, you hope he at least is calling someone.

His lips part slowly. Cracked and bit ridden, a lack of life stains his mouth. He seems none-the-wiser to the state of it, living like there’s still a muzzle covering that half of his face and shielding his voice from the world.

“I don’t need to know why you’re sorry,” you interrupt him before he can possibly begin. It’s a lie you tell both yourself and him, but if you say it with enough conviction, perhaps you’ll start to believe it. “If you don’t want me in your life, I’m not going to force myself into it.”

The chair screams as your stand from it. His head follows your ascent, bending backwards to maintain eye-contact.

This would be easier were he not so naturally attentive. A weapon built to observe, and watch, and study the movement of others as an act of survival.

Is he trying to survive you?

Or, are you another target he needs to exterminate?

The light flickers overhead, product of your own discomforting thoughts as you let them delve into memories best kept concealed in an airtight safe, where all the bad of your past is free to slaughter one another to death. At the first spark of electricity between fingertips, you clench your first shut.

“I’m not like them, James. And neither are you.”

When the door closes behind you, the interrogation room’s light goes back to a cold white, the colour of one’s breath in the chill of winter. The breath Bucky pulls in is ice, a cool burn down into a hollow chest.

“Sorry doc,” his lips pull tight with dishonesty, pain at the edges of his mouth as he forces them to stretch wider. “I broke rule two.”

If anyone was going to drag you back into the fight, of course it would be Sam Wilson.

You had sworn to never step foot back onto the battlefield after the events with Thanos, the war to end all wars. While victory had been secured and families were reunited, too many faces you’d come to admire and adore had perished. Not into particles of dust, but as lifeless bodies strewn across a muddied field. Casualties that no number of glowing stones and no perfected time travelling device could ever bring back.

Cowardly as it may be, you hung up the mantle of hero. Secured an apartment in New York, enrolled as a nurse, and carved out a life of normalcy. Warmth still flowed through your veins, a daily itch that begged to be unleashed, but you learnt to mute it. Dull it. Serrate the weapon implanted into your DNA.

Befriending the soldier had helped take your mind off of it, gave you both common ground to tip-toe over like a mine-field, an unaddressed understanding between two tortured souls. Then he up and left you to fend for yourself.

You could not return the favour when Sam presented you with his plea, fervour behind each word he described the situation at hand with.

A group of mercenaries turned revolutionaries. Gunning for a good cause, yet turning violent. Altering their bodies with a serum, tearing the fabrics of their being apart and stitching it back together with a strength that did not belong to them. The Flag-Smashers are a force to be reckoned with.

Who better to reckon with them than an escaped super-soldier hating convict, the bionic super-soldier, a retired avenger, and the man who passed on the role of Captain America? From Earth’s mightiest to Earth’s most-unlikely, what a fall from grace your career as a hero has taken.

Let the record show, to whom ever it may so concern, that you were staunchly against the liberation of Zemo.

Voicing this was futile, of course, when the man himself was already stepping into the limited light of the warehouse and shooting all three of you an easy smile, like he had not just changed out of an orange jumpsuit.

Through high and low, in a plane bound towards Madripoor and on the ground running from bounty-hunters convinced you had a hand in killing Selby, Bucky has not spoken to you once. You’ve heard his voice, through one-word answers to a cautious Sam and in threats aimed at Zemo, but not once has it been directed to you.

Nor have his eyes, until now.

Neon strobes flash all around you, a dizzying sight that has you craving a drink and the permission to capture the light source and watch it implode on itself. Sharon’s instructions had been to blend in, unfortunately, so you weave through bodies and ignore the pain blooming from your temples.

You feel Bucky’s attention before you spot him. It hovers over you like a force-field, a protective bubble that seems to push the surrounding crowd one step back, heads turning to glance over their shoulders at the man, the myth, the nightmare. The Winter Solider, back pressed to a wall and arms crossed over his chest.

Someone did not get the memo on blending in.

A hand brushes against you. First a whisper of a touch, the kind that makes you doubt you’ve even felt it. And then it’s as loud as a scream, a faceless limb curling over the curve of your waist and entrapping you back against the stiff outline of a stranger. Possessive, yet inviting, coaxing you to sway in a rhythmless pattern to the music blaring throughout the room.

One look across at where he stands is all it takes for Bucky to move. On the prowl, he drifts through the crowd, finding pockets of space to slip past strangers. It triggers a reaction in you, one that yearns to prove you don’t need his help.

Super-powers on lock-down, you lay your own hand atop the stranger’s, who entangles their fingers into the fabric of your clothing and presses themselves closer to you, like they’ve spotted the green-light they were looking for to smother themselves against you. One steadying breath and a quiet mantra on repeat in your mind — disarm, disengage, disappear — you launch your attack.

Taking a deathly grip, you feel as the stranger’s hands mould beneath it. There’s an uncomfortable grunt at your back, one that deepens as you twist a wrist and pair it with a stomp of your foot atop their own. Free from any unwanted touch, you dash out into the crowd, leaving a slew of foreign curses and an aching hand behind.

You steal a look over your shoulder, confirm no one is following you, and run head first into someone else.

The chill of vibranium kisses one elbow, while the heat of flesh burns the other. When your eyes meet, the soldier appears more rattled than you. The red flush in his eyes has grown darker since the police station, the dusting of facial hair now a shadow of brown over his face.

It takes you a moment to register the shake in his hand.

Nearly unnoticeable, Bucky fails to ground himself in your skin. There’s no method behind his breathing, no in and out, no dance of the rise and fall of a chest. Instead, his breathing is scrambled all over the place; inhaling on what should be an exhale, and holding far longer than ordinary lungs would deem survivable.

You’re not sure he’ll hear you over the music. You’re not sure you want him to.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” the first thing he’s said to you in months and it’s a lie.

You don’t call him out on it.

You don’t let him rest thinking you believe it, either.

You do press a hand to his heart.

It races beneath cotton, beneath his suit jacket. A marathon of chaos thrumming throughout his arteries, spreading something dangerous to every cell that encompasses him.

And now he’s watching you, pinning you with a look so disturbed and vulnerable that you ache to flea. From him, with him. A game of tug-of-war between your desires and rationale.

Swallowing down a mouthful of your own nerves, you match the panic in his eyes with a softening of your own. Pressure against his chest, your free hand guides his to lay flat against your sternum.

And then you inhale, slowly, let him feel the rush of air expanding your lungs beneath his fingerprints. He tries, and fails, to do the same.

Holding your breath, you mouth a slow count of seven, making sure he reads over the words you don’t quite speak, and then you exhale. Slower than he does, chest deflating beneath his hand.

Where failure occurs, dust yourself off and try again. That’s exactly what you do with him, beginning a second inhale and forcing him to feel it once more.

Three, four, five breaths are pulled and pushed out both your lungs, slow motions amongst a crowd of pounding hearts. The soldier falls in line, synching himself to the timing of your rise and fall. Upon inhales, the distance between you both diminishes, bodies lingering closer for a counted pause in time, until you exhale and the space returns.

Your hand loosens atop his own upon the sixth breath. Bucky holds it still against your chest, not even a twitch of a finger. Your eyes widen, brows jumping with the proposal of an unspoken question, a nonverbal check-in. He nods, affirmative and slow, confirming the calming of his restless soul.

As you itch to step back, his metal hand clasps over the one atop his chest. You yield to his grasp, let him drag it north to where metal dangles from a chain. The soldier encases both of you around the dog-tags, a tight squeeze that brings no physical harm yet terrorises you with the branding of his name into your skin.

Your breathing is now the one out of line, falling behind in the steady pace you set.

The shape of your name forms over his lips. Before he can speak it, Sam beats him to it, emerging from the left with Zemo hot on his trails and the claim that Sharon has found the intel you were all hoping for.

Hours later, dodging bullets and taking cover amongst shipping containers, it remains stained over your palm.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Chaos does as chaos does best: it spreads.

You chase after it alongside the three men, trailing from one end of the Earth to another. Exhaustion stitches itself into your features, becomes a prominent descriptor for your face. And the silence between you and Bucky persists.

The avoidance is purposeful now, on both each other’s part. An agreement to keep out the other’s way. Yet presence is not something either of you can suppress.

When lights flicker on through every room he enters, Bucky says nothing.

And, when you wake up each morning to find an extra blanket shielding you from the cold, you say nothing.

Somewhere in Europe, an early morning, all hell breaks loose. Minutes from talking down the leader of the Flag-Smashers, Sam has the rug pulled out from beneath his feet by a self-entitled John Walker, storming on the scene with a barrel pointed at the girl’s head and a demand to surrender.

The ensuing events are a blur. An unchoreographed chase-down. Each pounding of your feet to the ground, the electricity pleading to be set free grew louder, warmer, a constant buzz frying your brain with the need for release. Another defeat notched onto all your belts, your meagre team of four dragged itself back to the Baron’s home.

Another fight awaited you there.

The Dora Milaje had their sights set on Zemo, yet they wound up wrestling against Walker and his sidekick. Despite your intentions to remain out of the fight, Sam and Bucky’s interference landed you a bruised cheek and your hands pinned behind your back.

You let the warrior fool herself into believing she immobilised your powers when, in truth, you never intended on using them.

Walker’s bruised ego and Zemo’s fleeing later, the silence between you and the soldier shatters.

“You’re bleeding,” of course you’re the one who has to swing the verbal axe.

Unaware of his injury, Bucky begins to inspect himself. He spots it in the mirror: a gash down his right shoulder blade.

“It’s a flesh wound,” and he’s an idiot, with skin torn open and spilling a river of red into the black cotton of his shirt.

“It would be embarrassing for a super-soldier and war veteran to die from tetanus,” so, maybe you’re being a slight hypochondriac. Working the wards does that to a person, steals any room for doubt when it comes to health and safety. “Don’t be so bull-headed, come here.”

Sam long gone in search of a calming breath and the will to not implode with anger, only you two fill the space of Zemo’s hideout. No other eyes are there to witness nor question as the soldier sits quietly in a bar stool, shirt off and back facing you.

A bowl of cold water and a damp rag, you swipe over drying blood and watch it revive itself, pink rivulets rolling down the stretch of his skin. You catch them before they can reach the waistband of his jeans, and accidentally brush a finger over the silvery mark of a scar long healed yet the pain it brings remains fresh.

You almost apologise.

Bucky almost says it’s okay, your hands could never hurt him.

Instead, you return focus to his open wound and he clamps his teeth down on his tongue.

The mending process is impromptu, the ultimate display of working with what you have. Or, rather, what you find. A half-drunken bottle of vodka to cleanse the wound, a sewing kit to stitch the flesh back together, a bandage to dress it.

The soldier struggles to dress, incapable of angling his arm correctly and pulling the fabric of a fresh shirt over his skin. Against your better judgement, you step in and help, looping over his head and feeding his arm through the sleeve.

“Thanks,” his smile is sheepish, false. A placeholder for whatever he’s really feeling. It sparks something in your heart. Something ugly, and dangerous, looming over all four chambers of the delicate organ, and feeding itself into your bloodstream. “I forget how hard the Dora Milaje hit-”

“Don’t talk to me like we’re friends,” it snaps out of you, cruel and aiming right for the soldier with intentions of killing the smile on his face. It doesn’t even waver but his eyes do, sinking to the floor like a kicked puppy. You feel sick with pity, yet ripe with anger. “Not after putting so much effort into proving we’re not.”

“You’re right,” why doesn’t it fill you with victory to hear him say it? “I’m sorry.”

“Stop!” You get him to flinch, but at what cost? It only deepens the nausea in your soul. Still, you press on with irate words. “I’m sick of hearing you apologise. When have I ever asked you to be sorry?”

“It’s not something you ask,” he bites the inside of his cheek. “It’s something you’re owed.”

“You know what? Yes, I am owed an apology!” The pacing begins before you truly realise, boots scuffing over carpet and kicking up a storm in their wake. “Two months, Bucky! I haven’t heard from you in two months! And then I come here, I go out of my way to give up the peace I’ve worked so hard to bring into my life, and you won’t even look me in the eye!”

Tears sting, blurring your vision yet you won’t let the dam break, won’t let him see you so emotional when he’s the poster boy for stoicism. Fog in your eyes, you fail to notice the way his are suddenly pinned to you, following the back and forth pattern your steps engrave into the floor.

“I mean, who does that?” The words are practically ripped from you, painful as you bring them into fruition. Heaviness clogs your throat with a sob, another degree of distraught you have to fight to contain, reducing your voice to a whisper. “I thought we were friends.”

You’re not exactly sure what reaction you were hoping for.

A yelp of pain? A howl of anger? A whimper of sadness? Backed into a corner and speared by you words, the soldier gives you no such thing. He just stares.

Wide-eyed, unblinking, slow-breathing.

“If I deserve an apology, you deserve a ‘thank you’.” The laughter that tears through your chest possess not a trickle of humour. Instead there’s only grief, mourning for the friendship he left to rot. Dead and unburied, you’ve wandered the last few months desiccating through the streets of the city. Now, you reach for the knife he placed in your back and turn it on him instead. “Thank you for reminding me I can sleep through the night, if you’re not there to tear me away from it. Thank you for showing me I’m capable of doing this all on my own. Thank you for liberating me from… this. Us.”

As high as you get off of cruelty, the comedown is a complete crash of your system. Shoulders that deflate, hands that squeeze shut, and lights that flicker like an electrical storm. When one of the light-bulbs shatters under the heat of your ire, your eyes flinch shut and the barrier of tears snaps at last.

The first to roll is the warmest, lulling you in with the promise of oxytocin.

Bucky inches closer and, on reflex, you flinch back. Images flash quicker than all the surrounding lights, memories of the early days. Confinement, experiments, men in lab-coats.

You never forget the first life you take. In your case, you knew nothing about him. Not his name, not his age, not his favourite colour nor his dearest relative. All you have to remember him by is the smell of his body, blood spilling through every orifice and the stench of electricity convulsing his limp body.

Before the guilt could fully creep in, one of the lab-coats clapped and set off a chain reaction, overcome with a joy that did not match the territory of having just watched their colleague unexpectedly die at the hands of a child.

Of course, you were no longer a child to them, but a weapon.

“There’s something wrong with me,” Bucky starts, and pauses instantly to pull himself together, armour almost cracking under the pressure to reach out and wipe the next tear away before it can trail down your face. “Something in me, it… It hungers. I can’t watch it devour you.”

You hiccup over a sob, the gentle tone of his voice a blanket over the chaos of another light smashing. The soldier does not even react, he just keeps looking at you.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means that everyone I’ve ever cared about has either died,” the first thorn in his field of roses appears, a twinge of distress staining the calm of his voice. Not fear of your powers, but a plea to be understood. “Or I’ve made them hate me through hurting them. I can’t watch that happen to you.”

“Don’t worry,” you wipe at your cheek with the back of your hand, a futile attempt to dry tears that only spread further over your skin. “You hurt me by making me hate you.”

The events in which your life falls apart are quite simple.

First, there’s a threat posed against Sam’s sister. Second, an agreement to meet with Karli Morgenthau — she demands an audience of one, Sam brings her three: Bucky, him, and you. Third, Cadet America and Battlestar Galactica — or whatever John Walker and Lemar Hoskins are running around calling themselves… The point is, they show up uninvited and wreak havoc. Fourth, a fight ensues.

Despite the work put into suppressing that tingle in your bones, it feels good to finally let it loose.

No fear of frying someone into cardiac arrest, the strength that courses through the Flag-Smashers acts as a padding to your touch. For every punch thrown your way, you block it with an electrifying grip, hand closing over fists and watching as faces flush with fear while you zap a bolt of light through them.

A fist flies at you from the right, crashing against your cheek with a crunch that has your jaw aching and open, a thrum of pain echoing up the side of your face. Before you can unload the ball of electricity conjured in your hand, a Vibranium one interferes, grabbing your attacker by the scuff of their neck and knocking them unconscious.

“You’re okay,” the words carry relief, but it’s unclear who they’re aimed at: you or him. Barely two days have passed since you confronted him, yet Bucky stands before you now, right hand inspecting your jaw, like nothing between you has changed. Like these last few months have been nothing but a bad dream that he’s finally called and pulled you out of. “‘S not broken, just gonna bruise.”

If you have the will to answer, you’re not given the chance.

The fight around you both continues, three fighters caging you against one another. Back to back, you fight your way through them. Bucky is all brawl, fists thrown with his entire weight behind them and slamming into the Flag-Smashers with the intention to deescalate, not kill. You, on the other hand, continue the approach of defence, waiting for them to attack first before you unleash shock-waves over their system.

The fighting comes to stand-still at the first casualty. Lamar lays slumped over, a fountain of blood pouring from his mouth as he stares onward, void of life.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey... c’mon... Lemar, Lemar, Lemar, Lemar, Lemar...” Walker’s voice fills the hall, frantic with denial as he checks over his fallen friend.

At Karli’s command, Lemar’s killer flees the scene. Walker is hot on his trail, tightening his grip on the shield of America as devastation and heartbreak settles over him in a blinding cloud. Bucky moves without much thought, dashing to follow the fight and capturing the attention of a handful of Flag-Smashers.

Too many for the soldier to take on his own, instinct comes over you as you raise both hands, eyes squeezing shut in an attempt to channel the power from every flickering light, every outsource of electricity scattered throughout the dilapidated building.

Pain. It infects you like a poison, like nothing you’ve ever felt before. Your eyes fly open with a cry, and find Karli’s hands crushing one of yours in both their grasp, bones snapping like twigs under her strength. The amber tendrils flicker in your other hand, unruly and unwilling to bend to the demand of shocking her, as the super soldier continues to hold you within her deadly grip.

“I’m sorry,” the girl is so soft spoken, you want to believe her. “But I can’t let you get in my way.”

The stitching of your shirt’s neckline snaps beneath Karli’s grip. You barely have time to spew any version of Bucky’s name before she slams her forehead into yours.

The light in your palm burns out and the world goes dark.

There’s this street in Brooklyn.

The floor is cobblestone and uneven, a hazard to cross when rain runs a river over it. Trash compacts and lives deep within the crevices that divide road and sidewalk. Business ends before twenty-two hundred hours, a paradox living within the city that never sleeps. No light guides the way — burnt out decades ago, the streetlamps sit as a landmark of time and not as a beacon of safety.

“You know,” you muse, the midnight breeze brushing over your skin in a sweet caress. “You don’t have to walk me home every time we go out.”

“This street is darker than my past. It’s the least I can do.”

“You don’t have to worry about my safety,” even so, the thought heats up your cheeks. “I’m a walking taser, remember?”

“How could I forget?” Not even you can help but laugh, reminiscing your first encounter. Amidst the chaos of the Sokovia accords, his feet escaped confinement and your hands wrapped around his throat in a mock shock-collar. “It’s not your safety I worry about. Someone’s got to be there to call an ambulance when you electrocute a poor unsuspecting criminal.”

Despite the strength that separates him from the confines of normalcy, Bucky gives in to the shove you give his shoulder, drifting several steps out into the empty road only to be sucked back into your orbit, an arm hooking over your shoulders and offering an apologetic pat.

Both your strides grow shorter as your building comes closer. If you hadn’t already taken two unnecessary laps in the search of more time, you’d ask for another walk around the block. But it’s late, way past any reasonable hour, and he has therapy in the morning. You can’t take more from him.

“I want to,” the soldier confesses, gentle tongue and smiling mouth forming the words. “That’s why I walk you home. Know you don’t need me to, but I think I need it.”

A comforting quiet carries you both the rest of the way, delicate thuds echoing as you travel up the steps to your building’s doorway. A moment of panic passes over you as you struggle to find your keys, hand rustling through your purse in search of the precious metal, only for something to jingle in Bucky’s grasp.

“Lookin’ for these?” He drops them into your open palm, a vibranium key-chain glinting beneath the moonlight — a souvenir from his recent visit to Wakanda, Shuri made sure to send you a scathing text detailing how the soldier blackmailed her into making it. “You left them on the bar. Wanna tell me again how you don’t need me?”

“Technically, I never said that,” while you verbally push at his buttons, your pointer finger pushes on his chest. Solid and warm, you’re overcome with a foreign urge. “But, oh thank you, my knight in vibranium armour!”

Standing one-step higher than Bucky, you meet no difficulty in throwing your arms around his neck and pulling him in for a hug. He, on the other hand, goes stiff as a board, smile melting into a thin line as the rest of him freezes. You double down in light of his non-reciprocation, squeezing your arms a little tighter behind his neck and leaning further over the ledge of the step — nothing but trust for the soldier as you unload the responsibility of bearing your body onto him.

Slowly, the arms glued to his side loosen. Rise over your mid-back. Take their own hold around you. His movements are awkward and full of insecurity — when was the last time he was hugged?

You let him decide when enough is enough, unfurl your arms when his slip from your waist. As you shuffle back over the step, however, the moonlight catches over something else.

“Oh, I forgot,” he’s receptive to your voice, patient as he waits for you to continue. “The book I’m reading, it’s set during a fictional war and, well… I’m sorry if this is a bit silly but, do soldiers really gift their dog-tags to people?”

There’s every chance the question catches him more off-guard than the hug you just imposed on him, for it takes a few second for him to answer.

“Sometimes, yeah,” he nods to his own words, flesh hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “To family, friends… Loved-ones. The tags, they have our names, our whole identity engraved on a metal plate. I guess that’s why they usually go the person you’d want to be remembered by the most.”

The beauty in your friendship has always been the lack of curiosity. A safe haven from each other’s histories; neither of you ask things the other would not want to remember.

And so, you swear you do not mean to pry.

“Do you have anyone like that?”

Instead of a name, the soldier gives you a look.

A single trail of his gaze down your face, something unspoken etched into the way his forehead wrinkles with a frown and his throat swallows.

“It’s late,” the distance between you both remains the same, yet his voice sounds miles away. Gone. Removed. Detached. “You should go up. I’ll call you in the morning.”

And then you never see him again…

You wake with an itch in your palm. World still shutout behind the darkness of eyelids, a pained groan coughs out of you when you try and close your fist. Fingers, swollen and bruised, brush against one another in a failing attempt to curl inwards.

“I’m tryin’ to help,” a voice calls out from the left. “Bit pointless if you keep movin’.”

Consciousness crashes down on you like a sledgehammer, reawakening your nerve endings to every ache and throb, ghosts from a fight long gone and passed.

You let the light seep back in, eyes peeling open to face the rays of warmth piercing through a shattered window. But your veins feel empty of it, hollow as you attempt to conjure that familiar lick of heat.

Karli Morgenthau sits at your bedside — a dirty mattress on the floor — gauze threaded through her fingers as she uses it to tighten a plank of wood to your crushed hand, broken bones screaming out in pain as she forces the fingers flat. A makeshift cast, the kind one would expect to be given while shackled in the hideout of an evil mastermind.

Except, no cuffs bite at your wrists and there’s no inch of her that appears evil. She’s just a girl, barely grown past a child, and the weight of the world has already engraved itself into her tired face.

“Where are we?” Your own voice rings in your head.

“The city you call home,” Morgenthau offers up freely, securing the bandage with a knot.

What she lacks in nursing skills, she makes up for with her bedside manners, unscrewing a bottle of water and holding it out for you. Rising slow, you take hold of the plastic and welcome the sweet relief of moisture to sandpapered lips.

Barely a sip slips down your throat before you gag, body rejecting it and spewing down your chin. The pounding in your head feels like it grows tenfold.

“How long was I asleep?”

“A day or so,” Karli surprises you, delivering soft pats against your back and aiding you in your throat’s need to relieve itself of the burning bile. “You’ve been slippin’ in and out, especially on the plane. D’you know you talk in your sleep?”

The dream replays in a montage, memories of Bucky and you on that dark street stabbing you in the gut with embarrassment. What nonsense had you said aloud?

“I think I’m concussed,” unbroken fingers push into your temple, massaging in a circular motion as you try to coax the agony out of your skull. “You need to get me to a hospital.”

“I can’t do that,” the girl’s demeanour shifts, the once soft stare of a child lost in a sea of madness now hardening with ice and sending a chill down your spine. “You’re my leverage, it’s the only way to keep your friends in line.”

“Karli,” as calm as you keep your voice, there’s panic coursing through your system. Your body won’t cooperate; you can’t summon a single wisp of electricity in your non-maimed hand. “This could kill me. And if I die, my blood is on your hands. Are you sure you can live with that?”

“We’re so close, don’t you get it?” Any sense housed within her has departed, leaving nothing but a crazed look upon her features. “The GRC are meeting tonight. We’re going to put an end to the Patch Act, and then we’ll set you free.”

Outside the window, New York is sunny. A blue sky with no clouds, birds fly through the air, and the Sun paints a golden hue over every inch of land it touches.

It wouldn’t be a bad day to die.

Bucky feels like he’s choking.

Perhaps his jacket is too tight, leather wrapped around him like a casket and confining him beneath the rigid material. Maybe adrenaline is stealing his breath, using it as fuel to propel him onwards through the GRC building, eyes scouring for anyone running around like a headless chicken to direct them towards safety. Or, possibly, his lungs can’t remember how to pull in air when you’re not around.

Days have blurred together. Nights have been restless. Helpless and hopeless, it’s taken everything to not turn towards a familiar comfort in your time of danger. A part of him longs for a time where those ten words still hovered over him like a threat, so he could command Sam to unleash the colder side of him and send him on one last mission.

The Soldier would have had you back by now.

Without him, Bucky is nothing but a man frozen in time. A veteran, a cripple, and a man who’s woken every day with torment in his chest.

Self-inflicted, the kind of pain one can only hope to heal with pressure and time.

There’s a call of the soldier’s name. A stranger wrapped in a pencil skirt and sporting a badge around her neck passes him a phone, declaring the call is for him. Before speaker even meets ear, Bucky knows who awaits him on the other end.

“Ain't you tired of fightin’ for the wrong side, Mr Barnes?”

“I've done this before, kid,” lights flash outside the windows, red and blue, and oh so reminiscent of that dance floor in Madripoor. For a moment, he feels you on his chest, like a phantom limb, lulling it to rise and fall with the rhythm of your own. “I know how it ends.”

“It doesn’t matter if I don’t survive this. I’m fightin’ for somethin’ bigger than myself.” Karli spits down the line as he trudges down a flight of stairs. “And with all the bodies you’ve collected, have you ever been able to say the same?”

That strikes a nerve.

Bucky resists the bait as well as he can, “You don’t think I ever fought for something bigger than myself? That’s all I ever try to do, and I failed twice.”

“Three times, if you think about it hard enough. Do you think she’d still be willing to die for you,” his muscles stiffen, every bone in his body locks, and his grip tightens on the phone. “If she knew what you did?”

“I don’t know what you’re-”

“Yes, you do. I’ll do you a favour and tell’er all about it, right before I kill her.”

“Touch a hair on her head and there won’t be anywhere far enough you can run that I won’t find you,” he can’t bring himself to say your name, a cocktail of fear and desperation. Karli can tell you his dirty secret. She can tell the whole world, for all he cares. What she can’t do, what he won’t survive her doing is taking you from this world. His world. “You don’t want to do this, Karli.”

“You’re right, I don’t.” Finally, a full breath of air. “Well, thank you. I'm glad you took my call. You've been a big help.”

The line drops and Bucky’s left with nothing but his own reflection, a face of agony in the window as he realises that, despite his efforts, he took the bait.

Hook, line, and sinker.

When you were a child, you loved the smell of gasoline.

Your father was a busy man. Time with him was rare, fleeting, something you had to fight to obtain. Being his daughter did not grant you premier access to him, you had to compete alongside all of his business associates; all those men in suits versus a little girl with skinned knees.

But road-trips, those were the only instance where he put down the pager and gave you all the love and attention any normal father would. Gas stations became a vision of home on the horizon, the promise of lukewarm meals, toilets that had never once been cleaned, and the sweet, sweet burn of petroleum deteriorating your brain cells.

The vehicle you sit in now is not manned by your father, yet it smells of gasoline.

Blindfolded and bound, your body sways blindly as tires screech over asphalt. Polyester slices at your neck, seatbelt fastened too tightly against your body. You know better than to complain.

It’s amazing how quickly old survival instincts return, slipping on like a cable-knit sweater you’d long kicked under the bed and forgotten about. You may not be in a literal cage anymore, dragged out for a routine poke and prod of chemicals and needles, but the process of being a hostage, all these years later, remains the same: sit still, be quiet, and do as you’re told.

What do you do, however, when your captor abandons you?

Bedlam overruns the scene. The vehicle comes to a halt, a door slams to your left, heat begins to pool over your skin. At first you tell yourself it’s nerves, a marker of the anxiety coursing in your veins. But it grows warmer, the air around you scolding to breathe and riddled with smoke.

There’s a ruckus of voices, all loud and none familiar, as several bangs ring out.

“Hold on!” A voice stands out amongst the noise.

Fists bang against metal and glass, pounding over and over, desperation thrown behind every punch. Hinges screech and snap as a door is pried open at the back of the vehicle, followed by the flee of feet over a metal body.

“Go, go,” the liberator of captives commands.

You test your own voice, a wail of distress that’s not loud enough, and your chances of being saved are halved.

Breathing grows weaker as the heat grows higher, a fire burning bright enough you see it in flashes behind the dark of your eye-covering.

“Thank you for saving us,” sleep calls to you through the rush of strangers, begging you to let yourself drift off back to that street in Brooklyn. “But there’s a girl! She’s trapped in the passenger seat!”

Eyelids reunite as your head lolls to the side, a ringing starting back up in your ears at the same time as the throb in your head. Your hand went numb hours ago, wrapped in gauze and tied tightly to your other. The voice of resilience inside your head, one that sounds alarmingly like a certain soldier, is screaming at you to fight.

To pry your lungs open with air. To tear your eyes open again. To let the buzz of electricity simmer from beneath your nail-beds, electrifying your touch enough to burn the bindings scratching at your wrists and to tear the blindfold from your face.

Your attempts leave you empty-handed, control lost from the moment Karli crushed one of your palms, abandoned in a time of need by your own powers.

All that pressure has put Bucky in a race against time.

Fire blazing on along the right side of the getaway car, smoke grows thicker as he rounds the driver’s side. Behind the window lays a cloud of grey, a storm that rolls in and obscures his view of the passenger seat. There’s a blurry shape, a figure slumped over.

The soldier’s fist slams through the glass.

And then he’s reaching inside, two hands grappling a hold of the passenger and hauling her over the van’s console. It’s messy, and graceless, and no doubt a bruising ordeal as he takes the weightless body in his embrace.

Brain switched off to outside stimulus, the only thought that passes through him is safety, get away from the ticking time bomb that is the burning van. Only then can he concern himself with trivial matters, like the state of the girl in his arms.

The girl who stirs, face turning into his chest as her ribs shake with the assault of a coughing fit. The girl whose blindfold slips down her nose and pools around her neck, a noose made of rags. The girl who’s capable of putting him into a state of cardiac arrest with one look alone, starlight sewn into the sparkle of her eyes.

“Took you long enough to rescue me,” you croak up at him between a cough. “Knight in vibranium armour.”

Bucky lowers your feet to the ground at your own unspoken request, squirming in his hold until the tips of your toes step over solid road and he’s loosening the bindings around your wrist.

If the world around you is at war, the soldier is dodging draft, too caught up in the battle of assessing what state you’re in. Wrinkled clothes, and dried blood, and the ash of a fire that’s still burning behind him. A grin creeps onto your face and sparks uproar in his chest.

An overjoyed imposter in a crowd of disaster, something in the stretch of your lips feels off; the corners do not quite reach your eyes. Exhausted and drained, pupils that stare past his own and plea for the gratification of sleep, the blessing of rest.

“Need you to follow my hand,” Bucky can’t help himself, palm cradling your face and a thumb soothing over the bags weighing heavy on your eyes. A cold sweat clings to your skin. “Think you can do that for me, darling?”

“Don’t call me that,” the words fizzle out into a giggle. With a slow wave of his metal hand, he watches as your stare stutters along in a failing attempt to catch up with his movements. “Makes my heart-”

You cut yourself off, body melting against his own.

Bucky won’t let himself make the same mistake, won’t have this moment be a repeat of that night in Brooklyn where his arms froze at his side instead of satisfying the craving he’d been feeling for months, scratching the itch to wrap you in his embrace.

The soldier’s arms slot around you with practised ease, like a lock sliding into place to conceal the greatest treasure. Touching you spreads warmth not only over his hands, but his soul, at long-last finding a breath of ease after months of drowning in himself. Slumping deeper into him, Bucky accepts you with every fibre of his being, heart lurching into his throat as he shuts out the chaos, for just a moment, and rests his head stop your own.

“Bucky.”

“Gimme a little longer,” his mumbles into your scalp, resisting the urge to tighten his biceps as the full weight of you presses into him. “Just wanna hold you, feel you’re okay.”

Karli and all the rest can wait.

If a fight is what they want, he’ll give them it. He’ll kick, and punch, and do all that he can to hold off until back-up arrives — Sam is somewhere out there, wings spread and a shield at his back. But not now.

Now, he’s going to memorise the song your heart sings, and anchor his worry in the wholeness of your existence, and sync his inhales to your exhales.

“Bucky, it hurts,” foolishly, he hums in response, not yet cognisant of what you said.

Until your breath trips over itself.

He lets the world back in too quickly, numbing his vision with flashing lights and a shadow cast from a Flag-Smasher standing ten paces behind you and sporting shock all over his demeanour. When you come into focus, he’s staring down at your back and bearing witness to the spreading of a disease, a dark mass spreading over grey cotton.

And his hands… They’re not just warm, but scolding. Contaminated with a peculiar wetness that’s viscous and sticky, slipping between the crevices of his fingers like a syrup, thick streams that drip from his skin and stain the road a darker shade of black.

Bucky catches you as your knees buckle, soaking hands submerging themselves back into a pond of blood. The logical part of his brain is failing him. Lower-rib, left side, rebar impaled through shirt and flesh. So much blood. Too much blood. It is your spleen? It has to be your spleen.

He’s back to drowning again.

“Hey, hey,” he whispers, forcing down the lump in his throat as he pulls back to find you calm, not a single ripple in your features while tears surface over his own. “Eyes on me, remember? Follow my hand.”

Metal plates scream into place as he raises the vibranium to the level of your face, repeating a waving motion. At your back, the stain of you on his flesh is a bloodbath, a sickening sight he knows better than to subject you to.

Bucky’s own private hell grows.

Distant yells move closer as he tunes back into the insanity swirling around you both. Flag-Smashers are fighting tooth and nail with John Walker, flames have completely engulfed the wreckage of the van he pulled you from, and, worst of all, the other vehicle of hostages dangles by a thread atop the shell of a building, bars of metal that are slowly bending beneath the weight of wheels.

“You have to go,” you speak calmly, like every second that passes isn’t making it harder to stand up straight.

“No.”

“You have to stop them-”

“No!” Bucky shakes his head, hoping to block out the screeching of metal and the slamming of fists against skin. He just wants to hear you. “I’m gonna get you somewhere safe, okay? Get you in an ambulance and to a hospital. And I know you hate being a patient but, you don’t gotta worry ‘cause I’ll be there to hold your hand and-”

“Bucky,” there you are again, pushing him away and forcing him to let the noise of everybody else’s terror in, like he too isn’t watching his fears come to life before him. “Those people need you, please.”

“But I need you.”

Unlatched from him at last, you drift a few steps back, head shaking when he tries to reach for you.

A handful of civilians, the very same faces Bucky rescued from that burning van, crowd around you, carefully slipping your arms over their shoulders and hauling your slumping figure up.

“I’m fine,” you choke over a sob, tears to match his own sliding down your cheeks. “Go.”

All Bucky has ever tried to do is the right thing. He chased down the hostages. He pulled them from the van, a man even thanked him for saving them. So, why does it feel like he’s failed once again?

The taste of stale breath.

The smell of peonies.

The sound of a clock.

The touch of a paper gown.

The sight of the soldier at your bedside, one arm folded over the bed and under his head, and the other outstretched, an inch or two of space living between where his fingers end and yours begin.

Bucky snores, a soft whistle floating out with each exhale, while a monitor turns the beat of your heart into a muted beep, a green line pinging across the screen. The muscles in your neck are stiff, protesting as you try to get a closer look at him, but the moon is out and no light is on; you’re left to admire the shadows cast over his skin and the slow ebb and flow of his breathing.

A hiss shoots to the back of your throat.

Blue eyes that open in an instant, from deep sleep to a state of alert in less than three seconds. The hand he lay resting closest to yours shoots for the call button, but you intercept before he can press it.

“Don’t,” even as you coax him back into his chair, there’s conflict in his stare, like any minute now he’ll call the nurses into your room and cause a big scene you don’t need. “I just sat up too fast. Help me?”

Bucky nods, thumbs hooking under your arms and slowly tugging you up the bed while you busy yourself pressing the incline button and delighting in the way the mattress rises.

“When did you wake up?”

“Barely a minute ago,” you finally manage to pull in a full breath of air, and that’s when you feel the scratch of gauze around your torso. “You never told me you snore.”

“You never asked,” the chair creaks beneath him as Bucky struggles to get comfortable, elbows resting over knees only for him to straighten his spine and grasp a hold of the arm-rests.

“That’s kind of a hard thing to do when my number’s blocked.”

It’s an evil thing yet possessing no real malice, said completely out of the desire to see him squirm under the microscope of your eyes.

“How, uh,” he leans forward instead, right arm on the bed, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. “How d’you feel?”

“Like someone took the knife you stabbed in my back and decided to replace it with rebar instead,” this time, your words make him flinch. His fist clenches, retreating from the bed until you hook your good hand around the wrist and stop it in its tracks. “Bucky, I’m just messing with you. You saved my-”

“That night, outside your apartment, I realised something.”

The mask of composure he wears is starting to crack, the shine of something earnest and vulnerable slipping through and forcing you into silence.

“Your life-” Bucky pauses to correct what he’s saying. “I told myself that your life would be better off without me, but I was just being a coward instead of being honest with you,” he’s squirming, uncomfortable with the weight of the truth in his mouth, and it makes you feel sick with the need to comfort and cradle.

“You don’t have to tell me anything if-”

“I’m the reason you ended up as one of Hydra’s experiments,” he practically throws it out, like a grenade that’s one wrong word away from detonating and exploding in both of your faces. “Your dad, he was one of my handlers. I’d been out of the ice too long, I wasn’t taking orders properly, and I… I killed him.”

“I know.”

“They realised his death would leave you orphaned, and so they took you,” not even the dark engulfing the hospital room can hide the shine of wetness his gaze, an visible ache splotching over a palette of blue. “All that pain, all the torture they put you through-”

“I know.”

“It was because of me.”

“Bucky, I know,” your hand engulfs his own, fingers threading like knots you have no intention of letting him loosen. “Steve told me years ago, right before I agreed to fight against the rest of my friends for you.”

“I’m sor-”

“I told you I’m sick of hearing you say that,” you almost lay your other hand on his cheek, only to find a cast — a real one — obscuring it. You settle for tugging him closer with your good hand, until he’s all but hanging off the edge of his seat. “Hydra made a weapon out of both us, Buck. The pain, the torture, all the bad… That’s on them, okay? I would never blame you-”

Soft and sweet, his lips land on yours like a secret.

Not the sinful kind, the ones that tear families in two and bring all but ruin to those who dare keep them. But the giddy kind, the ones that fill people with childish glee and leave them biting at their lips in an effort to contain it, the fear of ruining the greatest surprise.

His kiss is a question, iterations of ‘can I?’, ‘should I?’, and ‘how could i not?’ speaking directly to your heart. If his mouth is wax, then yours must be the stamp, moulding his affections into shape and making something meaningful out of him.

You answer with zeal, covering his cheek in your fingerprints as you pull him in, pull him closer, pull him onto the bed. It creaks in protest as the soldier presses a knee into the mattress, back curving over your body and shielding you away from the rest of the room.

You’re giggling into Bucky’s mouth like a fool, so much so that you barely feel the jolt of your shoulders as he bumps against broken ribs. It’s subtle, yet the soldier notices all the same, mouth tearing away and head dipping to make sure your injuries haven’t mysteriously worsened under the weight of his touch.

“What was it you realised,” you pull his attention back to your face, where your eyes are waiting to trail over the kiss-bitten blush of his rose-bud lips. “Outside my apartment?”

You ask it with every intention of pulling him in for another kiss, so long as he answers.

“That you’re the person I want to be remembered by most.”

There’s an apartment in Brooklyn.

It lives on a street that’s never lit, where the world falls quiet come twenty-two hundred hours, and the neighbours are forever complaining about flickering light-and power-cuts.

It’s insides are full of clutter. Keys strewn across the dinner table, books stuffed unceremoniously in crevices where they’re bound to be forgotten, vibranium trinkets made through blackmail congregate as litter around the TV unit.

A junk-drawer full of movie tickets — dates that end with him monologuing about the death of cinema. A bowl overflowing with arcade stubs — he’s adamant it doesn’t matter that it would be cheaper to just buy the bear, he’s going to earn you it through blood, sweat, and many tears. A bedside table has gained another strip of photos for it’s growing collection — he’s a fiend for dragging you into photo-booths and kissing you until the flash of the camera is a distant memory.

“Stooop,” you’re whining pathetically for all the wrong reasons, slippery hands losing grip and sliding down a tiled wall while you’re bent at the waist and grinding your cunt back against his cock. “This is supposed to be sexy, not sappy.”

“I’m not being sappy,” not even Bucky believes himself, voice trailing off in a chuckle.

He’s cruel, the most evil man you’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing, so of course he grips at your hips and forces them still. Like a punctuation mark ends a sentence, the tip of his dick is poking at that stop-talking-coherently spot inside your walls and threatening to make you gush more than the shower head spilling water over you both.

“Yes, you are,” you somehow find the will to form a sentence, only to gasp something akin to his name when cold vibranium presses into the arch of your spine.

“Maybe I am,” he finally admits, and if you weren’t halfway through a hail-Mary in an attempt to fight off an incoming orgasm that he’s definitely not earned the right to yet, you’d let out a cry of victory. “If admiring how resilient you are makes me sappy, then sure. Arrest me officer, I’m guilty, again.”

That ‘again’ prompts a kaleidoscope of events from Halloween night… Bucky, naked and shackled to the headboard, sporting literal tears in his eyes as he watches the buttons of your sleazy cop outfit strain while you make yourself cum for the third time without a lick of help from him. In your defence, the punishment was well earned — he’d been a little too proud of the number of eyes that had lingered over his gladiator costume.

You're back in the shower the moment fingers kiss over your scar, delicate promises sealed into the caress he brushes over the raised tissue.

It happens more often than not — you raise your arm to grab something out of a cupboard and suddenly Bucky is behind you and trailing over the mark; you wear a dress that cascades down your back and Bucky spends the whole evening brushing his thumb over the scar while holding conversations with friends across the table; you let him bend you over the nearest surface and expect him to have you seeing stars and, while stars are definitely seen, Bucky’s stare burns brighter along your left side. You’ve wondered if it’s a form of torture for the soldier, a bookmark on your skin for the night where your blood stained his hands.

That’s not how you remember the night — the pain, the bleeding, the rebar puncturing through bone and spleen. You remember the strength in his hands as they pulled you from the van, and the relief that fell over his face when you spoke, and the way he held you close while the rest of the world burned away in a cloud of chaos.

“I love you,” who chokes up with tears while standing eight inches deep and damn-near marking up a new blue-print for your organs to reorganise themselves to make more space for him? Bucky, that’s who, and you wouldn’t have him any other way. “So much.”

Okay, so maybe you would have him one other way.

The good man that he is, Bucky slips his cock out of you after a push back against his abdomen, already moulding his hands to the shape of your waist as you turn around to face him.

“That’s it, Barnes,” you try your best to sound authoritative. The shampoo burning at your eye makes it a little difficult, but you pull through and drag him into your hold, arms curling around his shoulders and a leg hooking itself over his hip. The tiles are cold, pressing into your back, a welcome contrast to the heat of Bucky. “I’m sick of you and your wimpy attitude. You’re banned from doggy style, standing or otherwise, until further notice.”

“Don’t be mean, darling,” he drags a thumb over your slit, kissing it against your clit with the practised ease of a man that’s spent the greater half of a year getting to know you inside and out, in every and any position. “Or I’ll cum. And I was really hoping to do that while I bury myself inside you.”

Left palm hovering over his sternum, a muted crackle of electricity burns into his skin, only to fade at your command, “Then I guess you better hurry up and give us what we both want.”

“Hmm, have I ever told you you’re my favourite electro-shock therapy?” He’s laughing at his own ridiculous joke, while gripping your wrist and guiding you up the path to his neck, locking your fingers around him like a collar he’s more than proud to wear. “Now, think you can spread your legs a little wider, baby? Wanna make you cum so hard you blow the building’s fuse.”

+ extra hyde.

· one of my personal pet peeves when it comes to fics is when it simply reads as a copy and paste of the source material with the reader forced into the scenes, hence why i skimmed over the events of tfatws as much as possible. hopefully this was enjoyable and bucky and reader's relationship felt like a story separate from the show's plot <3 · slowly working my way through requests, please tell me you're all proud of me! ( i have so many left to get through )

[lila-lou]

✨Dragons✨

Summary: You hadn’t seen Dean Winchester in a year, but when girls start disappearing on campus and something starts stalking you, he’s the one you call. Turns out, the monster’s not just hunting girls, it’s hunting purity, and you fit the profile a little too well.

-requested-

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, Language

Word Count: 7370

DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.

You hadn't seen Dean Winchester in over a year, but you'd be lying if you said he hadn’t crossed your mind more than once since then. The memory was seared into you like a scar — not the fear, not the shapeshifter that nearly ended your life — but him. His rough voice calling your name, the way he’d held you just a little too long after the danger was gone, and the kiss that followed. Brief, uncertain… but unforgettable.

Now, something was wrong again.

It had started two nights ago. You'd been walking back from the library — late, headphones in, hoodie up — when you felt it. The chill. That primal twist in your gut. Like prey sensing a predator. You told yourself it was nothing. A fluke. Too much caffeine and not enough sleep. But the feeling hadn’t gone away. It lingered. You caught glimpses of someone watching. Reflections in windows. Footsteps behind you that disappeared the moment you turned.

And then you saw the news. Two girls missing. Both from your campus. Both taken late at night. No signs of struggle. No bodies.

You didn't think. You just called him. And he came.

-

Dean knocked twice before you even reached the door. You pulled it open and there he was, worn boots, damp jacket, a tired but familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Hey, college girl", he said. "You call, we come".

Sam stood just behind him, taller than you remembered, with that concerned, steady look in his eyes.

"You okay?", Dean asked, eyes scanning you as if he could read everything you weren’t saying.

You nodded, then shook your head. “I… don’t know. Something’s wrong. People are missing. I think… I think something’s watching me”.

Dean’s smirk faded. The weight in his eyes returned. “Alright. Let’s get inside. Tell us everything”.

Sam offered you a reassuring smile as he adjusted the strap of the messenger bag slung over his shoulder. “I’ll head out, ask around campus. See if any of the girls knew each other, any shared classes or clubs. Might be a pattern”.

You nodded, grateful for how quickly they’d slipped into hunter mode. Sam always had a calm, methodical energy, the kind that made you believe everything could be okay.

“Be careful”, Dean said to his brother, not bothering to hide the edge in his voice. Sam just raised a brow. “You too”.

And then it was just you and Dean.

Your dorm room was small. Cozy, cluttered, and unmistakably yours. Books stacked too high on your desk, a half-eaten protein bar on the windowsill, and three empty coffee mugs on the nightstand. Dean stepped in with that deliberate pace of his, scanning everything with narrowed eyes, hunter instincts in full swing.

“Nice place”, he said, brushing his fingers along the spine of one of your books. “Either you study way too much, or you’re building a fortress of literature”.

You smiled faintly and crossed your arms. “I’m a double major. I’m allowed to be an academic mess”.

Dean let out a low whistle. “Smart and gutsy. Deadly combo”.

You laughed softly, even as your nerves fluttered in your chest. Dean walked toward your bed, crouched down, and checked beneath it with practiced ease. “Any signs? Doors left open? Anything weird besides the being-watched feeling?”.

“Not really. I keep locking the windows, but sometimes in the morning it feels like they weren’t closed properly. Could be my imagination”. You hesitated. “Or not”.

Dean stood and moved to the window, testing the lock himself. Then he turned, slowly taking in the room like a guy searching for something deeper. His eyes landed on a photo of you and some friends stuck to your mirror. He stared for a second longer than necessary before clearing his throat.

“So…”, he began, scratching the back of his neck. “You, uh… you got a boyfriend or something?”.

You blinked. “What?”.

Dean suddenly looked like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin. He backpedaled fast. “I mean — not like it matters, you know, for the case — or maybe it does, sometimes creatures go after partners, or… whatever. Just… general info gathering”. He gave a shrug that was way too casual.

You tilted your head, biting back a smile. “Dean… are you asking for the case, or are you asking because you want to know?”.

There was a flicker in his expression, something vulnerable flashing behind all the bravado. “Maybe both”, he admitted, voice quieter now.

A beat passed between you.

“No”, you said finally, your voice soft. “No boyfriend”.

Dean’s mouth quirked up. “Huh. That’s… good intel”. He turned back to the window before you could catch him grinning like an idiot. His fingers tapped on the sill absently. “Not that I’ve been thinking about that night or anything. I mean, one kiss, a year ago… why would a guy like me even remember that?”.

You leaned against the desk. “Why would you?”.

He glanced back at you, green eyes suddenly serious. “Because it stuck”.

That quiet moment stretched, charged with something unspoken, the kind of tension that built between people who almost became something once, and maybe still could.

Dean cleared his throat again, trying to shove the mood back into safer territory. “Anyway, no signs of forced entry here. Doesn’t mean we’re in the clear. Creatures like dragons don’t need to kick in doors — they’re sneaky bastards. If that’s what we’re dealing with”.

“Dragons?”, you asked, brows raised.

“Just a hunch”, he said. “Too clean, too fast, and all the girls are your age, same type. Sam’s looking into it, but I’ve got a bad feeling”.

You tried to swallow the lump rising in your throat. “You think I’m next?”.

Dean didn’t answer right away. He just watched you for a second, jaw working slightly, like he was turning over a dozen possible responses in his mind before deciding on the one that wouldn’t scare you or lie to you.

Finally, he asked, voice lower now, more serious, “You said on the phone that there’s also been a lot of gold missing, right?”.

You nodded. “Yeah. There were some theft reports posted around the dorms. Girls talking about missing jewelry in group chats. Necklaces, rings, old heirlooms. Even a girl said her grandma’s gold cross was taken right off her desk while she was in the shower. No forced entry, just… gone”.

Dean blew out a breath, shoulders tightening a bit as he stepped further into the room, the door now quietly closing behind him. “Shit”, he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to you. “Yeah. That fits”.

You frowned. “You really think it’s a dragon?”.

“It’s starting to line up”, he said. “The girls, the disappearances, the gold hoarding — classic dragon behavior. They don’t just torch villages anymore. They adapt. Blend in. Lairs in modern places, quiet hunts. They take what they want… and what they want tends to be treasure and…”.

He paused, his gaze returning to you with something unreadable beneath it.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck again, visibly uncomfortable now. He cleared his throat again, then met your eyes. “Listen… what I’m gonna ask next is a little more… personal. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. But it could be important. For the case”.

You raised a brow, suddenly aware of the way your heart was pounding against your ribcage. “Dean, just ask”.

He hesitated for a beat, then said it carefully. “Are you still… you know. A virgin?”.

Your cheeks heated instantly, but you appreciated that he didn’t look smug or teasing. In fact, he looked like he hated asking even more than you hated being asked.

“Why?”, you asked, your voice quieter now, eyes dropping to the floor. You weren’t embarrassed by the truth, not really, but something about Dean asking made it feel like your ribs were too tight, like your breath had to squeeze past something unspoken to get out.

Dean shifted, stepping slightly closer. His voice lowered, softer now, not patronizing, not distant, just gentle in a way that made your chest ache a little. “Because”, he said, “if it is a dragon… they have… very specific tastes”.

You glanced up at him.

“Gold’s not the only thing they hoard”, he continued. “They choose girls that match a certain profile. Young. Innocent. Still untouched. It’s not just old myth — it’s part of how they operate. Like… like they’re collecting something pure. Something symbolic”.

“So it’s… like a ritual?”.

Dean nodded. “In a way, yeah. And once they’ve locked onto someone, they don’t stop. Doesn’t matter how far you run or how well you hide. You’re the treasure now”.

A chill crawled up your spine. You wrapped your arms around yourself and stepped back slightly, more for grounding than distance. “And you think it’s locked onto me”.

Dean didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you like it hurt to even say it.

“I think it already has”.

You swallowed. “Great”.

The room felt smaller now. The air heavier, like something just outside the window was waiting for your guard to drop. Dean must’ve felt it too, because he shifted into that protective stance again, the one you remembered from the first time he saved you. One foot forward, weight balanced, hand twitching near his jacket like a weapon might materialize any second.

“Hey”, he said, softer this time. “I know this sounds scary as hell — and it is — but I came because I won’t let it get to you. I don’t care what we’re dealing with. Dragon, demon, shapeshifter again — whatever it is, it has to go through me first”.

You met his eyes, and the sincerity there made something deep in your chest tighten

Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair as he stepped back from the window. “We need to be a hundred percent sure”, he muttered. “I’m not letting this thing near you unless we know exactly what we’re dealing with — and how to kill it”.

You nodded, even though your legs still felt like jelly. He was right. A part of you wanted to crawl into bed and pretend none of this was real, but that wasn’t an option anymore. You were in it now. Again. And this time, it felt even more personal.

-

10:03 PM — Kelly’s Diner, a cozy little place just a block off campus, glowing neon pink and blue in the humid July night.

The three of you sat in a red vinyl booth near the back, away from the few students cramming fries between textbook pages. A waitress refilled your coffee without asking, the mug trembling slightly in your hands as you tried not to stare too hard at your reflection in the napkin holder.

Dean was across from you, arms crossed, his knee bouncing under the table. He hadn’t even touched his burger.

Sam slid into the booth beside Dean, his expression tight but focused. He set his laptop bag down, pulled out a worn leather journal and a folded packet of printed notes.

“I talked to campus security”, Sam said, voice low, only for the table. “They’re treating the disappearances like potential trafficking cases. They have no idea what they’re dealing with”.

Dean scoffed under his breath. “No surprise there”.

Sam continued. “I also cross-checked the girls who went missing. All three were in the same Humanities elective — Mythology and Symbolism. Same professor. Dr. Marcus Bell”.

You blinked. “I know him. He’s… intense. A little creepy, honestly. Talks a lot about ‘ancient hunger’ and ‘purity as a beacon’. Half the class dropped after week three”.

Dean’s brows drew together. “Great. Sounds like just the kind of guy a dragon would use for a meat suit”.

You blinked. “You think he’s the dragon?”.

“We don’t know yet”, Sam said. “But here’s the kicker — each girl had recently written a paper for his class on virgin sacrifice in. Bell hand-picked the topic”.

That landed like a stone in your stomach. Sam slid over a photo he had printed, a still from a campus security cam. It showed one of the missing girls walking out of the humanities building late at night. A tall, dark figure trailed behind her. The image was grainy. But even through the low resolution, the shape of something not quite right showed in the silhouette. Shoulders too wide. A slight bend in the spine, like something struggling to maintain a human shape.

Dean’s jaw clenched. “That ain’t a guy walking a student home”.

Sam nodded. “And there’s more. The professor’s been at six different colleges in the last fifteen years. Each time? A cluster of missing persons — all female, all between nineteen and twenty-two. Always left before anyone could connect the dots”.

You exhaled slowly. “So we’re looking at a dragon who teaches mythology and writes essays about the exact kind of girls he targets?”.

Dean leaned back in the booth, rubbing a hand down his face. “It’s like Hannibal Lecter got scales”.

You looked between them. “How do we kill it?”.

Dean’s voice was calm, but hard-edged. “Special blade. Ancient silver, dragon-forged. We’ve got one — barely. Picked it up on a case years ago. Almost lost Sam getting it. It’s back in the car”.

“Wait”, you said, eyes narrowing. “You brought a dragon-killing sword to my dorm?”.

Dean gave you a look. “You called me. I came prepared”.

Sam cleared his throat. “We’ll need to confirm it’s Bell before we act. If we get this wrong, we could expose ourselves — or worse, trigger him into taking her early”.

Dean’s eyes snapped to Sam’s, then to you.

You. You were the trigger now.

“I’ll go back tomorrow”, you said, surprising even yourself. “To class. Act normal”.

Dean shook his head instantly. “Not a chance”.

But you leaned forward, heart thudding with quiet fear, quiet resolve. “If he’s locked onto me, then let him keep looking. That gives you a chance to watch him. Catch him slipping”.

Sam looked impressed. Dean looked pissed. But he didn’t say no. Instead, he muttered, “Fine. But I’ll be two feet away the whole damn time”.

You offered a tired smile. “I wouldn’t expect anything less”.

Dean looked at you across the table, and for a long moment, the noise of the diner seemed to fade behind that green-eyed storm of worry, guilt, and something else — something that hadn’t yet been named.

Something you both remembered from a year ago. And neither of you were ready to forget.

-

The plan wasn’t supposed to go like this.

You were just supposed to sit in that damn lecture hall, feigning innocence while Sam and Dean watched from the shadows. You’d even worn your most convincing I’m-just-a-normal-college-girl outfit and acted like you hadn’t spent the night before barely sleeping, clutching pepper spray and Dean’s jacket like a lifeline.

But dragons, as it turned out, didn’t wait for perfect timing.

That night. It happened fast. Faster than either of you expected.

Dr. Bell had approached after class, smiling in that slow, predatory way that made your skin crawl. You didn’t even get a chance to shout before he slipped something under your nose; something sweet and bitter, like crushed flowers and metal. Dean had burst from the hallway like a damn force of nature, but even he couldn’t stop what came next.

Now? You were in hell.

The room was cold, damp, and built like a bunker. Thick steel walls, no windows, no visible exit, just a single reinforced door that had slammed shut the second you were shoved inside. There were faint scorch marks on the floor and claw-like gouges in the concrete near the corners. A mat laid in the center of the space, too deliberate to be for comfort, too stained to be clean.

Dean sat near it now, leaning back against the wall, his breathing ragged. His bottom lip was split, a bruise darkening across his temple. He hadn’t gone down easily.

You were mostly untouched, only a scrape on your arm where the dragon’s talon-shaped hand had grabbed you. It had passed you over like something it already owned. The implication made your stomach twist.

Dean’s jaw clenched as he adjusted, clearly in pain but hiding it with the same stubborn pride he always had. “You okay?”, he asked, voice low, gravel-edged.

You nodded automatically. “Yeah. You?”.

“Been worse”. He coughed once.

You crossed your arms, suddenly aware of how thin your hoodie felt in the chill. “What is this place?”.

Dean’s eyes flicked around the room. “A lair. Dragons don’t live in caves anymore. They hide where no one will look — abandoned silos, underground vaults, old bunkers under fancy houses”.

You ran a hand through your hair, pacing slowly in a tight circle. “There’s no way out?”.

Dean shook his head. “Steel walls. No ventilation, no cracks. It’s sealed. Like a vault”.

“Why aren’t we chained?”, you asked. “Shouldn’t he be— I don’t know, doing something horrible by now?”.

Dean’s jaw tightened, like he wanted to punch a hole in the wall just thinking about it. “Because he doesn’t need to. Not yet. Dragons like the ritual. The waiting. He’s probably watching us right now — through a camera, or a panel. Waiting until everything’s just right”.

You felt bile rise in your throat.

Dean’s eyes softened when he saw your expression. “Hey. Look at me”.

You did.

“I’m gonna get us out of here”, he said. “I don’t care what it takes. We’ve been in worse spots. Sam’s out there. He’ll find us”.

You slid down the opposite wall and sat across from him, knees pulled to your chest. The silence in the room was deafening. The only sound was the quiet hum of something mechanical, like a generator pulsing somewhere beneath the floor.

“I shouldn’t have volunteered”, you said, barely above a whisper. “I thought I was being brave”.

Dean shook his head immediately. “You were brave. And smart. None of this is on you, got it? This bastard was already circling. You just gave us a chance to see it coming”.

You let the silence sit between you for a minute, heavy but strangely intimate, like the quiet before a storm you both knew was coming.

Then, Dean gave you a tired grin. “You know… this wasn’t exactly the kind of alone time I had in mind”.

You let out a short, dry laugh, despite everything. “You think of me like that, huh?”.

He leaned his head back against the wall and sighed through a smirk. “I never stopped”.

Your heart stuttered. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to.

-

It had been hours. No sound. No movement. Just the soft, relentless hum of the overhead light and the subtle ticking of your own breath as you waited. Trapped. Together.

You still sat with your back to the wall, knees pulled tight to your chest, watching the corners of the room as if something might slide out of them at any moment. But nothing came. Not the dragon. Not Sam.

Dean had stopped pacing. He was crouched near the far corner now, elbows resting on his knees, eyes scanning the steel door like he could will it to open.

He’d gone quiet a while ago, that kind of focused, internal silence that only Dean Winchester could pull off without seeming distant. You knew he was thinking. Planning. Replaying every case, every monster he’d ever fought to find the edge he needed here.

But even you could see the tension in his shoulders. He knew something you didn’t.

Finally, he spoke, voice low and rough. “Dragons… they’re patient. But not forever”.

You looked at him, the hairs on your arms standing up even though the room wasn’t cold anymore, not really. Just still.

Dean continued. “If he’s been watching you for three days before taking you, that means the clock’s ticking. Dragons don’t hoard something they don’t plan to use. And once they’ve made a decision, they finish it. Ritual, sacrifice — whatever twisted reason he’s got for keeping you alive this long, it’s not gonna last”.

You stared at the floor, your voice soft. “So what does that mean? That he’ll come in soon? Kill us?”.

Dean’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer that. Instead, he looked at you, really looked, and for the first time all night, the quiet wasn’t tense. It was close. Human.

You licked your dry lips, heart racing in your chest, and finally whispered the thought that had been crawling in the back of your mind like a shadow. “What if I… wasn’t a virgin anymore?”.

Dean froze. He didn’t look away, didn’t blink. Just stared at you like you’d flipped the world on its side.

You didn’t mean it as a joke. Not a tease. Just words, desperate, raw, scared. You needed to say it out loud. Even if it sounded reckless. Even if it was reckless.

“Would it change anything?”, you asked, voice almost too quiet to hear. “Would he lose interest?”.

Dean exhaled sharply and stood up, walking toward you, slowly, carefully, like you were a match about to spark. He crouching in front of you, his voice suddenly filled with something more than urgency. Something deeper. “Don’t even think about doing that just because you’re scared”.

You looked up at him, voice shaking. “But if it would help—”.

“It’s not helping if it costs you something you can’t get back”, Dean interrupted gently.

Your throat tightened. “I’m not saying I want to throw it away, Dean. I’m just saying… if it kept him from taking me, from using me for whatever sick reason—”.

Dean leaned closer, eyes locked with yours now, voice rough with something that wasn’t quite anger, but definitely wasn’t calm. “You are not some coin he gets to cash in. I don’t care what the lore says. You’re not gonna lose a part of yourself because he decided to call you treasure”.

"Dean", you whispered, your voice barely more than breath, shaky but clear. You reached out slowly, fingertips brushing his wrist where it rested on his knee, grounding yourself and maybe grounding him too.

His skin was warm beneath your touch, solid and real in a way that nothing else in this cold, steel room was. He looked at you instantly, green eyes locking onto yours like he couldn’t not. You didn’t pull your hand away.

“I’m not saying this because I’m scared”, you said, more steady now. “I’m saying it because… you could change that”.

Dean’s eyes widened a little, but he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just… watched. Like part of him was frozen, afraid to breathe too hard and break whatever spell had settled between you.

“You could be the reason he stops looking at me like that”, you whispered. “The reason I stop being his target”.

Dean exhaled, rough and uneven, his voice raw when he finally spoke. “You don’t owe me that. You don’t owe anyone that. Especially not like this — locked in a cage, trying to outsmart a monster”.

You shook your head. “It’s not about owing. It’s about choice. Mine. For once. Because I do choose”.

His gaze searched your face like he was waiting for any hint of doubt, any sign you were doing this to save your life and not because you wanted to. And what he found there must have silenced every protest still clinging to the inside of his mouth.

He leaned in just a little, voice low and careful. “You sure?”.

You nodded once, then again, slower. “Yeah. I’m sure”.

There was something in his eyes then, not lust, not just that, something deeper. The weight of years of walls and war and regret, and maybe something selfish and beautiful threading through it too.

“You remember that kiss?”, you asked quietly, lips twitching just slightly at the corners. “Because I never stopped thinking about it”.

Dean gave the faintest, breathless laugh. “Yeah. I remember”.

And then, finally, he closed the space between you.

His lips met yours softly at first, like he still couldn’t believe this was happening, like he was afraid to hurt you with too much too fast. But you leaned in, fingers sliding up his arm, anchoring yourself to him, and the kiss deepened, slow, aching, warm in all the places the room wasn’t.

There was nothing frantic or rushed. Just quiet urgency. Something real and vulnerable, two people stripped bare of everything but trust.

Your lips barely parted from his when you whispered, breath brushing against his mouth, “I was kinda planning on getting laid by you anyway when I called”.

Dean froze for half a second, then let out a low, surprised laugh, more like a snort, really, his forehead falling to yours, lips still curved in a grin. “Shit (Y/N)”, he muttered, grinning wider now. “That supposed to be a confession or just good timing?”.

“Bit of both”, you murmured, smiling back, breathless and flushed.

He kissed you again — slower this time, full of something that tasted like finally — before his hands slipped around your waist. Without a word, he stood, pulling you gently with him as he rose. His grip was careful, reverent even, as he walked the few steps over to the thin, stained mat in the middle of the room.

It wasn’t exactly the kind of setting you’d ever imagined this happening — steel walls, the distant hum of a monster’s lair, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead — but his touch made the world tilt, made the hard edges soften.

Dean eased you down onto the mat like you were something breakable, something precious, and hovered above you just for a second, eyes scanning yours again like he still needed the green light.

You laughed softly, breath catching in your throat. “Well… not like this”, you mumbled, teasing, a flush rising to your cheeks. “Maybe a little more romantic. A bed. A decent blanket. You know — music, dim lighting, not a death dungeon under a psychopath’s house”.

Dean chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Yeah, I was kinda hoping for a motel room and maybe a beer or two first. But hey — you and me, we’ve never done things the easy way”.

“No”, you whispered, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him down until your noses brushed. “We really haven’t”.

Dean’s lips lingered against yours, slow and steady, like he was anchoring himself in every second, every breath between you. His fingers ghosted along your hips, slipping beneath the hem of your skirt with a touch that was both reverent and tentative — always giving you time to stop him, always waiting for that one word that would mean “no”.

But you didn’t say it. You didn’t want to.

“Got an idea”, he murmured against your lips, his voice gravel-soft, laced with both promise and restraint. His fingers moved carefully, easing your panties down, slow and warm against your thighs. “Not the way I wanted this to go. Hell, not even close. But…”. He kissed the corner of your mouth, his breath hot against your cheek. “I’m just gonna ease in, get it done — take that son of a bitch’s grip off you. Then when we’re out of this hellhole… I’ll do it right”.

Your heart fluttered in your chest, your whole body flushed with a warmth that had nothing to do with fear anymore. You looked up at him, eyes soft, voice a whisper. “You mean… candles and music kind of right?”.

Dean gave a faint laugh, his hand shifting to his belt, undoing it with one hand while brushing his knuckles across your cheek with the other. “Nah. I was thinking a crappy motel, half a bottle of whiskey, and you screaming my name through thin-ass walls. But yeah—candles too. If that’s your thing”.

You smiled through the nerves at his sarcasm, tension easing just enough for him to notice. His fingers tightened on your hip, grounding you, holding you in that small, stolen space that felt like safety even when surrounded by steel and silence.

“You okay?”, he asked again, softer this time.

You nodded. “I trust you”.

Of course he was already hard — it was you, after all. You, who had stuck in his mind like a splinter he never wanted to remove. You, who had called him after all this time. You, who had looked him in the eyes in a steel prison and chosen him, not because you were afraid, but because you trusted him.

Dean shifted his weight, his knees bracketing your thighs as he leaned over you, one hand steadying himself beside your head, the other guiding himself between your legs. His touch was gentle, trembling just slightly, not from nerves, but from holding himself back.

“Ready?”, he whispered, voice so soft it barely rose above the hum of the room.

You nodded, breath catching in your throat, your fingers curling into the worn fabric of his jacket where it hung open around his shoulders.

He kissed you once more, slow and deep, then pressed forward, just the first few inches, slow and careful. The stretch pulled a quiet sound from your throat as your body tensed beneath him, your fingers tightening on his shoulders.

He felt it, that delicate resistance, that edge between then and now, and he stopped, eyes opening to search your face. Your lips trembled, and your lashes fluttered, but you met his gaze and nodded again, just once.

And Dean pressed in a little further.

You whimpered, the pain brief but sharp, your body adjusting around him, letting him in, and he caught the sound immediately with his mouth, kissing you deeper, swallowing the whimper like it was a prayer. His hand framed your face again, thumbs brushing away the tension from your jaw as he held still, letting you breathe, letting you adjust.

“There we go”, Dean whispered, his voice barely more than a breath as he rested his forehead against yours. He didn’t bottom out. Didn’t chase the end of it. He just stayed right there, with you, close, warm, trembling slightly against you.

You bit your lip, eyes fluttering shut, every nerve in your body alive and burning. He wasn’t moving, neither of you were, but even like this, you could feel everything. The heat. The closeness. The way your body wrapped around his, holding him, keeping him in a way that felt raw and real and terrifyingly safe.

You clenched around him, your body instinctively responding, and a low groan escaped his throat before he could bite it back. “You’re gonna kill me”, he murmured, eyes screwed shut, voice thick.

You smiled through your own shiver, your fingers still curled into the fabric at his shoulders. “You’re the one who said ‘just a few inches’”, you whispered, teasing, your voice shaky but warm.

Dean let out a quiet laugh, his breath hot against your cheek. “That was before you started doing that”.

You looked up at him, and even in the dim light, you saw the strain in his face not from pain, but from the weight of holding back. From needing to take this slow, to do it right, even now. Especially now.

Your heart squeezed. “Dean…”.

He met your eyes instantly. Dean shook his head slowly, his nose brushing yours as he whispered, “Later, sweetheart. Not like this”. His voice was soft, rough around the edges, laced with something heavy, not hesitation, but care. The kind that said he wanted this, really wanted this… but not here. Not now.

You felt your chest tighten as he kissed your forehead, the press of his lips gentle and steady, lingering just long enough to ground you.

Then, with a breath that felt like it cost him, he shifted, slowly, so carefully, easing out of you.

-

What happened next was a blur.

The hum of the room shifted. A low, vibrating growl began to echo through the walls, almost like the steel itself was alive, angry. Then came the heat. Rising fast. Oppressive. The lights flickered violently, casting shadows that danced like claws across the floor.

Dean sat up instantly, pulling you behind him in a practiced motion, hand already reaching for the silver dagger strapped under his jacket. “He knows”, he said through clenched teeth. “He felt it”.

Before you could even respond, the door blew inward, not opened, exploded. A wall of heat and smoke surged in, and through it stepped Dr. Bell, or what was left of him.

The creature that stood there now was no longer trying to pretend. His skin rippled with scales, molten veins glowing beneath the surface like living lava. His eyes were slits of molten gold, locked directly on you. “You’re tainted”, the thing snarled, voice layered with something inhuman. “She was pure”.

“Yeah?”, Dean snapped, stepping forward, blade ready. “Not anymore. Guess you’ll have to find another sick fantasy”.

With an unholy screech, the dragon lunged.

The fight was vicious, smoke and fire and claw meeting silver and fury.

And then, suddenly, a shotgun roared from behind. The dragon staggered back, roaring in fury, and Sam stepped into the smoke with a smirk and his sawed-off aimed right at its heart.

“Told you I’d find you”, he said.

Dean didn’t waste the opening. With one final swing, the blade sank deep into the creature’s chest, right where its human heart used to be. The dragon screamed, the room shook, and then, silence. Just smoke. Blood. And the echo of something ancient dying.

-

Later that night, Sam had dropped off Dean after stitching his side up in the Impala’s backseat, promising to burn the body, salt the remains, and “maybe sleep for three straight days”.

Your room was quiet now. No fire. No metal. Just the familiar clutter of your life, books, laundry, the lamp that always flickered when it rained.

Dean sat on the edge of your bed, shirt off, bruised and bleeding, a white bandage already wrapped around his ribs. You knelt beside him, a damp cloth in your hand, gently wiping the dried blood from his temple.

“You should be in a hospital”, you whispered.

Dean huffed. “I’ve walked off worse”.

You gave him a look.

“Okay. Maybe limped off worse”.

You shook your head, but your fingers were gentle as you dabbed at the cut above his brow. “You saved my life. Again”.

He looked at you, something quiet and unspoken settling between you. “You saved mine too. You just don’t know it yet”.

You paused, cloth resting on his shoulder, breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat. Dean reached up, catching your hand in his. His fingers curled around yours, rough and warm.

“Earlier”, he said, voice low. “When I said ‘later’…”.

Your heart skipped.

“I meant it”.

You nodded slowly. “So did I”.

He pulled you closer, gently, his hand resting on your hip now, grounding himself in the softness of you, the safety of this space. “No dragons. No cages. Just you. And me”.

With that, Dean leaned in, kissed you once more, then slowly, gently guided you back until your spine met the mattress. He moved carefully, like your body was still something fragile, not because you were broken, but because he refused to treat you like anything less than precious.

Your legs shifted, thighs parting instinctively to welcome him, and he settled between them with a quiet sigh, not of relief, but of surrender. To this. To you.

The room wasn’t lit by candles like you’d half-joked about. But your old bedside lamp flickered softly in the corner, casting warm shadows across his skin, light and gold, dancing across the curve of his jaw, his collarbone, the muscles of his arms as he braced himself above you. And somewhere in the background, the faint hum of your playlist drifted from the little speaker on your desk, slow, quiet, like the moment already knew what it was.

Dean kissed your lips first. Then your jaw. Then the soft line of your neck, just beneath your ear. Each touch was unhurried, unspoken, like he was memorizing you one inch at a time.

“I thought about this”, he whispered between kisses, his voice rough, reverent. “So damn much”.

You closed your eyes, your fingers threading into his hair, his stubble scratching lightly against your throat as he pressed a kiss just below your collarbone.

“For a year”, he went on. “Every time I closed my eyes. You. That night. That kiss”.

His lips brushed over the top of your chest now, your shirt already pushed up, his hands gliding beneath it, calloused palms mapping skin like it was holy ground.

“I wanted you like this. Not because I had to protect you. Not because I saved you. Just… because it’s you”.

Your breath hitched, your body arching toward his, your hands slipping over his ribs — careful of the fresh bruises, the bandage — but drawn to his warmth all the same.

He looked up at you, eyes dark, but soft. “Still sure?”.

“More than ever”, you whispered.

And when he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, it wasn’t just desire pressing between your thighs, it was everything he’d said, everything he hadn’t. It was the way your heart had remembered him long before your body caught up. It was how, even after all the danger, all the blood and fire, this was what had survived.

The last of your clothes fell away in slow motion. Not rushed, not fumbled, just undone with care. Like Dean was unwrapping something fragile. Something sacred.

And you let him. You wanted him to.

With nothing between you but skin and breath and everything unsaid, Dean reached down, tugged the blanket up and over your bodies, tucking you both beneath it like this was more than just a night, like it was the beginning of something that might actually last.

He didn’t look at you like someone who had already been inside you hours ago. He looked at you like this was the first time. Like every inch of you deserved reverence. Like you were new and wild and precious, and somehow still his.

He hovered over you, fingers tracing the line of your jaw, his eyes scanning your face with quiet awe before he leaned in and kissed you again, slow and warm, his lips lingering as he whispered against your skin, “You’re so beautiful”.

Your breath stuttered, fingers flexing against his back, your heart suddenly full to the point of aching. And then — finally — he moved.

He pressed into you in one slow, deliberate motion, bottoming out with a single, gentle thrust.

Your body arched, the stretch deep and perfect, and a sound escaped your lips, half whimper, half moan, all surrender. The blanket shifted above you with the movement, and Dean stilled, just for a moment, to let you breathe, to let your body accept the fullness of him.

His forehead pressed to yours. “You okay?", he murmured, his voice wrecked, barely holding himself back.

You nodded, breath shaky, eyes glassy. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Shit… yeah".

And he started to move, slow, steady. His hands held your hips, his mouth stayed close to yours.

You arched into him, hips moving against his in a rhythm your body seemed to know all on its own, slow, instinctive, needy. His name slipped past your lips like a secret, broken up by soft moans and breathless whimpers as your arms curled tighter around him, holding him so close it felt like you might never let go.

Dean groaned, the sound low and guttural against your ear, his pace faltering just a second as your movement met his, not in chaos, but in sync. Perfect, aching, right.

“You feel so damn good”, he whispered.

Your head tipped back against the pillow, voice breaking between moans. “We should’ve done this a year ago…”.

Dean laughed softly — breathless, wrecked — and pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your throat. “Don’t say that. I might actually cry”.

You laughed too, even as your breath caught again, hips rolling up to meet him. “No, I’m serious. This feels… Dean, it feels so—”.

“So damn good”, he finished for you, groaning again as your body tightened around him. His hand slid up your side, fingertips brushing the edge of your ribs before slipping under the blanket, curling at your waist like he needed to keep anchoring himself to you. “Yeah. I know”.

He kissed you again, slower now, and thrust into you with the kind of care that made your chest ache.

Eventually, the rhythm slowed. Not because the feeling dulled, but because it had reached something deeper. Something that no movement or sound could stretch further.

Dean’s hand slid back up your body, cupping your cheek as he leaned in to kiss you once more, soft, slow, trembling slightly with everything he didn’t say.

And then, with a quiet groan and a long, uneven breath, he let himself go.

You held him through it, fingers curling at the nape of his neck, your forehead pressed to his, feeling every stutter of his breath, every pulse of his release like it echoed in your own bones.

He stayed there for a moment, still inside you, his chest rising and falling hard against yours, skin damp, lips parted as he tried to remember how to breathe.

And then, finally, he eased out of you, gentle, and let himself fall onto the mattress beside you with a heavy, almost stunned exhale.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You just lay there, fingers twined, the blanket tangled around your bare legs, your lamp still casting that quiet amber light across the room. The music had stopped, long since passed into silence. But somehow, it didn’t feel quiet. Not really. Not with him there.

Eventually, Dean spoke again, softer now. “You know, I didn’t come here expecting this. I thought… maybe we’d have a few laughs. Hunt something. Leave. But then you opened the door, and I swear it was like something punched me in the chest”.

You blinked, heart stuttering. “Dean…”.

“I kept that memory of you like a secret”, he said, eyes flicking to the ceiling again. “That night. That kiss. Every damn detail. It got me through more crap than I can count. And now… it’s real again. You’re real”.

You scooted closer, resting your head against his shoulder, his arm curling instinctively around you. “I never stopped thinking about you”, you whispered. “Even when it felt ridiculous to”.

Dean kissed the top of your head. “Yeah. Same here”.

And in that moment, with bruises fading, the dragon long dead, and nothing but the steady beat of his heart under your ear, you realized something: This wasn’t the end of the story. It was the beginning.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰

-

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[xxchumanixx]

Mirror, Mirror

Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Warnings/Tags: 18+ Mdni!, best friends to lovers, bathroom sex, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it), oral (f! receiving), fingering, mirror sex, basically porn without a plot Word Count: 5.464 Authors Note: Hey loves! Yes, I'm still alive. No, I'm not doing well. Life's a bitch and it keeps reminding me. Anyway, have fun with this. Enjoy!

You don’t knock.

It's been three years since you started hanging out, and after a few months, you stopped knocking. There is no point in it anyway if he leaves the door unlocked for you.

You open the door with an authority that comes from a friendship that survived aliens and other threats. Even though the dynamic might have shifted somewhere along the road. Lines begin to blur, air grows thick. That stuff.

He’s being a little grumpier lately, so you rather focus on that, though. No need to think about your feelings right now. They're not much appreciated anyway.

“Bucky?” you call out, toeing your boots off near the door before walking further into his apartment. You don't bother to turn on the lights, knowing his apartment better than your own sometimes.

There’s no answer.

Stopping halfway into the living room, you hear the water running. So you push the bathroom door open, walking in without a care for his privacy.

Some would deem you a bad friend for that, but again - you don't care. You need emotional support right now.

Bucky is standing in the shower like a greek god, water trickling down his muscular back. You've seen a lot of him already, but never... naked.

He's naked.

He turns, shampoo gliding down his body as he blinks water out of his eyes, too late realizing you're there.

His eyes widen, and he fumbles for a moment before yanking the curtain closed. "What- Y/N, I'm naked!"

“Cool,” you deadpan, leaning against the sink like it’s the only thing holding you up. Maybe it is. “I don’t care.”

He's frozen in place, too stunned to reach for a towel. You keep talking because if you stop, you'll think about his abs instead. And you really don't want that.

“I need your help." you say, ignoring the way he's standing there.

“You’re in my bathroom." he gives back slowly.

“And you’re my best friend.” you retort like it's the most natural thing to barge into his privacy. "I need your help. I fucked up real bad - I think."

Bucky sighs. Loudly. Then he shakes his head like this is all a bad dream before he shuts off the water. You hear the sound of a towel being violently yanked from a rack before the curtain opens again.

He sighs once more, wiping wet strands out of his face before speaking up. “What happened?”

You have to swallow, averting your eyes.

“I fucked up.” you whisper. "Real bad."

Footsteps echoe off the tiles before you feel the heat of him behind you, not touching, but close enough to make your breath hitch.

He pauses, then presses closer, his breath warm against the back of your neck. “You wanna talk about it?”

You shake your head so hard it could qualify as a self-administered concussion.

“You sure,” he murmurs. “Cos’ you look kinda pale.”

“Maybe a little." you admit.

“Good,” he says, “Cos’ we’re not leaving here ‘til you talk about it.”

One of his fingertips trails along the exposed strip of skin where your shirt has rucked up. The gesture is so light it’s almost accidental, but it’s enough to make your breath quicken.

He doesn’t pull away - just stands there, steady and strong and impossibly warm considering he was just getting out of the shower.

“So,” he says after a moment, “you gonna tell me why you look like you need coffee and a lobotomy?”

You sigh heavily. "I may have given Sam shit about this whole Avengers-name-thing."

Bucky doesn’t reply immediately. Instead, he reaches past you to snag another towel and starts roughly drying his hair.

"And, knowing Wilson, he gave you crap back."

"'Course he did." you muttered, barely loud enough for him to hear. "And it... may have gotten out of hand."

Bucky lowers the towel, pinning you with a knowing look that has your cheeks burning. "Define 'out of hand.'"

You sigh, rolling your eyes. "He threw me out." you say. "Right after I gave him hell for breaking your friendship."

Bucky winces. "Christ, doll. You couldn't pick an easier fight, could ya?”

You shrug like it wasn't a big thing. It was. "Wasn't intentional."

"That," Bucky points out, draping the towel across his shoulders, "is why it's a problem. You go in with all the subtlety of a hammer to the nuts."

You send him a pointed look before your expression falls slightly. "Point is," you say. "I ruined everything."

He steps forward, so close you can feel his breath on your cheek. Warm and minty and safe.

And absolutely not too close for best friends.

"Hey," he says gently, tipping your chin up with his fingers. "Sam's a lot of things - grumpy, bossy, pain-in-the-ass-y - but he's not gonna stay mad forever. You two'll patch it up."

"And what about you?" you say, shrugging with a huff of air. "You two worked together to save the world. You were brothers. And now you barely talk unless it's an argument."

Bucky stiffens, fingers dropping from your chin. Touchy subject.

"That's different," he mutters, turning away to lean against the sink. There it was again - the bad mood.

"It's not, and you know it." you tell him.

He doesn't respond. Instead, his jaw clenches like he's fighting to keep something in. Maybe it's the words. Maybe it's the urge to throw something. Maybe it's the urge to grab you and wrap you up in his arms.

He stares at the wall, breathing hard, shoulders tensed so tight you worry the veins in his neck will snap. Finally, he snaps. "Don't push me on this."

You frown. "I didn't."

"You did." The words come out tight, sharp. A barely-contained snarl. "You always push."

You take a step back, stomach fluttering nervously. Is this going to be the same like with Sam? Have you overdone it and are about to ruin your friendship with Bucky, too?

What the hell is wrong with you lately? You really have pushed him, haven't you?

Bucky runs a hand through his damp hair, jaw clenched. Then he lets out a low curse and shoves off the countertop, prowling across the small bathroom in two long strides.

You instinctively step back, until you find yourself pressed against the wall. The cool plaster is a stark contrast against your flushed skin, but it does nothing to quell the sparks racing through your nerves. Bucky's hands slam against the wall on either side of you, caging you in.

"Why can't you stop pushing?" he growls, leaning in so close his nose brushes your cheek.

His breath hitches, and for a moment, his eyes flutter like he's fighting the urge to press his face into the crook of your neck. To feel your thundering pulse. To breathe in the scent of your shampoo and skin and that damn citrus body wash you love so much that has him feeling warm all-over when he catches a whiff of it.

"Bucky-"

"You can be a brat." His lips hover just a hair's width from your cheek, making you shiver. "You can be sarcastic and stubborn and difficult. But then there are times when you decide to be completely irrational."

His right hand brushes along the line of your neck, his thumb skimming the edge of your jaw.

You swallow. confused and overwhelmed. "What are you doing?"

His fingers slide into your hair, angling your face up so you're looking directly at him.

"Do you have any idea what it does to me?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough. "All those times you come barging into my room. Walking into my showers. Crawling into my bed."

His eyes are dark, his jaw clenched. "You act like you don't know how you affect me."

You blink a few times. You haven't thought about it - not once. It is normal, right?

His hands tighten in your hair, just a fraction. Enough to send a shiver down your spine.

"You don't even know, do you?" His voice is almost a whisper, his eyes searching your face like he's trying to memorize every fleck of color in your irises.

"You come here looking like..." His gaze drops to your lips, and he lets out a sharp exhale. "Like this."

You frown. "What?"

Bucky's eyes flicker back up to meet yours.

"You're wearing my sweatshirt."

Sure enough, the grey cotton fabric that dwarfs your frame is about two sizes too big, the cuffs pulled over your hands so only your fingers peek out the front.

"You stole it out of my laundry." Bucky accuses, fingers toying with the neckline. "From the load I did a week ago. Because it still smells like me."

Heat creeps up your neck as you swallow. "It's not like I haven't done that before." you say, though your voice shakes a bit now.

Bucky's grip in your hair tightens almost imperceptibly.

"Yeah, you have." he agrees, leaning closer. "And every damn time, it makes me come unglued."

His eyes rake over your face, lingering on your lips.

"Every damn time," he whispers, breath ghosting over your jaw. "You crawl into my bed, wearing that, smelling like me, and expect me to just ignore how it makes me feel."

You inhale shakily. This is dangerous. "How does it make you feel?"

He pauses, something like uncertainty flickering in his eyes. Then he drops his forehead to yours with a low curse.

"It makes me feel - God."

A shiver rocks through his frame, so hard it sends yours into the wall. Your hands fly up to grip his shoulders to steady yourself, and his whole body jerks, muscles coiling like he's barely holding himself back from just - taking.

"It makes me want to grab you. Toss you on the nearest surface and remind you whose you are." he growls, eyes blazing.

That should scare you. It should send you running. But he's not the Winter Soldier, and God, you want it too. You want him to grab you and pin you and possess you, like he's not your best friend, standing in front of you with just a towel.

Because, let's be real: You've already crossed way past that point. Busted through the line of friendship and more like it isn't there, practically living in him.

Your lips part, but no words come out. "Whose am I?" you then ask, voice barely more than a breath.

Bucky's grip on your waist tightens, his nails sinking into your skin as if the question made him realize that you were real and really there.

"You're mine." he all but snaps, eyes hooded but blazing. "Goddamn it, you've always been mine."

You swallow. "I'm your best friend." you breathe out.

That's clearly the wrong thing to say because Bucky snaps. "No."

His hands shift, pushing up under your shirt to span your bare waist in a vice grip. The touch makes you gasp, and his response makes your world shift.

"You're not my friend." he growls, thumbs digging into the arch of your hip bones. "You're more than that. Been more than that."

He yanks you away from the wall and starts steering you across the small bathroom.

"You drive me insane." he continues, shoving your pants down your hips as he herds you backwards toward the sink. He's so fast you can't wrap your head around it. "Make me feel things I haven't felt in decades."

His towel hits the floor. Bucky presses you back against the edge of the counter, spreading your legs to slot his hips between them. The tile is cold against your bare thighs, even as your core flutters with heat.

"You make me come unglued." he repeats, hands sliding up under your shirt again, this time dragging it off completely. He tosses it aside and braces his hands on the counter behind you, caging you in as your mind has trouble catching up.

"I try my damn best not to show it." he confesses, dragging his hands down your sides. "Not to react."

His hands stop at the backs of your thighs. He hooks them around his waist, and with one swift move, hauls you up onto the counter. You squeak, grabbing handfuls of hair as he nestles himself between your legs. His nose runs up the line of your neck.

"But I can only take so much." He nips at your skin, tongue darting out for a taste. "You smell like me."

His hand trails down your hip, sliding across your inner thigh. His fingers tease the hem of your panties, feeling the lace.

"Look at you." His mouth skirts across your collarbone, blazing a trail up to the hollow of your neck. "All these years, driving me crazy. Looking and feeling and smelling like that."

His fingers hook in the hem of your underwear, and his eyes flick up to meet yours. His pupils are blown wide, just two thin rings of blue ringing a sea of black. He looks completely wrecked - and you haven't even started.

Whatever this is.

You can't speak. He's left you speechless, trembling so hard the counter beneath you quivers. His eyes hold yours, holding you captive as he drags your underwear down your legs.

"All these years, you had no idea." he murmurs, dropping your panties to the floor and pushing your knees open. Then, just like that, he's on his knees before you, looking up through his lashes.

Your lips part, staring at him in shock and confusion mixed with heat and desire. What is he doing? Not that you complained - God, of course not.

Bucky's hands slide down your thighs until they reach your knees. Then he pushes them even further apart, spreading your legs wider for him.

Like this was all completely normal.

"You didn't know, did you?" he repeats gruffly. "How crazy it makes me every time you wear my clothes. Every time you come by with your hair wet from the shower and smelling like my soap."

His thumbs drag down the inner sides of your thighs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

You quiver, inhaling sharply. "Bucky, I-I-"

"You what?" he asks gruffly into your skin, dragging his mouth along your inner thigh. "You didn't know? You had no clue how bad you drive me crazy?"

His thumbs spread your folds - and his breath stutters.

"Or maybe you did." he mumbles. "Maybe you knew exactly what it does to me."

His tongue slides up your core in one broad swipe.

Your gasp is high-pitched, hands grabbing the counter so hard the knuckles turn white. "No, I-I- shit!"

Bucky's fingers dig into your thighs, holding you in place as he flattens his tongue and does it again. Then again. His tongue flicks against your clit, then starts swirling in light circles.

He groans against you - deep and low.

Head leaning back against the mirror, you whimper. "I- I didn't know, Bucky." you breathed out shakily, pleasure shooting through you, making your toes curl.

Bucky pulls back just enough to growl. "Bullshit."

Then he's back between your legs, tongue circling your clit harder, faster. One hand presses down on your stomach, holding you still. His other hand slides back, two fingers gathering your arousal before pushing inside.

You cry out softly, clenching around his fingers. "I swear!"

Bucky's fingers curl inside you, and he growls against your clit.

"You always smell like me." He thrusts his fingers deeper, curling them again. "You use my shampoo, my soap. You lounge around in my clothes."

The roughness of his beard brushes against your inner thighs with each pass. You jerk, gasping, and one of your hands flies down to tangle in his hair. He lets you, but not before giving your clit a harsh suck.

It's pure, unbridled pleasure - hot and electric. It shoots through your body like a current; sparks fire behind your eyes and you start writhing under his touch.

His fingers press deeper, hitting a spot inside you that makes you cry out. He keeps licking. His hands keep moving. You're so close, so impossibly on the edge, but Bucky keeps you from tipping over.

"You like wearing my hoodies." He bites the insides of your thigh.

You writhe, chest heaving with quickened breaths. "Yes, fuck, I do."

Bucky's fingers hit that spot inside you again, and your grip on his hair tightens as you arch your back.

"My joggers."

His thumb slips up to rub your clit.

"My t-shirts."

His tongue swipes along your clit again.

"My sweatshirts."

His tongue flattens, then flicks.

"You like smelling like me." he concludes.

His fingers pick up speed, and you whimper, clenching around his fingers as a shiver racks through you. "Yes..."

Bucky's fingers pull out of you, and his hands clamp down around your waist. His tongue presses inside until his nose is pressed against your clit. He moans against you, licking inside you with broad strokes. Your grip in his hair is vice-like, his name coming out of your mouth in a stream of gasps, and he responds by gripping your hips so hard you'll probably be bruised for days.

“You like that?” he mumbles against you.

You moan in response. "Fuck, yes, Bucky. Please don't stop, please."

Bucky's hands tighten around your waist so hard it's almost painful, but it's lost in the pleasure building in your core as he keeps eating you out like he's starving before shoving two fingers back into you.

With each flick, every curl of his fingers, every moan against your clit - pleasure builds like a dam about to break.

You're writhing.

You're gasping.

You're teetering on the edge.

His teeth rasp against your clit and it makes you fall apart with a cry of his name.

You clamp down on his fingers, clit pulsing against his tongue. And Bucky moans against you - long, drawn-out, almost guttural, like this is the first bit of pleasure he's had in years and he wants to savor it. He keeps lapping at you with his tongue, thumb still working your clit as you ride his face.

He only slows down when the aftershocks start to calm and your grip relaxes.

His hands slide up your waist, his fingers spreading across your skin like he's trying to feel all of you.

You sag against the mirror behind you, trying to catch your breath as your head spins.

Bucky presses his cheek against your thigh, and his hands start rubbing small circles over your stomach and hips. Then he leans forward and starts leaving soft kisses up your stomach, over your hip bones.

He trails them up your ribs, between your breasts, up your neck, over your jaw so he can press his lips against your cheek. When he finally reaches your mouth, his hand fists in your hair and angles your head back to press hard against him.

You kiss him back eagerly, panting into his mouth. His tongue brushes your bottom lip, and you open your mouth wider to let him in. His right hand cups the back of your neck, holding you in place while his left hand slides down your back to grab your butt.

Bucky presses against your core, hard and thick, and you whine against his mouth. Your hands grab fistfuls of his hair, pulling him even closer.

"Wanna be inside you," he mumbles against your lips. The words send a shiver down your spine, and his hand tightens in your hair. "Wanna feel you."

He kisses down your neck, stopping to bite and then suck at the base of it. It makes you whine and press your hips up against his, making his grip on you tighten.

"Please." you gasp.

Bucky lets out a low grumble, like he's trying to hold himself back, and his nose drags up the column of your neck to your ear.

"Please what?" he all but growls, his hand on your butt pulling your hips against him.

"Please fuck me, Bucky."

Bucky's breath hitches, and his grip on the back of your neck loosens just enough for his hand to slide up and tangle in your hair again. He pulls your head forward, nipping at your bottom lip.

"You don't have to ask me twice."

He yanks you off the counter and spins you around so you're facing the mirror and the sink. It only takes him a second to find your entrance and tease the head against your clit. You grip the edge of the sink, leaning forward with a gasp.

"So eager." he mumbles, shifting his grip from your neck to your hip.

Then, with one swift move, he pushes into you.

And that's all you are. This glorious, overwhelming mess that's completely at Bucky's mercy. The world disappears, and there is nothing but him. The feel of his hands on your hips. His hot, panting breaths on your neck. The way he feels inside you. The way it looks when you manage to glance into the mirror.

He feels incredible. Big and hot and filling you completely. He lets out a low groan, one hand sliding from your hip to the small of your back, pressing you forward and into his grip. He starts to move. Slowly. So slowly, it's torture.

He pulls out almost all the way before he snaps his hips forward, and your eyes roll back.

"Oh God." you all but choke the words out. Your hands grip the edge of the sink.

"Can't help yourself now, can you, sweetheart?" Bucky murmurs against your neck, and the nickname sends a shiver down your spine. His beard brushes over your neck as he kisses down your shoulder, and you can feel him smirking. "This... all you wanted. Isn't it?"

He drives in again, hard, and you cry out. This time, he sets the pace, slow and steady, deep and powerful.

"Fuck- fuck, fuck, fuck-" you whimper. "Yes, fuck yes."

Bucky inhales sharply, then lets out a quiet, gruff moan against your neck. His fingers press deeper into your hip, hard enough that you think they'll leave yet another bruise.

"Yeah?" he asks, voice deep and raspy and right next to your ear before he grabs a fistful of your hair, janking you back against him so you can see yourself in the mirror. "This what you needed?”

You whimper at the pain shooting through your scalp, but it somehow intensifies the pleasure. "Ye-e-s!" Your voice is a garbled mess from his thrusts.

Bucky slows his pace, letting his eyes roam over your reflection in the mirror.

"Look at you." he mumbles. "Look at my girl. So pretty."

His hands travel up your waist, over your stomach, and up to your chest. He cups your tits in his hands, squeezing them.

You moan in response, clenching around him as he starts to speed up again. Then his right hand slides up to your neck, not quite squeezing, just holding, like he wants to feel your breathing.

"Look at you." he repeats, gaze lingering on your neck.

You clench around him again, harder this time. You never would have thought you'd like his hand around your neck this much.

Bucky's breathing picks up as your walls clench down around him, and his fingers tighten a fraction.

"You like this." he says, voice low. "You like me holding you like this."

It's not a question, but you nod anyway. Your gasps are coming out as a garbled mess of syllables, and Bucky rewards you by tightening his grip just a little more.

"Such a good girl." he mumbles, his chest pressed flush against your back now. His mouth is completely focused on your neck, whilst his other hand has slid down your stomach to your clit. His arm is wrapped around you too now, holding you steady as he continues to pound into you.

Your knees buckle, and you moan again, trying to buck your hips against his fingers. But Bucky doesn't let you, using his arm and his hips to keep you in place. Slowly, he adds a second finger, and your vision blurs with pleasure.

"Oh God, Bucky," you choke out. "I'm -I'm- I'm gonna - oh my God - ah-"

He hums against your skin, and the vibration makes you tighten around him.

"M'right here, sweetheart." he breaths. "I've got you."

His hips slam into you again, and your fingers scrabble across the counter to try to find something to hold onto.

"You're doin' so well." he mumbles against your neck. "So good for me.”

He lets go of your neck, but before you can whine about the loss of pressure, his hand slips up to your hair.

"My good girl." he growls, fisting his hand in your hair and yanking your head back to his shoulder. "Such a good girl."

His fingers press harder against your clit, and you clench around him in response. Your legs start shaking, and the sounds coming from your mouth don't even sound like they're coming from a human anymore.

"You getting close?" Bucky asks, voice hoarse in your ear. "Gonna come for me, doll?"

"Ye-Yes - oh my God, please, please, please - Oh God-"

It's more of a whine than anything, but it seems to be the right answer because Bucky's fingers quicken their pace, and he starts pistoning into you harder. “Come on, sweetheart. Come for me. Need you to - need you to come."

He's panting in your ear now, and his breathing is coming out in harsh, uneven gasps. He's as close as you are.

You're on the edge, so close he can taste it. He pinches your clit and you cry out, clenching around him.

"Such a sweet girl." he praises, biting the sweet spot behind your ear. "You gonna give it to me?"

You nod frantically, fingers scraping against the countertop.

"Y-yes.” you manage to croak out. "Yes, yes, please God, yes-"

"I got you, sweetheart. Come on, doll. Come."

The way his hips slap against yours creates a dirty symphony. Paired with his fingers, the way his cock hits that sweet spot? Add his voice, and you're coming all around him with a cry of his name, knees buckling.

Bucky's hips snap against your's once, twice, before he groans your name into your neck and spills himself deep inside of you.

"Oh God, doll." he pants hot against your ear, the words barely forming a sentence. His hands release your hair and hip, but they flatten against your lower stomach instead, holding you against him. He presses a trail of soft kisses up your neck and across your jaw while he heaves.

It's several moments before either of you speak again, and by the time you do, Bucky's hands are already roaming over your skin, smoothing across all the bruises he left on you in the mirror.

"You're so beautiful." he murmurs against your neck. "My good, perfect girl."

You're still shaking, trembling, and twitching with aftershocks as you lean your head back against his shoulder, slowly calming your breath.

Bucky's hands continue to touch and trace your skin, mapping out every bruise left behind by his fingers. He presses one last kiss behind your ear, then lets out a sigh; content and sated.

"Didn't hurt you, did I?" he asks quietly, thumbs running over the insides of your hip bones.

You shake your head. "No. God, I'm perfect."

Bucky's grip on your stomach tightens, almost possessively.

"You are perfect." he assures quietly. "So goddamn beautiful."

You laugh quietly in response. "No, i mean i feel perfect."

Bucky pauses.

"Yeah?" he asks, almost hopefully. "You sure I didn't- uh, go too rough?"

Lifting your head to look at him in the mirror, you shake it. "No. Fuck, i like that."

Bucky's hands slide over your hips to settle at your waist, fingers pressing into your skin. "Yeah?" he breathes it more than asks it. "You like it rough?"

You hum quietly. "Yeah."

Bucky inhales slowly. A long, ragged, shaky breath.

"You're too much for my brain." he mumbles into your neck. "God, you make me crazy, doll. You know that?"

"I think you said that a few minutes ago." you give back. "When you pressed me against that wall."

Bucky makes a sound that's halfway between a laugh and a growl. "You make me say a lot of things." he counters, hands sliding up to brush over the inside of your thighs.

You huff quietly before falling silent for a moment. "What have we done, Bucky?" you then whisper.

Bucky's hands pause their roaming.

"Well." he finally says, voice low, face still pressed against your neck. "I'd like to think we did quite a lot."

"That's not what I mean, Bucky."

He finally pulls back just enough to look at you in the mirror again. He studies you for a moment, hands flattening on your stomach, before he clears his throat.

"What do you mean, sweetheart?"

"We're best friends, Bucky." you mumble. "I know what you said. But I... i need to make sure you didn't just say it. Especially now that we... had sex."

Bucky's hands tighten on your stomach for a brief moment before they relax and continue their previous track up to your chest.

"I meant it." he answers, voice lower than usual. "I mean-" he breaks off, and you can see the bob of his adam's apple in the mirror as he swallows.

"I've loved you for a long time, sweetheart. I just... never thought I was... enough for you."

You frown at his delf-deprecating words. "Are you kidding me?" you ask, turning your head to look at him without the mirror.

Bucky inhales shakily, finally lifting his eyes to meet yours, and a shiver goes down your spine. Those blue eyes are intense; full of love and raw vulnerability.

"Don't you get it?" he asks, voice hoarse. "I'm a goddamn century old former HYDRA assassin, sweetheart. I have a body count that would be longer than your arm and enough trauma to keep me in therapy for the next decade. I have nightmares almost every night. I'm broken."

"So?" you give back. "I- I've loved you for a long time now, too, Bucky. And not just because of your looks. Because of who you are."

Bucky's eyes search yours so intently, it's like he's looking for any possible doubt in them. After a moment, he swallows hard again.

"You could do better than me, sweetheart." he whispers. "You should be with someone who- who isn't broken."

You move, turning around in his hold to fully face him which ultimately leads to his softened cock slipping out of you.

Bucky inhales sharply and clamps his hands around your waist to steady you. He sucks in another breath as you brace your hands on his bare chest.

"You're beautiful." he says hoarsely, eyes raking over your face, "You're wonderful, and kind, and generous. You could have any guy you want, doll."

"And i want you." you say. "Bucky, i want you and no one else. I mean it. Why do you think we're best friends - were? Are? I'm confused. Anyway, we work, Bucky. We work out so well. Why would i want someone else when I have you?"

Bucky lets out a shaky sigh, his hands tightening further on your waist as he struggles to think.

"You could have anyone else." he repeats, "I'm a mess. I'm damaged."

"I want you, Bucky." you repeat. "And I'll stand by that. If you'll have me, that is."

Bucky's hands shift at your waist, then slide down to grip your ass. He inhales slowly, eyes raking over your face like he's trying to memorize it.

"You really want me?" he asks, and his voice is softer than before; almost vulnerable.

"Yes."

Bucky inhales slowly, hands tightening again. There's something like desperation on his face. "You really, really mean that, sweetheart?"

You swallow hard. "Yes." you repeat. "I do, Bucky."

His shoulders sag a little, and you can almost see the tension leave his body. He lets out a sigh of relief and leans forward to press his forehead against yours. He closes his eyes tightly.

"God, you have no idea what hearing that does to me." he mumbles.

He inhales once more, then opens his eyes again.

"You're mine, you know that, right?" Bucky asks, grip unwavering on your ass. "You're mine. I'm not letting go."

"I know."

Bucky leans his forehead closer.

"Good." he breathes, and you can feel the heat of it against your lips. "Because if you think for one second in this long, miserable century that I'm letting you go now, you're crazier than I am."

Tag List:

@ava @sapphirebarnes @skywalker0809

@freyathehuntress @queenslandlover-93 @judig92

@caplanbuckybarnes @frog-fans-unite @nocuzreally @person-005

[navybrat817]

Orientation

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky meets his potential new roommate and is immediately smitten.

Word Count: Over 3k

Warnings: Love at first sight, bits of humor, fluff, tension, sweetness, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)

A/N: Finally sharing Stud meeting Smartie for the first time. ❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411 (and thank you for your help and cheering me on), but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @firefly-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky let out a deep breath when he heard the knock at the door and looked at his watch before he went to answer it. Another potential roommate, right on time. He hadn’t initially wanted to rent out the extra room since he could’ve made it work with rent going up, but the budget would’ve been very tight and it was better not to risk it since he loved the place. It would’ve also been nice if Steve or Sam could’ve moved in, but they had their own spaces and the idea of sharing his space with a stranger wasn’t necessarily bad. He just hoped whoever ended up renting the space got along with Alpine.

“One sec!” he called out and bent down to pet his cat, the white fur soft against his calloused hand. “Try to be nice this time, okay?” he teased, reminding himself to keep his expectations low when she meowed. Alpine was a wonderful cat, but also particular with the company she kept and she chased off the last person who visited. He trusted her instincts and if she didn’t like someone then that was that.

“Here goes nothing,” he whispered, steeling himself before he opened the door.

And the world as he knew it ceased to exist.

You stood there with the sweetest smile he had ever seen and he thought his heart would beat right through his chest with how hard it pounded. The feeling only intensified when he looked into your eyes and forgot how to breathe, his stomach filled with so many butterflies that he thought he’d leave the ground. Then he felt like he was falling in slow motion before he came back to himself. It was like the world got a little brighter just because you were standing in front of him.

Is this love at first sight?

“Hi! Bucky, right?” you asked, and he knew then and there he could spend the rest of his life hearing you say his name.

“Yeah, that’s me,” he said, his voice husky. “And you must be…” He paused before he said your name, letting it settle on his tongue.

No, he couldn’t flirt with or hit on his potential roommate.

Or can I?

He heard the hitch in your breath before you nodded. “Yeah, that’s me,” you repeated, your voice soft and sugary sweet.

He wasn’t trying to stare like a creep, but he really didn’t expect to see someone so beautiful. So perfect. When you expressed interest in the room since it was close to the nearby university, he refused to look up your social media accounts. He wanted the first impression based on instinct and a face-to-face meeting and not by what was posted online. He hoped he made a good impression, too, especially since he had freshened up after work, wearing one of his many henleys and jeans.

“Would you like to come in?” he asked, stepping back to give you some room. He took up a lot of space with his size and didn’t want to crowd you.

You winced and didn’t move, making him pause, too. “Before I do that…” He raised an eyebrow when you held your phone up and dialed a number. “My friend wants to hear you say that I’m going to be perfectly safe here.”

Both eyebrows shot up. “She wants to hear me say…” He trailed off when he heard a voice on the other end.

“Hey! You at the apartment?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” you replied, biting your lip and drawing his eyes to your mouth.

Focus. Don’t think about kissing your potential roommate.

“Oh, good! Is he listening? Hey, what’s your name and what are your intentions with my friend?”

Bucky cleared his throat, unable to say what his intentions were deep down. “My name is Bucky Barnes and I’m looking for a roommate. She’ll be perfectly safe here whether she accepts or not,” he said, praying that Alpine liked you enough so you’d move in.

“I’m sorry,” you mouthed to him.

“It’s okay,” he mouthed back. He wasn’t at all offended. You never could tell with strangers and it was nice that you had someone looking out for you.

“She better be safe!” He tried not to laugh at your friend’s tone. It reminded him of Steve, caring and protective. “Is he hot? He sounds hot.”

“You’re on speaker,” you reminded her and Bucky tried to keep a neutral expression because, well, he wanted you to think he was hot. “And, yeah, he’s hot. He’s a real stud muffin. Or stud horse? I don’t know, he’s a stud,” you rambled, your eyes wide like you forgot he could hear you, too.

Silence filled the space between you and he took the opportunity to put his hand on the doorframe so you could see just how large he was. “I’m a stud?” he asked, a smile tugging at his lips. The compliment nearly had him preening like a peacock, and there was tension. No one could tell him otherwise.

Your mouth fell open and a sound came out, but nothing else.

“Ooh, he must be really hot if you’re just making noises,” your friend muttered as you stared past Bucky’s frame into the apartment, avoiding eye contact. That only made you look more endearing. “Call me when you leave so I know you’re still safe.”

“I will. Bye,” you said quickly, hanging up before your friend could say anything else. “Um…”

He tilted his head, not pushing for you to talk. He was more than content to look at you. Did you have any idea how enticing you were?

“About the stud comments, I… Well. Yeah. I mean… Look at you.” You gestured to him and finally looked his way again, making him smile all over again. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I just… say things and I feel like I just made this weird.”

“Hey, it’s fine. I appreciate the compliment,” he said easily when he was doing flips on the inside. “You didn’t make it weird,” he added. Not when he was the one staring at you like a creep.

“So, not a terrible first impression?” you asked and he hated how worried you looked.

“If anything, it’s a great impression,” he promised you, stepping aside again. He’d be thinking about that compliment and you long after you left.

“My friend wanted to come here with me so I wasn’t by myself, but I refused. The call was the next best thing,” you explained, finally stepping inside. God, you smelled sweet, too. “I appreciate you being cool with that.”

“No problem.” And he didn’t miss how quickly you changed the subject. Whatever you felt moments ago, if you felt something at all, you clearly didn’t want to dwell on it, and he didn’t want to make it uncomfortable by dragging it on. “Why do I have the feeling you’d do the same for her?”

“Oh, I would,” you said, gasping when you spotted Alpine. “Oh, my god. She’s beautiful.”

“Yeah, that’s Alpine,” Bucky said, holding his breath when you crouched down and held out a hand. You weren’t allergic to cats, he wouldn’t even entertain a potential roommate who was, so that was good. But what would she think of you?

“Hey, Alpine. I’m hopefully going to be your new roommate,” you said, waiting for her to approach. It made Bucky happy that you weren’t forcing her to go to you if she didn’t want to. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

Alpine gave your hand a sniff and bumped it with her head before she surprised you both and put her paws on your chest. “I… I think she wants you to pick her up,” Bucky said in awe.

She isn’t chasing you off. She likes you. This is good. This is really good.

You picked her up without hesitation. “Oh, my goodness. I’m already in love,” you said when she purred and nuzzled close. Was it weird to be jealous of a cat? “You want to do the tour of your home with me?”

Alpine nuzzled deeper into your hold.

“She really likes you,” Bucky said, leading you to the living room and watching you as you looked around. “It’s not much.” It wasn’t the most lavish place, but it was nice, warm, and he had made it a home.

“I like her, too,” you said, smiling as you took everything in. “Are you kidding? This place is great!”

“Yeah?” he smiled, running his metal hand through his hair. He hadn’t noticed he used that hand until your eyes followed the movement. “Oh, yeah. This…” He put his arm out to show you and felt the need to somewhat explain it. “It’s a state of the art prosthetic, in case you were wondering.”

Losing his arm wasn’t a story he was ready to tell, not today anyway. For now, he just wanted you to see the place. And the prosthetic was something he wouldn’t have normally been able to afford, but he had been lucky and was able to be part of a test group of new prosthetics.

“I think it looks pretty badass.” There was no judgement in your eyes, only openness when you added, “And I’ll argue with anyone who says otherwise.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat. Some people asked invasive questions or tried to touch it, but you put him at ease and there was something wonderful in the air between you because of it. “That means a lot,” he whispered, nodding to the space. “So, you like it so far?”

“I love it,” you answered, your eyes now on the bookshelf. “My kind of space right there.”

“Yeah? You like to read?” he asked. He had a decent collection of books.

“Oh, yeah. Probably how I ended up getting a scholarship since I usually had my face buried in them,” you teased.

“That’s right. Academic scholarship,” he said. You had mentioned in your email that you were on a scholarship and that’s why you were going to the university, but you didn’t want to live on campus. “Must be really smart.”

Smart and beautiful.

“Oh, no. No. I wouldn’t say that,” you said dismissively. That wouldn’t do.

“If you got an academic scholarship, you have to be somewhat smart. So just admit that you’re a little smartie and take the compliment,” he said, chuckling when you shook your head. “I’ll bet Alpine thinks you’re a smartie, too.”

Smartie? What the hell am I saying?

You smiled when Alpine meowed in agreement. “Okay, I’m a little smart in some areas,” you said, biting your lip again. Were you doing that on purpose? “Is that braggy? I don’t want it to sound braggy.”

“Not braggy,” he said. Adorable as hell, but not braggy.

“Thanks,” you whispered almost shyly.

Yep, you were adorable. “Kitchen?”

“Oh, yeah. The tour,” you said, following and gasping again. “This is perfect! And is that an old radio?”

He would’ve liked something bigger eventually, but the size was good and the appliances were in great condition. “Yeah, I listen to music here sometimes,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“Hey, it’s your space,” you said. It wouldn’t just be his space if you moved in. It would be yours, too. “And I like music.”

“You like pizza and movies, too?”

You stared at him like he suddenly had another head on his shoulder. “Of course, I like pizza and movies! I thought that was a prerequisite to even look at the place.”

He leaned against the counter and folded his arms with a grin. “Except I didn’t ask you about pizza and movies.”

“Touche,” you said, doing a small spin with Alpine still in your arms. Why did he suddenly want to dance with you in the kitchen? “So, you have a great living room, great kitchen. I’m going to guess the bedroom is amazing.”

He swallowed again, trying not to imagine you in his bed. “Yeah, this way.”

Bucky lifted his chin to indicate the direction of the extra bedroom. You immediately went toward it with Alpine still burrowed in your arms, leaving him a few steps behind. He took the opportunity to check you out, his eyes lingering on your ass. You were going to test his resolve if you decided to move in.

You went into the open doorway since the door across from it was closed, your jaw dropping when you looked back at him. “Wow, this is huge!”

Not the only huge thing in this place.

He barely managed to keep that thought to himself. “So, you like it?” he asked. He thought about turning it into an office or workout area or something, but there was no need.

“Yes! I can have my bed here, and put my desk there,” you said, pointing toward the corner. “I could even put a bed in for Alpine if she wanted to sleep in here,” you offered.

“That’s nice of you,” he said. It was very thoughtful.

“Well, it’s her space, too,” you said, nuzzling her before you set her down.

He nodded toward the closed door nearby. “Bathroom is right across the hall, and you won’t have to worry about sharing since my room has an en-suite attached,” he explained. He wasn’t sure how comfortable you would’ve been if you were forced to shower in his bathroom.

“I’ll have my own bathroom, too?” you asked, brushing past him so you could take a quick look inside. It took all of his strength not to push you against the wall and kiss you, which would’ve probably earned him a slap and a call to your friend. “How has no one snatched this place up yet?”

“Al hasn’t been a big fan of anyone, except for you,” he said honestly, looking you over once more.

“I’m honored that she likes me,” you said before you turned to face him, a wide smile lighting up your face. “How soon can I move in?”

He smiled back. “You want to move in?” he asked, those butterflies in his stomach again when you glanced at your feet.

“Only if you want me, too. Oh, yeah, and…” You dug into your purse and pulled out a small notebook, quickly flipping through the pages. “This is the rent price, right? And the estimated amount for the bills? Because I can give you a first and last month if I need to sign an updated lease.”

He looked over the page. Your notes were meticulous. “That’s the right price,” he confirmed, snapping his fingers. “I forgot if I mentioned it in the posting, but I didn’t even show you the washer and dryer. You don’t have to worry about going to a laundromat since I have them here.”

You put the notebook away and pinched yourself. “Nope. Not dreaming,” you said, your smile faltering a little. “But do you really want me living here? I’m boring.”

“I’ve known you for a very short time and I can tell you that you’re not boring,” he said. His life felt more exciting since you showed up today. “And I’m a mechanic, so I’m not exactly living the most exciting life.”

Bucky was proud to be a mechanic, but it was far from glamorous.

“Being a mechanic sounds pretty awesome.” You crossed your arms. “I do puzzles for fun.”

“Sounds like a great Saturday night,” he said without a hint of sarcasm, making you smile again.

“And to be clear, I won’t be bringing guys back here at 3am,” you promised, scrunching your nose. “I don’t know why I felt the need to say that.”

You mentioned in your initial contact that you weren’t seeing anyone, but he felt extra relieved that you didn’t want to bring guys here. “I won’t be bringing guys here at 3am either.”

The giggle you let out warmed his heart. “So, we’re doing this? You really want me to move in?” you asked hopefully. “Because I really will be a great roommate. I’ll clean, cook, and-”

“I want you to move in,” he assured you. He didn’t want anyone else there. “What do you think, Al?”

The feline brushed against your leg with a happy meow, giving you her approval all over again.

You bounced in place and he thought for a second you’d throw your arms around in a hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Thank you,” he said. You were doing him a huge favor by moving in. “And just to be clear, you’re comfortable living here with me being a guy?”

Bucky had never been more attracted to anyone as quickly as he was to you, but he wasn’t going to disrespect or make you uncomfortable in what would be your new home.

“You promised I’d be perfectly safe here,” you reminded him. He did say that. “And…” The soft smile on your face was an image he wanted engraved in his mind. “I have a good feeling about you.”

He was going to fall head over heels if he wasn’t careful. Who was he kidding? It was too late. “I have a good feeling about you, too,” he said, gazing into your eyes with a soft smile of his own. “And I can’t wait for you to move in.”

God, Steve is going to come over and demand to meet my new roommate. He better not flirt or lay on his golden boy charm.

“Could you excuse me for just a second?” you asked, slipping back into the bedroom. He poked his head in and watched as you did a little jig. It was the sweetest thing he had ever seen. “If you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m a huge dork.”

“You’re far from that,” he said, leaning on the doorframe. You were perfect in his eyes.

“I just…” You turned a blinding smile his way. “I feel like I hit the jackpot!”

I’m the one who hit the jackpot.

And we know how the story goes for these two (so far). 🥰 Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[cursedheartsclub]

his girl

bucky barnes 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – nsfw (18+), MDNI, heavy petting, sex sex sex, breeding kink sorry it’s wartimes, angst, mentions of periods, childhood friends to lovers, Bucky can’t keep his hands off you, especially when he should

Summary: He called you his girl long before he ever kissed you. Long before he fell off the train. Before Hydra. Before the ice. Before he forgot your name—Bucky Barnes was just a boy who called you his girl. The two of you grew up tangled in the Brooklyn trio with Steve: fists and laughter, scraped knees and stolen glances, slow dances and so many kisses. You were never official. But everyone knew. He made sure of it. And when he left for war, he shouted it across the room for all to hear— “You know I’m gonna marry you when I get back, right?”

You never got to answer.

word count: 10k

notes – not proofread. Angst. Smut. Childhood friends to lovers. let me know if we need a part two. or if we want to let it hurt.

tag list: @areyoutheregoditsmecelia

Part 2

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated.

Brooklyn was cracked sidewalks and too-loud radios, rain-slick alleyways and fire escapes that burned your palms in summer. It was the scent of bagels on Saturdays and garbage on Sundays. It was home.

And more than that—it was yours, because they were in it.

Steve Rogers was the kind of boy who’d give you his lunch and go hungry just to see you smile— he’d done it so many times when you were younger, pig tails bigger than you, teeth missing when you smiled. Always bruised, always bandaged, always burning to make the world better, even if it beat him bloody for trying.

And Bucky Barnes? He was swagger and shine. The fastest fists in five blocks and the softest smile in the world, if you knew where to look. And you always had— he was your pulse. Had understood you in a way no one else had. And he’d been on your mind since you were 6 years old playing house and he insisted he play your husband and Steve be your dog.

You were the spark between them. The girl with scraped knees, a quicker wit than most priests liked in a confession booth, and a mean right hook when someone called you sweetheart the wrong way.

You’d found each other young—after-school scuffles, shared detention, childhoods built on bare-knuckle loyalty. It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t easy. But it was real.

You three had each other in a way that no one else ever could. Knew one another’s laughs and silences. In a glance the three of you could have a conversation that no one else could follow.

By seventeen, you were stitched into their lives like thread in a patchwork quilt—tight and permanent. Steve had the moral compass. Bucky had the charm. And you? You had the fire.

The three of you didn’t match, not on paper. But you matched where it mattered.

Most nights found you curled on the armchair in their tiny apartment with peeling wallpaper. Steve would be reading aloud, stubbornly serious, while Bucky flipped a bottlecap across the kitchen counter, bored out of his skull, making jokes of whatever Steve shared, and looking at you every third word.

Sometimes Bucky would fall asleep with his feet in your lap and your fingers tangled in the hem of his shirt without realizing it. Other times, he’d ruffle your hair just to make you glare at him, grinning like the devil the whole time.

And sometimes—just sometimes—he’d touch you like he forgot he wasn’t supposed to. A hand on your wrist longer than it needed to be. Fingers tracing the side of your palm when you passed the popcorn at the movies.

Not like the girls he danced with on Saturday nights. With them, it was always a show.

With you? It was habit. It was instinct. Like he didn’t know another way to be around you.

-

“You gonna make a habit of putting your hand on my waist every time I walk ahead of you?” The words had come out sharp one evening, just to see what he’d do.

Bucky grinned, unbothered. “Wouldn’t have to if you didn’t look so good doing it.”

You elbowed him. He caught your wrist. His thumb brushed your pulse.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured.

“You’re predictable,” you shot back. But your breath hitched. Just slightly.

He felt it. You saw it in his eyes.

-

Your mother didn’t like either of them, but definitely preferred Steve. He at least called her ma’am and made sure you got home safe if you hung out at the dance hall too late. “That Bucky boy’s bad news with good hair,” she’d said once, scrubbing dishes like she meant to drown the memory of his smirk.

You never denied it.

But your mother hadn’t seen the way Bucky gave up his gloves so Steve wouldn’t get frostbite. Or the way he stopped dead in the street when he heard you crying once, and didn’t ask questions—just offered his shoulder, his coat, and his silence.

You’d seen those things.

You remembered everything.

-

It came fast, the summer storm. One minute the sky was teasing. The next, you were soaked to the bone, barefoot, dress clinging to your skin like a second breath. You pounded up the steps of their apartment, hair plastered to your cheeks, knocking like the world was ending.

Bucky opened the door shirtless.

Of course he did.

Stormlight flashed across his chest, his dog tags glinting.

“You tryna get sick?”

“You tryna lecture me half-naked?”

He threw a towel at your face.

Later, wrapped in flannel and curled under a borrowed blanket, you found yourself on the couch, your wet dress drying in the corner, your socked feet in Bucky’s lap, one hand absently massaging them. He didn’t say a word as he reached down with the other and started playing with your fingers, one by one.

“You always do that?” you asked after a long moment.

“Do what?”

“Touch me like you’re memorizing something.”

He looked at you. Eyes too blue. Voice too soft.

“Maybe I am.”

-

Steve never asked questions. He just gave you his half of dinner when you were short on tips and let you braid his hair once when your hands were shaking too much to hold still otherwise.

He was your protector. But Bucky?

Bucky was your undoing.

And because of that, maybe it was easier not to ask what it meant when he called you his girl in front of other people.

Maybe it was easier to pretend like this was nothing when he danced with someone else and winked at you from across the room.

Maybe it was easier to smile when he touched your lower back like a promise.

-

The diner door jingled behind you as you locked up, the smell of grease and burnt coffee still clinging to your apron. It was a part time job, something to try and help your ma afford rent. Your hands were raw from wiping counters, your feet aching from the double shift, and the wind had the nerve to slap straight through your cardigan like you hadn’t already had enough. Your teeth chattered as you muttered a curse under your breath and started toward the apartment. The street was mostly empty—everyone inside watching the ball game or pretending not to notice the war creeping closer with every headline.

But Bucky was waiting.

He leaned against the brick outside he and Steve’s shared apartment building like a scene from a magazine ad—shoulders slouched, hands in his pockets, collar popped against the wind. His short hair was messy in that deliberate way he somehow always pulled off, and he looked up like he’d known the second your shift ended and you’d be walking past their place to get to yours.

“You planning to freeze to death or just daring me to be chivalrous?” He grinned.

You shot him a look. “I’m planning to go home and sleep for a week.”

“Not dressed like that, you’re not.” He said, looking you up and down. And then, with an exaggerated sigh, he shrugged out of his varsity jacket.

He didn’t toss it. He stepped forward and wrapped it around your shoulders himself. The wool was heavy and warm, still carrying his body heat and the faint smell of soap and cologne.

His hands lingered on your arms. His fingers brushed the side of your neck.

“People are gonna get ideas,” you said, arching a brow.

“They already do,” he said, and smirked like he’d planned that answer for days.

-

You wore it to school the next morning. Told yourself it didn’t mean anything. But everyone knew it did.

The second you stepped through the doors, heads turned. A few girls did double takes. One of Bucky’s old flames narrowed her eyes so hard you could feel the heat of it across the hallway. Whispers were whirling around the cafeteria that “James Barnes was finally going steady— he gave her his letterman jacket.”

Steve spotted you first and immediately burst out laughing. “You really wearing that?”

“It was cold.”

“You don’t even like football. Can’t even name what position Bucky plays.” He sat down next to you, smiling as you huffed, crossing your arms..

“Don’t need to. Looks better on me anyway.”

Bucky joined you both a minute later, eyes tracking the way the jacket hung off your shoulders, sleeves too long, collar tucked up to your jawline. Barnes stitched in cursive over your heart. He looked smug.

“Guess everyone knows who you belong to now,” Bucky said.

You rolled your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re still wearing it.”

He was right.

-

Prom wasn’t supposed to matter to you.

You didn’t buy into the glitz, the promise of magic, the frantic rush for dates. You didn’t expect flowers or fairy-tale endings. You figured you’d go with the girls from work, maybe dance a little, maybe drink something you weren’t supposed to and laugh too hard with Steve.

But Bucky showed up on your stoop with Steve already in tow, both of them grinning, both of them dressed to the nines—hair slicked, ties crooked, their suits just a little too big and shoulders a little too square.

Bucky held out a soft pink corsage. “Figured if I didn’t get to you first, some fool would.”

Steve cleared his throat. “I said that was her decision.”

Bucky just winked. “Exactly. And I’m hoping she makes the right one.” You rolled your eyes. But you took the corsage.

You arrived as a unit—the three of you stepping through the ballroom doors like a living memory, like you belonged on either side of him. A camera flash caught the moment: your hand tucked through Bucky’s arm, Steve on your other side, the corsage ribbon too long and tied messily around your wrist.

The photographer laughed. “Sweetheart’s got two dates tonight?”

Steve blushed. You shrugged. Bucky didn’t miss a beat.

“She always has. She just likes me better.”

The music was loud, the band slightly off-key, and the air smelled like powder, punch, and too much cologne. You danced with Steve first—laughing, clumsy, trying not to step on each other. He was warm and steady, guiding you with gentle hands and soft smiles.

But then Bucky appeared beside you. “My turn,” he said, already taking your hand.

He pulled you close—closer than was polite. His palm pressed to the small of your back. Your hand landed on his chest, where you could feel the rhythmic thud of his heart beneath his starched shirt.

“You clean up nice,” you said, smirking.

“You should see me in uniform.”

“Think I like you better like this.”

He smiled, softer this time. His thumb brushed a line up your spine, and suddenly the space between you was nothing. The world fell away.

And then, in a voice low enough that no one else could hear, he said, “I’m gonna marry you someday, y’know.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “That right?”

“Yeah. So you better stop dancing with Rogers before he steals you.”

You met his gaze then—really met it. “Steve’s not the one who calls me his girl.”

“Damn right he’s not.” He said with the widest grin you’d seen on him in years. You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t need to.

The evening carried on as you stepped outside for air. The night was warm, breezy, thick with the scent of lilacs and cigarette smoke. You leaned against the brick wall behind the gym, watching the stars blur slightly overhead. Your heels were off. Your feet ached. But your chest ached more.

Bucky found you five minutes later.

He looked flushed—tipsy maybe, definitely high on the night, his tie undone and jacket slung over one shoulder. The grin he wore slipped when he saw you.

“Y’know,” he said, voice lower than usual, “for two people who aren’t together, I get real possessive of you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That right?”

“Yeah. And I think I’m gonna do something stupid.”

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t slow. It was heat and claim and too many years of touching and not touching. His hand cupped your cheek. Yours fisted in his shirt. The brick was rough at your back. His mouth was soft against yours, but the kiss was anything but.

You kissed him back.

Desperate. Like you might not get the chance again.

Because deep down, you knew.

Something was shifting. War was looming. Time was thinning.

You didn’t talk about it the next day. He joked about the punch. You rolled your eyes. Steve said something about a chaperone catching a couple behind the gym, and Bucky winked at you across the room.

But the kiss stayed in your mouth like a secret, one that neither of you let go of.

And when Bucky brought a girl to the movie theater the next weekend—a blonde in a too-tight dress who laughed too loudly—you dropped your popcorn. Didn’t bother picking it up.

You weren’t together. Not officially.

But it still stung.

-

The heat had been unbearable all week—one of those sticky Brooklyn Julys where the sun felt personal. Shirts clung. Tempers frayed. The air tasted like smoke and warm asphalt.

You’d begged Bucky and Steve to take the long way home, past the orchard fields and the old creek trail you used to run barefoot as kids. The truck pulled to a stop at your request too. Somewhere along the road, nostalgia had kicked in. As you hopped out the car, you kicked off your shoes.

“I’ll race you!” you called over your shoulder, already halfway through the wild grass.

Bucky groaned. “Don’t make me chase you in this heat.”

“You won’t catch me anyway.”

Steve laughed behind you, breathless. “She’s gonna smoke us both.”

But you were already gone—dress hiked up in your fists, hair flying, the wind kissing your skin like freedom.

You reached the edge of the creek first. It shimmered under the late-afternoon sun—cool, glittering temptation. You barely hesitated.

“You won’t do it,” Bucky shouted from behind. “You won’t jump in!”

You looked back over your shoulder, wild-eyed, daring.

“Watch me.” And then—without ceremony, without warning—you unbuttoned your dress. Let it drop.

White cotton bloomers. Thin slip. Bra straps visible, skin flushed from the run.

Bucky choked on his breath. “Jesus,” he muttered, skidding to a stop.

Steve caught up, turned around so fast he nearly tripped. “I’m not looking!”

“Yeah, don’t,” Bucky growled. But he was looking.

You dove in. The water was cold—glorious. It shocked you to your bones and dragged a laugh from your lungs. You surfaced, hair slicked back, arms outstretched. Floating. Grinning.

Steve wandered off muttering something about looking for your shoes and bringing the car closer—like the gentleman he was.

But Bucky stood there frozen, shirt plastered to his chest with sweat, dog tags catching the sun.

“You coming in or what?” you called.

He shook his head. “You’re insane.”

“You’re scared.”

“Of you?” he barked. “Always.”

Then he yanked off his shirt.

You stopped breathing. You’d seen him shirtless before. When you were kids and went swimming. The apartment when you caught him after a bath. But this—under the sun, chest heaving, flushed and glowing—this was something else. He was a man. That much you couldn’t let yourself deny in this moment. He kicked off his boots and waded in.

You drifted toward him, weightless. Watching. Eyes half lidded. When you finally reached him, you splashed his back. “Took you long enough.”

“Could’ve given a guy some warning.”

You grinned. Then—on a whim, bold and stupid—you swam around behind him. Arms looped around his neck. He froze, brain freezing at the feel of your breasts against his back. A low noise came out of his throat; a sound he didn’t even recognize.

He turned around suddenly, and you stumbled forward, arms on either side of his shoulders.

He caught you automatically.

It was instinct. It was effortless. And it was dangerous.

Because suddenly you were wrapped around him in waist-high water, and his hands were on your thighs. His eyes were wide as they held yours. Slowly, so painfully slowly, you wrapped your arms more securely around his shoulders, face inching closer as you settled against him. Your breasts pressed against his chest, his dog tags cold against your skin, sending goosebumps on your arms.

Bucky’s breath hitched in his throat like he was drowning in more than just creekwater.

You stilled. So did he.

“Say something,” you whispered.

He looked at you like you weren’t real. “You’re beautiful,” he said, barely louder than the breeze.

You blinked. Then leaned in. The kiss was soft—uncertain. His mouth brushed yours, tentative, reverent. You kissed him back, eyes fluttering shut. His hands tightened on your hips. One of yours slid into his damp hair. The other curled around the nape of his neck.

And for one suspended moment, nothing existed but this.

Your body molded to his. Your hearts racing in tandem. His lips against yours like he’d been waiting his whole life to be allowed this. Your hips shifting against his, earning a whimper from the man beneath you.

Then—

Honk.

The sound cracked through the air like a gunshot. You jerked away. Steve’s beat-up truck sat at the top of the hill. He was behind the wheel, hand over his eyes.

“I told you I wasn’t looking!” he shouted, embarrassed. “You done swimming, or should I go find a blindfold?!”

You scrambled out of Bucky’s arms like he burned you.

You dressed quickly, heart thudding, hands trembling. Your clothes were soaked and heavy against your skin. Bucky didn’t meet your eyes. When you reached for your dress, he had handed it to you without a word. His knuckles brushed yours. You flinched.

The truck ride home was silent. Steve drove like he was trying not to exist. You sat in the middle. Bucky stared out the passenger window, leg bouncing.

He didn’t touch you. But his wet shirt clung to his chest, and your lips still tingled, and your skin—every inch of it—felt branded.

That night, you laid awake, the window cracked open to the sound of crickets and faraway horns. You told yourself it was just the heat. Just the creek. Just a kiss.

But it wasn’t. It was the kiss. Not like the one from prom when he had been tipsy and jealous of something stupid. This one had weight to it. And because he looked at you different the rest of the day. And the next one.

It was different because you couldn’t stop thinking about the feel of his hands on your thighs. Your legs still ached to wrap around him again.

You couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like if his hands had moved. Had touched you somewhere lower. Somewhere that friends definitely didn’t touch.

Something had changed. And there was no going back.

-

You saw him kiss her.

The redhead from homeroom. The one who laughed too loud and didn’t bother hiding the fact that she wanted him. You saw them through the soda shop window—her fingers curled around his collar, his hand braced on the counter beside her hip.

She kissed him first but he didn’t stop her. What he did do was open his eyes halfway through. Like he felt you watching from across the street.

And then he looked directly at you. You didn’t flinch. Just stared. Held it. Made sure he saw the way your chin lifted, the way your jaw set like you hadn’t just felt something inside you bruise.

The redhead didn’t notice.

But Bucky did.

And that look he gave you? It wasn’t cocky. It wasn’t guilty. It was soft. Apologetic. Desperate. Like he was screaming something behind his eyes.

That night, the three of you went to the movies. A nickel to get in. One screen. Sticky floor. Flickering reel. You barely remember what played.

Steve dozed off halfway through, arms crossed, chin slumped to his chest. The tinny crackle of dialogue filled the theater, but your focus narrowed.

Because Bucky’s hand was on your thigh.

He hadn’t asked. He’d just reached over the armrest between your seats and settled his palm there, warm through the fabric of your dress, his thumb brushing lazy arcs like he was tracing a memory. His pinky grazed the inside seam just above your knee.

You didn’t stop him. You didn’t look at him, either. Your heart hammered so loudly in your chest you couldn’t hear Steve’s soft snores anymore.

He leaned over halfway through a battle scene and whispered, “You’re my girl. You always have been.”

Not just to you. To Steve, too—loud enough for your best friend to hear it through his sleep. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t believe him, not fully. Not when he’d kissed her. And others. Not when he let you see each girl. But that hand on your thigh said something else. So did his voice.

He didn’t move it the rest of the film.

The walk back to the apartment was quiet. Steve peeled off to check on his mother. Left you alone with Bucky.

Inside, the place smelled like heat and old laundry. The windows were cracked, barely. The two of you stood in the dim yellow of the entryway light, neither willing to speak first.

You sat on the couch. He followed. The silence stretched, warped, bent itself into something heavy.

“You gonna say anything?” you asked, arms crossed.

He sat back, elbows on his knees. “About what?”

“Don’t insult me.”

“She kissed me.”

“And you kissed her back.”

“Wasn’t the same.”

You scoffed. “Funny. You looked pretty into it.”

His eyes snapped to yours, sharp with something almost hurt. “I looked at you.”

That shut you up. Because he had. Because it hadn’t been smug. Because it hadn’t been for show. Because it had felt like he needed you to see it—needed you to know that you were the one who mattered, even if he was too much of a coward to prove it.

You looked away. “You always say I’m your girl.”

“Because it’s true.”

“But you don’t act like it.”

“Don’t I?”

And then he reached for you—fingers curling gently around your wrist. You didn’t pull away. You didn’t breathe.

“You started it,” he said, voice low.

You blinked. “Started what?”

“This.”

Your laugh was bitter. “You really think I started this?”

He leaned in. His forehead nearly brushed yours. “I’m about to end it.” Then he kissed you.

It was nothing like the creek. This was hotter. Rougher. Mouths slanting together like you were both angry. Like you needed to punish each other for all the silence, all the stolen looks and nights spent pretending.

His hands cradled your face like he’d never get to again, he pushed you down onto the couch, your back flush with the uncomfortable cushions. Yours fisted in the front of his shirt like you were sick of waiting, pulling him down on top of you.

He slotted between your thighs with ease. Your legs, your traitorous and aching legs, wrapped around his waist like instinct. His hand touched your bare thigh and you both shuddered.

He kissed you like he was daring you to leave him and you kissed him back like you couldn’t.

You only broke apart when the door creaked open. Steve stepped in, muttering something about the trains. Froze. You were still on the couch, him hovering over you—too close, flushed, guilty.

You looked like a live wire as Bucky leaned away slowly. Steve stared, face a little pink. His brows arched. But he didn’t say a word.

He just walked to the kitchen like he hadn’t seen anything at all. The silence between you and Bucky snapped taut.

Then you said it—without looking at him. “We don’t talk about this.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

And neither of you moved. But that kiss? It hung in the air like smoke. It wasn’t over.

-

It was one of those USO-sponsored community events meant to drum up morale and donations. You’d planned to go with a group of girls. But Bucky showed up at your door in uniform, holding a corsage and an expression you didn’t know how to read.

“You look like you’re about to confess a crime,” you told him.

He handed you the flower. “Only if asking you to dance when you’re down right awful at it counts.”

You laughed and took the flower. “Easy now, Barnes. Or your toes will be the next victim.”

Steve met you both there, and the three of you walked in together—like always. But everything felt different.

Because Bucky didn’t just walk beside you. He touched the small of your back when you moved through the crowd. He whispered jokes into your ear that made you laugh into your wrist, flower he picked out decorating it gently.

And when he took your hand to lead you to the dance floor, he held on like he had no intention of letting go.

You weren’t the best dancer. That much was painfully clear. Neither was he. But he made you feel like you were graceful. Spinning you under the fairy lights, pulling you close when the tempo slowed, letting his hand drift just a little lower than was strictly polite.

Someone tried to cut in—a navy cadet with teeth too white and a smile too practiced. He tapped Bucky’s shoulder, nodding toward you. “Mind if I cut in?”

“She’s taken,” Bucky said, voice calm but cold.

The cadet blinked. “I didn’t see a ring.”

Bucky leaned in. “Doesn’t need one. Corsage is mine. So’s the girl.”

Your heart stopped. The cadet shrugged and walked away. You, on the other hand, spun away from Bucky as soon as the song ended, dragging him toward the hallway behind the bandstand.

“You can’t say things like that,” you hissed. “We’re not—”

He stepped in. “You’re wearing my corsage. You kept my jacket. You’ve kissed me like a lifeline more than once.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Doesn’t it?” His voice was low. Tired. Honest. The cocky smile faded.

You stared at him. “Why do you keep doing this?” you asked.

“Because I can’t help it.” He said, sounding helpless.

“And what happens when you leave?”

“I’m not leaving you.” He said, voice final. You held his stare for a long moment, before turning on your heel and walking away.

Later, you danced with Steve—trying to cool off, calm down, breathe. He was warm and steady. Polite. Careful. He twirled you and let you lead when you got impatient with the beat.

“You and Bucky,” he said suddenly.

You looked up. “What about us?”

He smiled softly. “You’re good together.”

“We’re not together.”

“You’re the only ones who seem to think so.” You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

And at the end of the night, you stepped outside to catch your breath. The air was cold, sharp with city wind, and you crossed your arms to keep Bucky’s jacket closed around you.

The man himself found you minutes later. “You looked beautiful in there,” Bucky said.

“You looked smug.”

“I was.” He stepped closer. You didn’t move. “I meant it,” he said. “What I said to that guy.”

You looked up. “Bucky—”

“You’re my girl.” He said it like it was a fact. Like no matter who else he’d kissed or danced with, it didn’t matter because this fact had always been true. Worse, he said it like he was done pretending it wasn’t.

You stared at him. His uniform jacket. His blue eyes. “Even if we’re never official?”

His voice didn’t shake. “Especially then.” He didn’t kiss you. But he touched your cheek, fingers brushing your skin like a prayer.

You let him. Because maybe… he was right. Maybe you had always been his. And maybe he was finally willing to claim it.

-

The city was quiet in that rare, sacred way it only managed after midnight—when the clatter of day had died down, and the wind moved like breath between buildings. You were barefoot, sitting on the roof of Bucky and Steve’s apartment building, legs swinging over the ledge, the flask in your hand already half-empty.

The stars were faint, blurred by smog and distance, but they were enough. Bucky sat beside you, knees bent, forearms resting across them, hair ruffled by the breeze. You passed the flask without looking. He took it without speaking.

Tomorrow—or the day after—he’d be gone. He said he wouldn’t leave you— but he had to. So did Steve.

So you didn’t talk about it. Not directly.

Instead, you talked about stupid things. The mailman who kept mixing up your neighbor’s letters. The kid on the corner who was trying to build a soapbox racer out of trash cans. The weird guy at the corner store who always asked if you wanted to buy “discount stockings.”

And then the silence came and stayed, grew heavy. A reminder that he would be gone soon, that time was running out, and before long your only companion would be the silence of the city when he wasn’t beside you.

“I ever tell you,” Bucky said suddenly, voice quiet, “how often I think about you?”

You didn’t turn your head. Your chest tightened. “Once or twice.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not like this.”

You finally looked at him. His profile was lit by the glow of a distant streetlamp—sharp jaw, tired eyes, that mouth you’d kissed once or twice and never enough.

“I mean,” he went on, “all the time.” He took another sip. Cleared his throat. “I used to tell myself it didn’t matter. That the girls—the flirting, the dates—they were just fun. Easier.” You didn’t say anything. He kept going. “They didn’t scare me the way you did.”

That got your attention. “Scare you?”

He smiled without humor. “Because it’s always been you. And if I let that mean something—really mean something—and then I lost you? I wouldn’t come back from it.”

You blinked. Your heart punched the inside of your ribs.

“I tried,” he said, eyes now on the stars. “Tried to prove it didn’t have to be you. That anyone could make me forget. But I couldn’t.”

The quiet stretched. And then, softer, he said, “I’ve been sweet on you since we were six and you made us play house, and I nearly decked Steve ‘cause you picked him to be your husband.”

You laughed, startled and aching.

“I remember that,” you whispered.

“Yeah. And I remember thinking, No. It’s gotta be me. I’m gonna marry her someday, not Steve.”

You turned to face him fully. “You still believe that?”

His eyes met yours—dark, sure, soft. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

You didn’t hesitate. You kissed him. You climbed into his lap, hands on either side of his face, mouth crashing into his. He grunted, arms coming around you immediately—tight, desperate, anchoring.

His lips moved against yours like he’d been waiting years. Because he had. Because so had you. His hands gripped your waist and yours slid into his hair. You tilted your head and deepened the kiss, rolling your hips against him, and he groaned into your mouth like he was in pain from needing it too long.

You broke first, panting against his lips. “If I don’t come back…” he started, voice low.

“Don’t,” you said, shaking your head. “Don’t say that.”

“I have to.”

You pulled back enough to look him in the eye. “No. You don’t. Because you’re coming back. And when you do…” He waited. “When you do,” you whispered, “this won’t be a maybe anymore.”

His forehead fell to yours. “I’ll hold you to that,” he breathed.

You kissed again, slower this time. Sadder. But you didn’t let go. Not yet.

-

The apartment was too quiet.

Steve had gone to stay with his mother for a few days, giving Bucky space to pack, and maybe giving you space to say goodbye—though neither of you admitted it. His duffel bag was half full, strewn clothes tossed across the bed like a battle he didn’t want to finish.

You sat on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up to your chest, watching him fold a shirt for the third time. He wasn’t looking at you but his shoulders were tense. His jaw tight.

“You’re folding that like it insulted you.”

He let out a quiet breath. “Trying to get it right.”

“You never fold your clothes.”

He looked up. Smiled a little. “Gotta make a good impression. It’s the army.”

“You made a better one in the creek.” His hands stilled. He looked at you for real then.

Something passed between you. Wordless. Unbearable.

You stood before he could speak and crossed the room slowly. You reached for his wrist, and his hand found yours like muscle memory.

“Can you… stay? Just a little longer?”

He didn’t answer. Just stepped forward, filling the space between you, until your chest pressed against his and you could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

His forehead dropped to yours.

“I don’t want this to be the last time,” you whispered.

“It won’t be.”

“You don’t know that.” Your voice broke.

“I do.” His hand slid up to cradle your cheek. His thumb traced beneath your eye, and for a second, you thought you might cry—but didn’t. Not yet. “I’m gonna come back,” he said, “and when I do…”

“When you do?” you breathed.

“I’m gonna marry you.”

You laughed—quiet and cracked. “You always say that.”

“I’ve always meant it. No matter what I did or who I was with, I’ve always known it was you.”

And then he kissed you. It started gentle. Mouths brushing. Breathing the same air. His hands shaking slightly where they cupped your face. Yours curled in the collar of his shirt.

Then he deepened it like he couldn’t hold back anymore. Like kissing you was the only way he remembered how to live.

You let him. You pulled him closer, backed toward the bed, tugging his shirt loose from his waistband. He followed willingly, stumbling a little as he reached for the buttons of your blouse.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t about hunger.

It was about having. About knowing.

He kissed you like he couldn’t breathe without it.

Mouth to mouth, chest to chest, hip to hip. The heat between your legs bloomed fast, an ache you couldn’t hide as he slid his hands over your waist, down your back, gripping like he’d never get the chance again.

“Take this off,” you whispered, fingers tugging at his shirt.

He obeyed. Pulled it over his head in one smooth motion, dog tags falling forward to rest between his collarbones. His body was warm, hard—muscle and memory and home. You let your fingers roam. Let your mouth follow.

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice gravel low, almost a whisper.

You nodded.

“I don’t want to stop once we start, doll.”

“Then don’t.”

Clothes vanished piece by piece. Kisses stole across skin like vows. He moved over you—slow and reverent—his palms skating up your ribs as he stared down at you like he’d never seen something so devastating.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, brushing your hair back. “I’m gonna remember you like this for the rest of my life. Maybe even in the next one.”

His mouth was everywhere. He started slow—kisses down your breasts, your stomach, your hips. And then he lowered himself between your thighs. His mouth left marks on your inner thighs. You shivered at the scrape of his stubble. The heat of his breath.

When he finally licked up the seam of you, you arched clean off the bed.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned. “You’re soaked for me.”

His tongue was slow at first, teasing, savoring. He licked you open—wide, flat, lazy strokes that had your toes curling. He circled your clit. Sucked. Flicked. Pressed a kiss right to the bundle of nerves that made you cry out.

“You’re gonna come for me,” he muttered. “Right on my tongue. Want to taste it—want to own it.”

You couldn’t respond. Not with how his mouth closed over your clit again and again, not with the way his tongue stroked the exact right spot like he’d mapped it from memory.

Your thighs shook around his head. Your hands fisted in his hair. You tried to hold on. You really did.

But then he groaned against you—“That’s my girl. Always knew you’d be good for me.”— like he needed it, like this was as much for him as it was for you—and you shattered.

You cried out his name as you came, hips grinding into his face, pleasure hitting so hard you couldn’t think.

He licked you through it, held you still with his strong hands. Then he hummed against your oversensitive clit like he wasn’t finished yet. You sagged back, boneless and wrecked, he kissed your thigh. “I’m not done,” he whispered. “Not even close.”

He moved back up your body, mouth slick, eyes dark with something deeper than lust.

He kissed you then—slow, dirty, letting you taste yourself on his lips, on his tongue—and slid two fingers inside you.

You gasped into his mouth.

“So fucking wet,” he muttered. “Tight, too. Jesus.” His fingers curled, slow and sure, hitting that spot that made your eyes flutter and your legs fall open wider.

He worked you methodically—thumb on your clit, fingers buried to the knuckle, curling and thrusting in perfect rhythm.

You were already trembling again.

“You’re gonna come on my hand now,” he told you, voice tight. “Gotta feel you squeeze me before I ever even get inside you.”

You came with a cry, back arching, clenching around his fingers so hard he cursed under his breath.

“Goddamn,” he growled. “You’re gonna ruin me, baby.”

He didn’t give you a break. As soon as your breathing slowed, he pulled his fingers free—slow, wet, watching your slick stretch and fall—and lined himself up.

His cock was thick and flushed, head leaking. You reached to touch him, but he caught your wrist and pressed it to the pillow, kissing the inside of your wrist.

“Later,” he rasped. “I need to be inside you. Now.”

He slid in slow. Inches at a time. Letting you feel every goddamn bit of him. You whimpered. He bit out a curse. “Fuck—so tight. So warm.”

When he bottomed out, he froze. Eyes locked on yours. Chest rising and falling like he couldn’t breathe. “This,” he said. “This is mine. You’re mine.”

You nodded, eyes glassy. “I’m yours.”

It hurt at first, and he held so still, kissing your tears from the corner of your eyes.

“Thank you,” he whispered into your ear. “For giving your first to me. For trusting me with it. It’s mine too, doll. Saved it for you.” He panted. He wanted to move so badly it physically hurt. You were tight, squeezing him like a vice, and he was embarrassed to admit he could come just from this.

“Please,” you whimpered, rocking your hips up slightly, both of you crying out at the feeling. “Keep going, Bucky.”

He started to move—long, deep strokes that made your toes curl and your fingers dig into his back. “Tell me this is good for you,” he breathed, sucking a bruise into your neck.

“It’s good. So good. Please, James.” You cried, hips rocking to meet his.

And he didn’t stop. He kissed you. Praised you. Whispered how perfect you felt, how good you were for him, how no one else had ever touched you like this and now they never would.

He rocked into you harder. Faster. His hand slid down between your bodies, thumb finding your clit again. “I want you to come with me,” he growled. “Want to feel you fall apart while I’m inside you.”

You were already so close. “Please baby, need you,” he whined into your ear. You shattered again, sucking him in harder.

He followed with a guttural moan, burying himself deep, pulsing inside you. “God. Please. I hope it takes.” He whispered so softly that you weren’t sure you were meant to hear it.

You stilled for half a second but you didn’t ask what he meant. You knew.

He was hoping for something more. Something alive.

Something that might survive, even if he didn’t.

You didn’t say anything.

You just kissed him harder, held him tighter, and let him spill into you with a strangled cry.

Except he didn’t stop with one round. He kept going—slower this time. More focused. Drawing out every sound you made. Making love to you like it was the only night he’d ever have.

He kissed your chest. Your shoulders. Your hands. Said your name like it was his favorite prayer. Repeated that he needed to fuck you full until it sticks.

When you rode him in the moonlight—sweat-soaked, back arched, his hands gripping your hips like a lifeline—he whispered, “I’d give you everything. Every piece of me. If I had forever…”

When he took you from behind, your chest pressed to the mattress, his hand tangled in your hair and his voice ragged in your ear, he said, “Still mine. Always mine.”

And when you collapsed in each other’s arms, tangled in blankets and breaths, he held you like time might stop moving.

Later, when you were wrapped together in the hush of the early morning, your head on his chest, his dog tags resting against your shoulder, you reached for something on your hand.

A small silver ring. Nothing fancy. Just your grandmother’s. A family piece with no diamonds, just a smooth band of soft metal and memory.

You took his hand. Pressed it into his palm. “Keep it,” you said. “Come back with it. Maybe you’ll even trade me for a better one.”

He stared at it for a long time. Then slid it onto the chain with his tags. Held it there over his heart.

“You’ll get the better one,” he said. “I promise.”

You almost believed him.

-

The USO hall was too bright.

Balloons bobbed on strings. Streamers hung limp above folding tables. The band played cheerful swing numbers no one really danced to. There were cookies, weak punch, and girls trying to pretend their lipstick wouldn’t smudge on a goodbye.

You stood near the back, heels clicking against the tile, dress pressed and hair curled in a way you hoped looked confident and not like the armor it was. You’d spent the afternoon memorizing how he kissed. The night before, memorizing how he felt.

This morning, you were trying to forget how it felt when the sheets went cold.

Steve found you first. He was clean-shaven, tie a little too tight, nerves showing in the way he adjusted it every ten seconds. He hugged you like family. Kissed your cheek like he might never get the chance again.

And then Bucky arrived. Grinning like the devil. Posture proud, uniform pressed, dog tags glinting alongside the ring you’d given him.

He saw you. And everything else faded. There were other girls in the room. Other friends. Officers. Commanders. But his eyes never left you.

You opened your mouth to speak. He beat you to it.

“You know I’m gonna marry you when I get back, right?” He shouted it so loud, half the room turned. He didn’t care.

He wanted everyone to hear. You saw the flash of mischief in his eyes. The way his chest rose and fell just a little faster as he waited.

Your lips parted. But nothing came out.

You didn’t answer. Because you couldn’t. Because your heart was already breaking. And if you said yes, if you let that hope take root, it would destroy you if he didn’t come back.

So you said nothing. You just looked at him—burned him into your memory. The tilt of his smile. The glint of gold in his hair under the cheap fluorescent light. The way he held himself like nothing could touch him. You offered him a smile in return. Tried not to sob when you saw him look at you like this might be the last time.

Steve laughed beside you. “That idiot always says that.”

But you knew better.

Because this time, it wasn’t a line. It wasn’t a tease. It was a vow.

When the transport was ready, the hall started to clear.

There weren’t enough hugs. There weren’t enough seconds. Steve shook your hand like he didn’t trust himself to do more. You wrapped him in your arms anyway.

Bucky was the last one out the door.

He didn’t try to kiss you. Didn’t say goodbye.

He just brushed a hand over your waist as he passed, fingers grazing the spot on your back where he always touched you. The smallest touch. The deepest claim.

And then he was gone.

You stood in the empty hall long after the music stopped. Long after the doors closed. Long after the other girls dried their eyes and went home.

You didn’t cry.

Not yet.

You just placed your hand where his had been—on your waist. Held it there. Like maybe that would keep him tethered.

Like maybe that would be enough to bring him back.

-

The train rocked steadily beneath him, a lullaby of iron and motion that couldn’t quite drown out the thoughts.

Bucky sat with his back to the rattling wall, helmet resting on his knee, rifle propped beside his seat, the corner of his duffel brushing against his shin. The chatter around him was low—jokes, nervous laughter, boots creaking against metal flooring. Steve was asleep across from him, chin tilted toward his chest.

But Bucky wasn’t tired.

He couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Not about the way you kissed him last night—or not just that. Not even the way you looked stretched out beneath him, whispering his name like a prayer, trembling on his mouth, his fingers, his cock.

It was all of it.

The way you touched his face like he was already a ghost.

The way you pressed that silver ring into his palm, like you knew he’d need something to hold onto.

The way you didn’t say “yes” when he said it—but didn’t say no either.

You hadn’t needed to. He could feel it in your hands. Your body. The way you clung to him like he was already gone.

He bent over slowly, pulling off his boot with care. The soldiers nearby wouldn’t notice. No one paid attention on a ride like this. From inside the soft lining of his sock, he pulled the tiny leather pouch.

Untied the knot.

Slipped the ring into his hand.

His mother’s.

Gold. Simple. Worn around the edges from years of being tucked away and waiting. She’d always told him to give it to a girl who’d love him even when he wasn’t easy to love.

And God, you had.

You loved him before he had medals or missions. Loved him when he was just the neighborhood flirt with calloused knuckles and a smart mouth. When he was still learning how to be good.

He curled his fingers around the ring. Then reached down, laced it tightly into the knot of his boot.

Tucked it against the curve of his ankle, the metal cold against his skin. Fitting. Grounding.

Because every step he took from this point on?

It wasn’t just toward the fight.

It was toward you.

Every march. Every drop from a plane. Every mission run. Every goddamn mile—

One step closer to home.

One step closer to you.

He leaned back against the train wall, heart hammering. Closed his eyes.

He imagined your face. The warmth of your laugh. The sigh you made when he kissed the underside of your jaw. The way you tasted.

He imagined slipping the ring onto your finger.

Not in a church. Not with fanfare.

Maybe just one morning over eggs. Or while you were brushing your hair. Or sitting on the edge of his bed in that old undershirt you stole from him last summer. Or as you held your son on your hip, your nose and his blue eyes. Definitely your smile.

“Still yours,” he’d say. “If you’ll have me.”

He’d make you say yes, eventually. Even if he had to beg.

Especially if he had to beg.

And so, with every rattle of the train, with every mile further from the city, with every breath that carried him deeper into the unknown—

Bucky Barnes reminded himself: He wasn’t going to war for glory.

He was going for you.

And he was going to come back with that ring.

-

You knew something was wrong the moment you saw him.

Steve was standing on your stoop, hat in his hands, pale as snow. He looked older than he had when he left. Like whatever war he’d fought had aged him faster than time ever could. He was larger too. Not the same small guy he’d been when he left.

The envelope in his hand was damp from the cold. He didn’t say hello. Didn’t smile. Didn’t meet your eyes.

“He fell,” he said. Just that.

You blinked. Your fingers curled tighter around the doorframe.

“Off the train,” he added, like that made it make sense. Like that explained anything. “In the Alps. During the mission.”

You shook your head. Not in denial. Just… processing.

“They didn’t recover the body,” Steve said next. Quieter now. “The gorge was too deep. The ice too thick. They… they tried.”

He offered the envelope.

You didn’t take it.

You just stared at it, at the smudge of water across the return address. At the little black seal in the corner.

Steve cleared his throat. “It’s from his CO. I thought—” He stopped. Looked away. “I thought he’d want you to have it.”

That was the last time you saw Steve Rogers.

You didn’t remember taking the envelop or closing the door. You didn’t even remember walking to the kitchen.

You just remembered sitting. Hard tile against your spine. Your legs folding underneath you. Your fingers numb.

The jacket was still there—his letterman. Folded over the back of the kitchen chair like he’d just gone out for bread. You pulled it down, curled it into your lap. Buried your face in it.

It didn’t smell like him anymore.

It just smelled like gone.

You don’t remember how long you stayed there. Hours. Maybe days.

The envelope remained on the counter, unopened.

You didn’t need to read what you already knew.

You just sat on the floor in silence, jacket clutched in shaking hands, trying to keep from slipping under.

At one point—when the light had changed and your back ached from the position—you pressed your fingers to your stomach.

Soft. Curious. Hopeful.

Because you remembered what he said.

“God. Please. I hope it takes.”

You remembered the way he’d looked at you when he filled you with himself—like maybe that would keep a part of him here, no matter what.

So you waited.

You counted days.

You counted dreams.

You pressed your palm to your belly at night and whispered his name into the dark.

You hoped.

And then—

The bleeding came.

Quiet. Cruel.

And final.

The silence that followed wasn’t the absence of noise. It was something deeper. The kind of silence that seeped into your bones and stayed there.

That changed you.

That told you no one was coming home.

Not this time.

For the first time, you let yourself cry.

-

He doesn’t remember falling.

He remembers the moment before—the scream still trapped in his throat, the sight of Steve on the other car, just out of reach. He remembers the sound of the rail splitting, a sickening crack that felt personal. He remembers the light reflecting off the snow, impossibly bright. The sky, wide and uncaring.

And then—

Nothing.

As he falls, he doesn’t pray. Doesn’t scream. He thinks.

About you.

About your lips, parted under his. About your breath in his ear that night, trembling as you whispered his name like you were afraid it would be taken from you. About your hands in his hair, your thighs around his hips, your heartbeat stuttering against his chest.

God. Please. I hope it takes.

He thinks of that, too.

The way he whispered it into your neck like a wish. Like a dare. Like maybe if he left you with something of him—something living—it would keep him alive, too.

He sees a kitchen. A crooked little table. A pile of laundry on the floor. You brushing your hair in the mirror while he buttons a shirt, watching your reflection like a man still stunned you’re real. A baby cries. You roll your eyes. Mutter that he has his daddies attitude. He grins.

Steve and Peggy come over for dinner on Sundays. Peggy brings pie. Steve always forgets the wine. Your kids run barefoot through the hall, and Bucky catches one mid-sprint, lifts her high, presses a kiss to her temple.

He sees all of it.

He believes in all of it. It warms his heart, his body, his soul.

He was warm even when he felt the crack of the ice as his body struck it, louder than antiaircraft fire. Then cold. The kind of cold that steals things. First breath. Then thought. Then shape. The cold slides inside him. Not like a knife. Like rot. Like it’s taking root in his chest and curling around his ribs. He opens his mouth. Swallows ice. He had fallen hard but landed weightless, the world going white around him as he floated, too cold to swim, too cold to breathe. Too cold to do anything but die.

But he wasn’t dead, was he?

He wakes screaming. Except—he doesn’t know if it’s a scream. He thinks it is. His throat is raw. His body is fire. Everything is wrong. His chest spasms. He chokes.

He can’t see. His eyes are crusted shut and when he finally manages to crack them open, the light burns. Something hums. Something buzzes inside his skull.

Spectral clouds dot the corners of his vision, fog gathered and made flesh. Here are the ghosts coming to collect him. He can’t recall any names.

He’s afraid but doesn’t know why.

He wants to fight, but he doesn’t know what. He’s not sure he could, even if he tried. His limbs don’t feel like his own. His whole body is foreign, treacherous in its strangeness. There is pain in places that don’t exist. Weakness in muscles that never relax. The water is gone, but the cold remains.

“What is your name?” a ghost asks. He can’t see his legs, but he tries to move them— to go back to you.

One step closer to her.

One step closer to home.

The ring in his boot. It burns him with its memory. The only thing he knows— back.

He must go back.

To you.

But It’s like trying to break through a shell of thick ice.

“Do you understand me?” the ghost asks, and he does.

He understands the voice, but he still can’t move his legs. He tries his arms that once held you to his chest, but only one of them obeys. His fist closes and opens and closes again. Is it even his own?

“Bucky,” he hears your voice in his mind.

He tries to look for you, but something holds his head in place, and the light is still in his eyes. He wants to stand—he needs to get back to you. He can’t stop hearing you and seeing you. Your laugh. The way you leaned against the diner counter when you were mad at him. The way your fingers brushed his every time you handed him a cup of coffee. The way you kissed him behind the gym. In the creek. On the roof.

He thinks of your belly. Round. Carrying the piece of him he left behind.

You always joked that he’d die on his feet, rising to meet a bullet. But here he is, drowning in light and full of water, with nothing but a hand that isn’t his.

“What is your name?” the ghost asks again, and he knows the answer. He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. He tastes blood. Or chemicals. Or both.

Don’t say it, he thinks, as he clenches his jaw until he feels the pain. His whole body trembles with the effort it takes not to answer, to keep his head above the current when it would be so much easier to give in and let himself sink. Away from you. But he can’t. He promised. He still needed to make you his wife. Wanted to see what you named his son. Hopefully not James Junior. No, you wouldn’t do that.

“Almost finished,” the ghost says, and he feels the soothing press of fingers against his forehead, pushing back his hair. You had done that, once. But it wasn’t you. This hand is gloved. Precise.

Suddenly, though, the memory of your hand slipped away.

All he could recall was that someone had touched his hair with tenderness. He was sure of it. But when he reaches for the memory, there’s only empty air.

He can feel the absence of whoever once occupied that space inside him. It steals his breath, the enormity of that chasm. His heartbeat stutters, the tremor echoing in a rising electronic beep.

There are straps across his chest. Ice in his veins. Wires where his skin should be.

The voice is closer now. “Tell me your name,” the ghost says. “I’m going to help you,” it says, firmer this time. “But you have to let go.”

He clenches his jaw.

“Let go of your name.” The voice says again. Not— whose? Whose voice was he thinking about again?

They can’t have that. Not that. Not—

The ice cracks under him. The water funnels in, frothing and studded with glacial ice, and he can’t fight it. He can’t swim. He can’t wait on a tide that will never turn, and it’s not just water as far as he can see. It’s farther. It’s all that’s left.

“Tell me your name?” The cold voice demands.

He’s sitting up now. Sort of. His right arm hurts. Not sore. Wrong.

Heavy.

He looks down and sees metal.

Not a glove. Not a weapon.

A limb.

He screams.

“Tell me your name,” the voice insists.

He shakes his head. It hurts. God, it hurts. He tries to remember something. Anything.

A laugh. A rooftop. A pair of lips, soft and parted.

“Please,” he gasps. “I don’t—” Through a mouthful of cold water, the man gasps his reply, gagging up each word like it’s a sharp-edged fractal of frost.

“Tell me your name.”

He grits his teeth as mind continues to fracture. The memory of you is there, but it’s slipping.

He reaches. He claws for it. Your smile. The pressure of your thighs around his hips. The promise he made.

“I’m gonna marry you when I get back.”

But the cold takes it. The light. The voice.

All of it.

And through lips cracked with frost, through lungs filled with salt and smoke and suffering—

He gasps:

“I… I don’t know.”

Silence.

“Good,” the ghost replies. “Good, that’s perfect.”

-

Time shatters. Or maybe memory does. He’s awake. Then not. Then awake again.

Sometimes he’s in a tank. Floating. Alone. Sometimes he’s strapped to a chair, teeth biting down on a strap of leather, screaming, eyes wide as something drills into his skull.

Sometimes—rarely—he dreams of someone. Not your face, not completely. But the feeling of you. The taste of your kiss. The sound of your voice saying his name.

Bucky.

He tries to answer. Can’t.

He tries to hold on.

But you slip from him, becoming someone unknown.

-

“Soldat?” A ghost asks.

They put the mask on his face.

Slide a command into his skull.

“Gotov podchinyat’sya.” He hears his voice reply.

The lights dim.

The man who kissed you beneath the stars—the one who dreamed of Sunday dinners and your laugh in his kitchen—is gone.

But somewhere, buried under blood and ice, under bone and steel—

James Bucky Barnes still remembers the way your voice shook when you said his name. Still had a small golden ring tucked into his boots, a silver one hung on his dog tags.

He just doesn’t know why it matters anymore.

[randomfandomlov3]

Price of love masterlist

Bucky Barnes x Fem!reader

Summary: Bucky was bribed to date an agent for a month, in the process he fell for you. What happens when you find out why he started dating you?

Warnings: Angst. Self-deprecation. Injuries. Violence. HYDRA. Panic Attack. Backstory/trauma. Insecurity. Disregard for human life. Swearing. Words from languages other than English, so translation might not be exact. Happy ending. Individual chapters will have specifics labelled. Let me know if I missed any.

Note: She/her pronouns are used for the reader, and the only description is the reader wears a dress once. Thank you for reading! <3

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Epilogue

[jobean12-blog]

Masterlist

This blog is 18+!!! If you are not 18+ or older, DNI. 

I DO NOT consent to have my work posted, translated or published to any third party site or app. If anyone sees my work anywhere but here under this username, it has been reposted without my permission. Thank you! 

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[aquaticmercy]

Princess

Summary : You fall for Bucky Barnes, the Avenger assigned as your bodyguard. When a photo of the two of you kissing leaks to the tabloids, your clients start questioning your company’s integrity.

Pairing : Bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x CEO!reader

Warnings/tags : implied sex, cursing, mutual pining, canon-typical violence, you have a dad in this one, post FATWS and pre CABNW, forced proximity-ish, slice of life fic taking place over 15-ish months.

Word Count : 16.2k oops

Notes : Hi!!! I just got home from a holiday and I’m still super jetlagged when I realised my queued posts aren't posting! I will post one fic a day until the schedule catches itself up. Will take the next couple of days to reply to all your comments, so please bear with me! Enjoy!

Day 1. 

Bucky grumbled the entire ride to your penthouse, arms crossed like a sulking teenager.

“I’m a super soldier, not a glorified babysitter,” he muttered to Sam as the Quinjet cut smoothly through the air. “I’ve fought aliens. Now I’m stuck protecting some spoiled heiress who probably throws tantrums if her latte isn’t the right milk-to-coffee ratio.”

Sam barely spared him a look, busy in whatever he was reading on his tablet. Bucky glanced over his shoulder— Sam was reading your profile. 

Apparently, someone tipped off that an assassination attempt would target you soon, and it wasn’t a threat Sam took lightly. Your father had gone to him, but still new to his Captain America mantle, Sam had government contracts to fulfill, and passed this private contract to Bucky. “First of all, you don’t know her, so maybe reserve some judgment. Second, this ‘spoiled heiress’ is the acting CEO of one of the most important cybersecurity firms in the world.”

“Acting CEO?” Bucky snorted, leaning his head back against the seat. “That’s just rich kid code for ‘daddy does all the work, and I pretend to help.’”

Sam shot him an unamused look, finally setting the tablet down. “Do you ever stop to think before you talk? This woman keeps half the world’s secrets under lock and key. If she’s taken out, it’s not just her life that’s in danger—it’s the lives of millions of people. National security, Buck. You know, the thing we’re supposed to care about?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky muttered, waving his concerns off. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

When Bucky finally made his way to your front door, he was… surprised. 

He convinced himself he was going to be walking into some modern-day palace. He pictured marble floors, gaudy chandeliers, and some butler answering the door for you while you lounged in designer silk pajamas, sipping champagne.

Instead, when the door swung open, his expectations shattered.

The image of a pampered heiress was gone. You were dressed in a crisp, tailored suit, a book in your hand. When you saw him, you looked with mild disinterest before you gave a curt nod.

“Ah. The babysitter,” you said dryly. It was clear that you weren’t thrilled about this arrangement, either.

Bucky blinked, caught off guard for a moment, before frowning. “I’m here to make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

You arched a brow, unimpressed. “Right. Babysitter.” Then, without further comment, you stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter.

Bucky hesitated, his brows knitting together as he stepped into the apartment. The space was meticulously organised— modern, clean, and completely devoid of the overindulgent luxury he’d envisioned.

As he followed you into what appeared to be your home office, he stopped dead in his tracks. Your desk was a controlled chaos of monitors, blueprints, encrypted code streams, and neatly stacked documents.

You set your book down, not sparing him a glance as you continued your work.

“I told my father I didn’t need one,” you said, sliding into your chair and typing something rapidly.

Bucky could only stare, unsure of what to say. He was ready to handle a woman too busy Instagramming her designer handbags to care about anything important. He was certainly not prepared to face someone who seemed to run her empire like a general commanding an army.

On top of that, Bucky could tell you were frustrated, and honestly, who could blame you?

You had been put under mandatory house quarantine until the assassination threat passed— that’s what your security advisors had decided. Which meant you had to settle for video calls instead of in-person meetings, you had to rely on food delivery instead of doing your own damn groceries, and that you couldn’t work from your office building— you had to take calls and manage the company from your home office. Your world, once meticulously structured under your control, had suddenly shrunk to the square footage of your penthouse.

And the worst part? The only person you were allowed to interact with in person for the foreseeable future was the bodyguard who took the contract: Bucky. He didn’t even seek it out, Sam offered it to him and he reluctantly agreed. You were going to have to spend weeks alone with someone you barely knew. Maybe months. Who knew when the threat would pass?

“What were you expecting?” you asked, finally glancing up from your monitors. “A pretty princess?” you mocked, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of your lips.

He crossed his arms, furrowing his eyebrows. “You could say that,” he admitted.

“Let me guess,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “You thought I’d be… what? Lounging around, eating bonbons, and counting Daddy’s money?”

Bucky’s jaw clicked, the faintest hint of heat creeping up his neck. “Something like that.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Typical.” He could hear you were a bit irritated, but also a bit amused. “Let me make one thing clear, Barnes— I don’t need you here. The only reason you’re standing in my office right now is because my father insisted the assassination threat is a real threat. I think it’s bullshit. So let’s keep this simple: you do your job, and I’ll do mine.”

Bucky can help but feel a little bit of admiration. In fact, he found himself both annoyed and oddly intrigued.

“Fine by me,” he said, voice gruff.

As you turned back to your monitors, ignoring him completely, Bucky took a moment to watch you— the way your fingers flew across your keyboard, the slight furrow in your brow as you concentrated.

He’d seen it before, in Howard Stark, in Bruce Banner, in Shuri, and even perhaps, begrudgingly, in Arnim Zola. it was clear you were brilliant, maybe even intimidatingly so.

What he didn’t realise was that you were stealing glances at him too. Irritated, yes, but mostly because the so-called babysitter was annoyingly (and objectively) attractive.

Neither of you said it, but you both were two sides of the same coin: two people who were both frustrated and intrigued by each other.

Day 2.

The first day or so with Bucky was strained, a battle of selfish wills in which neither of you conceded an inch. He was curt and distant. His default expression was a scowl, and you weren’t exactly going out of your way to make him feel welcome. If he thought he could scare you with his threatening looks, he was in for a surprise. You had faced tougher opponents— CEOs, board members, government officials. Compared to them, James Buchanan Barnes was almost charming. Just… almost.

It was just so annoying that he had to live here, with you, in one of your guest bedrooms for god knows how long.

Day 3.

It was late, the kind of late that blurred the lines between night and morning. You were in your office as usual, the glow of your monitors projecting colourful shadows on the walls. That’s when Bucky’s voice startled you.

“Do you ever sleep?”

You looked over the monitors, finding him leaning against the doorway. His hair was slightly tousled, his face softened by the dim light, and he looked… annoyingly attractive.

“Do you ever stop hovering?” you glared back, though the crack in your voice hinted at exhaustion.

“Just doing my job,” he replied, his lips curving into a smug smile. He tilted his head toward your desk. “What’s keeping you up this time?”

You hesitated, glancing at the encrypted files on your screen. “Work.”

“Obviously.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s classified.”

“Fine.” He pushed off the doorframe, stepping closer. “But you still look like you could use a break.”

His tone surprised you— it wasn’t mocking, or patronizing, it was just… genuine. For a moment, you almost let your guard down. “I’m fine.”

“Sure,” he muttered, retreating to his post in the living room. But as you turned back to your screen, you couldn’t help noticing the way he lingered in your thoughts longer than he should have.

Day 5.

The next crack in the ice came during an impromptu kitchen encounter. Bucky, ever the stoic, was rummaging through your fridge with a look of increasing disapproval (to be fair, you had given him full access to it the day before).

“Do you eat anything that isn’t green?” he asked, holding up a bottle of your favourite smoothie like it was a biohazard.

“I’m sorry,” you said, folding your arms, “I didn’t realise I needed to stock the fridge for Captain America’s sidekick.”

He turned to glare at you, but there was a spark of amusement in his eyes. “First of all, I’m not his sidekick. Second, this—” he shook the smoothie for emphasis “—cannot be good.”

“Be my guest,” you challenged, and you knew he wouldn’t turn down the challenge. 

As he lifted his brows, he twisted off the cap and took a long sip. The look of betrayal that crossed his face as he gagged was priceless.

“That made my day,” you said, trying—and failing—to suppress a laugh.

“God, that’s vile,” he muttered, rinsing his mouth under the sink. But when he turned back, he was grinning, his blue eyes adorably crinkling at the corners.

Your grin widened, and for the first time, the tension between you felt… easier.

Day 7.

By the end of the first week, Bucky had moved his post from the couch in the living room to the armchair across the room to your home office desk. You’d never admit it, but his presence was becoming a source of comfort in your day-to-day isolated life. He’d bring his coffee in the morning and sit there while you worked, making sure no one harmed you. 

This morning, as you typed furiously at your desk, you felt his eyes on you.

“Take a picture,” you said without looking up. “It’ll last longer.”

He snorted, ignoring your remark, though he didn’t know how to really respond to it without denying it. 

Week 2.

The teasing had become second nature by now. 

Over the last couple of days, Bucky started finding reasons to linger— whether it be sitting closer to you during your brief movie breaks, offering to carry things that you could definitely carry yourself, or asking questions about your job that he probably didn’t even understand.

Today, you were standing on the balcony, staring out at the glittering city lights when Bucky joined you.

“Not bad,” he said, leaning on the railing beside you.

“You mean the view?” you asked, glancing at him.

“Sure,” he replied, but his eyes weren’t glued to the skyline. They were on you.

You leaned in closer. your shoulder brushing his. The touch sent a jolt of electricity through your spine, and you swore he looked at you like he’d had, too.

“Something on your mind, Barnes?”

He smirked. “Just wondering what you’d do without me.”

“Sleep better, for one,” you quipped, though your voice was just a bit gentler than usual.

He chuckled kindly. “I think you’d miss me.”

I think so, too, you wanted to say, but kept your mouth shut. 

Week 3.

The line between professionalism and… whatever this was became increasingly blurred. You caught him watching you more often, studying you as if his days with you were numbered. It was as if he was desperately trying to memorise your face. 

You’re thought weren’t exactly innocent either. You noticed the way his shirt clung to his broad shoulders during workouts in your home gym, the way his stubble framed his face, the way he looked at you like he knew exactly what you were thinking of: him. 

This afternoon, you found yourself standing closer to him than necessary as he handed you a cup of coffee. 

“Thanks,” you said, shyer than usual.

“Anytime,” he replied, heartbeat racing in his chest.

The moment passed, but the tension didn’t.

Week 4.

Bucky had always been good at noticing patterns, that’s why he was an expert in tracking enemy movements and ambush tactics.

So, of course, he noticed your pattern, albeit in a more… innocent manner. He noticed the way you skipped meals, ran on caffeine, and buried yourself in work until exhaustion practically dragged you under. 

At first, he figured it wasn’t his problem. You were a grown woman, fully capable of making your own choices. But somewhere along the way, he started caring.

And when Bucky Barnes cared, he didn’t do it halfway.

So, on the first day of the fourth week, he placed a plate of food on your desk. You didn’t look up, just kept typing.

“What’s this?”

“Dinner.”

“I don’t have time for—”

“Then don’t leave the desk. Just eat here.” He insisted.

You finally glanced at the plate— it was Italian takeout. Nothing fancy, but definitely better than your usual liquid diet. You looked up at him. “I’m not a child, Barnes.”

“Look, you haven’t eaten a full meal in days,” He crossed his arms, metal fingers tapping against his bicep. “If you collapse, you’re gonna make my job harder.”

You sighed, glaring at him. He simply raised an eyebrow, waiting. 

“Fine,” you gave in, stabbing a fork into the food. As soon as the food entered your system, you realised how right he was. Everything hurt a little less, even when you hadn’t noticed it hurting in the first place. “You know, for someone who claims to be my bodyguard and not my babysitter, you sure act like one.”

He chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. “Just eat your damn food.”

After that, it became a thing.

At first, he made a point to bring you food just to annoy you. But the more he did it, the more he found himself relieved that you’re keeping yourself alive.

One night, he even cooked.

You walked into the kitchen for a short water break to find him at the stove with both sleeves rolled up. You crossed your arms, watching him with a smile.

“I didn’t know you could cook.”

He didn’t look up as he plated dinner for two. It wasn’t part of the job, but he found himself wanting to do it.

Month Two. 

Like clockwork, Bucky would plop a plate of food on your desk at least once a day. And you had fully accepted that you weren’t getting out of it.

So, one evening, when he placed dinner in front of you and made himself comfortable in his armchair across the room to eat his dinner, you frowned. “Why do you always eat all the way over there?”

He glanced up, mid-bite. “Because this is where I sit.”

“I mean— I know that, but,” You rolled your eyes, gesturing at the empty seat beside you. “Just sit here. Might as well.”

Bucky hesitated, eyebrows raising slightly. “Might as well?”

You shrugged, avoiding his gaze by stabbing at your food. “You’re already making sure I don’t starve. We might as well eat at the same desk. At least I’ll have…” You trailed off, suddenly a bit too self-conscious.

His lips curled into an infuriating smirk. “Company?”

You scoffed. “Sure, let’s go with that.”

Still, he pushed himself up and took the seat across from you, resting his metal forearm on the desk. The two of you ate in silence for a moment before he spoke again.

“Y’know, if you wanted a friend, you could just say so.”

You shot him a flat look. “Oh, please. If I wanted a friend, I’d get a cat.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You’d be a terrible cat owner.”

“Why?”

He took a sip of water. “You barely remember to feed yourself. The poor cat wouldn’t last a week.”

“Shut up, Barnes.”

He chuckled but didn’t argue, taking another bite.

And just like that, it became routine. Every night, he pulled up a chair at your desk, and you ate together. Somehow, it was starting to feel like the best part of your day.

One night, you finally asked a question that had been on your mind for a while. “How much of your arm is vibranium?”

Bucky froze for a second, fork hovering midair. “Why?”

You shrugged, typing something quickly before taking another bite. “Curious.”

He hesitated, then slowly set his fork down. “It’s all vibranium now. Wakandan upgrade.”

You nodded, eyes trailing over his arm, impressed. “The integration with your nervous system must be seamless for the reaction time you have.”

His lips twitched, somewhere between surprise and amusement. “Most people just ask if it’s heavy.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s a stupid question. Weight distribution clearly isn’t an issue, considering you fight like it’s part of you.”

Bucky didn’t respond at first. Most people looked at his arm like a weapon, an extension of his failures. He knew it wasn’t Hydra anymore, but it wasn’t exactly comforting knowing it was the reason he was here, now. But you… you were looking at it like technology. He realised that it was the only language you understood.

“Oh.” He could only say.

“W-we don’t have to talk about this anymore,” you quickly backtracked, unsure how to read his response. “I know it can’t feel good to talk about your uh… your past.”

“Did… you read my file?” he finally said, voice quieter now.

You hesitated, fingers stilling on your keyboard. “… yes.”

A pang of guilt flashed across his face. “So you know everything.”

“I know what the files say,” you admitted. “Which is different from knowing you.”

Bucky tapped his metal fingers against the plate absentmindedly. “And what do they say?”

You considered your words carefully. “That Hydra turned you into an asset. That they wiped your memories, controlled you.”

He looked away. “Sounds about right.”

He didn’t like talking about this— you knew that. So, softly, you said, “That’s not who you are now.”

Bucky’s fingers twitched. He swallowed, the muscle on his neck flexing. “Sometimes it feels like it doesn’t matter.”

You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbows on the desk. “It does.”

And just like that, you realised you weren’t just tolerating each other anymore. You were understanding each other.

Month Three.

It wasn’t long before Bucky became comfortable enough to just sit next to your desk, even when you weren’t eating. At first, it was a little odd—he’d just sit there in silence, watching you with that signature stare.

“If you’re going to sit there like a guard dog, at least read something,” you said, grabbing a book from the stack on your desk and handing it to him.

Bucky took it, turning it over in his hands before reading the title. He snorted. “This is some dense reading, doll.”

You raised an eyebrow, mostly at the increasing use of pet names over the last few days. Not that you were complaining. “I thought you were a hundred years old.”

“I am.” He said. “Doesn’t mean I want to spend my day reading Advanced Cryptography and Security Protocols.”

But he read it anyway.

That became a thing, too. When you worked, Bucky sat across from you, flipping through one of your books. And that led to more conversations.

“So, explain this part to me.”“No, Bucky, I’m not giving you a lecture at midnight.”“Why not? You love hearing yourself talk.”

“Wait, this actually makes sense. The firewall acts like a shield.”“Yes, exactly! It’s kind of like—”“Like a cap’s shield being hit by a laser beam.”“I hate that that analogy works.”

Month Four.

Bucky had been through a lot in his lifetime, but nothing could’ve prepared him for the absolute terror in your voice when you screamed from your bathroom.

His blood ran cold.

The worst-case scenario flashed through his mind.

This was it. Someone had broken in. The assassination attempt must be happening now.

Bucky bolted down the hallway, his heart hammering in his chest. He didn’t even think. 

His shoulder slammed against your bathroom door, forcing it open—

Only to be met with you.

Standing there, dripping wet, wrapped in nothing but a towel.

His brain short-circuited for a solid three seconds before he snapped back to reality. His eyes darted around the room, searching for the threat. “What happened? Where are they?”

You blinked. “Where’s who?”

“The assassin!” His hands curled into fists, ready to end someone.

You just… stared at him. Then, slowly, you lifted one hand and pointed toward the corner of the bathroom.

Bucky followed your finger.

There, in the corner, sat a spider. A tiny spider.

Bucky’s eyes twitched. “You have got to be kidding me.”

You crossed your arms, holding the towel tightly around yourself. “Kill it,” you whispered.

He let out a breath, running a hand down his face. “You screamed bloody murder… for this?”

“Yes!” You gestured aggressively toward the tiny intruder. “It lunged at me.”

Bucky gave you the flattest known to man. “I’m sure it did.”

“It did!”

The spider, for its part, remained still.

With an exaggerated sigh, Bucky stepped forward, reached out, and plucked the spider off the wall with his bare hand.

You gasped. “What the—Bucky!”

He rolled his eyes, walking over to the window. “Relax.”

You backed up toward the sink, clutching your towel like it was a shield. “You touched it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“With your human hand.”

“Mmm.” He slid open the window and dipped it on the windowsill. “Crisis averted.”

You sighed dramatically. “Fuck, thank you.”

Bucky turned back around, ready to deliver some sarcastic remark—

And then his brain finally caught up with what was happening.

But what was really distracting was the fact that you were still standing there, dripping wet, wearing close to nothing. He shouldn’t be staring.

He should not be staring.

And yet, here he was, looking at the curves your skin molded. The way your collarbone peeked out just above the towel. The droplets of water trailing down—

Nope. Abort mission.

He tore his eyes away, clearing his throat. “So, just to be clear… the tough CEO of a cybersecurity empire, the woman who runs meetings with government officials like they’re her subjects… you are scared of a tiny spider?”

You scowled. “First of all, it was huge—”

“It was not.”

“—and second, yes, I am, and I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

Bucky crossed his arms. “… but it’s just a spider.”

You glared. “Get out of my bathroom, Barnes.”

And ever since then, you have been more comfortable around Bucky. To be fair, he had seen you almost naked, and to your surprise… things hadn’t gotten weird.

Well, until one night… 

You were sitting on the couch, absentmindedly flipping through channels, when Bucky joined you, his presence a quiet weight beside you.

“You ever stop working?” he asked when you noticed you were still arranging charts on your tablet, even in your downtime.

“No,” you replied, glancing at him, “what about you, do you ever think you’ll stop working?”

Bucky shrugged, “I take breaks all the time.”

“I mean,” you finally put your tablet down, “I mean… for good.”

Bucky squinted at you, “like retiring?”

You could only nod.

For once, there was no teasing in his eyes, “Maybe I should,” he finally said, “get a farm, settle down.”

You gulped when he leaned closer, his arm brushing yours.

“Sounds nice,” you whispered.

His lips curved into a faint smile. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moved for a long time. And though nothing really happened that night, you knew it was inevitable.

Then, it was mid-morning the next time anything notable happened. You were just hanging up from yet another tense phone call with your father. You tossed your phone onto your desk with a little more force than necessary and sighed, leaning back in your chair.

Bucky, who had been leaning against the doorframe with a mug of coffee in hand, raised a brow. “Rough call?”

“Oh, you have no idea,” you groaned, rubbing your temples. “My dad is impossible. He’s always checking in, double-checking, triple-checking everything I do like I’m still twelve. It’s exhausting.”

Bucky walked in and settled in the chair across from you, crossing his arms. “Sounds like he cares.”

“Yeah, well, caring is one thing,” you said, your frustration bubbling over. “This is micromanaging. He doesn’t trust me to make a single decision on my own. To him, I’m just a kid playing dress-up.”

Bucky tilted his head, sipping his coffee.

“And then,” you continued, pacing in front of your desk now, “He insists on sending a bodyguard—sorry, babysitter—like I’m some helpless damsel in distress. It’s ridiculous! I mean, It’s not like you’re bad company or anything—”

“Appreciate that,” he said dryly.

“—but it’s like he doesn’t trust me to handle myself. I’ve worked so hard, Bucky. So hard. And he still treats me like some little girl who can’t handle the real world.”

At that, Bucky chuckled and muttered under his breath, “There’s the spoiled princess I was expecting on day one.”

You froze mid-pace, narrowing your eyes at him. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” he said innocently. “I’m not saying you’re ungrateful.” He paused, a teasing smile spreading across his face. “Or maybe… just a little.”

Your jaw dropped, sitting on your desk and looking down at him. “Excuse me?” You demanded.

“Look,” he said, shrugging, clearly enjoying himself now. “I’m just saying… People have harder lives than you, Princess. People would kill for a dad who loved them, who cared enough to be overbearing. Your dad loves you. That’s why I’m here— because he cares.”

You opened your mouth to respond with some smart-ass comments, but then closed it again. As much as you hated to admit it, he had a point. “That’s…,” you said begrudgingly, “that’s— you’re… right.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Glad you see it my way.”

You rolled your eyes, but a sad smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “To be fair, you’re not the worst part of this arrangement. At least I get some eye candy out of it.”

Bucky choked on his coffee, his eyes going wide. “What?”

“What?” you said nonchalantly, leaning against your desk. “I’ve got a little crush on you. No big deal.”

“Crush?” he repeated, blinking at you like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.

“Don’t act so surprised.” You shrugged, feigning indifference, though your heart was hammering out of yourself. It didn’t matter, right? Someone had to say it, and it might as well be you. “I know you find me attractive too. I’ve seen how you look at me.”

His mouth opened, then closed again as a deep blush spread across his cheeks. “I—uh—well—”

“You’re not subtle,” you teased, biting back a laugh at his flustered expression.

Bucky groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well… fuck.”

His shyness was disarming, and you couldn’t help finding it endearing.

For a moment, you both stood there, the air between you crackling with unspoken tension. Then you sighed, breaking the silence. “But there’s nothing we could do about it anyway.”

Bucky frowned, his blush fading slightly. “Why not?”

“Oh, you know,” you said as if it was obvious. “Professionalism. My dad hired you. Technically, I’m the acting CEO, which makes you my subordinate. Power dynamics and all that. Workplace misconduct. Can’t have that, right?”

“Right,” Bucky echoed, though the reluctance in his tone was impossible to miss.

“We’re professionals,” you said, almost as if trying to convince yourself. “Right?”

“Right,” he said again.

That night, as you said good night to Bucky, you realised you were in trouble. Serious, heart-racing, palm-sweating, can’t-stop-thinking-about-him trouble. And judging by the way Bucky had looked at you, he was too.

Month five. 

You were starting to think the assassination threat was just that. A threat. 

Oh, you were proven wrong.  

One moment, you were wrapping up a phone call in your office, and the next, a muffled explosion rocked the building. The power flickered, your monitors shut off, and the emergency lights bathed the room in an eerie red glow.

Bucky was already moving, shoving you behind the massive desk as he scanned the room with quick, practiced precision.

“Stay down,” he barked, pulling his gun from its holster just as the door to your office was kicked open.

Three armed men stormed in, their faces masked, their weapons raised. 

Bucky didn’t hesitate. He fired twice, taking out the first man with a clean shot to the shoulder. The second dropped his weapon as a bullet clipped his hand, and Bucky was on him in seconds.

The third man lunged toward you.

Big mistake.

You grabbed the heavy paperweight on your desk and hurled it with surprising accuracy, catching him square in the jaw. He stumbled, and before he could recover you kicked out, your heel connecting with his knee. Perhaps you were riding on adrenaline, but that was satisfying. He collapsed with a grunt, and you didn’t hesitate to grab his dropped glock, aiming it at his chest.

“Don’t,” you warned.

The man froze, his eyes wide as Bucky turned to glance at you. “Remind me not to underestimate you,” Bucky muttered, finishing off the last of the attackers with a solid punch that left the man crumbling on the floor.

The commotion outside the office was growing louder— you could hear more shouts, and footsteps. Bucky grabbed your arm, pulling you toward the door. “We’re not done,” he said.

The rest of the fight was a blur of chaos and adrenaline. More assailants flooded the building. And even as Bucky led the charge, you managed to hold your own. While he handled the bulk of the attackers, you were able to incapacitate two of the men who had the audacity to think you couldn’t throw a punch.

When the dust finally settled, the assailants were either unconscious or restrained, their weapons scattered and useless. Sirens wailed in the distance— authorities that Bucky had alerted. 

You leaned against the wall, catching your breath as Bucky surveyed the scene. “You okay?” he asked, his voice gentle.

You nodded, managing a small smile. “Yeah. You?”

“Been through worse,” he reassured. 

Later that afternoon, you were seated on the couch, a blanket draped over your shoulders, the adrenaline finally wearing off. Bucky stood nearby, his arms crossed, his.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence. “I guess my job here is done.”

You looked at him, your chest hurting slightly at the thought of him leaving. “I guess so.”

There was an awkward pause before he cleared his throat. “If you ever need, uh, bodyguard services again—like, if you’re traveling or something—just let me know.”

That made you laugh, though there was no real humor in it. “I think I’m good, Barnes. I don’t want you working for me anymore.”

Oh. 

Oh. You didn’t want him around? What… what changed?

Were you just married to your job? Did you think he was going to become a distraction, an obstacle? 

Sadness flickered across his face—but he masked it quickly. “Right. Of course.”

You hesitated, studying him. The way he stood there, hands stuffed in his pockets, avoiding your eyes—it made your heart ache.

“Bucky,” you said softly, standing up and walking to him until you were standing just a foot away.

“Yeah?” he said, his voice quieter now.

“You know why you can’t work for me anymore, right?”

His brows furrowed. “Why?”

Instead of answering, you reached up and pulled him down, your lips pressing against his in a kiss that was sudden, intense, and utterly consuming. For a moment, he froze, caught off guard. But then his hands found your waist, pulling you closer as he kissed you back with equal passion.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless. His forehead rested against yours as he stared at you, his blue eyes wide.

“That’s why,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the pounding of your heart. 

Bucky blinked, his lips parting slightly. “Right.”

“Don’t act so surprised,” you teased again, echoing your previous conversation.

“I’m not,” he said, but failed to hide the blush crawling up his neck. 

You chuckled, your fingers brushing against his jawline. “So, what do you say, Barnes? Think you can handle a spoiled princess like me?”

His hands gripped your waist a little tighter. “Pretty sure I already have.”

And when he kissed you again, he couldn’t possibly imagine letting you go. 

Month six.

After the threat had been neutralised, you were allowed out of the house again. Stepping back into your office building felt like reclaiming a piece of yourself. No longer confined to the solitude of your home, you could finally immerse yourself back into the workspace. And your office, oh how wonderful it was to have it back. 

It had always been more than just four walls and a desk to you; it was a sanctuary, a fortress. Every detail, from the sleek desk to the subtle personal touches, reflected both your meticulous nature and your need for control in a world that rarely offered it.

And dating Bucky Barnes was just the cherry on top.

Of course, by now those who worked closest to you knew about him— how could they not? He was the only one you ever allowed inside with unquestioned access. Still, they had to sign NDAs, just in case. You weren’t ready for the world to see you with him yet—not because you didn’t want to show him off, and certainly not because you were ashamed. But your relationship with Bucky was a ticking time bomb, a potential scandal waiting to happen. 

What would the world think of you, a high-profile cybersecurity CEO with government contracts spanning the globe, romantically involved with a freelance superhero with a past that made governments nervous? That would make headlines and invite scrutiny you couldn’t afford. For now, keeping your relationship under wraps was the only way to protect Bucky. 

That was why, beyond that small working circle, no one had a clue that you were dating him. Not even your father, who lived comfortably in semi-retirement a few countries away.

The first month of dating Bucky was equal parts exhilarating and intimate. There was the night he cooked a proper dinner at your place. You had laughed when he furrowed his brow in concentration as he scrolled through a recipe on his phone like it was a mission briefing. Later, he sat on your couch, fingers lazily tracing circles on your waist as you talked about nothing and everything, just being there for you as your boyfriend and not your bodyguard. 

Then there was the time he surprised you at the office late one evening. You had been drowning in reports, when he walked in with a donut and hot chocolate in hand. “Figured you needed a snack,” he had said, placing the bag on your desk.

Of course, there were the challenges, too. The first time he stayed over, he woke up before dawn, hyperventilating, fists clenched in the sheets. You just reached for his hand and whispered sweet reassurances in his ears. 

When he let out a shaky breath and laced his fingers with yours, you held on until he fell back asleep. 

He never said much about those nights, but he always held you a little tighter the next morning, as if grateful you were still there.

Month Seven. 

One particularly hectic afternoon, you sat at your desk, surrounded by stacks of reports that seemed to multiply the more you worked through them. Your brows furrowed as you scribbled notes in the margins, the pen in your hand moving with exhausted strokes. 

You didn’t hear him come in.

Bucky had a way of moving like a shadow, the ex-assassin that he was, always watching before making his presence known. This time was no different. You felt him before you saw him when you caught a faint whiff of leather and steel.

“You’re going to burn out, you know,” he murmured, his voice a rasp that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Nope,” you replied, not bothering to look up, “not today.”

But then he stepped, his fingers brushing the small of your back. And then he leaned in. Close enough for you to feel his breath against the shell of your ear.

“You work too hard,” he murmured, tone smooth as silk.

You smiled sadly, still keeping your eyes on the document in front of you. “And you don’t work hard enough.” The words were a tease. You both knew they weren’t true, it’s just that world-ending threats weren’t exactly a daily occurrence.

Bucky chuckled, that deep, rich sound that sent warmth blooming in your chest. Before you could react, Bucky spun your chair, and suddenly you were facing him.

Your pen slipped from your fingers, clattering onto the desk.

He towered over you, his hands braced on the armrests, trapping you. His blue eyes darkened, flickering between your lips and your eyes, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Say that again. I dare you, Princess.”

The nickname sent a chill through your spine, though you’d never admit it. Your lips parted to reply with another half-hearted joke, but you never got the chance.

Bucky’s lips were on yours before you could think. It was slow at first, like he was teasing, testing. His fingers slid from the armrest to your jaw, tilting your face up as he deepened the kiss. And you gave in. Always. 

Your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, gripping tightly and pulling him closer as heat flared low in your belly. He tasted like coffee and vanilla— and it was addictive. The world outside faded, the reports forgotten, because all you could think about was the intoxicating drag of his lips against yours.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard, your lips swollen and aching for more.

“Think I’m working hard enough now?” His voice was rough against your skin.

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up and kiss me again.”

Bucky smirked that cocky, confident, and  devastatingly handsome smile of his. “Yes, ma’am.”

This time, the kiss was hungrier. His hands gripped your waist, tugging you forward until you were perched on the very edge of your chair, your knees brushing his thighs. You gasped as he took full control, tilting your head back as his tongue swept against yours in a slow stroke that had fireworks exploding low in your stomach.

Your fingers threaded through his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp, earning a low groan.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, logic whispered that this was your office, that the walls weren’t exactly soundproof, that anyone of your clients could walk in. But when Bucky kissed you like this, it was impossible to care.

His hand skimmed the curve of your waist, his thumb brushing the hem of your blouse. You felt his hesitation, and you answered by pulling him impossibly closer.

Month Eight.

Late nights in Bucky’s apartment became your favourite escape from the chaos of your life. It wasn’t extravagant and fine-art decorated like your penthouse, but it was him. The mismatched furniture, the slightly scuffed hardwood floors, the mud stains on the carpet, and the faint smell of aftershave made it feel lived-in.

Sure, your penthouse was bigger—modern and intimidatingly expensive—but it was cold. It was sterile, and you had made sure it stayed that way, because it was designed for hosting high-profile clients and meetings, not for unwinding. Not to make a charming mess in. Everything was neutral because it had to be. The few personal touches you’d tried to add had been swallowed by the size of the place, but Bucky’s apartment, on the other hand, felt like home.

One night, as you sat cross-legged on his couch in a pair of leggings and one of his old Henleys, you couldn’t help but let out a content sigh. 

Bucky was unpacking a greasy bag of Chinese takeout, carefully arranging the cartons on the coffee table like it was some kind of grand feast. He glanced at you sheepishly.

“Sorry it’s not… y’know, fancy,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Figured you were used to dating guys who paid for five-course meals or somethin’.”

Before accepting the bodyguard contract, he had done his homework on you. He’d looked into your background, your lifestyle, your friends and family, and, perhaps most frustratingly, your dating history: the it-guys, the celebrities, the athletes. He was none of those things.

He would never say it outright, but some nights, he would feel insecure about it. 

He’d fret that creeping feeling that it wasn’t enough because he spent so long being feared when your past lovers had been admired. But what he didn’t seem to understand was that, to you, he was worth so much more. He wasn’t drawn to your money or the power. He saw you for you—not for your name, not for your influence. And that made him better than every single one of your shitty exes.

You blinked, momentarily stunned. “Oh, no,” you said quickly, leaning forward and reaching for his human hand. “What are you apologising for? I love this.”

“Yeah?” he asked, a still-skeptical smile on his lips.

“Yeah,” you confirmed. “I can’t even remember the last time I felt this… normal.” You picked up one of the cartons that contained lo mein. “No cameras, no meetings, no press conferences. Just greasy takeout and…” You gestured vaguely to the room. “... you. Us. This is perfect.”

A faint blush crept up his neck as he sat beside you. “Didn’t think ‘normal’ would be high on your list of things to love, princess.”

You chuckled, scooping a bite of noodles onto your chopsticks. “You’d be surprised. The whole ‘spoiled rich girl’ thing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? How so?”

You hesitated, toying with your food. “It’s like… you’re in this golden cage. Everything you do is scrutinized, and… it gets… lonely. “

Bucky nodded, almost giving you permission to go on. 

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” you continued, “I’m grateful for… everything. I know I was born with an insane privilege. But it’s exhausting trying to live up to everyone’s expectations all the time, you know?”

“Sounds rough, Princess,” he shook his head. “Almost makes my life of alien invasions and missions sound easy.”

“Oh, shut up,” you laughed, swatting at his shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

“Hm,” he said, feeding you a little bit of sweet and sour chicken, “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

You leaned back slightly. “What, did you think your princess couldn’t handle a night in Brooklyn?”

“Guess I was wrong,” he shrugged, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. 

The rest of the night included sweet conversation, kisses, and laughter. You leaned against him, listening to him recount stories about his time in Brooklyn before in the 40s. He listened just as intently when you opened up about your father’s expectations, your struggles to prove yourself.

When the food was gone, you found yourself curled up in his arms, your head resting against his chest.

And to think you hated the idea of him just months ago. 

Month Nine.

It started small, of course—practical, subtle gestures you could justify as "just looking out for him." Bucky wasn’t the kind of man to ask for anything, so you had to fill in the gaps yourself. 

You bought him a new pair of waterproof boots after you noticed his old ones had a tear on their side. He grumbled and said “I didn’t need them”, but the next time it rained, there he was, thankful you did buy them.

But it didn’t stop there.

You ordered him a tactical knife after seeing it in catalogue and couldn’t resist. It was sleek, durable, and so perfectly Bucky. 

“What’s this?” he asked suspiciously when you handed it to him, like the idea of receiving gifts was still foreign to him.

“Just something I thought you’d like,” you replied, your voice light, your heart racing at his reaction.

Bucky stared at the knife for a moment, then at you, “You… you didn’t have to.”

“You deserve it,” you murmured, brushing your fingers against his.

He laughed. “You’re gonna spoil me rotten.”

You took that as a challenge.

Because once you realised how much Bucky secretly loved being cared for (despite the grumbling and insisting that it was too much), you couldn’t help yourself. You wanted him safe and comfortable. And, maybe selfishly, you wanted to see that stunned, almost vulnerable smile he had when you gave him something new.

A custom upgrade for his arm was next, complete with enhanced plating, fine-tuned joint control, and a sleek matte-black finish. You had worked together with Shuri to get it to him, making sure to give him some… personalised software upgrades in the process. When you gave it to him one evening, he stared at the box, then at you, before finally pulling you into his lap with an exasperated sigh.

“You’re gonna make me soft,” he joked, thanking you profusely with kisses afterwards.

Month Ten. 

Then there was the tactical suit.

It had taken weeks of planning, but it was worth it. You had meetings with the best designers in the industry (Luke Jacobson was an honour to work with) and came up with reinforced kevlar, adaptive camouflage, and more holsters than he probably needed. When you presented it to Bucky, you’d half-expected him to refuse it outright.

Instead, he stood frozen, stunned as he turned the suit over in his hands. “You got this? For me?”

“Who else, James?” you teased, pretending to fuss with his hair just to see him scowl. “You’re the only super-soldier boyfriend I’ve got.”

Sam caught on fast.

“So,” Sam started casually one day as they cleaned their gear. “Where’d you get the fancy new suit?”

Bucky barely looked up. “What suit?”

Sam pointed at the table. “The ones that look like they belong in a vault.”

Bucky rolled eyes, turning his attention back to his new gear. “They’re not that fancy.”

“Oh, I get it now,” Sam whistled, “You’ve got yourself a rich girlfriend, don’t you?”

Bucky glared at him, but the faint pink creeping up his neck gave him away.

“And to think,” Sam rambled on, clearly enjoying being right, “you whined about being her bodyguard for four months. Now look at you—”

“Shut up, Sam.”

The towel Bucky threw hit Sam square in the face, but it did nothing to hide the telltale blush that had spread to his ears.

The truth was, Bucky wasn’t used to anyone noticing the little things he needed, let alone going out of their way to provide for him. But the more time you spent together, the more you noticed everything. 

The worn-out gloves he wore on missions? You replaced them with a pair lined with heat-retaining tech. The ancient motorcycle helmet he refused to replace? You handed him a new, high-tech model with advanced HUD capabilities. The faint shadows under his eyes after sleepless nights? You arranged for the softest, most luxurious bedding money could buy, complete with blackout curtains for his room.

“You can’t keep buying me things,” he told you half-heartedly one evening as he tested the thermal lining of a new jacket you’d slipped into his closet.

You only shrugged. “Sure I can.”

He gave you a look, both exasperation and affection present in his eyes. “Why?”

“Because I love you, and I want you to be safe.” Your voice softened. “You’ve spent so much time fighting for everyone else, Bucky. Let someone take care of you for a change.”

He didn’t respond right away. But later that night, as you lay curled up together, he kissed the top of your head and mumbled “thank you.”

You knew he loved it—being spoiled, being cared for—even if he’d never admit it.

Month ten. 

Bucky’s version of spoiling you was less flashy but still every bit as thoughtful. Where you splurged on gifts, whisking him off on surprise weekends to private villas or showering him with new tech he insisted he didn’t need, he poured his affection into acts of service. It started small. He stocked his kitchen with your favorite coffee blend, even though he rarely drank the stuff himself. “A man can learn to make an espresso,” he’d said with a casual shrug, but the first time you saw him carefully frothing milk to perfection, you realized it was his way of saying I love you.

Then there were the notes. You’d find them tucked into your purse or slipped into your laptop bag before work, little scribbles in his tidy handwriting. Sometimes they were sweet, like “Don’t forget to take breaks.” Other times, they were cheeky: “Try not to buy another building today, Rockefeller.”

But it was in the kitchen where Bucky really poured his heart into spoiling you.

One particularly brutal day, you’d stumbled into his apartment late, your heels dangling from one hand and your bag slung over the other shoulder. You were ready to crash out but the moment you walked in, you could smell the love.

“What’s all this?” you asked, padding into the kitchen barefoot, watching as he stirred something on the stove. His broad shoulders stretched his shirt, the sight of him standing there so domestic making your heart melt.

He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes lighting up. “Dinner,” he said simply. “Figured you’d had a hell of a day.”

After dinner— a hearty stew, crusty bread he’d bought fresh, and a glass of your favorite wine—you were sprawled on his couch, your legs draped across his lap, a blanket pulled over you both, his metal thumb absentmindedly rubbing your calves. 

Month Eleven. 

On Valentine’s Day, you handed him a plain white envelope. He took it with a curious smile, but as he slid out the paper inside, his eyes went as wide as dinner plates. 

He was expecting a fancy gift card, not the paid-off deed to his apartment.

He just stared, breath hitching as his brows pulled together, disbelief etched into every line of his face.

“Doll, you didn’t—” His voice was barely above a whisper. 

“Of course I did.” You smiled, slipping onto his lap and wrapping your arms around his neck. “I love this place. It’s yours now.”

He laughed, almost nervously, fingers curled around the paper as though he didn’t really believe it. “You didn’t have to—” His voice cracked, and he couldn’t finish his sentence. “I know,” you muttered, pressing a kiss to his cheek, “But you’ve given me so much more than money could ever buy. Let me do this. Please.”

His arms tightened around you, 

“And—” you hesitated, looking into his beautiful blue eyes and wanting him to understand. “It’s not like it’s ours. It’s yours. Only your name is on that paper. No strings. No expectations. Just… peace of mind.” You nudged your nose against his. “So you never have to worry about this again.”

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hands curled the fabric of your shirt. “Thank you, he mumbled, “I— I love you, princess.”

You only smiled, running your fingers through his hair. “I love you too.”

Year One, Month One.

Your penthouse has become even more of a sterile workplace than ever before. It was perfect for entertaining, but never felt quite real. It wasn’t home. 

Bucky’s apartment, though—that felt more and more like capital H home.  

It was where you smelled of freshly brewed coffee in the mornings, where the couch cushions were always just a little lopsided from the way he curled up with a book, where you’d kick off your heels when you got back. It was where he pressed a kiss to your forehead after a long day at work, where grabbed your toothbrush before bed, where he made you feel like the richest woman in the world with a love that couldn’t be bought.  

Tonight, the air didn’t feel so suffocating. Bucky walked beside you through the quiet streets of Brooklyn, his gloved fingers laced with yours. 

Bucky let out a small sigh, stealing a glance at you. “You know, princess… you practically live with me already.”

You lifted your eyebrows. “Mmhmm?”

“Your shoes are by the door, your clothes are in my drawers,” he pointed out, “I can’t remember the last time we actually slept at your penthouse. Even my fridge has more of your favorite snacks than mine.”

You let out a chuckle , but he wasn’t done.

“Move in with me. Officially.” His voice was quiet but sure, and so heartbreakingly filled with hope. 

You let out a small laugh, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Bucky, we’ve only been together, what? Eight months?”  

“Almost a year,” he corrected.

“We’ve only known each other for a year, Bucky,” you pointed out. 

“So?” He turned slightly, stopping at the corner. “We spend most nights there anyway. What difference does it make?”

You hesitated. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to. God, you wanted to. But it wasn’t that simple.

“You know how this works,” you said softly. “One of these days, I’m going to get caught sneaking in and out of your place, and when that happens, it’s going to be a thing for the press. I don’t need a moving van, making it worse.”  

Bucky’s muscles tensed, but he didn’t argue. He exhaled, tilting his head with that maddening smile. “Then do it slowly. One bag at a time.”  

You laughed, shaking your head. “That’ll take forever.”  

Bucky shrugged. “I have time.”  

You stared at him for a long time, at the man who had taken your chaotic world and turned it into something worth coming home to.  

“Not now,” you said finally, “But one day.”  

He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’ll hold you to that, princess.”

Year One, Month Two.

“You’ve been working too hard,” Bucky said as he appeared in your office doorway, arms crossed, eyes locked onto you like he could see straight through the exhaustion behind your eyes.

He stepped inside, bracing his hands on the edge of your desk as he leaned in, close enough that you could smell the leather and metal.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “If I don’t keep up, I’ll have half the world breathing down my neck.”

“They do it anyway,” Bucky scoffed, shaking his head. “That’s why you’re coming with me.”

Before you could protest, he was already dragging you out of your chair, stealing your work phone right from your grasp and slipping it into his pocket.

“Bucky—”

“Later.” He laced his fingers through yours, pulling you out of the building. You sighed, but you knew it was for the best. Bucky could tell you were slowly losing your mind in your work, and he was right— you needed a break. 

When he dragged you out, the city was alive around you, and you wouldn’t trade your hand in Bucky’s for the world. Yet, the idea of work still gnawed at you. Your free hand moved towards your pocket—only to find it empty. Your eyes flickered to Bucky’s jacket, where he’d stashed your phone, and he caught it immediately.

Without warning, he veered off-course, steering you into a dimly lit alleyway between two old brownstones. 

“Bucky, what are we—”

He didn’t let you finish.

His hands framed your face, palms cradling your jaw, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones. His lips crashed onto yours, cutting off whatever half-hearted argument you might have had.

The kiss was slow at first. Like he needed you to feel this—his frustration, his longing, the way he missed you even when you were right beside him. 

You gripped at his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric before slipping beneath, your palms meeting the hard muscle of his abdomen. He groaned into your mouth as one of his hands slid down, skimming over your waist, gripping your hip like he was staking a claim.

Your back hit the brick wall, and his mouth traveled along your jaw to down the column of your throat, each kiss intended as a brand, a distraction, a reminder of everything you’d been neglecting in the name of work.

“Bucky,” you whispered, nails dragging along the bare skin of his back. His name had never sounded quite that desperate before—half moan, half plea—and he felt it.

“Do you ever stop?” he murmured. You barely had time to process before he kissed you again. 

He let out a quiet groan against your lips, the sound reverberating through your chest and settling low in your stomach.

His grip tightened on the curve of your bum as his teeth grazed your lower lip. You gasped, heat pooled in your core, your mind turning hazy and drunk off his taste. 

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, a little cocky, a little breathless. “I just couldn’t help myself,” he murmured. “You looked like you needed a distraction.” His hands hadn’t left you, his thumbs still tracing maddening circles against your skin.

“Hmm,” you sighed, eyes half-lidded with want. And you knew exactly what you wanted when you went back to your office. “You succeeded.”

He hummed in satisfaction, but suddenly, body tensed, just for a second. He tried looking to the far end of the alley and found nothing. Did he hear something? Footsteps, maybe?

“Bucky?”

It was probably nothing. Probably no one.

And yet, his arm curled around you just a little tighter.

The next day, your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Calls, messages, and alerts were stacking up faster than you could dismiss them. 

You didn’t realise why until you saw the news. 

Shit.

“Heiress and Assassin: Secret Romance or Conflict of Interest?”

Your breath hitched as you stared at the screen. The accompanying photo was unmistakable— Bucky kissing you in the alley, your fingers twisted in his jacket like he was the only thing that mattered to you.

The image was grainy, but it didn't matter. The damage was done.

Your assistant rushed in with a tablet in hand, her face pale.

“You need to see this.”

“I’ve already seen it,” you said, not looking up. 

The story had gone live less than an hour ago, but your company’s media monitoring team flagged its progress within minutes. 

Your desk phone rang, and you had a couple guesses on who it could be. Bucky. The PR team. The board. Government contacts who normally kept their distance unless something was on fire. Your father. Your inbox soon filled up with official statements demanding explanations, thinly veiled threats wrapped in professional language.

“The diplomatic channels are blowing up,” your lead strategist announced when you stepped into the emergency briefing. A dozen pairs of eyes locked onto you as if you alone held a gallon of water that could put out this fire.

“They’re questioning your judgment,” he continued, tapping at the stack of reports in front of him. “The optics of being involved with someone like Barnes, his past, his ties to the original Avengers, are problematic, to say the least.”

“They’re worried I’m compromising national security,” you said flatly, “Because of a kiss?”

“Because of what it represents,” he corrected. “You’re the acting CEO of the most powerful cybersecurity firm in the world. Governments trust us to protect their most sensitive data. And now they’re wondering if you’re using that position to—”

“To sell them out to the public-facing heroes?” you snapped, though you knew this scrutiny would come sooner or later. “That’s absurd. You all know me better than that.”

“It’s not about what’s true,” your PR director cut in, her sentences coming in clipped. “It’s about what looks true.”

By the time you got to Bucky’s home that night, your head was pounding, your nerves frayed from the day’s endless barrage of scrutiny. You had looked over your shoulder more times than you could count, half-expecting to see a reporter lurking in the shadows or a government agent ready to pull you in for questioning. The paranoia was sinking its teeth into you.

The second you stepped inside, you kicked off your heels and slumped onto the couch, pressing your fingers to your temples in a desperate attempt to ease the tension pooling there.

Bucky was already by your side, jaw tight as he scrolled through the headlines on his phone. The dim glow from the screen cast harsh shadows across his face, making him look every bit as dangerous as they made him out to be.

“‘Heiress Caught in Lip-Lock with Winter Soldier,’” he read aloud, his tone dripping with disdain. “Really? That’s the best they could come up with? Do these people have nothing better to write about?”

You let out a dry laugh. “It’s not just the tabloids, Buck. This is more than gossip columns and viral photos.” You sighed, dropping your head back against the armrest of the couch. “Governments are questioning whether their data is safe with me. My credibility?” You raised your hands, mimicking an explosion, “Hanging by a thread.”

Bucky set his phone down, rubbing a hand over his face before shifting to sit even closer to you. “This isn’t your fault,” he said, his voice softer now, but laced with… guilt.

“Maybe not,” you admitted, staring at a crack in the ceiling. “But it doesn’t matter. Perception is reality. And right now, the whole world thinks I’m compromised.”

Bucky cursed under his breath. His hand found yours, his vibranium fingers cool yet grounding against your skin. He held on a little too tight, like he wished he could shield you from all of this. Like he blamed himself.

“What can I do?” he asked, low and urgent.

You shook your head, a bitter laugh slipping past your lips. “Nothing. I just have to fix this.”

His grip tightened for a fraction of a second before he let out a slow breath, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “You shouldn’t have to fix anything,” he muttered. “They don’t get to question your loyalty because of me.”

“I know,” you said softly, turning to him, squeezing his hand. “But they do anyway.”

When he looked away, you could see it— the self-recrimination, the way he was blaming himself for this. He was the one who convinced you to go for a walk, the one who pulled you into the alleyway because he just couldn’t fucking help himself.

“This isn’t on you, Bucky,” you said gently, tilting his chin toward you. “We both knew what we were getting into.”

“Did we?” he asked. “Because I thought you wouldn’t have to pay for my past.”

God, did your heart break at the fact that perhaps the world could never truly move on, no matter how much he tried to outrun them, no matter how much he came to terms that it was not really him on the steering wheel all those years ago.

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his, your fingers trailing his chin. “I don’t care what anyone thinks,” you whispered. “I just need to figure out how to make the rest of the world see what I see.”

He kissed you then, hands firm as they traced over your skin. You melted into him, hands sliding under his shirt and feeling the ridges of his scars and the heat of him beneath your fingertips.

Then, your phone rang. 

With a groan, you reached for it, already knowing who it was before you saw the name flashing on the screen.

Dad.

Bucky let out a quiet sigh, his forehead pressed against your shoulder for a brief second before he pulled back. You swallowed hard, bracing yourself before answering.

“Hi, Dad—”

“What the hell is going on?”

You flinched, pulling the phone slightly away from your ear.

“Dad, I—”

“I wake up this morning to my inbox exploding with concerned emails from investors and heads of state,” he barked, “And not one of them was about our new initiatives!  All I see headlines about you making out with that… that vigilante in a back alley? Are you serious?”

You pressed your fingers against your temple. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Oh, it never is, is it?” His words dripped with disbelief. “Why didn’t I know about this? About him? What, you’ve been sneaking around behind my back? How long has this been going on?”

Bucky’s hand found yours, squeezing before letting go. He could hear your father’s raised voice even from where he sat.

“It’s not sneaking around,” you muttered, your patience fraying. “You’re just… blowing this out of proportion.”

“Oh really?” he repeated, incredulous. “I hired that man to protect you last year! And now you’re telling me you’re dating him? Do you have any idea how bad that looks?”

“Dad, please,” you groaned, frustration bubbling over. “This isn’t even about the company—”

He cut you off, his voice sharp. “If people think you’re compromised—if they think you can’t keep your personal life separate from your professional responsibilities—”

“I know, Dad!” you snapped, your voice finally matching his. “I know how bad it looks! I’ve been dealing with it all day while you sit in your fancy cabin three countries away and shout at me over the phone!”

Bucky’s fingers tightened again. 

You could hear your father exhaling through the line. “Fine,” he breathed, lf you think you’ve got it all handled, then handle it! But I swear to God, if this relationship jeopardises our clients, our reputation, or your future—”

“It won’t!” you fired back. “And for the record, Bucky isn’t some random fling. He’s serious about me. He—”

You hesitated, only for a second, and swallowed hard. 

“He cares about me,” you finished, quieter this time. “And I care about him.”

For a while, there was only silence. When your father finally spoke again, his voice had lost some of its bite. It sounded like… Consideration.

“Is he actually serious about you?” he asked. 

Bucky could hear him clearly even when he was not shouting— courtesy of his super soldier hearing. He nodded. 

“He is,” you answered without hesitation. “I wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.”

Then, softer, your father asked, “Then why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

You rested your elbows on your knees. “Because I knew you’d make it about the company and the board and my future when all I wanted was to keep it private. Just… for us.”

Your father sighed, and you could picture him rubbing the bridge of his nose— just like you always did.

“Look,” he said. “I’m not coming to the city to deal with it. That’s on you. But… for what it’s worth, I don’t want to see you hurt. And I don’t want to see this company—your company—take the blow, either.”

“I know,” you said softly. “And I’ll handle it. I promise.”

“Good,” he said. “Because if I hear one more thing about this in the news, I’m the one who’ll come down there to straighten it out. And I’ll start with your boyfriend.”

Bucky let out a quiet snort, shaking his head.

You couldn’t help rolling your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Deal with it now. I got it.”

“Good.” A beat of silence. Then, softer, “I love you, kid.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

The line clicked off, leaving you in silence.

You stared at your phone for a moment, rubbing your temples. The shouting match had left you drained, but at least it was over. For now.

Bucky shifted beside you, his fingers still tangled with yours. His voice was quiet when he spoke.

“You okay?”

You turned your head to look at him, at the careful way he was studying your face. He looked guilty, like this was his fault, like he wished he could take the weight off your shoulders.

You exhaled, tilting your head until it rested against his shoulder. “I will be.”

Little didn’t you know, he didn’t really believe you would be.

Not as long as he was around. 

The morning after the scandal broke, the world felt different. It felt smaller, suffocating, as if the walls of your life had started closing in overnight.

News anchors dissected your love life like it was some kind of public crisis. 

"Heiress in a Scandalous Affair with Ex-Assassin”

"Dangerous Liaison: How a CEO’s Secret Relationship Could Threaten Her Empire"

"Should a Man with a Bloodstained Past Be This Close to Power?"

Your phone hadn’t stopped ringing. Your father’s people had practically barricaded the office, because outside, reporters swarmed like vultures.

And Bucky was quiet. Too quiet.

You caught him sitting at the edge of the bed, watching the morning news with that expression you hated—it was almost as if he already knew how this story ended. Like he’d already made up his mind that this was going to break you apart.

"They act like I’m putting a damn gun to your head," he muttered, tone rough. The news anchor was mid-sentence, debating whether your involvement with Bucky posed a national security threat. As if your relationship was an act of terrorism.

You sat beside him, barely resisting the urge to throw the remote at the screen. "They're sensationalising it. It’ll die down."

Bucky scoffed. "No, it won’t." He rubbed a hand down his face, then gestured at the TV. "They love a good villain. And princess, I was tailor-made for the role."

Year One. Month Three.

You had taken a week of leave at this point, just so mentally recover. 

By the time you arrived at your office after your week off, the damage control team was in full force. Half a dozen advisors, PR strategists, and corporate lawyers were waiting, some with their arms crossed, others furiously taking notes.

"We need to get ahead of this immediately," your PR officer said, clicking to the first slide of a PowerPoint labeled Mitigation Strategy like your personal life was a boardroom crisis. "We’ve already drafted potential responses, but the best option is for you to publicly distance yourself from Barnes."

You stiffened. "What? He’s my boyfriend. How would I do that?"

"An official statement clarifying that your relationship is purely professional—"

"That’s a lie."

"A necessary lie," she corrected, with the forced patience of a woman stuck in a room with a ticking time bomb. “Say… it was a misunderstanding, shift the narrative. You got too close, it was a lapse of judgement—"

"Are you serious?" You looked around the room. "You want me to pretend I was reckless and naive instead of just admitting that I love him?"

"This isn’t just about you,” your CFO sighed. “The board is already nervous. Investors are threatening to pull out. This could cost millions."

It wasn’t a threat. It was a fact. And yet, all you could think about was Bucky—sitting on your bed this morning, already bracing for the moment you’d walked away.

You swallowed hard. "I can’t do that!”

Your PR officer let out a deep breath, clearly recalibrating. "If you won’t deny it, at least don’t fuel the fire. No public outings, no statements, no contact that can be seen or reported on. We let the story fade, alright?”

When you got back that night, Bucky was sitting on the couch, looking at his phone. Not scrolling. Not texting. Just staring at the screen.

"You should… reconsider.”

You froze. "What?"

He didn’t look up. "It’d be easier for you to not be with me.”

Your heart broke. "Don’t do that."

"Do what?" His voice was bitter now. "Face reality? Come on, princess, we both know how this ends. You drop me, your life goes back to normal. Your father stops looking at you like you just burned the empire he built. You get your clean slate."

"That’s not what I want."

Bucky sighed, looking up at you with devastating pain in his blue eyes. "You say that now,” he started, "But I’ve been through this before, and it doesn’t end well. People always realise… I’m not worth all this."

Your throat tightened. "I’m not most people." It came out like a squeak.

"No, sweetheart, of course not,” he said with a sad smile, “but you have too much to lose."

You groaned, standing right in front of him, and daring him to look you in the eye. 

"Listen to me, James. I do not give a single fuck what the world thinks. I do not care about shareholders, or press conferences, or what my father expects from me." You swallowed. "I care about you. And if you think I’m going to let you walk away because you’ve decided you’re a burden, then you really don’t know me at all."

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He wanted to believe you. He really did.

You reached for his hand. He let you.

"This doesn’t scare me," you whispered. 

Bucky closed his eyes. “Maybe it should.”

That night, something felt off.

The next week, it only got worse.

It started small—little things that weren’t so little when you pieced them together.

Bucky stopped inviting you over to stay as often. When he did, he kept his distance, claiming he was just tired. He started answering texts late, then barely at all. When you reached for his hand in public, he let go a second too soon.

At first, you convinced yourself you were imagining it. But then came the missed calls, the sad sighs, the way he looked at you— like he was preparing to say goodbye.

“You’re avoiding me,” you finally confronted him.

Bucky didn’t look up from where he was sitting on the edge of the couch, unlacing his boots. “I’m just busy.”

“That’s bullshit.” You crossed your arms. “You barely talk to me anymore. You leave before I wake up. You don’t even—” You stopped, breath catching in your throat. “You don’t even…“

You trailed off, not knowing what else to say. 

He froze for a second before he yanked his boots off and tossed them aside. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it, Bucky? Because from where I’m standing, it feels like you’re trying to fuck off.”

You were only met with silence. 

You stepped closer. “If this is about the media—”

“That’s exactly what this is about.” His voice was a growl. “Every article, every news cycle, every goddamn headline— your name is dragged through the dirt because of me.”

You clenched your teeth. “I don’t care—”

“Well, I do!” He rose to his feet so quickly  you took a step back. His eyes burned as he stared at you, breathing heavily. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to be the reason your life went to shit. I don’t want to be the reason your father loses faith in you, or why the world suddenly thinks you can’t run your own goddamn company.”

“What?” You challenged, “you think leaving will fix that?”

Bucky scoffed, shaking his head. “Maybe it’ll make it easier.”

Your stomach churned with a frustration you haven’t felt in a long, long time. “Easier for who?”

“For you!”

The words hit you like a slap.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but your chest felt too tight, too suffocated, like hellfire was clawing its way up your throat. 

“You really think I’d be better off without you?”

His eyes flickered with, his muscles twitching. “Hmm.”

Your heart dropped. “Y-you can’t do this to me.”

His eyes snapped to yours. “I’m doing this for you.”

“T-that’s— but that’s so condescending! Do you hear yourself, James?” You shouted this time, hands curling to fists at your sides.. “You think walking away makes you noble? That’s bullshit! You’re just a coward!”

His lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

“You think I don’t know what this is?” You continued, voice shaken “You hate feeling like you’re not in control, and I get that, I do, but instead of dealing with it, you’d rather run.” You swallowed. “You’d rather run from me.”

The muscles in his neck flinched. His human  fingers curled into fists.

Then—

Without another word, he grabbed his jacket, turned on his heel, and walked out the door.

He didn’t slam it. Didn’t yell. He just… left.

And that hurt worse than anything else.

The first night, you thought he needed space.

The second night, you got worried.

By the third, you were panicked.

You practically lived at his place, probably stayed over four days a week, and he rarely stayed at yours. So when he disappeared and wasn’t in either apartments, you had no idea where the hell he was. 

He wasn’t answering texts. Wasn’t picking up calls. You tried not to assume the worst, but it was hard when the worst was always a possibility.

Was he hurt? Was he drinking in one of those newly opened Asgardian bars? Was he spiraling?

You barely slept. Barely ate. You kept replaying the fight in your head, hearing your own voice, your accusations. Maybe you’d pushed too hard, been too harsh. Maybe this time, he won't come back.

Little did you know, Bucky was staying with Sam. He hadn't planned to, but to be fair, he hadn’t planned on anything. He just walked out, got in the car, and kept driving, and somehow ended up on Sam’s doorstep like a stray cat.

To his credit, Sam didn’t ask questions. He just took one look at Bucky, sighed, and let him in. 

And now, here they were— three days later, Bucky was nursing a beer on Sam’s couch, staring at the muted TV, while Sam leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed.

“You finally gonna tell me what happened?” Sam asked, even though he knew what happened. He saw it in the news— he just needed to hear it from Bucky. 

Bucky had a hand down his face. “Not much to tell.”

“Right.” Sam snorted. “You ghost your girl and disappear from the public eye for days in the middle of a media scandal. but there’s not much to tell?”

Bucky looked down, staring at the floor. “I needed space.”

Sam hummed. “Uh-huh. And she knows that? Or did you just decide to vanish?”

Bucky shot him a glare, but Sam wouldn’t budge. He cannot— will not— let his friend self-sabotage a relationship he clearly didn’t want to end.

Bucky muttered, “She’s better off without me.”

Sam actually laughed at that, and the sound was short and dry, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Look, man, I get it. You think you’re doing her a favour.” Sam sighed, shaking his head. “But she chose you. instead of trusting that choice, you’re what? Hiding out at my place and letting her deal with the media fallout on her own?”

Bucky’s grip tightened around the beer bottle. “I’m not hiding.”

“Then why are you still here?”

Bucky’s throat tightened. He had no answer to that.

“I just… I don’t want to be the reason everything falls apart for her,” Bucky sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

Sam shook his head. “And what if you’re the reason she holds it together?”

Bucky didn’t respond, and he didn’t know how to. Because it might actually be true

So instead, he just drank his beer, staring at the silent TV.

And then he saw own damn face, plastered across the screen.

And then there you were, giving a statement.

Sam frowned as he watched Bucky grab the remote.

“…and I cannot let the media twist this story,” you said Bucky turned the volume up mid-sentence. 

Bucky sat up straighter.

There you were— standing behind a press conference desk, cameras flashing, reporters practically foaming at the mouth for any ounce of information you would give. 

You looked exhausted, but nothing could erase that familiar determination in your eyes. 

“James Barnes is not a liability,” you continued, voice steady despite the chaos. “He’s not a danger, and he’s not the monster some of you painted him as.”

Bucky’s stomach twisted.

A reporter cut in. “So you’re confirming your relationship with Mr. Barnes?”

You didn’t even flinch.

“I’m confirming that he’s someone I trust with my life,” you shot back. 

Bucky blinked. You weren’t denying it. Weren’t distancing yourself from him.

You were standing in front of the whole damn world… defending him.

A different reporter raised his hand. “Given his history, do you really think associating with someone like Barnes is wise for your public image?”

You looked at the guy like you wanted to strangle him. “His history?” you repeated incredulously. “You mean the history where he was forced to do things against his will? The history he’s spent every damn day trying to atone, even though it wasn’t his fault?”

The room went silent.

You let out a deep breath, gripping the desk. “You all act like redemption is a myth, like some people just don’t get to have it. But Bucky Barnes is not a story. He is not a headline. He is a person. And I won’t let you write him into being a villain because it’s more convenient for you.”

Bucky only stared, heart hammering out of his ribcage. 

You were risking everything for him—your reputation, your credibility, everything.

And he’d walked out on you.

Sam let out a low whistle, glancing at Bucky with his eyebrows raised. “Still think she’s better off without you?”

Bucky swallowed hard.

The second the press conference ended, he was out the door. Sam barely had time to say goodbye.

You had stood in front of the whole damn world and defended him. You hadn’t folded under pressure, hadn’t let them tear him down just to save yourself. 

And…. he’d walked away.  

Bucky wasn’t sure how long it took to get to you. He barely remembered the drive, barely felt the drift when he pushed open your penthouse door with the key you’d given him months ago. 

Bucky expected to see you when he stepped into your penthouse— you always regrouped here after a media day. 

What he didn’t expect—was to see your father.

He hadn’t met him before, at least not in person. And if you called him in to help you cope, then it must be bad. 

The man was standing near the massive windows, looking out over the skyline, a glass of rum in one hand. The picture of composed authority, as you always made him out to be. 

The fact that he was even here instead of you meant something— Bucky just wasn’t sure what yet.

Bucky hesitated just inside the doorway, unsure if he should step in. Your father finally turned his head, looking at him.

"She must be serious about you if she gave you the keys to her place."

Bucky shut the door behind him. "Guess so."

Your father just nodded, swirling the liquor in his glass.

Bucky wasn’t sure what to call him. Sir? Felt weird— he was a hundred and ten years old, after all. First names seemed too casual. Last name felt too weird. 

"I assume you’re looking for her."

"Yeah." Bucky hesitated. "And… she’s not here.”

"If she were, I imagine you’d already be getting an earful." Your father replied. 

Bucky’s eyebrows twitch. He probably would deserve  that.

Your father turned away, walking toward the bar. "Drink?”

Bucky hesitated. "No, thanks."

Your father poured himself another two fingers of rum. "Probably for the best."

The room was silent after that, and your father didn’t feel the pressure to fill that space until he put his drink down. “I hired you to protect her, Barnes." The words weren’t spoken in anger, but there was a hint of disappointment behind them. “Not to break her heart.”

Bucky took a deep breath. "I know."

"Do you?" Your father turned to face him. "Because I was at that press conference. I saw what it did to her. She stood up to the world and defended you, and you—" He exhaled sharply. "You weren’t there."

Bucky clenched his fists. "I didn’t ask her to do that."

“That’s not how she works, Barnes. You should know that by now." Your father sighed, crossing his arms across his chest. "She doesn’t respond well to media attention," he said, quieter now. "Never has. She’s been under this scrutiny since she was a kid. She knows how to handle it, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t affect her."

Bucky looked away, guilt crawling under his skin.

Your father sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I don’t give a damn about the headlines." His voice was firmer now. "I don’t give a damn about what the board or the investors think, or whatever bullshit the media’s spewing." He paused, his eyes locking onto Bucky’s. "I care about her."

Bucky’s throat tightened.

"Look, I’ve known her longer than anyone else,” your father continued. "and I— I know— I can tell that she loves you."

Bucky’s head snapped up.

“She wouldn’t have fought for you the way she did if she didn’t,” he said. 

“I…” Bucky swallowed hard. "I love her too."

“Prove it.” He almost snapped.

Bucky took a step back.

"Be careful with her heart, Barnes." Was the last thing he heard from your father. 

After that, Bucky went to your office. Empty.

Your favourite restaurant—nothing.

The city was huge, but he knew you well. He knew where you went when the world became too much. When you needed to be alone.

And that was how he found himself outside his own apartment, staring at the door, heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to break free.

He felt sick.

His fingers hovered over the handle for a moment before he forced himself to knock. It was hesitant— perhaps he was afraid of what he might find on the other side.

No answer.

Bucky swallowed hard, unlocked the door and stepped inside.

And there you were.

Sitting on the couch, still wearing the same outfit from the press conference, head in your hands. He could tell you were exhausted— shoulders slumped, breaths uneven.

His heart broke.

You must’ve heard the door click shut because your head snapped up, your eyes wide and glassy.

For a good five agonizing minutes, neither of you spoke. Just stared. Until—

“You left."

When you said it, it barely came out as a whisper, but it still struck like a bullet to his temple.

Bucky swallowed against the lump in his throat, "I know."

"I defended you," you rasped. "I stood there and let the world tear into me because I thought—" You cut yourself off, chest rising and falling unevenly. "I thought we were in this together."

Bucky took a slow step forward, one after another. Then he sank to his knees in front of you, his hands resting on your thighs. "We are."

"You walked away, James." Your voice cracked. With a bitter laugh, you snapped your fingers. "Just like that. Like it was easy.

His hands curled into fists. "It wasn’t."

"Could’ve fooled me."

His teeth clenched. "I thought I was protecting you."

“Well, congratulations,” You let out a hollow laugh. "You protected me so well that I spent the last three days wondering if I meant anything to you at all."

Bucky flinched. "Don’t," he whispered, pleading, "You know that’s not true."

Your eyes locked onto his, desperate and angry. "Then why did you leave?"

"Because I thought I could make it better," he said again, as if saying it enough times would make it true. "By keeping myself out of this mess—"

"It was never a mess, Bucky!" you snapped, your tone rising. "Not to me! Not until you left!"

He shook his head, meeting your eyes with something close to desperation. "I thought—"

"Do you have any idea what it felt like to wake up and realize you were gone?" You cut him off. 

Bucky opened his mouth, but you weren’t finished.

"I don’t care if the whole damn world has an opinion about us." you whispered. You took his hand, pressed his palm flat against your chest, right over your heart. "I care that I came home to an empty bed."

Bucky’s throat tightened. "I thought—“

"Stop thinking!” You shouted. 

Bucky scoffed, shaking his head as his grip tightened on your hand. "I thought if I made it easier for you, I wouldn’t lose you forever!”

"You lost me the second I walked out that door," you spat out, but even as you said it, you knew you didn’t truly mean it.

Bucky’s breath caught, but instead of backing down, he moved forward, crowding into your space, his hands gripping your waist and holding you in place. "No." He said, almost a growl, his fingers digging into your sides. "No, I didn’t."

Before he could say anything more, your lips crashed against his.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate, brimming with anger and need and the kind of longing would never go away. He kissed you back like he was trying to prove himself, like he needed you to understand that walking away hadn’t meant he stopped wanting you. That it had killed him to.

You gasped into the kiss, and any protest you might have had dissolved the second his hands moved up your back, pulling you flush against him. His warmth, his scent, the way his breath mixed with yours—it set every nerve on fire.

"I can’t lose you," he murmured against your lips, voice trembling. He kissed you again, his hands roaming your body like he was terrified you’d disappear. "I won’t.”

Your hands threaded through his hair, tugging slightly, making him groan against your mouth. "But you left," you whispered, "You left me."

"I’m sorry," he rasped, and he meant it. His lips moving along your jaw, down to your neck, teeth scraping against your pulse. "I hated every fucking second of it."

A shudder ran through you, your nails digging into his shoulders as his hands slid lower, gripping your hips and pulling you into his lap. You straddled him without hesitation, pressing against him, feeling the way his breath stuttered as you moved.

"Then don’t do it again," you whispered, voice breaking, your forehead pressing against his.

Bucky’s hands framed your face again, forcing you to look at him. His eyes were wild, almost desperate. "Never," he swore, his thumb stroking over your cheek. "I swear on my life, never."

And then he kissed you again.

This time, it was slower— he took his time. It felt like regret, it felt like a confession. His hands were everywhere, exploring, pulling you closer like he wanted to mold you to him.

"Fuck," he breathed, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his fingers squeezing your thighs. "You have no idea how much I missed you."

You cupped his face, forcing him to look at you. "Show me."

And when his lips found yours again, when his hands started to slide under your clothes, when your bodies pressed together in a way that left no space between you—

You knew this time, he meant it.

The morning after was gentle.

Sunlight poured through the sheer curtains, warming the bed sheets.

Bucky stirred beside you, his arm draped over your waist, holding you close like he was afraid you’d slip away.

When his lips brushed lazily against your shoulder, you hummed, shifting in his arms to meet his eyes. His hair was a mess, his eyes still half-lidded. 

God, it’s only been a few days. You’ve missed him. 

“Morning,” he murmured hoarsely.

You smiled. “Morning.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved, just staring, just breathing. Then, as if reality was starting to creep back in, you sighed, tracing a fingertip along his stubble.

“We should eat,” you suggested.

Bucky groaned, tightening his grip on you. “We could stay in bed.”

You let out a quiet chuckle and pressed a quick kiss to his lips before slipping from his hold. “Let’s go get breakfast, sweetie.”

Reluctantly, Bucky let you go, watching as you stretched, grabbing the first thing you could find to throw on—one of his shirts.

He rolled out of bed and pressed a kiss to your temple, “We’d be in public, you know.”

You sighed. “I know.”

Breakfast wasn’t some Michelin-star brunch spot. It was a small café, tucked away from the busier streets, where the scent of fresh bread and coffee lingered in the air a little longer. The kind of place where no one would look twice at you if you sat there for hours, just talking, just being.

And that’s exactly what you did.

Bucky’s hand never left yours, his fingers tracing circles on your palm, his thumb absentmindedly grazing your knuckles. Every so often, he’d lean over, steal a kiss between sips of coffee.

He was here now. With you. In public. That was all that mattered.

But it wasn’t long before the cameras showed up.

They weren’t subtle. A handful of photographers across the street, lurking. 

The press had been relentless, but after your statement on Bucky yesterday, the world… was quieter.

Ever since you’d stood in front of the cameras the backlash had softened. World leaders, once eager to weigh in, had gone silent. Maybe, for the first time, they respected you. Maybe they respected Bucky, too.

But that didn’t mean the vultures were gone.

Your clients might have been reassured, but the media will always try to sensationalise the story. 

Bucky had been trying to ignore them. 

But when another camera flash went off, too close, too invasive, he snapped.

With a sharp exhale, he pushed his chair back, the legs scraping against the pavement. You barely had time to grab his wrist before he was turned marching toward the swarm of photographers lingering just across the street.

“Bucky,” you warned, but it was useless.

The reporters tensed when they saw him approach, cameras at the ready, expecting a fight— maybe even hoping for one.

And Bucky didn’t disappoint.

“Get a fucking life,” he snapped, voice rough with frustration. He gestured wildly to the table behind him, where your half-eaten breakfast sat. “We’re trying to eat like normal fucking people.”

A few photographers shuffled awkwardly, lowering their cameras, but others stood their ground.

“Mr. Barnes, the public just wants to—”

“The public can mind their damn business.” His glare could have turned them to stone. 

“Unless you want some asshole shoving a camera in your face every time you try to grab a coffee, I suggest you back off.”

Oh? Oh.

You heard a few more murmurs. More feet shifting. 

Then one of them had the nerve to say, “You can’t really be surprised, can you? You’re the winter soldier, and she’s—“

Bucky scoffed, cutting him off. “Fuck this.” He threw his hands in the air, turning back toward you. “They act like we just committed a goddamn crime when all we did was order fucking pancakes.”

You fought the urge to chuckle—because, God, when was he ever this pissed? His jaw was tight, shoulders squared, the restrained fury radiating off him in waves. But beneath all that anger, there was something protective in the way he positioned himself between you and the world, as if it was his job, perhaps because once… it had been.  

And he was given a second chance. He would make it up to you, no matter what.

You sighed, stepping closer and slipping your hand into his. His fingers curled around yours without hesitation, like he’d been waiting for you to reach for him.  

“Let’s go,” you said, giving his hand a squeeze.  

He didn’t argue. He just nodded once, casting his final glare at the cameras before turning on his heel and pulling you along with him.  

But as the two of you walked, you felt it—the way the usual chaos had dulled. The shutters weren’t clicking. The voices weren’t calling his name, your name, they weren’t desperate for a reaction. It was… quiet.  

You glanced back over your shoulder at the stunned crowd of photographers, their hands hesitating over their cameras, unwilling to lift them.  

An almost-wicked smile formed on your lips.  

“You know,” you murmured just loud enough for Bucky to hear, “we could give them a show.”  

And Bucky Barnes never did anything half-heartedly.  

So the second he heard the words leave your lips, he stopped right there, in the middle of the street and kissed you.  

And it wasn’t a short peck, wasn’t a brief gesture.

It was slow, it was deliberate. It was the kind that sent heat curling in your stomach and stole the breath from your lungs. It left no room for misinterpretation. 

He wasn’t just kissing you. He was claiming this moment. It made you feel untouchable, unreachable.  

And yet—not a single flash.  

Not one camera dared to snap the million-dollar shot they’d been desperate for just minutes ago.

Let them look.  

Let them talk.  

But they would never own this.  

When he finally pulled back, lips still ghosting over yours, his words were meant for you and you alone.  

“Think that’s enough for ‘em, princess?”

-end.

General Bucky Taglist :

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni@iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko @average-vibe

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol

[gutsby]

Wedded Bliss

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: The marriage was arranged, and the sex is deranged. Bucky is so obsessed with your pussy that he almost forgets he’s meant to be faking this whole thing—and hating it, like sworn enemies are supposed to do.

Warnings: 18+. Dubcon. Corruption kink. Virginity loss. Arranged marriage between enemies. Brat taming. Breeding kink. Beefy, mob boss Bucky devolving into a fall-to-his-knees-just-to-fuck-you kind of horny mess.

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

You kissed him and wished him dead in the same breath. You said ‘I do’ and meant ‘I don’t,’ exchanged your vows like your own last rites, and felt him slip the ring on your finger as if he’d just tightened a noose around your neck.

You didn’t want to be a bride, and you sure as hell didn’t want to be the bride to Mr. James Buchanan Barnes.

Frankly, you were mortified.

And terrified, too, now that you knew your groom might actually kill you in the kitchen of your honeymoon suite.

“Have you lost your fucking mind?!”

“I walked down the aisle, didn’t I?”

Another plate went crashing on the wall behind your husband’s head just as he managed to duck. He side-stepped a spray of porcelain and glass and probably crushed several hundred shards beneath his polished black oxfords when he walked—stalked—over to you.

You’d just reared back to hurl a serving plate at his face when you found your speed swiftly outmatched. Bucky had your elbow gripped between his forefinger and thumb in less than a second, and, pinching the bone like he might readily break it, he said, even as always,

“Put it down.”

You did as he told you and dropped the platter to the floor with a crash.

Rather than berate you for the broken china—or the four other pieces before it—your husband only smiled.

“Are we done?”

Hell, you wanted to be. Slide over a pen and a one-way plane ticket to someplace in BFE, and you’d be signing those divorce papers in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, your dear husband was just referring to the temper tantrum.

You weren’t totally sure if you were finished on that front, so you looked him up and down and shrugged.

“Now darling—” he started.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Light of my life—”

“I’ll kill you.”

Your cool, level-headed groom took each gibe like it was his sworn duty, and only when he yanked your wrists behind your back and shoved you toward the bedroom door did you sense that he might not be too pleased with your behavior.

Your knees struck the edge of the California King at the center of the room, and before you could will yourself not to fall face-first, Bucky nudged you hard again.

Still pinning your hands behind you, he followed your collapse on the bed and leaned over your prone body.

His breaths were hot on your ear; you could tell he was smiling as he started to hike your dress up your legs.

“It’s all part of the deal, doll.”

You wriggled under his hold and tried to angle yourself better to see him, hoping he’d see your scowl.

“The deal was to get married,” you reminded him.

“Mhmm,” Bucky hummed, just then starting to trail a finger up the uncovered skin of your calf with his other hand, “And what is it that married people do?”

You kicked your foot reflexively, paused, then said,

“Fight. Constantly. Probably resent each other for the better part of two decades before we finally decide that ‘making it work’ for the kids isn’t worth it at all, and I claim half of everything you own in a bitter divorce.”

That earned a chuckle from Bucky. He kept his roaming hand brushing up the back of your thigh and squeezed the flesh just below the swell of your rear.

“Don’t worry, my lawyer drafted a pretty good prenup.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but then he was tracing the contour of your ass with his palm, and you cut yourself short. Bucky carried on, careless as ever.

“But the kids you mentioned,” he said, “How are we supposed to get those?”

You pursed your lips and tried hard not to move when his fingers drifted inward—you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you squirm. The bottom of your dress was bunched around your hips now, leaving you sorely exposed. Had your bridesmaids not thrust that stupid white lingerie set upon you hours before the wedding, you probably would’ve chosen something a little more modest than a thong. But here you were.

At least the sight seemed appealing to your husband, whose eyes hadn’t left you once while his hands grew even hungrier to feel your warmth.

“I’m hoping a sperm donor or one of your double-crossing mobster friends will knock me up, honestly,” you said, feigning enthusiasm at the thought.

A tart slap delivered to your ass told you that Bucky hadn’t found that funny. After, he started kneading the skin a bit harder.

“No shot,” he shook his head, suddenly gliding his fingers down closer to your core and waiting for you to say something in protest, “Only one that’s gonna be pumping this thing full of babies is me, I promise.”

It was like he wanted your retaliation, whether that be by a thinly veiled look of disgust or a reactionary jab of your own. You weren’t keen on fulfilling any wish of his, but at this point, you felt you had no other choice. When you sensed he was distracted by the newly-discovered heat between your legs and had loosened his grip on your wrists, you flipped yourself over on the bed. Shoved at his chest before he knew what to do with himself.

Of course, the push didn’t send him far, but it was enough to get his attention—and his hands off of you.

“I’m not having your babies, Barnes! I am never going to fuck you, no matter how long we stay fake married,” you spat.

At that, Bucky just raised his eyebrows and wet his lips. You were cramming your wedding dress back into place, glaring at him the whole time, and were scarcely more aware of the bright, teeming city outside the window than you were of your husband’s own growing erection.

Finally, you’d said it. His new wife wouldn’t fuck him. The sound of your resistance was almost a pleasure unto itself, and the longer you stared at Bucky with growing contempt and resolve not to do that thing, the more determined he became to make it happen.

Cat-and-mouse games had long been a staple in his life, and he was pleased to see them carry into his marriage as well. Surely if he’d triumphed in every pursuit for the last twenty years—facing the likes of some seriously execrable bandits and racketeers—he could take on a bratty woman less than half his size. You said you didn’t want his babies now, but just wait until he’d fucked you full of his cum once or twice. You’d be begging him for it in no time at all, and shortly thereafter, he’d have you barefoot and pregnant as many times as he liked. Always swollen with one of his children and whining for more.

The woman before him now had a murderous glint in her eyes, but he could fuck that away easy. In fact, he would live to do it. He traced the outline of your thigh over your dress and smiled when you tried not to recoil.

“Surely you didn’t think we’d be finger-painting and reading poetry to each other on our wedding night, hm?” he asked, almost delicately.

“Thought you might have one of your other women lined up,” you snorted. When you tried to move away, Bucky pinched your leg to make you stay. You winced.

“That’s not funny,” he said, a little more consternation in his tone. Like he actually cared whether you thought him a profligate Lothario or not, “Now that we’re married, it’s only you and me. No mistresses, nothing.”

Yeah, and he was just as likely arriving to your marital bed a blushing virgin. You rolled onto your side and pretended not to feel him tighten his grip as you did.

“Try the carnal part of our marriage yourself and I’m sure you’ll find I’m an exceptional fuck,” Bucky continued, speaking low as he stroked the chiffon of your dress.

You didn’t doubt the man was good—certainly the extent of his sexual escapades as a twenty-something seemed to demand it—but exceptional? No fucking way. You knew men like Bucky, with the world and every walking pair of tits at their fingertips, and almost all were incurably selfish. Cocky. The kind to jackhammer a woman for three consecutive minutes, roll over, and say, ‘Did you cum?’

No, there was not a snowball’s chance in hell your husband’s sexual prowess was even half as good as he claimed it was. Deciding to bite your tongue for the first time that night, though, you just stared at him blankly.

What you didn’t know was that your silence only stoked the flames of his ego, prompting him to press the matter further.

“What? You think I can’t fuck?” he said, “Any woman lucky enough to bed me has cum at least twice. Every time.”

Sure they did, Bucky, you wanted to say, but were suddenly drawn into his lap before you could speak.

“But let’s pretend I can’t,” he said, heedless of the face you made as soon as you were straddling his hips, “You wouldn’t let your husband prove himself tonight?”

“I don’t fuck strangers.”

Bucky smiled at that.

“Everyone’s a stranger until you get to blow them, honey,” he teased, squeezing your hips when you didn’t seem amused at all. Then you let out a cry, feeling yourself thrown back on the mattress like a rag doll while Bucky moved off.

Before you knew it, he was tugging your ankles down the length of the bed and widening his stance just a bit. He stopped pulling once your knees were grazing his black dress pants and your feet were dangling off of the bed.

“You like skylines?” he asked.

You frowned and raised a brow that he was quick to interpret as a ‘yes.’ He hauled you onto your feet.

“‘Course you do. All pretty girls like pretty skies,” he rattled on, strolling with you step-by-step to the set of French doors at the end of the room.

Bucky led you out to the balcony. The air was warm as it ever was, dull gusts of the evening wind curling up from the coastline below. Just as your husband had promised, the skyline of Santorini greeted you on either side, and you had to admit, it was more than just pretty. The views from your villa were absolutely breathtaking.

You stood with your back to Bucky, hands resting on the marble balustrade, and you felt him there, behind you. You didn’t bother to tilt your head when he drew even closer.

“What do you like most about it?” The question was simple enough, punctuated with a kiss on your shoulder. Your eyes scanned the horizon, the sea, even the quiet little streets down beneath, and you racked your brain trying to think of an answer that might satisfy him.

Before you could, though, you sucked in a breath when you felt your dress start to come undone at your back.

Bucky was unzipping your gown, gentle as ever, and probably grinning from ear to ear as he watched you shift uncomfortably in place and try to hold the material above your breasts where it had been fastened all day. Presently, you kicked your heel backward and hoped it would land somewhere near his balls. You missed.

“James,” you hissed.

Bucky groaned at the sheer intonation of his name on your lips.

“Yes, dear?”

“Why are you undressing me?”

Bucky had successfully dragged the zipper all the way down to your ass, and it seemed he was trying to shimmy the dress off your frame. You held on tight.

“I’d like to fuck my bride over the balcony railing, if that’s alright with you,” he answered truthfully.

The man was nothing if not blunt and crass. You turned around to give him a look, yanking your gown even closer to your chest.

“I’ll— I’ll tell my mother, Barnes.”

You felt stupid as soon as you’d said it—using your go-to threat whenever you were in distress. What were you, eleven?

“Your mother?” Bucky repeated, words steeped in derision, “Last I recall, mommy dearest was practically begging me to get you pregnant at the reception.”

Your jaw clenched, and you internally cursed your whole family. Your parents were supposed to be on your side throughout all of this—it was bad enough they’d pawned you off to a mob boss of unrivaled infamy all to settle a debt, but this? Your mother had assured you just the day before that Mr. Barnes was bound to tire of you within the year. No mention of sex or babies whatsoever.

The same mother who had beat you over the head with the notion of your own virginity since you were old enough to read, the one who had underscored just how important it was to wait for the right man to give yourself body, mind, and soul to, turning around and telling this filthy criminal to have you any way he liked. And knock you up? The fucking nerve of that woman.

You were so preoccupied with thoughts of your own backstabbing family that you hardly felt Bucky drag your dress the rest of the way down your body. It was only when you were completely bare before him, and your husband had just started to skim his lips over your tummy that you tensed with surprise.

“I don’t have to fuck you just yet, doll,” he murmured, having sunk to his knees and only moving lower. Then the corners of his lips twitched, “Least not with my dick.”

You tried to pry his head from between your legs before he could stretch his tongue so much as an inch.

“James!”

Again with that name.

“You know, I love when you call me that, Mrs. Barnes.”

Bucky was peering up at you now, soaking in the sight of your body in a white lace bra, panties, and stockings.

“Is my bride feeling shy?” he teased, gently nipping at your inner thighs.

You weren’t sure what you were feeling in that moment, to be honest. Revulsion, betrayal, arousal, you name it—each crowned with an all-encompassing hatred for the man currently occupying the space between your legs—while a still stronger desire almost hoped he would stay.

“You can hate your husband all you want and still let him tonguefuck you,” Bucky growled against your skin.

Like he’d read your mind.

In reality, your husband hardly needed the powers of telepathy to tell him just how turned on you were; the sopping wet spot in your panties said as much. From his vantage point, Bucky saw the disgust in your eyes slowly eclipsed by lust, and with a single flick of his tongue, he knew he would have you exactly where he wanted you.

“Just let it happen, honey.”

He felt your fingers thread tight through his hair and the first stir of your hips in tandem. One small, delectable whimper crossed your lips, and it took everything in Bucky not to tear your panties straight off with his teeth.

Instead, the man opted for a soft, gentle lick over your clothed slit. Testing the waters.

Your whimper was quick to meld to a moan, and then, just as fast:

“N-no, Bucky.”

To your dismay, his tongue didn’t retreat, only making firmer laps against your centre while his lips grazed the lace. He gripped your thighs and wedged himself deeper, and again, you cursed the paper thin fabric of your panties for letting you feel everything his mouth was doing. He hadn’t even made proper contact with your cunt, and your knees were already starting to shake.

He pressed a kiss above your clit through the flimsy material, and you almost tore a clump of hair from his head.

“No. Please.” You hardly made sense to yourself; it was clear you wanted his touch, but something inside you wasn’t quite ready to submit to the idea that this was all okay. That your husband’s tongue and lips might be meant for something like this, and you didn’t have to feel so guilty for wanting it either. Fucking purity culture.

“My pretty girl,” Bucky presently murmured above the fabric, words sending a dozen little shockwaves in their wake, “My beautiful fucking wife.”

The man inhaled your scent and could’ve sworn he was in ecstasy. Blinded by desire as he was, he really wasn’t bullshitting in the slightest when he gathered you to him and said you were the best; he’d genuinely grown transfixed by the feel of you, in spite of every fibre of his being telling him not to. The marriage was arranged, fake, and fueled by hatred—and somehow, Bucky couldn’t get enough.

Nor could he wait any longer. One light swipe of his finger tugged your panties aside, and then he was latching on, no cover this time, to take your clit between his lips. Sucking hard, going fast, needing it bad.

A moan rang loud in his ears, and your hand on his head was instantly joined by the other. You yanked his hair like you never had before, pulling so tight at the roots as though your pleasure depended on it. Bucky smiled around the soft pearl in his mouth and flicked it gently with the tip of his tongue.

“Feel good, baby?” he breathed.

His head tilted up to you, and he could see you were struggling just to breathe, face painted with a medley of emotions.

You didn’t know if you could, or should, be feeling this good from a man so evil. Bucky flattened his tongue and licked a long stripe up your pussy to ensure that you would. Then he posed the question again, smirking.

“You like my tongue on this wet, needy cunt?”

His words were so damn obscene, but you nodded anyway. Feeling small and powerless beneath those big, broad hands as they pinned you back on the marble and spread you even wider for the taking.

He loved how innocent and lewd you looked at once, wincing with pleasure and still trying to keep your composure like you thought a good girl should.

Bucky wanted to break that resolve. He brought one hand closer to your entrance.

And, just as your breaths were starting to hitch and grow more ragged in your chest, he pushed two fingers inside. The act surprised your husband almost as much as it did you—not quite, but almost—upon feeling how tight you were, how resistant to even two digits you seemed to be. He hardly knew whether to shove them deeper or pull them out, so fast did your muscles contract around him.

When you whined a loud, protracted, ‘FUCK!’ he figured he would stick with the former. He grinned, having never heard you speak, much less swear, out of pleasure like this.

Your head lolled back and your body made an arch when his fingers curled inside you. You were panting, moaning, coating his hand with your juices, and Bucky knew you were close.

He started pumping his fingers in and out while his tongue worked your clit, chin practically doused in your arousal by now. A swell of pride rose within him: he could finally bring you home to that sweet release, have you a shaking, soaking mess above his face like you were wholly his and no one else’s. He moved his tongue even faster and sank his fingers straight down to the knuckle.

Then, unexpectedly, both were robbed of your touch.

Seized with fear, you shoved Bucky off and stumbled away from his glistening face. You took off toward the doors and fled the balcony before you could think.

“What the f— honey? Honey?!” Bucky sputtered. He bounded after you.

You’d thrown yourself in the master bathroom and locked the door behind you in the blink of an eye. Outside, your husband had only to stare in pure bewilderment and awe, mind reeling at what had just happened.

Fucking hell, he knows. He knows! You collapsed against the door and slid down a couple inches. Your hand reflexively flew to your mouth to stifle the sounds when Bucky began pounding the wood behind you.

“Baby, what’s wrong? What’s—what’s goin’ on?”

In truth, you’d rather chug bleach than divulge the thought that had just scared the everliving fuck out of you back there. It was stupid and senseless and should’ve been frightening you for weeks before it ever came to this, but here you were, panicked in the bathroom of your honeymoon suite because you’d never done this before—and you’d never reached climax in your life without bursting into tears.

Fuck, you felt stupid. How could you think this would be any different—or that Bucky’s tongue wouldn’t eventually attempt to wrest an orgasm out of you?

It’d just felt so good, you thought maybe a new climax brought by someone else’s fingers might free you from the same unsavory demise you’d met a hundred times before, but then it hit you, shortly after Bucky had plunged his fingers inside, you were going to cry.

You winced when Bucky’s knocks grew louder, his voice gaining more ire by the second, it seemed.

“Open the fucking door!”

He’d rake you over the coals for this. Getting so close to what he wanted, only to have his silly little bride snatch it all away and run hiding in the en-suite bathroom? Your stomach turned at the thought of what men in the mob were liable to do with women like you—what Bucky might conceivably do now that you’d sparked his rage.

Your eyes darted to the window just as his fist shook the doorframe behind you. You ran over to the tub, tucked squarely beneath the windowsill, and climbed onto it just to get a hold of the fastenings around the glass.

One click synchronized with the furious cadence being hammered on the door, and just as you started to slide the pane up the way, a heavy thud sounded outside. The weight of your husband’s body being thrust against the door, most likely.

You bit your lip and lifted one leg over the windowsill, shuffling your body even closer to the outside world.

Three floors up! Have you lost your mind? You could hear your father’s words ringing in your skull already. There was a ledge, you reasoned, no more than ten feet below, if you could just grab hold of the frame right there and slide down the cool stone you might—

“Fuck,” Bucky groaned.

You watched your husband heave through the busted door of the bathroom, wide eyes and a ‘Here’s Johnny’ flourish raging hot on his face. Your heart leapt to your throat, and you started to lower yourself out of the window, hoping desperately for that ledge below to be sturdy. But before you could make it even half of the way there, strong arms were circling your frame and yanking you back inside, hurtling straight into the bathtub with Bucky tumbling over you.

“What are you doing?!” he roared.

You wriggled under his weight, petrified of the fiery look in his eyes as he lurched over your frame.

He straightened up just enough to shake you by the shoulders—like a parent reprimanding a child.

“What the fuck was that?! Huh? You think that’s fucking funny, jumping out windows?”

No, no, not funny, you wanted to bite back, but found your mouth dry and unable to speak. When Bucky shook you again, you had only to whimper a pathetic sound.

The man was enraged. Stubble still damp with your juices and looking undeniably frazzled and spent, he drew closer to your face and demanded you look at him. When he took hold of your cheeks in both hands, the command couldn’t have reached you any more clearly.

“What— what was that for?” his voice lowered as he tried to catch his breath. You still couldn’t move.

“I-I don’t—” you stopped and hardly knew how to say it:

Sorry to cut our tonguefucking session short, I was just afraid I might burst into a fit of uncontrollable tears while you licked and sucked me through the best orgasm of my life. I’d rather jump off, or out of, a building than tell my mob boss husband that I can’t cum without crying. By the way, I’m a virgin!

Instead, you just blinked and stared back at him.

“Can’t…do it,” you murmured.

Bucky’s expression only grew more puzzled by the words out of your mouth. He squeezed your face tighter and leaned in even closer.

“Do what? Sex? Fuck, I— I didn’t mean to be that aggressive, hell, I’m sorry.” He stopped to run a hand through his hair, and for the first time, you could’ve sworn you saw the first glint of compunction in his eyes.

He looked away a few seconds, as if collecting what fragmented thoughts he could, then brought his head back down to your level and took your hands in his.

“Honey?” he tried getting your attention, just barely above a whisper now, “I know the whole thing’s fucked, I know.”

That was the understatement of the century. To your surprise, Bucky’s gaze softened when he saw a scowl cross your face.

“We don’t…have to do anything. I was just pushing your buttons earlier. Being a dick.”

His tongue moved to wet his lips once more, this time without the seductive, smug demeanor he usually wore and simply exhibiting discomfort. He swallowed. The bow tie around his neck appeared to him to be fastened far too tight all of a sudden, and then, haphazardly, he started clawing at the garment to get it off.

You didn’t know why you felt compelled to help. It was like all ten fingers just lifted of their own accord to join Bucky’s hands in trying to undo his tie.

The silk fabric wasn’t tied, but knotted, crudely and inflexibly, beneath the little black bow. You frowned. Still unable to meet his gaze as you worked your fingers under the tangled material and tried to pretend like the two of you weren’t still sweating profusely from the events that had just transpired—both the tonguefucking and the window-jumping.

“Who tied this, a five-year-old?” you muttered.

“I’m thirty-eight, thanks,” Bucky returned just as quietly.

Both of you indulged in a smile that lasted no longer than a second, but you felt the tension ease a little.

This was not where you thought your dreaded wedding night was headed before. Curled up in a bathtub with your hands around your husband’s neck—and not actually trying to kill him—while Bucky blinked almost nervously the longer your hands lingered on his collar. It seemed he’d found something especially tantalizing on the wall behind your head, because his stare remained fixed on that spot the whole time you fiddled with his tie.

Maybe that, along with the last ebb of alcoholic influence from the reception still coursing through your veins, had emboldened you to come right out and say it while Bucky was looking away. You couldn’t be sure.

“I’ve never had sex before.”

At last, the tie loosened a little.

Bucky flicked his gaze back to yours in a second.

“What?”

You lifted a brow, wondering if he really needed an explanation as to what it meant to have never gotten laid before, but you decided against indulging him any further. Bucky seemed keen on doing that all by himself.

“You’re a virgin?”

You nodded.

“Didn’t my overbearing mother make sure you knew?”

“Yeah, I thought she was full of shit,” Bucky answered bluntly. Then, catching sight of the semi-offended look in your eye, mixed with a tad more amusement than indignation, he added, “I mean— I didn’t think you’d, uh, wanna wait…twenty-five years for some action.”

He winced when he realized that sounded just as bad. His throat cleared shortly to make way for a new attempt at comity, but you cut him off, shaking your head as you finally got the knot to untangle.

“No, I get it. I don’t know why I waited this long either,” you shrugged.

As soon as you’d freed him from his bow tie, you started to stand from the bath tub. Bucky, too, straightened to his full height and started to close the window while you walked back to the bedroom.

You eyed the rose petals strewn across the duvet and felt a little more relaxed this time around. The weight of the V-word had been lifted from your shoulders, and now you had only to share the crying-while-cumming stuff to Bucky later on. Much later on, you hoped.

You crawled onto the bed and stretched out on your belly, playing with the soft red petals and wondering if room service was still offered at this hour.

Bucky had just stepped out of the bathroom when he halted at the threshold. Saw your body sprawled out on the bed, back arched and ass pointed in the air as you reached over for the phone on the nightstand. He stared for a second too long and felt a familiar stir in his pants.

Sonovabitch, he started to think, before chiding himself silently, Shut up, man, she’s a virgin. Be cool. Be cool—don’t make her jump out a window again.

He ducked back in the bathroom and eased the door to just a crack while you discovered a voice on the line:

“Hi! Hey, I’d like to order room service to, uh…” your voice trailed off. Then, covering the mouthpiece, “James, what’s our room number?”

Inside the bathroom, Bucky squeezed his eyes shut at the sound of his name. Already palming his erection through his dress pants as he leaned against the wall.

“We rented the whole building, dear,” he called back.

“Oh.” He could just imagine the slight pout on your lips as you spoke. Then you asked if he wanted anything to eat, Bucky thought only of the sweet nectar between your legs, and he answered aloud, no, he was fine, really.

For the first time in his life, the man felt positively ashamed he was about to rub one out in a bathroom, alone. It wasn’t like this was the first it had ever been done, but now there was you, innocent and oblivious in the next room over, while Bucky undid his belt and quietly freed his cock from his dress pants. It felt kind of perverted, in a way, but he knew he needed this release to put his mind at ease and not feel so affected by you.

While you scanned your phone for a menu and chatted with the concierge downstairs about various food items, Bucky was spitting in his hand and fumbling for his shaft. You talked American Wagyu sirloin, lobster thermidor, and seared Faroe Island salmon while he thought achingly about the way your cunt had tasted and how badly he wanted to try it again.

How did he feel about an artisan cheese platter? Bucky hardly had the wits about himself to answer beyond a strangled, ‘Whatever you want, honey’ and a tightened fist around his cock, stroking hard to get the filthy thoughts out of his head before the food arrived.

Ever sweet, soft, supple, and savory—his mind reeled with fresh memories of that place between your thighs, and he almost lurched forward in pleasure.

Your brute of a mob boss husband was irreparably pussy-whipped and hadn’t even fucked you yet. He gripped the bathroom sink beside him and sincerely wished it wasn’t his hand doing the work right now. But of course, he had to be patient, had to be kind—couldn’t force himself on a woman who clearly wasn’t ready.

Again, he spit in his palm and jerked himself fast.

Any minute now, he thought with some relief.

Your feet padded softly into the living room as the pleasure inside him was starting to crest. Still pining for your warmth and the way your legs trembled around his head, Bucky was all but fucking his hand at this point. He’d snagged his bottom lip between his teeth in a lopsided smile and groaned, too low to be heard, and pumped himself even faster for his impending orgasm.

A thought crossed your mind as you stopped ahead of the sofa. You pivoted.

Suddenly, you were skipping back to the bathroom, wanting to know Bucky’s wine preferences before you placed another order.

You barged in and froze.

“Sorry!” you squeaked, darting out just as fast.

Five seconds slower and you probably would’ve seen Bucky blow his load all over the sink. As it was, the man was left sorely at a loss for any form of release and heaving fast, ragged breaths from the colossal scare you’d just given him.

Good fucking going, Buck—your wife wants to cuddle and eat cheese and you’re out here beating your meat.

Bucky shoved himself back in his pants and waited an excruciating minute for the sound of your second window exit of the night. A slammed door, a frantic phone call, a few sobs into your pillow as you realized how dirty and depraved your husband was, anything.

He was only met with silence.

Taking one more shaky breath, Bucky reached for the doorknob and started back out. Cautiously.

The man took his slow, silent leave of the bathroom with his gaze trained toward the doors—half-expecting to see his bride rappelling from the balcony—but then quickly shifted to the bed. Finding you kneeling at the edge.

“James?”

Your voice almost pained.

A word was all it took. Bucky was back on his knees.

“I’m sorry. I just wanted it to go away, honey. I’m sorry.”

Go away? You quirked a brow and couldn’t hold his gaze much longer; just trailed your vision down his torso to his pants, then his erection, still standing prominent as ever.

Bucky struggled to decide whether you were ticked off or intrigued, seeing your eyes make their painful appraisal of his length beneath his pants. Your brow was pinched, but your head was cocked. Almost curious.

“Are you mad at me?” you asked, gaze fixed on the spot.

Immediately, Bucky rose to his feet and crawled back on the bed, seizing your body with both of his hands.

“No! No, not mad at all,” he mumbled as he sidled up beside you. Pleased to see you hadn’t recoiled, “I was just, uh…missing you, ‘s’all.”

If his men could see him now, Bucky was sure he’d be the laughing stock of all the town. Doting and kind, eyes softened beyond recognition, he just watched you and wanted nothing more than to repair the smile that had ebbed from your face. Come ridicule, hell, or high water, the man was infatuated with his bride—all broken plates and attempted window escapes be damned.

Presently, you brought your hand down to his bulge.

Bucky stiffened but didn’t speak. He wanted you to do this on your own, of your own volition.

“You seem kinda mad to me.” You hardly knew what you were doing. Just rubbing his length and hoping it was something he’d like.

Where Bucky had wanted to see you smile, you just wanted to hear him grunt and whine—maybe grab your hips and beg you to do something, please. You’d never felt any such degree of control, and you suspected Bucky had never not felt it himself. You wanted him desperate.

You were playing a dangerous game, you knew it, but something inside those baby blues said he wanted to do it, too. Do anything for you, quite frankly.

You watched the rise and fall of Bucky’s broad chest and stroked his length even softer.

“James.”

“Uh-huh?” His mouth hung open with a gentle grunt, fighting every instinct to buck into your touch.

At last, you squeezed his shaft and prodded him on. Let your head drift closer to his so his lips would graze the apple of your cheek, and just when you sensed he wanted a taste, you tilted your face toward his own,

“We haven’t even kissed since the ceremony.”

Bucky stared blankly at you, enrapt with the pulse of your fingers. You could tell he was aching to move.

“Oh yeah?” he murmured.

You nodded a wordless affirmation and slid sharply back in bed as Bucky lunged after you. Your hands flew from his pants to the plush mattress behind you as you shifted—or, rather, scrambled—back in place and felt your husband climb over you hungrily.

“That what my wife wants?” he murmured, frame slotting tight between your legs.

You nodded again, and had only to suck in a breath before Bucky was devouring your lips. The kind of flushed, frantic, filthy kiss that would’ve doubtlessly wrought looks of horror on every face at your wedding had he grabbed you that way after the declarations of ‘I do’ had been spoken.

You loved him like this, impassioned and a bit unhinged.

His tongue worked his way past your lips and scoured every soft, fleshy inch between the insides of your cheeks before he took your face in his hands, kissing you roughly.

Something hard and throbbing nudged your sex, and suddenly you were whining in his mouth. Wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Ah, honey, don’t,” Bucky groaned, visibly straining to contain himself. When you dug your heels even deeper in his back, the groan that followed from him was hoarse and guttural.

“I thought— I…fuck,” your husband turned his head to curse as you grinded your hips up to his. You had to bite back a smile.

“I just wanna do what married people do,” you murmured coyly, pretending not to see when Bucky shot you the most red-hot, wanton look he’d imparted all evening.

“Yeah?” Like a kid in a candy shop the size of Sears.

Bucky took your face in his hands once more and made sure to scan your expression for any shred of doubt. On finding nothing there, he sat panting, half-disbelieving and half-contemplating all the wretched things he wanted to do to you. You squeezed his sides with your thighs and just hoped your husband knew what to do, because, in truth, you didn’t have the first fucking idea.

A few dry, clinical terms flashed before your mind’s eye, along with your mother’s bleak depiction of what treatment lay in store for a woman on her wedding night, and as Bucky started to work his belt and his pants off, you just hoped he wouldn’t be cruel.

He couldn’t be, right? He’d only mowed down a hundred men and dismembered dozens more, you were told, but surely a set of eyes this soft, caring, and kind couldn’t belong to a monster. You let him lift your hips and shimmy your panties, garter belt, and stockings down your legs, and when he returned, you tried your best not to betray the thoughts in your head.

Bucky hadn’t been with a virgin for as long as he could remember—maybe ever. His own ‘deflowering’ an ancient relic of his boyhood and the multitude of partners since then a mere flurry of nameless faces, he sincerely couldn’t recall a time when he’d asked, or cared, whether the woman beneath him had her cherry intact. He didn’t suppose it could be too different, as he peeled the last pieces of your lingerie set off your body and saw you seemed perfectly ready. He ran a finger between your folds and felt you shiver with what looked like excitement. Piece of cake, he thought, smiling.

No doubt he would take great joy in making you his own. His bride, his wife, an unblemished beacon of light in a life as sordid as his, looked perfect spread before him. You would adjust to his size. Bucky trailed the head of his cock up your slit and coated himself in your juices, and just when he’d bracketed his other arm around your head on the pillow, you let out a small sound.

“Are you sure it’ll fit?”

Bucky fisted his length and pressed the tip to your entrance.

“Uh…yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

He hadn’t yet met a woman who wasn’t able to fit him.

“Okay.”

Somehow, your voice sounded even smaller, head lodged between pillows and the crook of Bucky’s elbow. You felt small. Frankly, it didn’t seem like your husband was quite computing the worries that were pervading your brain, but you decided he knew best—your mother had assured you that husbands always did—and when Bucky first pressed the head of himself to the seam of your cunt, you hardly even whimpered.

You watched his brow furrow above you. He tried to go further.

Your folds were as soaked as he’d ever seen a woman’s, your hole practically pulsing with desire, and somehow, he couldn’t push in.

Bucky snagged his lip between his teeth and braced himself with the aid of the headboard, taking your hip in his other hand. A breath sounded on your lips the second he adjusted, and shortly thereafter, he felt your gaze on the same place he was watching: the spot where your bodies were trying to connect.

His features darkened at the prospect of failing, or even appearing incompetent to you in the slightest. He’d done this hundreds of times before, why wouldn’t it work?

When he felt your eyes trail back up his body and study his face—maybe wondering why her new groom hadn’t gotten around to thrusting into her yet, he thought—he felt a swell of panic and pushed.

Against his better judgment and the feel of your body, he muscled his way through and forced his cock inside. Bottoming out in a single, stabbing thrust.

You seized in pain but wanted to be a good wife for him.

Bucky, too, felt his hips stutter at the resistance your walls were giving him, but then remembered how he’d sworn to be a dutiful husband, and kept going.

Together, you stared anywhere but the other’s face and gritted your teeth for two entirely different reasons—you, in agony, and Bucky, in ecstasy, the latter hoping with everything in him that you liked this as much as him.

Bucky took a tender, if not slightly awkward, rhythm rutting against your body and stared steady at the headboard like he always did.

You were in pain and faced with nothing but his hulking chest, moving up and down, back and forth, over and over again like a goddamn seesaw from hell while it felt like your insides were presently being torn to shreds.

Who fucking enjoys this? you wanted to wail, but feigned a moan instead, raking your nails down Bucky’s back, Why isn’t he looking at me? Why isn’t he touching me?

Your walls involuntarily clenched around him, and he swallowed a moan.

Just think of baseball, beer, math, the Roman Empire, anything to keep from busting right now, Bucky told himself as he clenched his jaw and fought to maintain his pace. Your pussy just felt so. fucking. good.

Beneath him, you had tried and failed to fight back tears. The burn was just too much; the longer he thrusted, the more your walls contracted, and confusingly, stupidly, it seemed like he was using you. Your mother was right, most likely, that sex was just a means to an end for men like Bucky, and your husband didn’t care about your pleasure at all. You fought hard to keep the waterworks at bay, that one thing you hadn’t wanted Bucky to see, but eventually, the tears were flowing freely.

You stifled a sob that your husband mistook for a moan.

He fucked you even faster and felt a grin start to twitch at the corners of his lips when you made a sound that seemed consistent with pleasure.

“Feel so fucking tight,” Bucky grunted, about to lower his gaze to your face for the first time since he’d entered you, “So nice and tight and w—hey, hey, baby?”

He stilled inside as soon as he saw that you were crying. Took your face in his hands and almost couldn’t believe the sight of your tear-stained cheeks beneath him.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” he asked, scanning your face for any signs of harm.

You just shook your head and tried to brush him off.

“Keep going, I’m good.”

Bucky seemed angered at the suggestion. He brought your face closer to his and stared almost reproachfully down at you. Then he paused a beat and swiped one of your cheeks with the pad of his thumb.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked.

“N—”

“Don’t lie.”

You squirmed a bit and winced. That was answer enough for Bucky, and he slowly pulled out of you.

“Aw hell.”

The two of you glanced down to see a blooming red spot on the comforter. Bucky rubbed the blood in disbelief.

He’d gone too far. Again. Hurt something inside of you that couldn’t be fixed with a kiss. While you struggled to sit up among the pillows, Bucky was running a hand through his hair and cursing himself up and down.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he scowled.

“I didn’t wanna interrup—”

“If I’m making you bleed, you stop me, for fuck’s sake.”

“Well you seemed to be having a pretty good time!”

Bucky didn’t need to tell you in words what was painted on his face; he was pissed off and probably bound to slip off the bed any second, when your tears started welling up again. Then he eased off, remembering he was more mad at himself than anyone else, and slid closer to you. He tried pulling you into his chest, but you didn’t budge.

“C’mon,” you said, grabbing his wrist, “Let’s keep going.”

Bucky eyed you incredulously.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Uh-huh,” you insisted. He shot you a glare but didn’t protest when you guided his hand between your legs.

You were spread back open for him in no time. Still stinging like hell and ready for another go. Bucky almost couldn’t believe it.

“My headstrong wife.” He managed a smile before kissing the crown of your head, and kept right on kissing that spot no matter how far his fingers were traveling.

“You owe me two orgasms, remember, Mr. Barnes?”

It seemed Bucky’s boastful claims of late were in fact the furthest thing from his mind as he crawled back over your body. He pried your knees apart and left just enough room for his frame, taking his fingers to your folds and rubbing in light, gentle circles.

The bleeding had stopped. What little remained was long forgotten, and duly, the pain from recent memory was slowly but surely purged with every flick of his thumb. Bucky planted an arm next to your head and kept touching you there until your face relaxed completely.

When he chanced a finger inside, he was careful not to rub so much as plunge in quick, shallow motions, and at the first signs of pleasure, press light and tender kisses on your skin.

“If it hurts at all, you tell me.”

He sounded stern as he inserted another finger, but really, the man was all putty in your hands, wanting to please you and tease you in any way that he could.

When you told him faster, he sped up; you gripped his hair and said slow down, he did the same. He curled his digits in time with every whimper and moan you made and took care not to be too harsh on your sweet spot.

The only time he paused was when you looked up and asked him point-blank: could he fuck you sweet and gentle now?

Bucky paused. Swallowed.

The man would’ve screwed you six ways to Sunday if you asked him; that wasn’t the problem. The only traces of hesitation remained where your eyes said something different. Even as he shuffled between your legs at your behest, aligned his cock with your entrance, and felt a wave of desire wash over him, he pressed his forehead to yours and searched your glossy gaze once more.

“You sure about this, bunny?” he murmured.

Your heart melted at the name. You couldn’t deny you were frightened, and perhaps a bit worse for the wear after your last attempt, but his words were a comfort, his hand on your cheek a welcome gesture. When his thumb grazed your lips, you kissed it and nodded.

“Alright sweet girl,” Bucky said, tone laced with affection.

This time, before pressing the head of himself inside, Bucky caught your lips and kissed you softly. Rubbed himself up and down your slit—paying extra attention to your clit—and coated himself completely before trying to penetrate you again.

Your cheeks flushed, and you kissed him harder.

“P-please, Bucky, fuck me,” you murmured against his mouth, eliciting a small grunt from him.

“Yeah? You want your husband’s cock inside you, doll?” He kept the pretense of teasing, but really, he was just trying to make sure you wanted this as badly as he did. By the blissed out look on your face and the soft, ceaseless squelching noises produced by your arousal, he got the message pretty quickly.

He breached your folds with just the tip at first. You both felt your muscles contract. Instead of blindly pushing ahead like he had before, Bucky trained his gaze on your face and watched for any signs of discomfort.

“Everything okay, bunny?” he hummed as he brushed a few strands of hair from your face.

You were half in awe of how attentive he was, and doubly impressed by the stretch that followed—like a pinch, but nothing like the pain you’d felt before. You peered up at your husband and squeezed his shoulders.

“It— it doesn’t hurt this time,” you said, breathless.

Bucky could’ve caved at the sweet, innocent expression alone—like you were pleasantly surprised this hadn’t caused excruciating pain—and his lips moved down to pepper your cheeks with kisses again.

“Doll, I’m so sorry.”

The sounds and sighs of your pleasure beneath him, along with the words telling him it was okay, really, he hadn’t meant to do it, all made him feel even guiltier for having hurt you in the first place. It took him some time assailing your face with tiny, apologetic kisses before he even thought to feed you another inch.

When he finally plunged himself deeper, it wasn’t without your express permission; even then, Bucky feared he might split you in two.

The whole time he eased himself inside, he was moving his gaze between your face and the place between your two bodies—watching you open for him and take him inch by inch. He rubbed his thumb over your clit when you whimpered.

“Doing so good for me.”

“Stretching so nice for this cock.”

“My beautiful, beautiful wife.”

Every syllable of his praises flooded your head like honey. Feeling him stretch you out, fill you up, and rock you softly with his first shallow thrusts, all while talking you through it, had your mind ablaze and near-euphoric.

Pleasure practically searing your veins, you didn’t even hear yourself, or really mean to say it, as soon as you did.

“This doesn’t feel dirty at all.”

An epiphany to you and a puzzle to Bucky.

“What’s’at, honey?” He was still rutting his hips and slowly picking up speed. Your husband groaned when you clenched around him and pulled him even deeper—before you realized what you’d said.

Your cheeks flushed.

“I— I was always told sex made you dirty. This feels—” you stopped to swallow a moan when Bucky grazed a particularly sensitive spot inside you, “pretty nice.”

‘Pretty nice.’ Your husband couldn’t help the smile twitching at the corners of his lips as he leaned down to kiss you. He wrapped his big, muscly arms around you and pulled you closer to his chest.

“Makes you dirty?” Bucky said, disbelief evident in his tone before his smile broke into a grin, “Baby, you’re the cleanest, sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He didn’t let you endeavor to protest, just buried his face in your neck and pressed teasing kisses all over the skin while he continued to pump in and out of you. He knew to keep hitting that spot, too.

You were drowning in whimpers and kisses when Bucky brought his lips to your ear.

“Doesn’t make you dirty at all,” he assured you, “Just makes you my wife.”

You clawed Bucky’s back when he sped up a little, and you felt the pleasure soar to even greater heights when he propped your legs above his shoulders—a brand new angle for him to bend you like a pretzel and fuck you good.

“You take this cock too nice to be dirty,” he gritted his teeth and continued to soothe you just how he knew you liked it, “Such a good little wife, sucking up every inch of me like you were made for it.”

Your lips parted in a soft ‘o,’ feeling him plunge the depths of your cunt like he never had before. Bucky slipped his thumb in your mouth while he held your face.

“That what you are, bunny? A good girl?”

You nodded your head and sucked his thumb, feeling yourself fucked dumb as you did. Bucky loved that blissed out look in your eyes.

“Good girl for daddy?” he cooed.

Your ankles trembled around his neck as soon as he said it. You nodded again, yes, you were, and felt a light coil start to form in your lower stomach as Bucky kept pounding you and pushing his thumb between your lips.

Then, with a pop, he plucked the digit from your mouth and brought it down to your clit. He started soft at first, but before long he was rubbing vicious circles on that little bundle of nerves, watching you come undone before his eyes and clench around him even tighter.

“B-Bucky,” you whined, fisting the sheets underneath you both as you squirmed.

“Mhmm?” Your husband pretended to be oblivious.

“I w— I’m gonna—” The words could scarcely leave your lips without finding themselves punctured with a whimper as soon as they were spoken. Bucky thrusted harder.

“Gonna what? Cum for daddy?” he grinned, “Make a mess all over this cock?”

Your moans of pleasure more than sufficed for an answer. You nodded and winced, felt your whole lower half seize with a warm and heady feeling, and before you knew it, Bucky’s thrusts were sending you spiraling over the edge, with a wave of bliss following shortly behind. Sounds of skin slapping skin hardly faltered, and Bucky kept rubbing and fucking you all throughout the waves of your high.

Tears sprung to your eyes, and you didn’t care. Your mind was alight with more bright, fervid feelings than you could count or comprehend, and your body washed over with pleasure.

You clung to Bucky and felt him keep fucking you, even as you shrieked against his skin.

“One more for me, honey.”

You didn’t think that was possible. You had just spilled all over him, squeezing his cock like a vice and screaming his name, and now he wanted it all over again? So soon?

Your fingernails sunk into his arms as he continued to rut into you, and you started to shake your head.

“C-Can’t Bucky, I can’t, I can’t,” you sobbed, tears still streaming down your cheeks.

“Sure you can.”

Your husband had his mouth at your ear again, panting as the pace of his thrusts grew faster. He tilted his body slightly forward so your legs were pushed even higher above you—damn near grazing either side of your head—and pounded you relentlessly.

His voice seemed so calm and assured as he spoke,

“Cum for daddy. Show me just how fucking good this cock makes you feel and cum again for me.”

With a command like that, how could you refuse?

You came a second time, hands seizing Bucky's forearms, and screams tearing through your chest as you rode your high impaled on his cock over and over again. The sights and sounds and repeated, pulsing spasms of your pussy on his shaft sent Bucky chasing his release not long after, and you felt a warmth spread inside you.

Your eyes were filled to the brim with tears, your cheeks practically drenched already. As you came down from your high, you started to blink.

But just as you lifted a hand to sop up the moisture, Bucky was leaning over you and into you with the brightest smile. Then he was kissing each wet, salty stain like it was the most natural thing in the world, sponging soft and gentle touches all over the spots your tears had overflown.

It seemed every nerve ending in your lower half was on the fritz, your body little more than mush underneath him, but somehow you managed to catch his mouth as he traversed the skin. You kissed him back, and Bucky drew you closer.

The two of you separated for a second, Bucky’s cock still resting comfortably inside you and his broad frame engulfing you in bed. He paused a beat. Seemed to consider something in his mind before speaking aloud.

“Honey,” he started, unsure of how he wanted to say this.

You peered up at him, curious. His seed had filled every contour and crevice of your aching walls and was just then starting to dribble out of you. Bucky seemed unfazed. He cupped both hands around your face.

“I love you.”

You blinked. No fucking way you were hearing those words.

“What?” You felt too awestruck to say anything else.

“I love you,” Bucky repeated. A smile was starting to tug at his lips, his thumb tracing your cheek while you stared at him in disbelief.

You would’ve liked to speak.

Would’ve loved to say those three little words right back.

In fact, you had just opened your mouth to tell him that, when a sound at the foot of the bed startled you both.

The warm glow of moonlight pouring in from the window panes was your only means to see it. But sight wasn’t worth much at all when a man appeared and pressed the barrel of a gun to Bucky’s temple, letting out a chuckle.

Another man, clad head-to-toe in polished black tactical gear approached from the far end of the room. Bucky gritted his teeth but remained motionless, hearing that man cock his firearm as well. You were surrounded on either side of the bed. Your blood ran cold.

“Sorry to interrupt the fun, Mr. Barnes,” the man on the left spoke so low and gruff he could scarcely be heard.

When Bucky started to stir, the man on the right raised his pistol as well. Curled his finger on the trigger.

“We haven’t even met your beautiful bride.” A set of cruel, glinting teeth turned in your direction. Suddenly, all eyes were trained on you—along with a third handgun, pointed at your head, as another man approached.

“Wedded bliss treating you well so far, Mrs. Barnes?”

[jobean12-blog]

Sunshine

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Word Count: 6.4K

Summary: It's a beautiful day that turns even more beautiful when you run into the most handsome man you've ever seen...and the grumpiest. Will his good looks be enough for you to stick around and get to know him?

Author's Note: I love a grumpy!Bucky and a reader who just won't give up on him! Kind of sunshine/grumpy trope with enemies/lovers mixed in a little too. This was fun to write and I hope you enjoy! Thank you so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy 🥰

Warnings: fun, flirty tension, a tiny bit of angst, grumpy!bucky, fluffy sweetness too

Waiting in line at your favorite coffee shop is always worth it and today, after a restless night, you really need the extra boost. Even though you’re behind schedule the stop is a necessity and despite the busy morning rush the line is moving quickly but apparently not fast enough for the person behind you who lets out a loud and frustrated huff.

Trying to be discrete you turn and look out of the corner of your eye.

The sight of him strikes you in a way you’re not prepared for.

Then the barista calls your name. You blink, dazed but thankfully able to recover well enough to give the barista a warm smile and thanks.

As you grab your napkins and gather your things you can’t help but steal glances at the man. He’s tall and broad shouldered, wearing a leather jacket that shows his biceps shaping the fabric, his long legs are clad in well fitted dark denim, and he’s the perfect mix of masculinity and male beauty.

His brooding expression doesn’t falter as he retrieves his drink order, but he does say ‘thank you’ and to your continued surprise, ‘excuse me,’ to whomever he passes.

With one last longing glance you head for the door, walking out into the sunshine and crossing the street to your favorite bench to enjoy your coffee before work.

You’re focused on your phone while you sip slowly so at first you don’t notice the dark shadow looming over you. But the rumbly and gruff voice startles you.

“You’re in my seat.”

You look up, shielding your eyes from the sun to see nothing more than a large shadow.

“What?” you ask, feeling discombobulated.

The shadow shifts and your eyes widen when you see the man from the coffee shop, his glower ferocious despite your now big smile.

“This is your seat?...It’s a whole bench.”

“Yeah…well.”

You look at the open space next to you and offer out a hand. “There’s more than enough room for both of us.”

His eyes narrow but he sits.

“I’ve never seen you here before,” you say brightly.

“I’m here almost every day,” he answers.

You keep your smile in place.

“Well, I’m running late so that must be why I haven’t seen you before.”

“Then why are you sitting on this bench talking to me?” he asks.

You bristle inwardly but your smile doesn’t falter.

“I still have time. I usually get in early, so it won’t be a problem.”

He stares at you, the breeze catching his scent and blowing it your way.

You try not to inhale, focusing on the fact that he’s super grumpy instead of the fact that he’s super hot and smells really good.

“I enjoy sitting out in the sunshine. It helps me feel grounded before I really start the day.”

The words tumble out unprompted but under his narrowed gaze you find yourself feeling less confident than usual.

He just “hmphs” in response and looks away, taking a sip of his drink.

“You say you sit here every day so what’s with all the…” and you motion to him, “grumpy? Is the sunshine not good enough for you?”

He turns your way again, lips pressed together but his eyes flaring with surprise. Before he can respond his phone rings. He looks at the screen with another mild puff of air then swipes his thumb over it.

“Wilson,” he says gruffly.

His voice drops low, and you look down at your phone, trying not to listen. Most of the conversation on his part is a series of grunts and mumbled responses so it’s hard to follow anyway.

After hanging up he stands abruptly and looks down at you, his gaze lingering before he gives you a barely perceptible nod of acknowledgement and starts to walk off.

You yell after him, “I hope you find some sunshine!”

He doesn’t turn around but you’re sure you see his steps falter for just a second.

It’s only after you finish your drink that you stand and start the short walk to work, surprised to catch sight of the grumpy stranger across the street at the local VA, squatting down in front of an older man with a dog.

The grumpiness is gone, replaced by a warm smile that crinkles his eyes. All the air goes out of your lungs.

He looks up at that moment, noticing you stopped in the middle of the sidewalk across the street. His smile fades and you drop your head, speed walking away.

It’s Saturday morning and you’re standing outside the bakery, texting your friend to get their donut order. The door opens and you barely have time to register the whiff of familiar scent that floats by you when you look up and lock eyes with Mr. Grumpy himself.

You smile in greeting.

“You,” he answers.

Your grin widens. “Me. What are the chances? Your favorite bench stealer!”

He sighs heavily and glances back at the door to the bakery before pinning you with his stare again.

Now that the sun isn’t shining in your eyes you have a better chance to see the color of his. They’re blue. A gorgeous ocean colored blue framed by long, dark, and thick lashes.

His attention strays down your body and you feel tingles everywhere his eyes touch.

“Here for something sweet?” you ask.

He never gets the chance to answer because a man comes up behind him and grabs his shoulder, giving him a slight shove to move in front and say hi.

“Barnes! Aren’t you going to introduce me to your beautiful friend here?”

You smile warmly.

“Sam. Sam Wilson,” the friend says in introduction.

“Hi Sam!” you greet and give him your name.

“Barnes didn’t tell me he made a new friend,” Sam says.

“Barnes?” you repeat.

You direct your question to Mr. Grumpy whose been standing there silently murdering Sam with his eyes since he appeared.

Sam smiles triumphantly. “This here is James, but his friends call him Bucky.”

“Hi Bucky. Nice to officially meet you!”

Your tone is light and airy, and you wave.

“Hey,” Bucky answers, then turns to Sam. “Let’s go, the guys are looking forward to these donuts.”

“Is he always this grumpy?” you ask Sam.

Silence falls between you all, but it only lasts a moment, broken then by Sam’s loud cackle.

“Oh, I like her already!” Sam says.

Ignoring your comment-and Sam’s-Bucky repeats, “let’s go Wilson!”

Sam returns the favor, ignoring Bucky and focusing on you. “You should come down and visit us at the VA sometime. He’s never grumpy around the guys.”

“So just me then?” you ask with a laugh.

“That’s just because he thinks you’re beautiful,” Sam winks.

You steal a glance at Bucky and note the slight pink color that paints his cheeks.

“It was nice meeting you Sam. And you too Bucky.”

With those last words and a smile, you skirt past them and walk into the bakery. After placing your order you’re shocked to find Bucky standing at the pickup counter, hands in his pockets and shuffling on his feet.

“Miss me already?” you tease.

He doesn’t answer and instead hands you a business card. You take it and look down, reading the information for the VA and Bucky’s name.

“Thanks,” you say, meeting his eyes again and noting the pink still coating his cheeks.

He doesn’t answer but you think you see his lips lift into what might be a small smile before he casually strolls off.

His jeans are molded perfectly to his perfect ass, and you sigh.

“Are you going to go visit him?” Diana asks through a mouthful of donut.

“Nah,” you answer.

Diana’s eyes bug out of her head with a gasp.

“Um you said he was insanely hot. I don’t’ get it. You don’t NOT go visit.”

“You do if he’s a grumpy jerk.”

Diana laughs. “Maybe he needs to eat more of these donuts!”

You roll your eyes. “He had a whole box of them. He was with his friend Sam who was also hot. I should go visit him.”

“Ohhh make Mr. Grumpy jealous. I like it.”

You shove the card into your bag and grab a donut.

“I think we need more donuts for this day,” you retort.

After a long donut filled debate with Diana you decide to make the call to the VA office. To your happy surprise Sam answers.

“Hi Sam,” you say and tell him your name, thrilled he remembers you.

“I was just thinking I’d like to bring some treats down to the office this week. Is there anything in particular I should get?”

You can practically hear Sam’s smile through the phone. He rattles off some orders and then tells you the days and times that would work. When you hang up you feel lighter just knowing you could do something kind.

You’ve never been in the VA building before even though you’ve passed by it many times. The interior is warm and inviting and has a large walnut desk and matching benches nearby.

At the sight of the benches, you laugh to yourself, wondering if Bucky claimed these seats too.

“Hey.”

You barely catch the quiet greeting but look up to see Bucky standing by a doorway. You suddenly feel hyperalert, every inch of your sensitive tingling and awake. You almost forgot how gorgeous he is, his light blue henley fitted around his broad chest and his dark jeans showing off those long and muscular legs.

Your heart flutters as he crosses the hallway, hard expression on his face, before he stares down at the box of donuts.

“You can’t eat them all!”

He gives you a quelling look, though you’re sure you catch a hint of amusement in his eyes.

“I can actually,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone, “but when I’m here I share.”

“What if I want one?” you ask, feeling brave and maybe a little flirtatious.

It takes him a moment to answer as he holds you under his keen regard, sweeping his gaze down your body before it lingers on your lips and finally returns to your eyes.

“Maybe,” he grumbles, then turns on his heel. “Follow me.”

You enter a room with tables and chairs set up and one long counter and cabinets in the back where you see a coffee machine, refrigerator, and small microwave.

“Do you have a favorite?”

His question surprises you and it takes you a minute to realize he’s referring to the donuts.

“OH, yeah definitely. The Bavarian cream is the best!”

“Hm,” he replies.

He doesn’t indulge you with his favorite, so you decide to ask.

“What about you?”

“Glazed,” he says, then adds, “with sprinkles.”

You stare at him for a beat then a laugh bursts out of you.

“I was not expecting the sprinkles!”

You’re too busy laughing to notice his smile.

“Well, I’ll keep that in mind for the next time I visit,” you tell him when you finally catch your breath.

“You want to come back?” he asks, eyes narrowed.

You don’t have a chance to answer because Sam enters the room with a boisterous greeting.

“There you are!” he says. “So glad you stopped by to see us.”

“And I brought donuts!”

“Perfect,” Sam says, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

You look back at Bucky as Sam leads you out of the room. “Don’t eat any of those!”

Bucky’s scoff is the last thing you hear before you step out into the hallway.

After Sam gives you a tour you meet some of the veterans while you share donuts. It’s wonderful to talk with them and make them laugh and you’re happy you made the visit.

Right before you leave you run into Bucky who’s hovering over the last of the box of donuts.

“Slim pickings huh?” you say as you look into the mostly empty box.

“Yeah,” he huffs with a scowl.

“Lucky for you,” you say and open the cabinet above your head, “I stashed one in here earlier before we gave them out.”

You pull out the paper plate and take the napkin off to reveal a glazed donut with colored sprinkles.

He studies you in such a way that your thighs press tightly together in reaction. His expression is irritatingly unreadable as your eyes meet again.

He shifts as if he’s uncomfortable, an awkward silence hanging between you, before he blurts out, “thanks doll.”

His expression morphs into one of surprise and it matches yours, but you recover quickly enough with a warm smile.

“You’re welcome Bucky. Thanks for having me.”

You’re just getting situated with your book on the couch, rain pelting the window outside, when your phone rings.

Sam’s name lights up the screen and you answer with an excited, “Ghostbusters, whaddya want?”

The silence your met with is unexpected as you were hoping for one of Sam’s bright laughs.

“Tell me that’s not how you answer your phone normally.”

At Bucky’s weary comment your smile falls. “Bucky? I thought it was Sam?”

“You sound disappointed,” he points out.

“Only because you seem bothered by my amazing phone answering skills. I’m sorry that one got lost on you. Sam would have loved it.”

“So, if you knew it was me calling what would have said?” he asks.

“Uh…hello?”

“Uh hello?”

“No…just, hell, ugh! Why are you calling me from Sam’s phone.”

Silence again.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah…I didn’t have your number and wasn’t sure you’d answer if I called from mine so…”

“Ok,” you say. “And now that you have mine just text me and I’ll have yours.”

He’s quiet again before he continues in a rush of words.

“So, we’re having our annual fundraiser gala soon and Sam mentioned that you said you’d like to volunteer more, and we could use some help planning.”

“I’m definitely interested,” you cheer. “When should I come by?”

You get all the information you need from Bucky and then hang up, his conversation stilted when you started getting more excited and telling him that you were looking forward to working with him and helping. He hung up with a mumbled goodbye and never text you to give you his number.

It makes your thoughts of his disinterest solidify and you try to let it go and focus on the good you’ll be doing.

The week moves slowly but when Friday comes around you feel the same lightness from the last time you visited the VA. It gives you renewed energy, and you open the door with a smile, searching for the familiar face of Sam or Bucky.

You don’t see either of them, so you head down the hallway to the small dining room. Sam is at the front by one of the windows. He waves, pointing to his phone to signal he’ll be right off, and Bucky is at the counter.

He turns to face you, and you walk over.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hiya doll,” he answers.

Confusion washes over you at his sweet endearment, but you push it down and focus on what he’s holding.

“More donuts!” you exclaim.

“We always have them,” he says lightly. “I got you a Bavarian.”

At your silence you feel his eyes on you, and you drag them away from the perfectly powdered and filled deliciousness in the box.

“Why didn’t you text me?” you ask without thinking.

“What?” he says, his brow furrowed.

“You never text me to give me your number.”

His attention never leaves you, his gaze drifting from your head down to your feet. When he reaches your face again he stares and pulls his phone from his back pocket.

“Can I have your number?” he asks quietly.

“Sure,” you say and take his phone to program it in.

“Thanks,” he says.

“And thank you for my donut,” you finally say. “That was really thoughtful.”

He nods and grabs a glazed before motioning for you to follow him. The rest of the day is spent pouring over invites and food orders as well as any little detail that needs to be squared away before the event.

Most of the time it’s you, Sam and Bucky seated at a table, but Sam leaves occasionally to take a phone call or manage something in the office.

During the down time you learn more about Bucky, asking questions and mostly getting abridged but not unfriendly answers. He seems genuinely interested in what you have to say and that, again, confuses you more as to his intentions-if he has any at all.

Once the sun has set and you’re worn out you help them clean up then gather your things.

“How are you getting home?” Sam asks as you walk together to the door.

“I think I’m gonna walk,” you tell him.

Bucky makes a sound of disapproval behind you.

“What?” you turn and ask.

“It’s late,” he states.

“And?” you answer.

“It’s not safe.”

“I appreciate your concern but after sitting most of the afternoon I want to walk.”

“I’ll walk with you.”

At Bucky’s statement both you and Sam give him a wide-eyed look.

“You don’t have to do that,” you tell Bucky.

“Nah, he’s right,” Sam chimes in. “He should go with you. I would offer but I’m in the opposite direction.”

Sam tries to hide his smirk, but it’s written all over his face, so you just smile and accept Bucky’s kind and gentlemanly offer.

“Just gimme a sec. I want to grab something from my bike.”

“Bike?” you murmur as you track his movement toward a sleek black motorcycle parked at the curb.

Holy shit.

He doesn’t say a word as he walks back toward you.

“I didn’t know you had a motorcycle,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says while running a hand through his hair. “You know…easier in the city.”

“Smart and badass. It’s beautiful.”

That’s when he smiles at you, a real smile, for the very first time.

You nearly swoon.

“Yeah?” He looks boyishly pleased about your reaction.

You nod and give the bike one last look before you fall into step beside him. You chat about everything from the upcoming event to how he met Sam and even find out more about his motorcycle. He’s more open and comfortable and indulges you with more details about anything you ask.

As you pass by a bar a large crowd of young people come out, clearly drunk and rowdy as they sway and swerve as a mass toward you.

Bucky links your fingers together and deftly slides you out of harms way. Your skin tingles, little sparks of feeling shooting up your arm and it’s all you can concentrate on until the group passes by and continues down the street in a clamor.

“They seem like they’re having fun,” you giggle. “Thanks for the save there.”

The corner of his mouth starts to tilt upward and then he remembers he has a hold on your hand and his eyes drop and widen and he quickly let’s go, clearing his throat and mumbling, “no problem.”

“Did you ever go out like that and get wild?” you ask after a beat, hoping to lighten the mood again.

“Who me?” he asks and blows a raspberry. “Nah. I’m not really into big crowds much.”

“Then you should really enjoy the gala next week,” you say wryly.

“Right?” he answers. “If it weren’t for such a good cause and important to me, I’d skip it all together and stay behind the scenes.”

“Well at least you’ll have Sam!” you say in support.

“Actually…he’s usually caught up in everything since I leave all the talking and canoodling to him.”

“Canoodling,” you repeat and cover your mouth to stifle your laughter.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I can’t imagine you not wanting to canoodle.”

Your delivery drips with sarcasm, and he throws you another killer smile.

He has the sexiest smile ever. Of course he does. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t smile a lot, because of its killer effect? Or is he really just Mr. Grumpy? One or the other.

When you reach your apartment you walk toward the double doors, thanking him for walking you home. Searching for your keys in your bag you end up dropping your phone, bending to pick it up at the same time Bucky does.

You bump heads and he immediately apologizes and rests his hand gently on your forehead.

“You ok?” he asks, rubbing his thumb soothingly.

“Yeah,” you say, slightly breathless.

His gaze drops to your lips and lingers before coming back to your eyes.

“Hey um…” he starts, those beautiful blue eyes studying you, sweeping over your features, as if tallying every little detail he finds.

“Yeah?” you ask, giving him a sweet and reassuring smile.

“Uh, thanks, for the help today. I’ll see you soon.”

You deflate at his quick departure; telling him it was “your pleasure and you’ll see him later.”

You’re not even to your apartment door when your phone chimes. You retrieve it from your pocket and see Bucky’s name on the screen.

You open the text and nearly drop your phone again.

'Do you want to be my date to the fund raiser?'

Like sunshine bursting through a cloud, you feel butterflies erupt in your stomach, a fluttery warning that you’re way in over your head.

“What are you going to wear?” Diana asks as you stand in front of your closet.

“I have no idea!” you sigh. “I asked for a dress code, and he said ‘formal’…and that’s it. Then I asked what he was wearing, and he said, ‘a tux.’”

“Not very chatty, is he?” she mutters.

You shrug at stare at your closet that has nothing appropriate in it.

“Looks like we’re going shopping,” Diana says as she jumps off the bed and grabs her bag. “Come on, we’re gonna find you something that will knock his socks off.”

Bucky picks you up in a town car, and you smile graciously as he opens the door for you, your internal nerves wild as you wait for his reaction to your appearance.

Unfortunately, his reaction isn’t worth the nerves because he stares blankly at you before giving you an abrupt nod of greeting.

All the while you try not to drool over him in a tux.

When you arrive inside you can’t hide your beaming smile. It looks beautiful. All the details having come together perfectly to create an elegant yet comfortable atmosphere.

“You’re really doing wonderful work here,” you tell Bucky.

He holds out his arm for you and smiles. “Thanks doll.”

“You’re here!”

You turn at the familiar voice. Sam hurries over and takes you in.

“Wow,” he says, raising his brows. “Lucky man Barnes.”

He claps Bucky on the shoulder. “Enjoy yourselves. I’ll be around if you need me.”

Bucky places his hand on your lower back and leads you across the room to the table. Your breath catches at the sensation of his hand on your bare skin, but you try to shake it off.

His hand presses deeper into your back, and you follow his guide. People greet him and he says hello, but he doesn’t stop to chat.

“Shouldn’t you be taking the time to talk with these people?” you ask.

“Probably,” he says as he pulls out your chair.

You snort because he sounds like he couldn’t care less.

You’re the first people at the table and you stare at the fancy centerpiece.

“It really does look amazing in here.”

Bucky glances over it all, bemused.

“It does. I guess it’s necessary.”

“What do you mean,” you ask.

“I come to these events for Sam and the veterans. I want to raise money and help but if it were up to me it would all be quiet and low key. This kind of socializing isn’t my first choice.”

Turning to study his handsome face, you smile. “Is any kind of socializing your choice?”

He throws you a dark but amused look. “You’re funny”

You hold back more laughter and touch his knee, giving it a soft squeeze. His eyes meet yours and you swallow around the sudden sensation of your racing heart.

Needing to break the intense eye contact, you turn to observe the room, noting that more people are heading to their tables.

You spot Sam talking to a lovely woman and you feel Bucky’s smile.

“Sam likes her,” Bucky says quietly.

“Who is she?” you ask in a whisper.

He leans into you, his breath tickling your cheek as he murmurs, “the daughter of one of our veterans. They’ve met a few times, and I can tell he’s totally taken with her.”

You turn your head slightly, bringing your faces just inches apart. “She’s lovely. I’m sure she likes him too.”

His attention moves from Sam to you, and his eyes narrow as he realizes how close you are. But he doesn’t move back. Instead, he searches your eyes.

Your heartbeat skips and you’re almost afraid to breathe.                      

Needing to break the tension once again, you wrench your gaze away and find Sam shooting you a quick glance.

“I have the sudden urge to run over there and embarrass him,” you say with a devious smile.

Bucky’s answer is to move away but only because he throws his head back in laughter.

“I’d pay to see that,” he replies, mischief dancing in his eyes.

Before long, your table is filled, and Bucky introduces you to the people he knows. The older couple sitting nearest to you is just smitten with both you and Bucky, peppering you with questions and hanging on your every word.

They tell you their life story too, how they found each other and fell in love and have been together ever since. It warms you and you give his thigh another squeeze under the table.

He places his hand over yours and brushes his thumb across your knuckles.

The food comes and you turn his way, lightly tugging on your hand.

“I need that to eat,” you giggle.

“Oh, right,” he says with one more sweep of his thumb before he releases you with a soft expression.

The food is delicious, and you find yourself smiling between every bite.

“You two look like you’re having a good time.”

Bucky stiffens next to you, and you wait for his move before following his gaze to the older woman standing behind you.

“Don’t you look handsome as always James,” she comments then flits her eyes to you but doesn’t say anything more.

Bucky smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Mrs. Whitman. How are you?”

“Fine, just fine. Now I need to steal you away for a moment.”

Bucky’s eyes lift over Mrs. Whitman’s shoulder and his lips turn down in a frown.

“I can’t, sorry Mrs. Whitman. I’m here with someone.”

He looks at you and smiles.

Mrs. Whitman sighs, clearly annoyed.

“You can’t spare just a moment?” she pleads, trying to appear genuine.

“Sorry,” Bucky says as kindly as he can.

Without a goodbye she huffs off and you wait until she’s far enough away before looking at Bucky. His frown melts away as your gazes lock.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Her husband was a veteran, and he recently passed. She’s been trying to set me up with her daughter since, but I’m not interested.”

“I hope I didn’t cause you any trouble,” you tell him.

“No. Not at all doll. She can be rude sometimes, but I think she’s just struggling with grief and doesn’t know what to do with herself. I feel bad, but like I said. I’m really not interested.”

You smile reassuringly then excuse yourself to the bathroom, needing a little air. When you return, you see Bucky hasn’t moved from his seat and his gaze is zeroed in on the hallway to the bathroom.

As you cross the room toward him, his eyes drift down your body. His gaze lingers on your bare shoulders and the sway of your hips and by the time you reach the table, you need another restroom break to cool off.

He doesn’t move out of the way, so you have to brush up against him to sit back down. When your eyes meet, his are heated. You stare at each other, the music and chatter around you fading away.

The lovely old woman next to you breaks you out the haze when she asks where the restroom is. You point her in the right direction, telling her you’ll happily escort her, but she refuses kindly and slowly makes her way through the crowd.

Once she’s safely down the hallway, you look away and find yourself staring at Bucky. His face is close.

Too close.

Or maybe just close enough depending on how you look at it.

His eyes search yours and you ignore the rushing in your ears as you close the distance between you and gently brush your lips over his.

Your mouth tingles from the brief touch as you pull away.

He scowls hard at your mouth, but you’re not sure if it’s because you kissed him or because you barely kissed him.

“What…?” he starts to ask roughly, but a loud banging at the front of the room, startles you and pulls your attention away.

Sam stands at a small podium, a smile on his face as he greets everyone.

Nice timing Sam.

‘How’s work today?’

You smile at you phone and Bucky’s name on the screen.

‘It’s going…’ you type back. ‘How about you? I know you said your day was going to be busy.’

‘Up and down. We made some really good progress with one of our veterans today, but we lost one of our oldest members to cancer.’

‘Oh Bucky. I’m sorry it’s been a tough day. Do you need anything? I can come by on my lunch break.’

‘Thank you doll, I appreciate it. But it’s unfortunately something I’ve gotten used to. Comes with the territory.’

‘I’m here if you need anything.’

‘Thanks.’

You’re just clearing your desk at the end of the day when your phone rings. You smile at the sight of Bucky’s name, and you’re not surprised considering you’d received a text to inform you that your delivery had been successfully made.

“Hey,” you greet.

“Hey.” His voice is low, a little hoarse. He clears his throat. “You sent me donuts.’

You grin at how confused he sounds. “I did and cookies.”

In fact, you sent him a dozen glazed- with sprinkles of course- donuts and a box full of assorted cookies from your usual favorite bakery.

“I wanted you to have a little treat after a long day. I know you might be used to it but that doesn’t mean it isn’t hard on you.”

He’s quiet so long you have a horrible feeling that you may have crossed a line. But then he speaks.

“Thank you doll. I really appreciate it.”

You smile and try to quell the butterflies dancing around your stomach. “You’re welcome!”

“I’ve never had so many glazed donuts to myself!” There’s a teasing tone to his confession.

“But you have to share the cookies!” you tell him, trying to sound stern.

“Yeah, I’ll do my best,” he laughs. “But really, thank you.”

“It was nothing,” you say trying to shake off the giddy feeling he’s giving you with a shrug he can’t see.

His voice is gravelly when he promises, “it’s not nothing to me.”

You teeter on your feet. “Well, I’m glad it cheered you up a little. I’m just heading out of work so…”

“So, I’ll let you go.”

Did you hear a smile in his voice?

“I’ll see you this weekend for Sam’s BBQ?”

“Yes! Looking forward to it,” you say.

“Great doll, see you then and I am too.”

With that, he hangs up and you stand at your desk and try to slow the rapid beating of your heart.

Bucky picks you up on his bike and you’re barely ashamed at how excited you are to ride with him.

He revs the engine when he pulls up at the curb where you’re standing and settles the bike with his leg on the sidewalk.

“No helmet?” you ask with a wave.

He sucks in a breath and his eyes are glued to your legs.

“Wrong outfit?” you say as you track his gaze. “I can go…”

“Nope,” he says quickly.

He hops off the bike and offers a hand to help you get on, squeezing his eyes closed when you get close to him and your shoulder brushes against his chest.

“Are you ok?” you ask him, looking up into his blue eyes.

“Yep. All good,” he says, voice strained.

You narrow your eyes at his sharp tone but take his offered hand and help onto the bike. Once you’re wrapped around him and pressed to his back you lean up and say, “what’s going on? You seem grumpy today?”

“Nothing,” he replies before revving the engine and pulling away from the curb.

It doesn’t take long to get to Sam’s and when you arrive Bucky parks his bike and hops off lithely and you wait for him to offer his hand to help you off.

To your surprise he takes you by the waist and lifts you off the bike in one easy movement. Your body is plastered to his as your feet slide to the ground.

You shiver at the contact.

“You cold?” He frowns at you.

“Nope,” you answer, looking away and straightening the bottom of your dress.

Over his shoulder you see Sam walking your way.

“There you two are!” he yells.

You wave and smile.

“You look gorgeous as always,” Sam says.

Sam leads the way to the backyard and Bucky places a hand at your lower back. Your brain fritzes and it’s all you can think about as you walk through the yard saying hello to people as you pass.

When you reach Sarah, Sam’s sister, you greet her with a warm hello, having met her once before at the VA. Bucky joins in the conversation, his fingers still warmly pressed into your skin when he starts to draw little circles on your lower back.

You suck in a breath and trip over your words and then he splays his palm and slides it around to your hip, drawing you into his side.

Your heart stops.

Sarah doesn’t seem to notice or if she does she doesn’t make it known and when Sam calls for her help she rushes off with a promise to come back and chat after.

“You seem to be in a better mood now that we’re here,” you say as you turn your eyes to Bucky.

His eyebrows draw in. “I…you look gorgeous.”

Your lips part and your mouth falls open.

“You always do. You did at the fund raiser. You do today. It’s just…I’m not good at…”

He trails off, his words dying on his lips and his cheeks turning your favorite shade of pink.

His words fill you with relief and you swear that it’s the lingering heat of that barely there kiss from the gala that you can’t seem to forget because the next thing you know you’re grabbing him by the front of his shirt and pulling his lips down to yours.

You intend it to be a quick kiss, but he brings one of his hands to the back of your neck and the other presses deep into your back as he takes over. Your small gasp turns into a moan, and it ignites him. He deepens the kiss, hungry and desperate and it sets every inch of you on fire.

“Uh, there are children present.”

Sam’s voice cuts through the moment like a bucket of cold water and you move back. Bucky’s hand flexes at the back of your neck as if to stop you from moving away from him. You breathe hard and state at each other.

Best. Kiss. Of. Your. Life.

Bucky appears dazed enough for you to believe maybe it was for him too.

The party around you comes back to life and Sam’s broad smile fills your vision. He claps Bucky hard on the back. “I knew ya had it you Barnes!”

Sam saunters off with some extra pep to his step and you watch him walk back into the house. Bucky’s fingers close around yours and he tugs you away from the crowd.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer but just holds tightly to your hand until you reach a small garden enclosed by a low white fence. At the back there’s a wrought iron bench just big enough for two.

“This is so pretty,” you whisper as he walks you through the garden.

When you reach the bench he turns your way.

“You’re really going to share the bench with me?” you ask playfully.

His answer is to lift his hand to cup your jaw, his eyes dropping to your mouth. You hold your breath as he leans in. The first contact he makes is just a brush of his lips over yours. The briefest sweep.

“I’m sorry I was such an ass that first day we met,” he whispers against your lips. “I was having a rough day but it’s no excuse.”

“It’s ok,” you breathe out. “I forgive you.”

He does it again. Sweeps his lips along yours and you hear the quietest moan escape his throat as he leans in closer, pressing his soft, strong mouth to yours and taking your top lip between his.

With a smile forming against your mouth, he tilts his head and kisses you with a heat that rivals the one only minutes ago. His free hand slides around your waist and smooths along the curve of your spine, dragging you up against his body.

Without an audience he kisses you long enough to have you pulling back for need of air.

“Bucky,” you whisper, grabbing his biceps for support.

“I really am sorry,” he murmurs.

“You’re good at that.”

“At what?” he asks, distracted by your mouth again.

“Kissing.”

He hums. “That’s only because I’m kissing you. And I plan to keep kissing you. For as long as you’ll let me.”

“Forever sounds good,” you whisper at the feel of his lips hovering over yours.

“Won’t be long enough but it’s a start doll.”

[zulas-world]

🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

[simmerandwrite]

electric touch (part 2)

Pairing: Bucky x medical team! reader

Summary: Getting a spot on the field medical team was your dream. And your closest work friend Bucky Barnes finally asking you out? That was the cherry on top of your good news. Now all you had to do was pass your training week. Seems easy enough until you’re faced with someone who doesn’t want to see you win.

Warnings: abuse of power, verbal abuse, physical assault, some PTSD (but none of these are because of Bucky!!!!)

Wordcount: 8.5k

Part 1

Notes: WELP, sorry for the delay on this one. I've never rewritten so many scenes before (I have about 2k worth of trash from this part). thank you so much for your patience and for reading and reblogging part 1. hope you enjoy!!! <3

--

You didn’t anticipate the first-time seeing Bucky’s apartment would be like this: after two hours spent at a private clinic in Midtown, getting an x-ray then a consultation with a Dr. Alvarez, followed by the application of a cast. Then there was a visit from Tony Stark himself, alongside Pepper Potts, who carried a great amount of apologies and offered support for whatever the next steps ended up being.

Not once did you think you would be sneaking into the Tower through a back elevator, arm resting in a sling, shuffling your feet quietly beside Bucky as you ventured to his apartment, and feeling somehow both on edge and utterly exhausted throughout the whole process. And Bucky checked in with you every step of the way – sometimes with just a cursory glance. He managed to say so much without saying anything at all, and you really appreciated that.

God, he was so careful with you. Gentle, even. Gentle wasn’t the first word you would use to describe Bucky. Not that he was rough or reckless or brutish or whatever the opposite of gentle was. When it came to you, he was always kind and quiet and attentive.

But the way he spoke to you, how he had apologized after every bump and pothole as the ground shook his car, how he held his hand at your back as he guided you to his door - it was unexpected and gentle and exactly what kept you from spiraling. 

Despite all that, you wanted to visit his apartment for the first time excited, with butterflies in your stomach. Why did it have to be like this?

When you got to his door, there was a Stark Industries bag hanging off the handle. Bucky paused, then nodded with a hum before scanning his access card to open the door. 

The living spaces at the Tower were pretty basic, and you knew Bucky wasn’t intending on staying there forever, but he somehow managed to make it feel like his home nonetheless. 

A basic kitchen was immediately on your left as you walked in, open directly into the living room - which had a big, comfortable couch covered in a few pillows and blankets. You carefully fell into it, eyes closed. The impact made you wince but you decided it was worth it, given how you sank into the cushions.

“So, what do you want to eat?” Bucky had stopped in the kitchen area, grabbing what looked like a stack of menus from the top of the fridge.

You just shrugged, glancing over at him briefly before closing your eyes. “I’m not really hungry.”

Even though you weren’t looking at him, you could sense the frown on his face.

He sighed out your name. “Didn’t we just learn a lesson about taking those intense pain meds on an empty stomach?” He paused. “Actually, you think about it, I’m going to change...”

You squeezed your eyes even harder, trying to scrub away that recent memory. 

The doctor had been fitting the temporary cast on your hand and wrist just as whatever remaining particles of pain medication seemed to disappear from your bloodstream. That had been enough to make you feel nauseated but then when a nurse came to share some stronger meds with you, Bucky was quick to grab the nearest trash can when they immediately made you throw up. 

Most of it made it into the can, at least.

Now he was probably going to change out of his shirt that had been hit with the rest.

In the few moments of quiet while Bucky was in his bedroom, everything about the last few days hit you all at once. 

Boone. The gym. Your face on the mat. The way he yelled, screamed. Why hadn’t you left? 

Your couch. The growing pain. The purple and yellow and blue bruises. Why didn’t you just walk away?

Bucky.

Bucky at your door, with soup. Bucky with his tender touch. Your hand.

Pepper Potts, her kindness. 

The doctor.

The doctor said something about surgery after seeing your x-ray. Metacarpal break in your hand, down from the ring finger, and a hairline fracture down your wrist.

Pepper had been so kind but what was it she said about a police report? About filing a report with HR? What had she said about taking a break from work?

Bucky, Bucky had been so patient. He hadn’t left your side. But–

How would you ever write again? Could you hold a pen? Would you be able to do your job? Now you wouldn’t have your new role and you’d be shit at your current job, too. How could a nurse function without typing notes or holding a stethoscope or –

Boone. The gym. Your face on the mat. Bucky. Boone. Bucky. Your hand and this cast and this goddamn sling.

In your slurry of thoughts, you hadn’t even realized the tight feeling growing in your chest. Instinctually, you tried to place a hand over your heart and – pain, your wrist. Heaving in deep breaths, it felt as if your lungs couldn’t handle functioning properly.

And your skin - everything felt too hot. You shuffled forward on the couch until you were closer to the floor, dropping to your knees as you tore at your sweatshirt with one hand. It was only halfway zipped up, barely draped over your shoulders, and just so so so hot - were you dripping with sweat?

Could Bucky hear as you called out for him? God, what if he just changed his mind - you were a mess, this wasn’t the person he knew and definitely wasn’t the person he asked out.

How could he be proud of you now?

You tore off your glasses as tears started to fall.

Your name, someone was saying your name. 

Were you under water? It felt like you were under water. Your skin - hot. Your hand, your wrist – pain. 

Boone. 

You collapsed further, bracing yourself on the rug with your free hand. It was strangely soft under your palm. Bucky’s apartment had a soft rug.

Bucky. Bucky was saying your name. 

“Hey, hey. You’re okay.” 

He sounded close, so close. You blinked through your tears and saw he had dropped down beside you on the floor. 

“Sweetheart, can I - can I touch you? Is that okay?”

You nodded, peeking your head up to look at him. Everything was blurry. 

Slowly, he reached out and pressed one hand against your chest, firm. The other was running up and down your back. You listened to him carefully as he talked you through whatever this episode was, breathing in tandem as he applied just enough pressure to your chest and shoulders to really ground you beside him. 

He spoke your name, trying to keep your attention. “Talk to me, please.”

“Bucky - I..” You closed your eyes, sparing a moment to breathe at his pace. His hand pressed against your chest didn’t let up but he helped you lean back against the couch. “I’m scared.. Boone, he.. What if.. My hand..”

“I promise you’re never going to see him again.”

“No, no. I’m not..” Another deep breath. Your heart rate seemed to steady. “I’m not scared of seeing him. I want to.. I want to break his jaw or.. I wasn’t strong enough to even try..” You lifted your arm, tight in the cast and sling. “I won’t even be able to do that. He – I fucked up my hand and I - how can I even do my job or write anything or hold anything or even text? And I - I’ve never had surgery before and I’m - I’m scared something will go wrong and I won’t get to join the med team and I - How can I..” You could feel yourself starting to hyperventilate. “He kept yelling at me to fight back.. Fight back and-and prove myself! I should have – I should have just walked away, I should have–”

You couldn’t quite remember how the shift happened - but you were soon back on the couch, gently turned towards Bucky as he wrapped his arm around you. Time seemed to disappear as you cried into the crook of his shoulder. 

Maybe it wasn’t the most comfortable position as your hand pulsed in pain, but the close feeling, the touch of Bucky, the heat radiating from him - the combination soothed you. 

Bucky seemed to sense the exact moment your heart rate returned back to normal, as he very gently nudged you away just enough to peer down at you. He reached for your glasses and secured them back to where they belonged then offered you a soft smile.

“I don’t want to, uh, invalidate your feelings,” Bucky started then quickly paused. “Christ, I sound like Steve.”

That made you laugh.

“But you’ve gotta know that the doctor who's going to fix your hand will do a damn good job and while maybe you’ll have to take some time off work, you’ll be able to adapt until you fully heal. I promise.” He shifted and grabbed your available hand. “And surgery can be scary but I’ll be there the whole time and wait for you after, okay?”

“You’ll do that?”

Bucky seemed to falter after another moment. “Only if you want me, I don’t want to assume–”

“No, no. I do. I just..” You let out a slow breath. “I.. I’m really grateful to be right here, with you. I’m glad you didn’t leave my apartment earlier, even when I was pushing you out.”

Now he had a chance to laugh. “Yeah, I think we both know I wasn’t going anywhere, sweetheart. Now, you need to eat something. Any requests?”

Half an hour later Bucky was unpacking a delivery bag and handing you a meal and a dose of medication that you had brought home from the clinic. Admittedly, the warm food helped settle you even more and you had a feeling that you’d fall asleep quickly.

The bag hanging from Bucky’s door was full of overnight essentials, including a Stark Industries branded t-shirt and matching sweatpants. You managed to change and brush your teeth with only one hand, then found Bucky waiting for you in the hallway.

“I got my bed set up with extra pillows for you.”

You glanced into his room, then craned your neck to look back towards the living room. A lone pillow and blanket created a makeshift bed on the couch cushions.

Bucky answered the question on your mind: “I’m sleeping on the couch.”

You scrunched your face up. “No.”

“No?” Bucky repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Even with extra pillows, I think there is definitely room for us both.” You stepped into his room and surveyed the space. Again, although a bit basic and free from any excess, it felt like Bucky lived there. A framed picture of him and Steve lived on his dresser. A basket of unfolded laundry sat outside his closet door. An extra pair of boots leaned up against his bedside table. 

Bucky let out a long breath, saying your name quietly. He shook his head then motioned towards the bed. “Okay.”

It took a few moments to adjust into a position that felt comfortable enough for you. Bucky helped you rearrange some of the pillows before he very cautiously joined you in the bed, doing his best to not create any extra movement to jostle you. 

Silence took over a few moments later, when he reached down and grabbed your left hand. 

You squeezed his palm, speaking through a yawn. “This isn’t how I pictured us sharing a bed for the first time.”

He laughed in return, shifting against his pillow. “Me neither, doll.” 

Then, you heard Bucky move again. And after a sweet mumbling of goodnight, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

--

To say Bucky was reluctant to leave you alone was an understatement. But once you settled into his bed, the pain medication seemed to finally kick in and you were out like a light. He left a small note on the bedside table, near your phone, to let you know he’d be back quickly and to call for FRIDAY if you needed anything. As he slipped into the hallway, secured in a black hoodie, he glanced towards his phone.

Tony’s message had been nondescript, but Bucky understood enough he had information about Boone. Tony insinuated earlier he was already digging into the video footage and how to proceed, but knew Bucky would want to be informed every step of the way.

Not that it mattered - Bucky already had a plan: find Boone then kill him.

Okay, no, no. Bucky couldn’t kill him. He’d never take a life like that again but… well, he had already considered a thousand different scenarios that left Boone to deal with the consequences of his actions. 

Bucky cracked his neck as he got into the elevator, shooting up to Tony’s lab. He stepped out directly into the space, following the echo of Tony’s voice somewhere inside. Bucky found him standing behind one of his workstations, hands flying around as he swiped at the screens illuminated ahead.

Tony paused, pivoting slightly as he shuffled a few things around on his desk. He leaned towards the end of his workspace, hooked his foot on the bottom of a wheeled chair and slid it in Bucky’s direction.

“How is she?” Tony asked, perching on the side of his workstation as Bucky sat.

Bucky shook his head. How could he even answer that? “Finally sleeping.”

“I hope they gave her the good stuff.” Tony’s fingers tapped against the side of the desk. “You know, Dr. Alvarez told me your girl must have a high pain tolerance given the severity of that break.” Before Bucky even had a chance to defend your non-relationship status, Tony carried on. “But Barnes - she’s tough, really tough. Look.”

Bucky turned his head to the screens, as a series of video captures started playing on the screen. It was footage of you - from the training gym, during all your sessions the week prior. 

Tough didn’t seem like enough. You were strategic and resilient and smart. Sure, maybe you needed to work on your pace and Bucky could certainly give you some pointers when it came to aim, he was still impressed.

“Here’s the thing.” Tony paused the footage. “When this incident happened– listen, I know incident isn’t the right word here. But when it happened, someone retroactively cut out some security footage.” He shifted his hand and tapped the screen again. “I just recovered it. And I am looking into how that imbecile managed to bypass the admin code for the security logs.”

“Did you watch it?” Bucky held his breath, tearing his eyes from the screen back towards Tony who shook his head. 

“Not yet.”

Bucky flicked his hand to the screen, to signal for Tony to show him. Bucky stood from his chair and crossed his arms once the video started.

As he watched, the anger flared up in Bucky almost instantly. Just seeing you alone with Boone in the gym made his stomach drop but when Boone shoved you down, Bucky growled.

The footage didn’t have any audio, though Bucky had a feeling that if he could also hear whatever Boone had been shouting at you, he’d be trashing Tony’s lab just to deal with his frustration. 

At first, everything seemed normal enough. Bucky sucked in a breath when Boone pulled off your glasses. His fist clenched tightly when Boone pushed you down to your knees. When Boone’s hand touched your head…

“Good for her,” Tony muttered out when you quickly started to fight back. 

When Boone escalated things though - as your face dragged against the mat, as he pulled at your arms, how he followed up as you tried to crawl away, as he clearly shouted and stomped his feet down on your hand, Bucky couldn’t help but boil over. He let out another growl and grabbed a nearby stool, snapping it over his knee.

He dropped the wooden shards to the ground, apologizing to Tony before requesting he turn off the video.

“Listen,” Tony raised his hands, as if to forgive Bucky for the outburst. “I can’t put Pepper through the PR nightmare if you kill this guy.”

“I’m not going to..” Bucky sucked in a breath. Well, he wasn’t going to speak in absolutes or promises. He could barely see past the red in his eyes, there was no point in lying.

Tony let out a small yelp. “Oh, hold on. Let’s..” He dropped back down onto a rolling chair and moved towards one of his computer screens. “FRIDAY, let’s pull up the last 6th months of data for Agent Nathan Boone. Every swipe in, hour worked, blah blah blah. You know the drill.”

Bucky tried to follow Tony’s thought process, crossing his arms as he watched the screens compile different information.

“When does he usually go to the gym?” Tony asked, swiping ahead of him as he scanned over the data.

FRIDAY’s lilt echoed above them. “Agent Boone, on average, visits the gym every day he is on schedule. He first enters usually between 6 and 6:07AM.”

Tony nodded. “Okay, and when was the last time we did diagnostics on the gym security system?”

“Well, boss, this system doesn’t require regular diagnostics due to the software protection.”

“Right. Then it sounds like we’re due.” Tony shot a glance over his shoulder to meet Bucky’s gaze. “Let’s run it in the morning, around 6AM. Full system shut down - including cameras - for half an hour?”

Bucky grunted. “Make it an hour.”

--

 Following his visit to Tony’s lab, which actually concluded with sharing a glass of whiskey, Bucky made a plan. 

He returned to his apartment and bed, where he luckily found you still sleeping soundly. When you both stirred awake a few hours later, just shy of sunrise, Bucky encouraged you to stay in bed while he hit the gym.

You barely argued as your eyes fluttered shut again, wincing only slightly as you adjusted on the bed. Bucky promised to return with breakfast when he was done.

Then, he headed to the gym. He discovered easily how effective a piece of paper could be at deterring people from entering. One well placed ‘Closed for cleaning’ sign and a locked door kept anyone else from accessing the space after Bucky watched Boone enter.

A thousand scenarios flashed through Bucky’s mind when he saw Boone. On top of the flood of thoughts he wrestled with all night long, Bucky was simply itching to rearrange Boone’s entire dumb fucking face.

But, no. No. He had a plan.

Bucky rolled his head slightly, cracked his knuckles, then headed towards the weight area. It wasn’t hard to find Boone, given he was the only other person in the space. That and he was already proving himself obnoxious - blasting music from his phone instead of using headphones.

“Boone.” Bucky approached slowly. Boone looked up as he did, shifting slightly as he sat on the bench and giving Bucky a small nod.

“What’s up, Sarge?” Boone replied. “I guess you and I are the only early birds today. Usually a few more in here. Though with some of these new recruits, I guess I’m not surprised they don’t give a shit about training.

Bucky sucked in a breath before motioning to the weight rack behind Boone as he set up a bench press. “You need a spot?”

Boone shrugged. “Sure.”

“This your warm up?” Bucky smirked, tapping against the plates resting on the bar. “You’ve gotta be doing more than that these days. Cap told me he’s been impressed by your bulking.”

Boone let out a stiff laugh. “I hit a new max rep last week, actually. I realize that’s nothing compared to you and Cap .”

“C’mon then.” Bucky leaned forward and slapped Boone’s shoulder. “Let’s see what you can do.”

Boone stood up on impact, skepticism evident on his face before he sat again. But, he didn’t falter. “Sure.”

Bucky walked over to the weight rack and grabbed two additional heavy plates, sliding them on as Boone laid down and got into position. 

“Speaking of new recruits.” Bucky bristled as he tried to make convincing small talk with Boone and his dumb fucking face. If Boone thought it was out of character, he didn’t mention it. “How’d training go last week?”

Boone laughed, stretching his arms up to brace the bar. “Yeah, it went fine. Most of them passed. That’s on par with the recent cohorts. Usually one or two bail out.”

“Oh yeah?” Bucky crossed his arms, doing everything in his power to reign himself in. 

“Makes sense. Most people aren’t ready - some will never be–” Boone pressed upwards, inhaling a sharp breath as he lifted the bar.

“Too much?” Bucky took half a step backwards.

“No, no.” Boone carried on, barely moving the bar up off the rack. “I’ve got it.” His arms fully extended, as the weight bar swayed slightly between his arms before he positioned it back in place.

Bucky returned to the weight rack and grabbed two more plates. “Nice. You got more in you?”

Boone hesitated, looking backwards to meet Bucky’s gaze. He nodded. “Absolutely.”

Once the new weights were settled, Bucky stood above him again. 

“Hey.” Bucky closed his eyes, moving to the side of the bench to peer down at Boone. Bucky said your name. “She was training with you last week, right?”

Boone froze momentarily then blinked. “Uh, yeah. I remember her.”

“Between you and me - how’d she do?” Bucky rested his hands underneath the bar, temporarily alleviating some of the weight as Boone pressed upwards again. “Do you think she was ready?”

Boone closed his eyes to focus on his lift. “Between you and me,” he echoed to Bucky. “That dumb broad will never be ready.”

A searing heat coursed through Bucky as he released his hands, stepping back as the overweight bar slammed down on Boone’s chest. Boone roared out in pain, whimpering as the entire barbell rolled down onto his throat. As his arms flailed at his side, trying and failing to push it away, Boone tried to call out for Bucky’s help.

Though his anger remained, watching Boone struggle was still enjoyable. And although Bucky would have been happy to see the barbell crush Boone’s windpipe, he eventually did step forward and reach for the weights.

With his left arm, Bucky removed the bar and threw the entire thing to the side. With his right hand, he yanked Boone up off the bench onto his feet.

“Did you forget how to spot me? The fuck?” Boone shouted, eyes widening as he rubbed at his throat. He swung his arm forward and pushed against Bucky’s chest.  “I could have fucking–”

Bucky snarled, shoving Boone back the same way - sending him into the rack holding the weights. Boone bounced off the structure and tumbled to the side, wincing in pain as Bucky stalked after him. “Why don’t you fight back?”

“Barnes, you’re out of your mind. What the fuck–”

“Fight back.” Bucky advanced closer, looming over Boone as he scuttled backwards on the floor.  “Prove yourself.” It was clear to Bucky that reference hit Boone directly. Although he couldn’t bring himself to snap back, Boone’s face grew red. An extra bead of sweat dripped down from his forehead, as he pressed against the wall.

Bucky crouched down, grabbing Boone’s jaw between his metal fingers. “What the fuck is wrong with you, huh?” Bucky said your name slowly. Boone’s eyes briefly widened. “What do you get out of beating up an agent?” 

“I didn’t–” Boone tried to shake his head. “Is she your little girlfriend or something? Listen, I wouldn’t have – I didn’t know she – What did she say–”

“It doesn’t fucking matter if she’s anyone girlfriend, you piece of shit.” Bucky grabbed him by the throat and pulled him back up to his feet, sparing a moment to spit in Boone’s face before he made his next move. Bucky dropped his hand and took one step back, stretching his arms ahead of himself before letting out a growl. “Fight back, Agent Boone. Prove. Yourself.”

--

Despite your nicely medicated sleep in Bucky’s bed, you were tired. And talking to a lawyer and Pepper and HR and a member of the NYPD police, Officer Reyes, about the entire situation again definitely contributed to your exhaustion. 

You were even on your second coffee but it didn’t seem to be helping. Bucky was practically holding you up as he sat at your side. You were in the medical wing at the tower, going through everything you needed before surgery. It had been scheduled quickly - probably at Tony’s request, given his relationship with Dr. Alvarez. And although you didn’t really want to think about the gravity of having surgery, you couldn’t help but look forward to the healing process. You wanted this all to be over already.

“That’s everything we need. You’re prepared for tomorrow. Start fasting at midnight!” 

You thanked your coworker, Jillian, for being a wonderful nurse and securing you back into your sling. Bucky helped you to stand, giving you a once over to make sure you were okay. 

Bucky had been quiet all morning. That wasn’t particularly out of character, but he seemed tense. You didn’t always see every side of him as friends and now with all this - things were shifting. You didn’t mind it, though. You welcomed it, especially after waking up in his bed and relishing in the sense of security that he was at your side.

“Hey Bucky?” You stopped him once you were outside the doors, heading in the direction of the elevators. 

He immediately frowned, searching your face as he turned to face you. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” You offered him a reassuring smile. “But are you?”

“Don’t worry about me, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes, extending your good hand to grab his. “If you can worry about me, you must know I worry about you too. Can’t help it.”

Bucky cracked a reluctant smile. “Okay. Well, try not to worry about me right now then, okay? You’ve got enough on your plate.”

Before you could hit him back with another defensive rebuttal, you were interrupted by your name being called down the hallway. It was Pepper and Officer Reyes, again.

You drew in a hard breath, relaxing a tiny bit when you felt Bucky squeeze your hand. He hadn’t let go, and it seemed he didn’t plan to. When the officer asked to speak with you, Bucky took the lead and guided you into the nearest consultation room to have the conversation privately.

Pepper opted to wait outside but Bucky joined you, arms crossed in front of the door while you sat opposite the officer.

You really liked Officer Reyes. She was patient, direct, and took her job very seriously. And right now, that meant dealing with Boone.

“Just to give you a fair update,” she started, folding her hands together on top of the table. “We had the arrest warrant prepared and although he swiped in for work and into the gym this morning, we actually found Nathan Boone at his apartment downtown. He came willingly. In fact, it seemed he was waiting for us. He’s been charged with assault in the third degree and you’ll be happy to know he pled guilty.” 

You sat back in your chair, a sense of relief flooding through you. Although you knew there was video footage and physical proof of Boone’s attack, you still had doubts the judicial system would work in your favour. 

“So, is that it?” You asked cautiously. 

Reyes nodded. “From you? Pretty much.” She tipped her head sideways briefly, considering. “I shouldn’t mention this, but given the circumstances, it must be some sort of karmic payback. Nathan Boone was in bad shape when we found him - the guy will probably need some medical attention himself. We asked him about his injuries but he had nothing to say. Fell down the stairs, so he says.”

“Bad shape?” You couldn’t help but ask. You didn’t have any sympathy for Boone but the curiosity surfaced. 

“I have a feeling he’ll have to squeeze in some x-rays and a visit to a dental surgeon in between his court dates.” Reyes stood and offered her hand, giving you a small smile. “I’ll be in touch if we have any loose ends.”

After she left, you remained in your chair, quiet for a moment before you motioned for Bucky to sit. He was sitting after one swift stride, locking eyes with you.

You started slowly. “I meant to ask. How was your workout this morning?”

Bucky was straight faced, matching your pose across the table. “Good.” 

“Nothing else to share?” You pressed, raising an eyebrow. 

“I always like to have a plan when I go to the gym and this morning, I did exactly what I planned on doing.”

You nodded then leaned back in your chair. You knew you could ask exactly what you wanted and he'd tell you the truth. But maybe it was better left unsaid. If you didn’t ask, he didn’t have to explain himself either. But, that didn’t make the entire thing any less of an internal debate.

Why did you care even a little tiny bit about Boone being injured? 

It wasn’t even about Boone. 

It was about someone inflicting pain on your behalf. But, wait. Then again – was there any chance Boone was feeling guilty for his actions? Fueled by his fucked up testosterone levels and short fuse? Why did you have to wrestle with your conscience when he didn’t show even an ounce of remorse for what he did? 

If Bucky had chosen to defend you, to wrestle with Boone instead… Well, maybe that was what needed to happen. 

You remained in a staring contest with Bucky, searching his face for anything. You could see something just behind his lips, a desire to say something else. Maybe he was worried he would upset you with the whole truth about what happened at the gym. If that was the case, you also knew Bucky wouldn’t apologize for what he might have done to Boone.

Bucky was strong willed. He stood up for what he believed in. He’d never want to see injustice or unfair behaviour being excused. 

You sighed then nodded again. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Bucky repeated slowly, tilting his head. “Sweetheart, I—”

“No. It’s okay.” You cracked a small smile. “Bucky, I—thank you. For last night and for not leaving my side and taking care of me, protecting me.. for everything.”

He said your name quietly, reaching across the table for your free hand. “It’s an honour.”

You sucked in a breath, blinking away the feeling of crying again.  “Don’t do that – don’t be cheesy. I won’t survive.”

Bucky just smiled.

--

Somehow an hour long surgery seemed like a lifetime to Bucky. He glanced at his phone to check the time again and let out a long breath, slumping down just a bit further in his chair. Despite your exhaustion, you had barely slept the night before and Bucky felt helpless, even with all his efforts to calm your nerves.

“I’m a nurse, Bucky. I’ve helped so many patients before and after surgeries and I’m still just – I want this to be over.”

Bucky knew you were okay, in the best hands Tony could pay for, but he was still desperate to see you roll back down the hallway, safe and sound.

After another chance to take some breaths and repeat a few of his safe mantras, Bucky looked at his phone. Instead of seeing the time, he saw ‘Sam Wilson’ popping up on his phone.

It had been a very easy task for Bucky - ignoring Sam for the past 48 hours. It was petty, childish even, but he still didn’t want to talk to Sam. Bucky was still sitting in an uncomfortable swell of anger over the whole situation. A situation that could be traced right back to Sam, in a way.

Bucky closed his eyes and finally brought the phone up to his ear when Sam called back again. He stood from his chair and started down the empty hallway.

“This is Sergeant Barnes.”

Sam immediately scoffed on the other end of the line. “Thanks for finally picking up.”

Bucky just grunted. “What do you want?”

“I want you to say out loud what’s bothering you so we can move past this.” 

Silence fell between them before Bucky finally replied again. “You put him in charge, Sam.”

“I have a lot of fucking regrets about that, Bucky.”

Bucky couldn’t help but wince when he heard Sam swear. In the field, Sam certainly had a mouth at times. But during the day to day operations of the job, back in the office, he was usually well restrained. Clearly, he was out of sorts, too.

“And I heard someone already went and put Boone in his place. There is only so much I can apologize for when that jackass cheated the system and misled me. Boone broke my trust and I can get over that. But I am fucking gutted I broke her trust. This never should have happened. I know that.”

“I know you know. I..” Bucky closed his eyes, pausing to rest against the nearest wall. Eventually, he left out a quiet laugh. “I don’t know what to do with my leftover anger, Sam.”

“You and me both, man. At least you got to crack him in the jaw a few times. Wish I could have been there.”

Bucky sighed. “I’ll tell you all about it in great detail. I owe you a beer, alright?”

“Whenever you’re ready to leave your girl's side, pencil me in.”

After he hung up with Sam, then exchanged a few messages with Steve, Bucky resumed his position of waiting for you outside the entrance to the surgical suites. He tried distracting himself with a few reports he had to go over and listened to a few tracks on a new playlist from Natasha. Eventually though, all he could do was stare at the door and be patient.

Soon enough, a nurse appeared at the door and signaled to Bucky he could come through. He was directed to a recovery area and finally, he could feel his shoulders relax. There you were - safe and sound. 

Bucky pulled up a chair beside your hospital bed, greeting you with a smile as you looked towards him. 

“Bucky!”

“Hey doll.” 

“She’s still coming back from the general anesthesia. She might be a bit out of sorts still,” the nurse confirmed, giving you another once over. “The doctor said everything went well and the office will be in touch about follow up appointments.” The nurse paused, giving Bucky a coy smile as she walked away. “She immediately asked for you when she started coming to - Sergeant Handsome.”

“I said that was a private nickname,” you whined, closing your eyes tightly. You tried to push yourself up slightly to sit, but were quickly stopped by your immobilized arm. “Ow.”

“Let me help,” Bucky stood up and adjusted the bed so you could sit up more. 

You turned to look towards him. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Bucky scooted his chair closer and sat again. “You feelin’ okay?”

You nodded. “Just a lil’froggy.. Foggy..”

“So, Sergeant Handsome? Were you talkin’ about me?” Bucky couldn’t help the smile on his face as you closed your eyes. Though it fell just as quickly when you frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Can I - can I tell you a secret?” You kept your eyes closed, letting out a slow exhale as you settled against the pillows propping you up. 

“Sure, doll.”

“Actually, no, no.” Your eyes shot open, narrowing again as you locked eyes with Bucky. “This hasta be a secret exchange.”

“A secret exchange?”

You licked your lips then used your good hand to point at him. “You tell me one first, then I tell you one. It’s fair.”

“I mean, you started this whole thing,” he laughed, then decided it was probably best to play along. The medication was clearly still making you a bit loopy and the last thing Bucky wanted to do was upset you any further in this state. “Okay. Let’s see.” He paused again then shrugged. “I met my nephew a few weeks ago.”

“Bucky! Oh, oh wow. That’s..” You reached for his closest hand and he met you in the middle. You squeezed his fingers but didn’t let go after. “I’m gonna cry - I’m so happy for you. When I.. I’m back to normal, I wanna hear all about it. Okay?”

“I can’t wait to tell you, sweetheart.” Bucky cradled your hand in his, rubbing his thumb against your skin. “Now, it’s your turn.”

You sucked in a breath and closed your eyes once more. “I’m.. I’m really sad we aren’t gonna have our date.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Who said we aren’t having our date?”

“We’re suppos’ta celebrate my new position and..” You shook your head. “Look’at me now.. No new job and-and a broken whatever–” You tried to move your casted arm and just winced, which quickly transformed into a yawn. “Who wants to date this..”

Bucky released your hand from his and leaned forward, bringing his palm up to cup your cheek. Exhaustion seemed to catch up with you as you fell back asleep.  “I promise we’re going on that date.” 

--

The first few days following your surgery were painful, as you probably should have anticipated. You insisted Bucky didn’t need to stay at your side the whole time - in fact, you knew he had work to do and an upcoming mission to plan for. Thankfully you had a few close friends in rotation who kept you company throughout your days and somehow an endless supply of credit with your favourite food delivery app, making your life a lot easier. (You assumed you had Tony to thank for that.)

You and Bucky still talked all day long. That made dealing with the pain a lot easier, too.

You: are you doing anything after work? You: if you’re free You: you could come over? Bucky: be there by 7 :)

“It’s going to leave quite the scar, unfortunately.” Your check up with Dr. Alvarez had downgraded you to a removable splint, which you were really relieved about. You were perfectly capable of handling the care yourself and it was nice to release the pressure on your hand.

You had taken the splint off to show Bucky when he showed up. You were sitting beside him on your small loveseat, catching up about your last few days. He was holding your hand gently in his own, tracing his finger lightly over your skin. 

Somehow, by some weird trick of your mind, it seemed like the pain had already become easier to tolerate. Like Bucky’s touch was helping settle your nerves and discomfort.

“Tony has this thing… it could help with that,” Bucky finally responded, his voice barely audible. “The scarring. I don’t know how it works but it can build synthetic tissue and..”

You smiled when Bucky looked back up at you. “Yeah, maybe.” It was clear Bucky was holding something back but you didn’t want to press. “Okay, I have a confession. I invited you here because I need help with something.”

He nodded. “Sure. Whatever you need. What is it?”

It was another unconventional first for you and Bucky and your new whatever relationship status. You had visions of a sexy steamed bathroom, shared laughter and maybe slippery hands and low moans and… This wasn’t how your first shower together was supposed to go.

You chewed on your lip as you tried to figure out the logistics. You had a semi-normal shower the other day, but it had been incredibly difficult if not impossible to get any soap or shampoo where it needed to go with an immobilized arm. Even now, without the splint, you barely had any range of motion in your hand. Plus you were supposed to be taking it easy.

“Okay, so. Let’s…” You turned towards the shower then back towards Bucky, who was standing only a few inches from you - thanks to your tiny New York City apartment bathroom. “I’ll be in the shower. Uhm, naked. Then when I need soap or shampoo or… whatever, I’ll stick my good hand out and you can give it to me.”

Bucky stifled his laughter. “Sure. I can… give you whatever you need, doll.”

“Bucky,” you whined, doing your best not to laugh along with him. “Don’t, please. I know this is weird.”

“I’m sorry,” he immediately sobered up. “I’ll, just..” He turned to face the door, away from you, as you stripped down and got into the shower. “Tell me when I should turn around?”

It wasn’t a very graceful process but it worked. Bucky was very polite and helpful with everything you needed. Truthfully, it would have been better to have him in the shower with you but you just weren’t there yet. Beyond sleeping side by side and cuddling on the couch, nothing further had happened between you. And well, that was expected - given everything. But your stupid injury really was getting in the way.

“Okay, just, uhm - my towel?” You turned off the water and reached out, feeling the fluffy fabric right away. You did your best to wrap it around your body then drew the curtain open again. Bucky was waiting for you, eyes closed tightly but with an extended hand to help you step carefully over the tub. 

“Thank you,” you said quietly. “You can open your eyes - I’m covered.”

“Feel better?” He asked as he opened his eyes, offering you one of those soft, sweet Bucky looks you were coming to really appreciate and love. 

God, you didn’t want to fuck this up. 

“Here, let me..” Bucky took your injured hand and carefully fixed your splint back into place. Then, well, he filled in the small space between you both. 

You sucked in a breath as he positioned his forehead against yours, beads of water and condensation sticking to his skin. “Thank you,” you repeated, though you wondered if it was even audible.

He kept one hand safely holding your injured wrist while his other found a spot on your hip. He whispered your name with just enough inflexion for you to understand his unspoken question. As soon as you tipped your head into a nod, his hand left your hip and was encompassing the side of your neck, thumb running against your jawline.

Your tongue swept across your lips. “ Yes.”

Bucky’s lips met yours, gentle and rough and exactly what you imagined kissing Bucky might be like. A bolt of electricity surged through you, across every nerve. It was the perfect balm to forget about your wrist, about uncertainty, about anything but Bucky.

--

Although you knew you were returning to work on a modified schedule and task list, you had still been nervous about it. Especially because you didn’t know what everyone else knew about Boone and you and what had happened. But luckily you were welcomed back to cheerful coworkers and a very light workload.

And no one mentioned Boone or your injury. You did have to catch on newly updated mandatory company wide training though, directly related to substance abuse and security protocols. 

You got used to working with only one hand, which would still be the case for a few more weeks. But otherwise, things felt okay. And by the time your meal break rolled around, you couldn’t help but feel giddy about being back at the tower. Because you had a lunch date with your boyfriend.

Your boyfriend Bucky Barnes. 

Not that having lunch with Bucky was new, but now it felt like so much more. Every single milestone in your relationship so far had been abnormal but this - this was perfectly ordinary. Although calling him your boyfriend still felt a little foreign on your tongue, you didn’t mind that change. 

When you spotted Bucky in the cafeteria, your knees nearly gave out altogether. You couldn’t help but grin when he stood to greet you, holding a bouquet of flowers in one hand. With the other he pulled you in for a hug, followed by a kiss on the forehead.

“Hi,” you said, using your freehand to brush against some of the petals. “This is unexpected.”

Bucky smiled, taking the seat across from you. “I was going to hand deliver them down to the med floor but I figured you might be a bit overwhelmed this morning. And maybe Sergeant Handsome would distract you from important work.”

You rolled your eyes, though it was impossible to hide your giddiness and fight off your warm cheeks. “You’ve gotta let that one go, please.”

“Absolutely not.” Bucky shook his head, still smiling. God, would you two ever stop smiling? There was something incredibly comforting about knowing Bucky was feeling just as wild as you were when it came to all these kinds of feelings.

Ever since he kissed you - when you were sopping wet and injured and a mess, all wrapped up into a towel - things had just been heightened. Not that everything had been smooth sailing, especially when it came to your pain and this recovery process, but going through all of it with Bucky was exactly what you needed.

Every time you struggled or hit a new roadblock, he let you have a moment to react then he simply cheered you through it. “You can do hard things,” he would echo back to you time and time again. (Which was particularly annoying sometimes, like when you were on your first official date and couldn’t twirl your pasta very well.)

As you were approaching the end of your lunch break, sharing a dessert with Bucky, you sighed. “Can I just say something out loud?” 

Bucky nodded. “Of course.”

“I just…” You reached to adjust your glasses as you found your words. “..can’t help but think about how right now I should be preparing to be on the field team and maybe even going out on missions to help and.. I’m just disappointed.” 

Bucky put down his fork, churning through his own thoughts before he replied.

You continued. “I mean, I guess there’s no way of knowing if I would have even passed the evaluation though. Seeing as I never even… it’s likely I might not have been ready. Maybe I’ll never be ready for it now. I have to start from scratch with this—” You held up your wrist. “I can’t even do the boring parts of my regular job with one hand. I have to do the extra boring stuff instead. I.. I’m just whining. I’m sorry.”

“Do you have to get back right away?” Bucky asked, grabbing his phone. He sent a quick message then stood, extending his hand out for you to grab. “Let me show you something.”

Your manager had told you to ‘take it easy’ your first week back, so running late from lunch probably wouldn’t be a problem. So, you grabbed Bucky’s hand and followed. 

The upper floors of the tower weren’t somewhere you had ever visited before. You shot up the elevator and nearly let out a gasp when you and Bucky arrived in Tony’s lab. It was huge - with bright lights, big windows and plenty of flashing screens. 

“Stark?” Bucky called out, keeping his hand tethered to yours as he guided you through the space. 

“Over here,” Tony called back, popping out from behind a screen. “It’s all loaded up. I’ve gotta run to meet Pepper and some very irritated investors but I’ve granted you full access to the video footage.” He turned towards you. “How’s the hand?”

You tried to give him a thumbs up. You winced. “Getting there.”

“I’ve got a good therapist - physical therapist, that is. No one can help this brain.” Tony tapped his temple. “I’ll send you his details.” 

Just as quickly as you arrived, Tony departed, giving one last pointed look at Bucky before he disappeared into the elevator muttering into his wrist. 

“Sit,” Bucky instructed, pulling a chair and positioning it in front of the screen. “Please.”

You let out a dramatic sigh before complying. 

Bucky sat in another chair at your side, picking up a nearby tablet. With a swipe of his hand, video footage appeared on the screen ahead. It started to play. 

It was footage of you - giving your all during your training sessions. From the sparring drills to physical challenges, you kept up and even performed better than some of the others. 

You snuck a glance towards Bucky, who was watching the footage with what could only be described as a proud smile. 

“You’re resilient, sweetheart,” Bucky said quietly, turning his head. “Although I could offer you some tips, you woulda past Sam’s eval - there’s no doubt in my mind.”

“Tips? Like what?” You couldn’t help yourself from smirking. “You wanna throw down on a gym mat?”

“Preferably a mattress, actually,” he muttered, raising an eyebrow as he paused the video. “Well, right there - you could have—” 

“Okay, I don’t need a play by play.” You nodded and let out a slow exhale. “I get it. I’m capable. I just have to.. get back to that.”

Bucky turned back to you again. “You’ll get there. I’ll help. I can be your personal trainer.”

“Okay.” You leaned over and pressed a kiss to his lips. “Now, about that mattress.”

--

 ONE YEAR LATER

Three months. It had been three months since you were officially on the field medical team. The job hadn’t been easy or soft - especially the first time you were dealing with bullet wounds in the middle of nowhere. 

The med team was a tight knit group though - you had joined a new training group following many months of recovery and training and luckily found a wonderful team of colleagues. Not only that, your time supporting major Avengers missions had been an incredible, and daunting, experience.

But today, three months in, you were finally on a mission with your boyfriend. Bucky’s speciality was covert ops and most of his missions were small-scale and secretive, with only a select team of Avengers involved. But this particular mission was a bit different - with the medical team joining later as things had escalated.

After everything had settled, including a few injured civilians who were assisted and transported for further care, everyone had returned to the jets with a long flight home ahead. You found a spot on the jet with Bucky, Sam, Steve and a few others. 

“Agent! Medical attention is needed over here.” 

You whipped your head around, searching for Steve and where his voice was coming from. You took a few strides forward, pausing as the jet started to take off. You found Steve sitting near the back with Bucky.

“This man is dying of a broken heart, apparently,” Steve rolled his eyes, pushing off from his leaning position and patting Bucky on the shoulder. “Good luck.”

You just sighed but couldn’t help smiling. You grabbed Steve’s arm before he got too far away. “Want me to clean that up?” You pointed to a small cut near his hairline.

Steve waved his hand. “Thank you but it’ll be fine by morning.” He gave you another smirk before heading to sit with Sam in the cockpit.

“What’s wrong with you, Sergeant Handsome?” You smiled at Bucky as you stood in front of him.

He reached out to place his hands on your hips, slotting you just between his legs as he sat. “Two hours with you and not even a kiss yet.”

“Oh my god,” you swatted his shoulder. “I was helping people. Your knives were flying all over the place. When was the optimal time for that?”

He replied with an exaggerated eye roll. “Alright, fine.” He extended his hand up to cradle your jaw, pulling you down to meet his lips. 

“Better?” You asked, shifting to take the seat beside him. 

“Much.” He nodded, turning enough to get a better look at you. “How are you doing though? I know today is–”

“I meant what I said the other night,” you cut him off. “Seriously.”

You knew Boone was getting out of jail after serving a year, which admittedly was the best sentencing you could have hoped for. Not that it really made up for his indiscretions but you knew you’d never see him again anyway. You didn’t want to waste anymore of your energy or time on him ever again.

“Forgetting he exists is only one thing. You know I can make sure he actually ceases existing and–”

“Bucky,” you laughed, shaking your head. “I’m good. Truly.”

You lifted your right hand to stretch your fingers, taking a moment to admire the fancy glove Tony had designed for you. It was reinforced with something that gave you even more support when out in the field. You were grateful for it, though your rehabilitation had been successful. Slowly you pulled it off your hand, pausing to stare at the lines on your skin. All that remained was an occasional ache and some fading scars.

Out of the corner of your eye you saw Bucky raising his right hand and you grinned. You knocked your knuckles into his twice then wiggled your fingers at one another. Before you could pull back, Bucky gently grabbed your hand and moved it closer, pressing a soft kiss against your scarred knuckles.

Maybe you were left with a few fading scars. And maybe every single step along the way hadn’t been easy. 

But you had Bucky by your side. Bucky, who you found unintentionally, whose touch filled you with life. 

And maybe that was all you needed.