buckysflicker

[buckysflicker]

😭😭😭😭💗💓💞💖💓💝💓💝💞💘💞💕💕💞💗💗💞💞 THIS IS AMAZINGGGG

one and only

pairing: husband!bucky barnes x reader

summary: you and bucky decide to take the next step, afterwards you both reflect on your choices, and your love.

word count: 3.3K

cw: thunderbolts* spoilers

a/n: i was recently in a wedding and forgot how much i love true love, this is inspired by that. this is just straight tooth rotting fluff! enjoy!!! ✨

Marriage was always in the cards for Bucky — well, it was when he thought that life had a time limit and wasn't something that could be delayed. He had imagined returning from the war to find a partner, a house with a white picket fence, maybe 2-3 kids, and, hopefully, a good paying job.

None of that came true.

None of that would ever be the case for him.

So he gave up his dreams and realized that life had dealt him a brand new hand. He had spent many years running, hiding, now it seemed like all he could do was try to make his way back to at least some of his old life. Marriage didn't seem to align this time around, and he was okay with that.

Or at least, he pretended to be.

Imagine his surprise when you made your way into his life. Bucky didn't know if the universe was playing some fucked up trick on him, or if he had been reading this new hand of cards wrong this entire time. He knew you were special. Life changing, even.

There was never a doubt about it, that you were someone worth fighting for — someone that he was meant to love. It felt foreign at first, he had gone so long without the kind touch of another human being, but the two of you eased into it as if it was the most natural thing in this world.

Because it was.

You never explicitly spoke about marriage, not even when things shifted from fun to serious.

There was always a reason not to:

Bucky dealing with the loss of Steve

Him and Sam weren't seeing eye to eye for a while

He decides to have a midlife crisis and become a Congressman (which you happily supported, even if you weren't entirely sure where it came from).

Now, he was finding his footing with a new group, the Thunderbolts — er, New Avengers (there were some legal issues with the name that Bucky didn't want to get into, he was usually too tired, too stressed, it wasn't important enough).

Which is why it surprised you that one night, after dinner, Bucky's leg seemed to be shaking more than usual — a clear sign that he had a lot on his mind. He was pretty good at not wearing his emotions on his sleeve, but tonight seemed different

"Everything okay?" you ask, your hand resting on his knee under the table.

Bucky turns his head in your direction with a look that said he saw you, but that his brain was in an entirely different place. There were dark spots on the shoulders of his gray t-shirt, he had taken a shower as soon as he got home and the droplets of water were falling from his still damp hair.

For a man so large and brooding, Bucky looks so small. He's hunched inwards, his elbows resting on the table as he holds his head in his hands. He barely touched his food, instead just moving it around with a fork. Holding secrets to himself.

"Things have been crazy," he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Walker's been driving me up a wall every single day asking the dumbest questions. Alexei asked me if we could experiment with doing a double dosage of the serum. Yelena's been talking me off the edge so I don't bust everyone's heads in."

Your lips curl into a soft smile as you squeeze his leg, offering him your silent support. The team was still semi-new and most days Bucky didn't have the patience to deal with them — even if silently he enjoyed their presence.

"You're all still working out the kinks."

"It's been a year, you'd think we'd have it figured out by now. Sam does, Steve always did."

"Sam didn't for a while," you remind him. "And Steve never did, he was just confident. You will work it out, you always do."

Bucky's head lolls to the side to look at you. Even in the smallest moments you never gave up on him, you always told him it would find a way — you were usually right, he just hated waiting for it.

"I love you, you know that?" he asks quietly, his hand moving to grab yours and bring it up to his lips. He presses a soft kiss against the palm of your hand before he intertwines your fingers together.

"I do," you nod. "I love you, too."

Bucky uses his free hand to push away his plate of untouched food, then he grabs the bottom of your chair and drags you over until you're next to him. Leaning over his hands wrap around the underside of your legs and lifts them up, letting them drape over his lap. He watches you intently, always memorizing your features — always scared one day he won't recognize them anymore.

"That's not the only thing that's on my mind tonight," he admits, his voice soft.

"Care to share?"

"Maybe."

You chuckle as you lean your head against the back of the chair, the amount of love in your eyes could make the Earth shatter.

Whatever is going on in that big, beautiful brain of his is taking a toll on him, his fingers playing with the tips of yours as he purses his lips. It's obvious he's trying to figure out what exactly to say, or how to say it.

"We should get married," Bucky finally comes clean, exposing his thoughts right then and there.

You wish you could say you were surprised by his admission, but the truth is you and Bucky had known from the very start that this was where your lives were headed together. It didn't need to be said audibly, no one needed to make sure. This was it.

"When?" you ask.

"Now."

"Right now?" you chuckle again, shaking your head with a playful eye roll. "The courthouse is closed, we'd need a witness."

"Too many logistics," he huffs. "Tomorrow, then."

"I'd have to check my calendar."

It was Bucky's turn to laugh, his head tilts back as he lets out a hearty bark, one that he only reserved for you. His hand runs up and down your leg, you can feel the calluses on his hands from where he held his gun or gripped his knife too tightly, but you didn't care. You loved the feeling of him.

"Mean."

"Tomorrow might work," you say, your eyes examining his features. "I don't have anything to wear."

"I don't care. You could wear that ratty old t-shirt you've been hanging onto for too long. I just want to marry you."

So that's exactly what you and Bucky did.

The next day the two of you called Sam and asked (pleaded) with him to meet you at the courthouse that afternoon and be the witness. He put up a little bit of a fight about the whole Avengers thing but you managed to remind him that this wasn't about petty arguments.

Bucky managed to scrounge up a suit from his time as a Congressman and you found an outfit that would work — it was slightly off white, maybe a little less traditional, but it did the job.

"Wow. And you we were worried about having nothing to wear" Bucky says as the two of you meet at the top of the steps in your home. "Give me a spin." You take his extended hand and he spins you around, whistling in admiration as he does. "Beautiful, as always."

"Not too bad yourself," you say as you face him again, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his lips. "Are you ready to marry me, Barnes?"

"I've been ready since the day I met you," he whispers your name before he kisses you again, his lips lingering a few seconds longer this time.

Deep down he doesn't want to leave, he wants to take those clothes right off of you and worship the ground you walk on. He wants to hear you moan out your vows and promise to be with him forever. He'll settle for the courthouse instead.

The wait is longer than you had anticipated, apparently trying to get a marriage license was more of a hassle than either of you had expected (which wasn't very high since you both did a quick search on the computer the night before than hoped for the best).

Sam showed up as promised, albeit a little late, and now the three of you waited in the lobby of the courthouse, your leg bouncing in anxious anticipation.

"You're going to start an earthquake," Sam teased, earning a playful nudge from you.

"It's not everyday that you get married, Wilson."

"Can't believe R2-D2 over here found a soulmate," his chin nods over in Bucky's direction.

Bucky flips Sam off in a way that's both brotherly and full of hate, a perfect balance that only the two of them could master. You turn your head to the side to hide the amused smirk on your face, Sam was always getting you in trouble with his jokes.

"Don't egg him on," Bucky mutters.

"I'm sorry, R2-D2 is funny."

He grumbles something under his breath about being lucky he was going to marry you, but it doesn't matter because at the same time you hear your names being called out by one of the staff members.

It was time.

You wish you could say that you remembered every detail of what happened. That it was this beautiful, over-the-top ceremony filled with tears and wishes of love. In truth, it was quick and your mind sort of blanked out during it. There were no rings, no exchanging of pre-written vows, Sam watched a few feet back, with a quiet smile. It was intimate, quiet, exactly what you wanted.

A few signed documents, one cranky judge and a kiss later and the two of you were officially married. Not in the traditional sense that everyone grows up to dream about, but in a way that still promised each other the world and more.

"We're married," Bucky says.

It was hours later, the sun had now set, the world was dark and still. The two of you were now sitting on the floor of the kitchen, your legs draped over his. There was a skylight on the ceiling that let the moon and stars shine through illuminating the floor.

Bucky had gotten rid of his tie and suit jacket at some point in the night, the first button of his shirt was undone and his hair was a mess — but he was your husband, and he was beautiful. Your own hair was a mess and your strap had fallen down your arm, though you didn't care to fix it, there was a mysterious stain right under your chest and for all intents and purposes it was exactly how you pictured your wedding night.

A few feet away were a few empty bottles of champagne and a cake that you picked up from the grocery store on the way home. The white box was opened revealing what was left of a chocolate cake (which was now some crumbs) and two forks because of course you and Bucky fed each other and laughed about how weirdly dry it was.

"You keep saying that," you tease, biting down on your bottom lip.

"Can you believe it though? We're married." He grabs the open bottle of champagne by the neck and tips it to his lips, taking a long sip. It's not like he would ever feel the effects of the alcohol, but getting time to sit here with you and bask in your love made it feel like a celebration. What was a celebration without a little booze? "I never thought I'd be married, not after everything that happened."

You nod your head and give him a sad smile, grabbing the bottle that he was now holding out for you and taking a much smaller sip, the bubbles popping in your mouth.

"I wrote vows," you say, wiping your lips with the back of your hand.

"When did you have time to write vows?" he asks, his eyebrow raising.

"Not last night, a while ago," you admit. "Do you want to hear them?"

There's a knot in Bucky's stomach at the idea that you had laid everything out on a piece of paper. He thought of his name in your neat handwriting, and how you must have taken time to reflect on this relationship — this love. He doesn't tell you he's done the same, that sitting in the breast of his suit pocket is his own set of vows. Ones that he wrote years ago.

But right now he wants nothing more in that moment than to hear what you have to say, so he nods his head. You stand immediately, using his shoulder as leverage, and patter over to the steps, soon finding your way to the bedroom. You kept the vows in the nightstand next to your side of the bed, a folded up piece of paper that you scribbled on the nights he was away.

They served as a constant reminder of his undying love for you.

The paper is tight in your hand as you make your way back to the kitchen, taking a seat on the floor in the same position that you got up from, your back now resting against the cabinets. Your eyes find Bucky's and when he gives you a soft smile you unfold the paper and begin to read:

"I'm not going to pretend that these are perfect, or even close to describing the love that I feel for you, but I would be a fool not to reflect on our story, and hope that I've had nearly a fraction of the impact on your life as the one you've had on mine.

"When we met for the first time, I knew at that moment that I would never be the same. Neither of us were searching for the other, but there we were, standing a few feet apart at that dirty dive bar that Sam brought us to …"

Bucky laughs.

"And the world seemed just a little bit brighter — like something had changed. Well, something did change. We were both scared of the world, of each other, and of falling in love. But we ignored those little voices, we leapt into this and no matter how scary or hard it was, we did it together. Hand in hand. Head first.

"Life isn't linear and our stories are never what we expect them to be, but with you by my side I know that we are unstoppable. You've shown me how to be brave and what true unconditional love looks like. If I've never said it before, then I am saying it now: thank you.

"I promise to be your partner, your best friend and your soulmate in this lifetime and every one. We will find each other no matter where we are or who we become, because our stories are now one. It's not just you and me, it's us.

"And at the end of our days you will not just be Bucky Barnes the hero, you'll be James Barnes, my husband, my one true love. And I hope by the time I'm reading this that we decide to get married, or calling you my husband will be kind of awkward."

Bucky laughs again, you join him as you try to get the rest of the words out, trying to hold back tears. Your voice is now shaking.

"And if we did get married, then I hope we did it like we do everything. Together, hand in hand, head first."

You fold the paper in your lap, a few tears sliding down your cheeks as you meet Bucky's gaze. His eyes are glossed over and there's a fondness on his face that he only reserves for you — like most of them are.

"I love you, Buck," you whisper.

Bucky nods his head a few times as he leans back, reaching out for his suit jacket that was behind him on the floor. If you were going to read him your vows, it was time for his. He pulls the crumbled paper out and holds it up. Your eyes widen in surprise, you did not expect him to have his own ready.

"I keep this thing with me wherever I go, I think I've crossed off a lot of things that didn't sound right," he says, showing you the paper for a moment. "May I?"

You nod your head. Bucky clears his throat, then begins:

"I'm not a man of many words, though I'd like to be, because life has passed me by and my only regret has been not telling you that 'I love you' enough. I know that you'll argue and say that I do, but I don't, because I should have told you the second we met and every moment after. Every single silence should have been filled with me saying those words to you.

"I knew it, I always did. What is there not to love? Your kindness? Your intelligence? The way you make sure to always keep my side of the bed warm when I get home late because you know I hate when it's cold? If I am the man worthy of your love then I have done something right in this world. I'll never take this love for granted, not ever.

"Maybe in another lifetime we found each other sooner, but in this lifetime we found each other exactly when we needed it. I always needed you. My life has been a constant tidal wave and you were the only one to swim me ashore. Now I can breathe, and you and I sit in the sun and bask in the warmth, where we belong.

"I'm sorry there aren't many words to explain how deep my love for you is, but I hope that every single day I can show you instead. I promise to be your partner, your best friend and your protector. And from now until my dying days I love you, I love you, I love you and I love you."

The paper in Bucky's hand is now splattered with teardrops, the once black ink now smudging across the off white paper. But it doesn't matter, none of it does, the vows are just a promise, one that the two of you had already made years ago.

You crawl over to him and wrap your arms around his neck as he pulls you into his lap. There's a few silent tears shed as you hold each other close, but nothing neither of you haven't seen before. It’s a rare moment of intimacy between lovers.

When Bucky pulls away to look at you there's a smile, not a sad one, but a grin so wide the corners of his eyes crinkled.

"We forgot rings."

"I know," you nod. "Do you have a pen?"

Bucky nods, reaching back into his suit pocket again and pulling out a ballpoint pen. You grab his hand and click the pen to expose the tip, writing your initials on the inside of his ring finger. He does the same shortly after — not a permanent solution, but a symbolic one.

He kisses the back of your hand a few times then begins to stand, lifting you to your feet and into his arms. Neither of you untangle from each other, instead opting to slowly sway back and forth in the middle of the kitchen, never wanting to let go. There was no music playing, there didn't need to be.

You and Bucky were starting your forever with whispered I love you's, hand in hand, head first.

[buckysflicker]

Bag of Tricks : One-Shots Masterpost

pairing: chaotic dumbass reader x exasperated bucky

these are unrelated and in their own universes. it’s very confusing. i’m also confused. please ask me exactly 0 questions about this. xoxo

⚘ = 1k+ notes

* = 18+ only

Cut - You make a change. Bucky appreciates it.

Surprises - You enlist Bucky’s help babysitting.

DEADCRUSH - Who would you take to dinner if they were still alive today?  ⚘ &Problem - companion fic to DEADCRUSH. &Stack -Platonic Peter/Reader interaction in the same universe

Flavor of the Day- Some things just get you riled up. &Part 2* - (scroll down) nsfw short companion to Flavor of the Day.

The Thief - Bucky loses another shirt.  ⚘ -Posters from The Thief

Keen-  The Bartons’ Vow Renewal Ceremony, Bucky’s irritation(among other things), and some peaches makes for a fantastic afternoon.

Good Enough -  The second his shoulder rubbed against yours, you found yourself thinking that you were either going to have his baby, or you were going to die alone.

Reader - For all your insight, you’re pretty dense.

[buckysflicker]

🥺🥺🥺🥺

oh oh fawn, happy summerween do you feel compelled to write something for this with our bf Bucky 'piggy back rides when one gets tired from walking for so long'???

“My feet hurt,” you whine, leaning into Bucky as you walk down the cobbled pavement. 

Bucky chuckles, you’ve been exploring all day. Walking from place to place as you tried pastries; a mix of sweet and savory, then went to the museum and finally for ice cream. 

Bucky had warned you not to wear your new shoes today. Sure they were cute ballet flats, but they needed to be broken into. Now you’re suffering the consequences. 

“Want me to carry you? We’re still some distance from the house.” 

Bucky hooks an arm over your shoulder, the flat of his palm grazing the small of your back. 

Your eyes widen, hopefulness filling them as you look up at Bucky. 

He smiles and stops in the middle of the pavement, turning so his back is to you. “Come closer, doll.” you shimmy up behind him and squeal a little when Bucky’s hands cement themselves under your bum and lift you onto his back. 

You sigh as soon as he straightens up, hand hanging limp around his neck. It’s not like you need to hold on. 

“You’re the best,” you press your cheek into his shoulder, shutting your eyes as you listen to Bucky’s measured steps.

You feel him hum more than you hear it, “‘Cause you get princess carried?”

“Well I wouldn’t class this as princess,” he chuckles, pinching the underside of your bum making you squeal. “But this is a great added bonus.” 

“You’re such a spoiled brat,” he mumbles, though he hardly means it. Bucky likes you spoiled; he liked spoiling you even though he wouldn’t necessarily call a piggy back ride home spoiled. 

You smile, “Your spoiled brat though.” 

Your face shifts so your cheek is pressed against Bucky’s cool metal shoulder. The steadiness of his steps start lulling you to the limbo space between waking and sleep. You’re nearly home, maybe a block of walking again, and Bucky can feel the difference in your breathing as you start falling asleep. 

He smiles, “Damn right, doll.” 

[buckysflicker]

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH

THIS IS SO GOOD I LOVE HOW YOU WRITE BUCKY SO MUCH

Checks and Balances

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Summary: Your boss was an ass—you knew it, the office knew it, the entire country knew it. Working for Senator Brown was never easy, but you had managed it for the better part of three years and didn’t want to see your career go up in flames. Unfortunately for you, Bucky was slowly falling in love with you, and Congressman Barnes didn’t think managing it was enough. 

Word count: 9k

Warnings: Injury (kinda), hospitals, angst, an abusive boss, protective Bucky!!

a/n: Ahh a Bucky fic that's not an AU (that's also one million words)! Idk how the government works tbh so sorry if things are a little inaccurate there lol. This takes place right before Thunderbolts! Thank you for reading, I love you!! ❤️❤️

Masterlist

~~

“Congressman Barnes,” you greeted, a slight nod of your head the only acknowledgement you could afford. Senator Brown was only a moment away from screaming at you again, and you could only take so much screaming in one day.  

Bucky, unfortunately, did not care about being screamed at by Senator Brown. He took your upper arm in a light grip and shot you a confused smile. “What, you avoiding me? Can’t be seen in the halls talking to me?” 

A fairer assessment of Bucky’s interruption was that he didn’t know of the wrath Senator Brown could incite upon you. Sure, Bucky knew that Brown was a hardass, and by association, his executive assistant would have to put up with it, but he had no way of knowing just how terrible the man was. 

When you met Bucky a few weeks ago, you had been alone in a hotel lobby. The heels accompanying your freshly pressed pantsuit had been killing you, and you needed a moment for your feet to breathe. Bucky, apparently, also needed a moment away from the conference, and you had gotten to talking when he plopped into the overstuffed armchair beside you. 

He knew you worked for Senator Brown. You knew he was a Congressman, obviously. You also knew his background and the complexities that came with it. Many people in the political space turned up their noses at him, something you had a similar experience with as you were “only an assistant.” The two of you had joked about it, eventually making your way to the hotel bar and laughing over the amount of hidden toupees currently residing in the ballroom.

In the weeks that followed, you had texted with him, met for coffee twice because he was “in the area”, and had maybe even considered the fact that you were friends with Congressman Barnes. Friends were invaluable to have in D.C., but they were also something to be wary of. Bucky didn’t feel the type to be wary of. 

As you stood halfway frozen in the hallway, his comment began to make sense. He was calling back to your initial hotel conversation, making a joke about biases and stuck-up politicians, but this was not the time. Not that he could have known. 

Senator Brown barked out your name when he noticed you were no longer beside him, surely trying to get you to jot down some thought banging around in his head. You whipped your head to the side, almost missing the affronted expression on Bucky’s face as he registered the tone that your name was spoken in, and shook your arm from his hold. 

“Sorry, Congressman,” you murmured, turning on your heel and making quick strides in Brown’s direction. “I apologize. What can I do for you, Senator?” 

Your boss barely hid a scoff. “You can start by being where I need you to be. And write this down—I do not believe that the House takes the proper—” 

You scrambled to take out your phone and open the notes app. A rookie mistake; you usually had it open the second his meetings ended, but you had been distracted. By Bucky. 

Your heels hurriedly clicking against polished marble, you took a fleeting glance over your shoulder. Bucky remained there, his brow furrowed and his arms crossed over his chest, metal from his hand glinting against the gentle fluorescence of the hall. 

Three days later, he brought it up. 

You thought you’d found a private spot to scarf down your lunch in your allotted fifteen-minute break, but with a sandwich only half finished and your mouth full, the call of your name reminded you that there is never any privacy for you at this job. The sound of Bucky’s voice softened the blow a bit. 

“He always treat you like that?” Bucky asked, swinging his leg over the bench on the other side of the table. He watched as you tried to chew quickly, some of the hardness he’d sat down with melting from his expression. 

You covered your mouth with your hand and swallowed hard. “What?” you finally got out, reaching for your water bottle. 

Bucky raised a brow. “Brown. Does he always yell at you?” 

After a few sips and swallows, you gave up on being able to finish your lunch. You had to plan out your meals very meticulously to finish, and Bucky had already taken up 30 precious seconds. 

“Oh,” you began. You swiped a hand through the air. “It’s fine. He just gets a little intense sometimes. It’s just his personality.” 

“You’ve been working for him for three years.” 

“Right.” 

“The guy should treat you better. He could only keep assistants for a few weeks at a time before you.” 

“How do you know that?” 

Bucky slid your food towards you. “Eat. You looked like you were in a hurry when I got here.” 

You eyed him for a moment. With his hair tucked behind his ears, you could see the tenseness of his jaw and the shadow of his beard dusting above his collar. It was no secret that Bucky was alarmingly handsome in a sea of 60-year-old politicians, but you had never gotten the opportunity to see it at work. You were always too busy, and Bucky’s office was three floors down. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t text you back,” you said, reaching for the fruit in your bag. “I meant to. I’ve just been working late since the meeting on Monday.” 

“It’s alright.” A pause as you continued to eat your food. You had maybe four minutes left. “How late?” 

“Oh, um, I’ve been going home around 10. It’s such a pain in the ass to get a taxi at that time, you wouldn’t believe. Uber isn’t much better, and I definitely can’t walk home in these things,” you joked, motioning to the bandaids strapped behind your heels. “It’s not so bad, though. After about a month of late nights, Brown will go on a “vacation,” and I’ll have a few weeks to reign in the chaos during normal business hours.” 

You were giggling as you spoke, adding air quotes and sarcasm to try to alleviate the irritated look Bucky was sporting. After a few weeks of being around him, you understood that Bucky was quieter than you, but his silence right now was pressing. Your jokes weren’t getting him to talk, so you switched gears. 

Popping a grape in your mouth, you asked, “What are you doing up here, anyway?” 

Bucky let out a breath and tapped his hand on the table. “Honestly? I came to check on you.” 

“To check on me?” 

“After Monday, I wanted to make sure—” 

Your phone started going off, the “Senator Brown” contact making your blood run cold. You brought your watch up and let out a gasp that made Bucky jump. 

“What?” he rushed, standing from the table as you started to pack your things in a panic. He went to help you, but after two brushes of his hands, he realized he was only in the way. 

“My break was over two minutes ago. I have to go right now.” 

“Two minutes? What—y/n, that isn’t—” 

He was here to check on you. Right. That was really sweet. 

Your brain tried to catch up with your panic as you reached over and squeezed his arm gratefully. “I’m really fine, Bucky. It was nice to see you. We should get coffee again.” You were sliding through the double doors and back into the building as you called, “I’ll text you. I promise this time.” 

And you did. In the seven minutes of free time you got around 9 pm, you sent him a quick follow-up text. The bubble went right below his text from two days ago, and you felt a small pinch of guilt for not answering him until now.

You: Free Saturday morning?

He answered you almost instantly.

Bucky: Depends. Are you still at work right now?

You frowned at your phone. 

You: If I am does that mean you won’t get coffee with me?

Bucky: So you are 

You: …maybe 

And then, your seven minutes of silence were up. When Brown’s footsteps could be heard by the door, you tucked your phone into your desk and went to work on the stack of papers he assigned you. He so graciously let you know that he was going home now, and you could leave once you were finished. 

That was perfect. 

It took you an hour and a half, but when you sorted the final paper and checked his schedule for tomorrow for the last time, a sense of relief flooded you. You didn’t even care that it would take another 30 minutes for an Uber to arrive. All you could think about was your shower and your bed and taking these shoes off your feet. 

You gathered your belongings and swiped your phone from the desk, clicking to the rideshare app and somewhat dreading the small talk to come. It would be extremely convenient to have a car, but that wasn’t something in the cards for you. Your tiny apartment had barely any parking, and everything else was within walking distance. 

As you continued to ponder the pros and cons of taking the bus home, a honk from the curb made you jump. You lowered your phone and squinted into the distance of the now barren road. 

“Someone order an Uber?” 

Disbelief was your first emotion, and then shock and then confusion. “Buck—Congressman Barnes?” you asked, correcting yourself when the memory of the building at your back resurfaced. 

“You’re not getting in my car if you’re calling me that,” Bucky replied, leaning down to peer out the passenger-side window. 

“What are you doing here?” you asked him for the second time today.

“I told you, I’m driving for Uber. You called for one?” 

A disbelieving laugh fell from your lips. You shook your phone by your face and leaned down towards the window. “Haven’t even ordered it yet. I’m not supposed to get in the car unless they can put in the code verifying my identity.” 

“Give me a code, then. Here,” he passed you his phone, the background illuminating a small white cat. “Wait, sorry, I have to unlock it.” 

Your next laugh was more of a scoff as he reached through the window to take it back. “Seriously, what are you doing here?” 

Bucky paused, looking you up and down for a moment before his jaw ticked to the side in a smile. “I’m taking you home. You live close, it won’t take very long.” 

“I can’t ask you to do that.” 

“You’re not asking. Now, hurry up and get in. I’ve been in the fire lane for 20 minutes and parking enforcement hates me here.” 

You went to argue again, but Bucky only raised a brow and unlocked the doors. 

Sliding in the car was somewhat of a mess with your bag and your jacket and the file you had meant to finish at home almost suffocating you. Bucky tried to help, grabbing items and waiting for you to buckle in before placing them by your feet. You were flustered from the transition, trying to adjust your skirt and seatbelt as Bucky reached forward to tuck a strand of hair stuck in your lip gloss behind your ear. 

You turned to look at him instantly, but the man only gave you a closed-lip smile and shifted the gear of his car, pulling away from the building of your nightmares. You blinked back towards the dashboard, needing a few more seconds to settle yourself. 

“I really didn’t mean to make you feel guilty,” you stressed to Bucky after he flipped the radio on, low music trickling in. “When I told you about staying late, I mean.” 

Bucky tsked, knocking his head to the side to shoot you a lingering glance. “You didn’t, alright? This is my own problem. I just didn’t feel comfortable with you trying to find a way home so late.” 

“I’ve been doing it for a while and I haven’t died yet,” you attempted to joke. 

Not the best joke, it seemed, with Bucky’s fist clutching the steering wheel a hair tighter, the sound of leather meeting your ears. He shook his head. “Where’s Brown? He doesn’t let you take work home?” 

“Oh, he does sometimes,” you chipperly replied, trying to sound awake and get Bucky un-pissed off. “He just checks my timesheets when we work overtime, so I have to make sure I stay late enough so that he won’t say anything. I still have this to take care of once I get home.”

You tapped the manila file in your lap and looked over to Bucky as he drove. He was wearing jeans and a pullover crewneck, his hair tied back and casual, and even though you’d seen him outside of work before, he looked different this way. Something about the night and him driving you home made him look different. 

Bucky didn’t make a comment about your work or the system you had to avoid criticism from the Senator. Silence lapsed in the car, you lightly drumming your fingers on your thigh as the D.C. night swept past along the car windows. 

“I would like to get coffee Saturday,” Bucky finally said. “If the offer still stands.” 

“Of course it stands.” 

You only briefly caught the half-smile that lit up his face before the light of the streets was lost to a tunnel. 

~~

Coffee was relaxed and enjoyable, as it always was with Bucky. He asked a few more questions about your work, a topic he had previously not touched on. He wanted to know about your coworkers, if the interns ever helped you, how much time you got off, and in turn, you asked him about being a Congressman and if he actually enjoyed it. 

Both answers left the other person less than satisfied. 

“What about you?” Bucky asked, tilting his cup up. “Why have you been an executive assistant for so long?” 

You hummed. “I don’t know, really. My dad was in politics, and he would only really accept my work if I was, too. He’s… not around now, but I feel like I have to stay. I’m good at it.” 

“I believe it. Could be good at a lot of things, though.” 

You shot him a mock glare. “Trying to get rid of me, Congressman?” 

Bucky leaned forward, placing a hand on the small table that only separated you a few inches. He answered you earnestly, but a small amount of humor lightened his eyes, made him look less serious. “Now, why would I want to do that?” 

Your lips parted to quip something back, but then he was raising his hand again, the heat of his skin lingering at the corner of your mouth. He swiped his thumb there, and you were frozen, a replica of when he brushed your hair back a few nights ago, but the car had been a distraction then. You had been flustered and trying to sort out your belongings, so you didn’t think about it for longer than a few seconds. 

“Whipped cream,” he explained, holding you in his gaze for a moment longer than you should have been. Even as the barista from behind the counter was now standing at your table and speaking. 

“Hi! Would the two of you like to try our new coffee cake? Free samples since it’s new.” 

Bucky was the first to look away, tearing his eyes from yours to smile politely at the barista. You shook from your stupor and quickly reached for a napkin, brushing it against your lips even though nothing remained. 

You felt fuzzy, confused. But also nothing was confusing and you were reminded, again, how attractive the Congressman was. How attractive and how definitely off-limits he was. 

It would be so taboo for Bucky to be dating an assistant. 

“What about you, ma’am?” You blinked several times and looked up to read the small ‘coffee cake’ sign lying next to the treats, the barista’s blinding smile expecting and very retail. 

“I’m allergic to cinnamon, but thank you.” 

“Allergic to cinnamon?” Bucky asked as the barista left.

“Yeah, anaphylaxis and everything. I carry an epipen with me, but I’ve only had to use it once when I was 10. Did you know that some bakeries add cinnamon to buttercream birthday cakes?” you chuckled, reorienting yourself to the present. “Are you allergic to anything? Or, I guess you probably aren’t. Isn’t that a serum thing?” 

“Not allergic to anything, but if I had been, it would’ve been wiped out by the serum. We didn’t really have a lot of food variety in the 30s. Could have been allergic to shellfish—didn’t try that until after.” 

You had to pause the cup at your lips. “Oh my god, I forgot you’re like 100 years old.” 

Bucky’s expression morphed into an offended wince. “Alright, I wouldn’t say that. I haven’t exactly lived 100 years.” 

“I was just thinking the other day how you don’t exactly fit in with the rest of Congress, but you so do! Maybe even on the young side,” you teased. 

“Oh yeah?” Bucky egged on, nodding with his brows raised. “You were thinking about me?” 

You knocked your head back in a laugh, holding your stomach with your forearm. “How did I forget this?” 

“You know what? I’m not driving you home anymore.” 

With lingering giggles, you righted yourself in your chair, a smile still clear in your voice. Contrasting his words, Bucky’s smile was just as wide as yours, a slight redness to his cheeks making him look softer. You brought a hand to cover his arm on the table. 

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, Bucky. You aren’t old. I take it back.” 

“Yeah, you better,” he taunted, though his arm flipped over and he gave your wrist a soft squeeze as he said it. 

~~

Bucky wouldn’t stop touching you. 

You didn’t know if he was doing it consciously or if this was something he commonly did with his friends, but he was going to get you in trouble. 

Outside of work, it was fine—distracting and disorienting, but fine. A brush of his hand helping you into the car, fixing your bag on your shoulder, a hand on your back when you left the coffee shop; over the past few weeks, it had all begun to feel commonplace. 

It could have been frequency that made you more aware of this habit of his, because Bucky had begun picking you up every time you worked late and planned coffee or lunch or even a walk at least once a weekend. So, maybe this was his norm and you were just around him more often—something you enjoyed, but also something that made feelings more difficult. 

Because, again, Congressman Barnes could not be dating an assistant. His credibility among the rest of Congress was already being questioned almost daily, and he did not need the court of public opinion breathing down his neck on top of that. It was a fortunate truth that while the internal part of his job was tricky, most of the public favored him. 

So, as much as your chest hurt and your stomach flipped whenever you were around him, you settled for friendship. A touchy friendship. 

At work, things felt heightened in the worst way possible. 

You couldn’t even understand why he was coming to the top floor so often, seemingly lingering there so he could scare the crap out of you when you’d turn a corner. And then it would be a smile and another hand at your back when he was passing you—a hand that was not necessary. Or he would find you at the tail-end of your lunch break and move your hair away from your eyes, distracting you to the point of no return. 

It was the worst because you were getting distracted, and when you were distracted, you got yelled at. 

Bucky had seen you get yelled at a few times now, each seemingly worse than the last. He kept quiet about it, but you could tell it bothered him. He almost stepped in once—when Brown was irate at the coffee you’d gotten him and chucked it at the wall, you saw Bucky step forward from down the hall. He stopped at the slight shake of your head. 

You were used to the Senator throwing things, and as long as it wasn’t in your direction, it was no harm done. At least, that’s what you thought. 

“You should go to human resources,” Bucky commented one Sunday, the two of you sitting along a lake by the Capitol building. 

You almost snorted. “Right. And what do you think old Mrs. Martha is going to be able to do for me? Brown has been in office for over a decade. If anything, that would just get me fired.” 

Bucky shook his head, expression taut. “There’s gotta be something else then. You don’t deserve all of that.” 

“If we’re talking about not deserving torment, I think I’m the least of our worries here, Sergeant,” you noted, knocking your shoulder against his in an attempted lightness. 

But when you turned to look at him, Bucky was already facing you. “I’m serious, y/n. He’s throwing things at you. I’ve stayed out of it because you told me to, but after today—” 

“Bucky, hey,” you calmed. “I know it seems crazy, but I know how to deal with it. I know he won’t actually do anything.”

“Right now, maybe.” 

You sighed, searching his eyes and trying to discern when this became such an intense conversation. Trying to figure out when the two of you had discussions like this and not just lax coffee hangouts. Against your better judgment, you placed a hand over his thigh and relented. 

“Okay, fine. I’ll work on it, but I’ll be the one working on it, okay? It definitely can’t be you—he would freak out if a representative started ordering him around. Even if you could totally knock him out.” 

Bucky shook his head in disbelief, a smile begrudgingly sneaking onto his face. “I can’t believe you’re joking about this.” 

“You can definitely believe that.” 

“Yeah, I can.” And then you were tugged against his starched, ironed suit, his metal arm holding you close to his chest.

You gasped a little at the initial contact, your heart hammering against your ribs as Bucky simply kept you there. This is dangerous, your brain reminded you, but it was also harmless, if you looked at it the right way. 

“You know, I’m not going to die, Bucky. I’ve dealt with this for years.” 

“Yeah, you keep joking about that,” he gruffly replied, the words a ghost against the top of your head. You hadn’t realized his lips were that close. “If we could keep the death jokes to a minimum, that would be great.” 

You pulled back from him enough to look at his face. “Why? Afraid your only friend will bite it?” 

“Hey, I have other friends.” 

“I haven’t seen ‘em.” 

“Shut up,” he groaned, tugging you back in. “You can meet them as proof. Next weekend.” 

“Okay, sure, Bucky,” you sang out, tapping his chest. “But if we need to reschedule this meeting with your 'friends,’ I would understand.” 

As Bucky went on to refute your insinuations in a grumpy tone, you tried to pretend that this felt like that—just a friendship. 

~~

Approximately four days later, everything went to shit. 

Senator Brown was on a tirade, screaming at everyone and everything in his path. When he got like this, the admin staff usually locked the doors to his office and the entire floor if they could, but today, they weren’t ready for how angry he was. 

It was a bill, or a speech, or maybe even the press catching wind that he was cheating on his wife—it didn’t matter. He was pissed and you were going to have to answer for it. 

You stood in his office with a clear view of the glass wall connecting to the hallway, hands behind your back and fighting off a wince with every curse and insult the Senator threw at you. 

“I hired you to take care of this bullshit! Why the hell am I dealing with this when I’m supposed to have an entire staff? This is fucked!” 

“You’re too worried about going home early, you can’t even assemble a reply to an email correctly! A fucking email!”

“I should’ve fired you weeks ago. When you started fucking off to wherever you take too long for your lunch break and stopped doing your job. I swear to god, this country has—” 

You were only retaining about half of what he said, which was good, considering everything was an attack on you, and your work ethic, and then he even started going in on your clothes and your apartment. It must have been something really bad this time. After he was done yelling, you would check his texts and probably find a couple of mentions of divorce sprinkled in between messages with his lawyers. 

Affairs and divorce were always messy for politicians. 

“Of course, Senator. I will do better. I apologize,” you offered, unsure what you were apologizing for at the present. It wouldn’t matter; he would just start up again about another topic. 

“Damn right you will or I’ll send you out on the streets. Do you know how hard it is to get a job in D.C when a Senator blacklists you?” 

Did you ever. 

When Bucky had asked you why you stayed, you left out that key bit of information. He was still newer to the field and didn’t need to know that Senator Brown held that over your head each time you even hinted at moving on. 

You figured the screaming was almost over. Brown was in his 60s, so he would be getting tired. And it probably would have been over if he hadn’t checked his Apple Watch and read a text that got him fired up once more.

You greatly regretted setting that up for him. 

You braced yourself for further yelling as his face began to turn red, but were alarmed as the Senator reached for the wooden pencil case on his desk and threw it. Pens flew, and you knew he wasn’t aiming for you, but the cup hit a vase on a high bookshelf to your right, which then toppled over and shook loose the framed art hanging above your head. 

You should have moved, but you spotted Bucky in the hall, and he always distracted you. 

The frame shot straight down, smacking you in the head and causing your knees to buckle in surprise. You fell to the ground, feeling dramatic and disoriented as the room silenced and your ears rang. You knew he wouldn’t apologize, but the continued quiet as you pushed yourself up and sat back on your haunches was almost deafening. 

The glass door to the office swung open. 

“What the hell?” A hand was on your elbow. A colder one felt around the top of your head. It was Bucky, obviously it was Bucky, but you were too afraid to look, keeping your gaze locked on Senator Brown. “Hey, you okay?” 

The hand on your head moved down to your jaw, forcing your gaze to Bucky. He searched every inch of your face as you blinked at him, mind blank. “Um, I’m fine.” 

Your brows furrowed, trying to connect the chain of events that led to this. You brought your hand up to replace where Bucky had placed his, the action seemingly spurring him into action. 

“The hell is wrong with you, huh?” Bucky shouted, rising from the floor. “You think it makes you tough to throw things at her?” 

Senator Brown had gone from furious to unsure, probably aware of the physical strength Bucky harbored. But, as was typical with politicians, he would not put anything before his pride. Brown righted his expression and pursed his lips. 

“I wasn’t trying to hit her, Congressman. It was a simple accident. You weren’t even in the room to see it happen.” 

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t need to be. You’re screaming at her when you’re not throwing. What kinda grown man does that?” 

“Bucky—” you cautioned, glued to the floor still. 

The senator directed his attention towards you, brows raised accusingly. “Oh, so you’ve been gossiping about me, then?” 

You shrank back, hand lingering where your head ached, but Bucky stepped in front of you, blocking you from Brown’s line of sight. 

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” Bucky seethed, jutting a finger into Brown’s chest. 

Brown’s head sharply turned. “That you are, Congressman. But it seems like my assistant here no longer wants her role, so this conversation is moot.” 

“Wait, I—” 

“Maybe if you spent time picking on someone your own size instead of acting like a coward—” 

“Bucky, don’t—” 

“A coward? A coward? Who’s the one who cannot speak for himself on the board? Tell me, Barnes, is that part of some unresolved trauma from some nondescript decade?” 

“You shut your mouth before I—” 

“Congressman Barnes,” you called, authority that didn’t belong to you heavy in your tone. You were two seconds away from losing your job and being blacklisted, neither of which you could handle. Bucky froze, his anger still held in his shoulders. “Thank you for your concern, as I’m sure you were just passing by when you saw what happened, but I can assure you that it was an accident and I am fine.” 

Bucky looked over his shoulder with furrowed brows, but took a step back and dropped his hands by his sides when he caught your expression—still disheveled, but resolute in your decision. He needed to leave. You needed to save your career. You could… figure everything else out later. Probably. 

You bit into your bottom lip until it hurt. 

Bucky looked at the wall behind your head and then tracked his gaze to the forming lump on your crown. “But—” 

“I am fine,” you repeated slowly. Having risen from the floor before calling his name, you walked to the door and held it open. “We’re very busy. Please excuse us.” 

Bucky licked his lips as he looked to the floor, shaking his head in abject disbelief and following your direction. When he met the entryway, he tilted his head slightly, opening his mouth to say something, but thinking against it. His hand twitched at his side, and then he left, taking long, purposeful strides away from the office. 

You took a deep breath, allowed yourself a moment as the door closed, and then you did something purposeful yourself. Even if it killed you to do so. 

~~

Bucky’s POV

Bucky was losing his mind. 

After leaving Brown’s office, he’d stormed into his own and promptly shut and locked the door. Tugging his tie away from his neck and prying the uncomfortable suit jacket from his shoulders, Bucky then began to pace. He was pissed. He was so beyond pissed. 

It would have been so easy for him to knock that Senator out, and he would have deserved it. Bucky had had to watch for weeks as you were berated and screamed at, and then the line was crossed when he saw him throwing things. You hadn’t let him do anything, and then you hadn’t let him do anything again after you’d been hurt. 

He watched you flinch and cover your face, and even that hadn’t been enough. 

Bucky swiped a hand over his mouth. 

When had you started to matter to him so much? That was a stupid question, and apparently, he was full of stupidity today.

He promised that he’d let you take care of it, and then he went in there and almost killed Senator Brown. A replay of you falling to the ground looped in his mind, and actually Bucky didn’t feel stupid at all. All he felt was rage. 

“Shit,” he breathed out, knocking his head back and falling back into his office chair.

He’d messed up. He wasn’t sure exactly how, but he knew you were not happy with him. What did “taking care of it” even mean? And why were you so dead set on keeping that awful job? Bucky could think of at least a dozen other jobs in D.C. that would not involve you being verbally and physically abused. 

Fuck, he wished he had more pull, but as a Congressman of only a few months, there was little he could do against a Senator. And he had a meeting in five minutes. 

Bucky pulled his phone out and sent you a quick text about talking after work, let out the longest sigh of his life, and then readjusted his tie. 

That had been three days ago. 

You never texted him back. And you left the building far before he could give you a ride home. When he asked your coworkers, they said you were no longer working overtime and left during normal hours. 

Fine. That was good, actually. Only, Bucky never saw you. 

He frequented all of your normal spots, wandered up to the top floor, and even stopped by the coffeeshop two days in a row, and you were nowhere. Avoiding him, obviously, and while he understood (he didn’t), he mostly wanted to put eyes on you. To make sure you were okay. 

Sure, you didn’t have a severe head injury, but it was more than that. 

Bucky brought his turmoil to the barbecue Sam was holding that weekend. The one you were supposed to be at. 

Nursing his fifth beer that wouldn’t do anything, Bucky leaned back against the fence of Sam’s yard and sulked. He’d talked to a few people when he got there, but sulking was on his agenda for the afternoon. 

“What’s up with the stank face?” Sam asked, entering Bucky’s orbit of solitude and despair. “It’s gonna get stuck like that if you keep it up.” 

“I don’t have a stank face,” Bucky argued. 

“Right, right. Well, right now you have more of a pissed off face, but I guess I bring that out in you.” Sam paused and then smacked Bucky in the shoulder. “Come on, man. What’s going on, seriously? Does it have to do with that girl you were supposed to bring?” 

“I don’t want to talk about that.” 

“Oh, you don’t? Then it’s that.” 

Bucky rolled his eyes, knocking back more of his beer as the sizzle of burgers juxtaposed with his somberness. “Alright, fine. It’s that. But it’s stupid. We weren’t even…”

“Dating?” 

“Yeah. That.” 

“You told me you went out for coffee and all that. That you would go on long walks at the lake and canoodle at work.”

“Are you going to take this seriously?” Bucky accused. “‘Cause if you’re not, I’m leaving right now. I’ll leave.” 

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry,” Sam surrendered, raising his hands. “But really, Buck, that all sounds like dating. Tell me why she didn’t come.” 

Bucky clenched his jaw and stared out at the merriment of the barbecue, remembering the scene more vividly than he would have liked. He tried to find an exact moment that would have led to you avoiding him, but he couldn’t pin it down. Maybe it was the entire thing? 

“I think she’s mad at me. I kinda went off on her boss and she told me she wanted to take care of it.” 

“What do you mean ‘went off’? And isn’t she working under a Senator?”

Bucky puffed out a breath. “Yeah, Senator Brown.” Sam let out a low whistle as Bucky continued. “He yells at her. Throws things. I felt like it crossed a line this week, so I guess I kinda stormed in. She threw me out and’s been avoiding me since. We had talked about it before and she said to stay out of it, but, Sam, the guy’s a dick.” 

“And you really like her,” Sam added casually. “And I really like her,” Bucky confirmed. 

Sam paused to contemplate, though Bucky didn’t know what he could possibly offer that Bucky hadn’t already considered. He really, really liked you—more than he figured possible, especially with all of his attempts at dating since his pardon. But then you’d surprised him that night at the hotel, and he’d been hooked. 

He hadn’t even had the chance to tell you.

“Well, two things,” Sam began, leaning on the fence next to Bucky. “Sounds like she knows what she’s doing, so you should have trusted her. But—” Sam cut out as Bucky opened his mouth “—it also sounds like Brown’s a major ass with a lot of power. You don’t know what he might have over her, slimy dude like that.” 

“What, you mean like blackmail?” 

“Maybe, who knows? You just gotta talk to her, man. Work it out.” 

Sam clapped Bucky on the shoulder before wading back into the party in the yard. Bucky, feeling somewhat lighter but also still at peril, kicked off the fence and made his own attempts at being sociable. 

“As soon as I can actually find her,” he grumbled to himself. 

~~

The charity gala had been on your calendar for the past six months, and still, nothing could have prepared you for how much you didn’t want to attend. 

You usually enjoyed events like this. You got to dress up and eat nice food, and Brown always got too drunk to remember that his assistant was even in the building. The first hour felt like work, and then the rest of the night was cosplaying as a rich politician. 

That was not the case for this gala. 

Ever since the ordeal with Bucky, Senator Brown had kept you on a tight leash. Whether that was due to how much he enjoyed intimidating you or his fear that you actually were telling people he was a mean, abusive boss, didn’t matter. All that mattered was that this gala was going to suck and there was nothing you could do about it. 

You had apologized profusely, swore up and down that you didn’t know Congressman Barnes, and practically pledged your life to Brown in every way you knew how. You never left the office, never took a lunch break—you were pretty sure your eyes were permanently dry from how long you stared at a screen all day. 

Making you attend this gala and not leave his side was another ploy to make you atone for your wrongdoings. Maybe the man knew how much you enjoyed these events and was taking advantage of that. 

“Check this,” Senator Brown lazily ordered, draping his coat over your arms. “And meet me back in the dining room. You get to sit right next to me.” 

You offered him a tight smile and felt the ache in your shoulders begin to fester. You were more uptight this week than ever, but that had nothing to do with Bucky Barnes. Nothing. 

It was just this job and your future in D.C. hanging in the balance. 

Obviously. 

You meandered over to the coat check, taking longer than you needed to and dragging your feet along the way. Your phone was buzzing incessantly in your bag—most likely some PR fire you’d need to put out before more people realized Brown was cheating on his wife—and you had absolutely no inclination to drag it out. 

“Just these two,” you offered, pressing the coats into the attendant's hands and taking the ticket in return. 

“Actually, can you add this one to that ticket?” 

As if this night couldn’t get any more uncomfortable. 

You could feel his chest against your back even before you heard him. He shifted his arms out of his sleeves and placed a hand on your shoulder as he leaned towards the counter. Of course he smelled good. Why wouldn’t he?

You fought the urge to roll your eyes in repressed… something and spun on your heel. 

He was just as close as you were expecting and also far too close for comfort. You knocked your head back to catch his gaze, trying to appear unamused and angry. 

“Why would you do that?” you asked. 

Bucky paused for a moment, searching the planes of your face for a beat too long before replying, “No reason to open another ticket. I’ll just leave when you leave.” 

“You mean you’ll leave when Brown leaves, then?” 

The muscle in his jaw jumped. “So, nothing's changed.”

This time, you did roll your eyes. You clutched the coat check number in your hand and began to storm off, not in the headspace to have this conversation at this gala. Bucky, however, did not seem to mind. 

The hand on your arm was soft but firm as you were tugged into a closet and subsequently shoved into a rack of hanging coats. It was too dim to see beyond your hands out in front of you, but Bucky solved that predicament as he entered your space. 

“Did you seriously just throw me into a closet?” you whisper-yelled, all too aware of the staff only feet away. 

“I had no choice,” he replied with the same urgency. “You were stomping off. And I didn’t throw you in here.” 

“I was not stomping off,” you scoffed. 

“You were.” 

“Was not!” 

“I could hear your heels. You were stomping.” 

You groaned, pushing into his chest to try and create distance that wasn’t available. Your back only hit the wall. 

“Fine. What do you want?” 

Bucky froze for a moment. “I… I didn’t actually think you’d stay in here. Or let me talk, if I’m being honest. 

Your jaw fell open, an incredulous laugh slipping out. You’d almost forgotten how endearing he was in just about everything he did. Even as he stood in front of you in a full, three-piece suit, smushing you against a closet wall because he had dragged you in there with no plan, a part of your chest warmed. 

Your phone vibrated in your bag, and that warmth turned to ice. 

“I don’t have time for this,” you determined, wiggling your way towards the door. 

“Wait, hold on. I do have something to say, wait,” Bucky pleaded, metal hand—more gentle than you were sure it was ever used for—encircling your wrist. He tugged you back even closer this time, your face inches from his. “I wanted to say sorry. And… and I want to get it.” 

“Get it?” you parroted, trying extremely hard to ignore the dropping feeling in your gut as he stared into your eyes. 

“I want to get why you stay. Why you let him treat you like that. I want to know so I can… feel okay backing off.” 

All you could get out was, “Why?” 

Bucky’s next words were spoken as he stared down at your lips. “I think you know why.” 

Breaths began to fail you, each exhale more ragged than the last. You had been expecting this, in a way, and that was why you always made excuses. He couldn’t be with you because he was a Congressman. You were only an assistant. You couldn’t date him because you were too busy. He wouldn’t want to date you, anyway. Senator Brown would never be okay with it. 

All of those excuses evaporated within the shared space of the closet, and then you got scared. So, you blurted out what he wanted. 

“He won’t let me quit. He won’t let me work anywhere else.” 

Bucky blinked, a fog clearing from his heated gaze. His head jutted back an inch, and the hand that had somehow found a home on your jaw paused its ascent into your hair. “Won’t let you?” 

“I’d be blacklisted.” 

“He can’t do that.” 

“He can.” 

Bucky opened his mouth to speak again as the air in the closet became breathable and light peeked in from the cracking door. You sprang back from the Congressman, pushing his hand away from your cheek and slamming your back into the wall. It didn’t help much; the fifteen-year-old with the shawl in her hand was already making her own assumptions as you rushed past her and left Bucky to his own devices in the closet. 

Amazing. 

Just amazing. 

You debated moving states, or countries, or entire career paths as you hurried into the dining room of the gala. Not only had you taken too long at the coat check, but you knew you looked completely flushed and out of it. You prayed that Brown was already drinking and wouldn’t catch on. 

Thankfully, your prayers were answered. 

While he was not happy to see you, his raised brow and side-eye deadly as you sat down, he didn’t say anything. And that was how dinner went—quiet and uncomfortable for you, but otherwise par for the course for Senator Brown. 

Bucky was staring at you from across the table. The room was backlit by dull candles and expensive chandeliers, and you could feel his gaze on the side of your face like an unprecedented heat. He often flickered that gaze to Brown, but it would harden, become angry.

There was nothing he could do. There was nothing anyone could do. 

You either stuck it out with Brown or tossed your political science degree in the trash can on your way out.

When dinner passed and dessert was served, you eyed the lemon tart mocking you from your plate. Dessert, when your life felt so out of control and confusing, couldn’t hurt, you figured, so you picked up your fork and ignored the knots taking up space in your stomach. 

“Yours looks better.” Senator Brown picked up the lip of your plate and slid his in its place. “Here.” 

“But—” 

“Oh, don’t complain about it. Who complains about chocolate cake?” he peeved, snickering to the men on the other side of the table. He then went on a drunken rant about “good help” and the “youth of today” as you looked down at the cake in front of you. 

Was D.C. even worth it? 

Bucky was staring at you again. He wasn’t directly across from you, a few centerpieces blocking your view, but you could feel it. To avoid him—and your feelings—you ate the cake. Brown and the men sarcastically cheered as you did, alcohol clear in the air at this point, and you took another bite to get them to find some other novelty. 

You took three bites before it started to sink in. 

You vaguely registered that Bucky had pushed out from the table, a clink of silverware preceding the motion. It was too late for him, however, because as your own fork clattered down, you could no longer breathe. 

Your tongue felt ten times too big in your mouth and your throat was glued shut, air tunneling through any openings it could find. You pushed out from the table and stood. The extra space didn’t do anything. You clawed at your throat until your legs became unsteady and failed from the lack of oxygen. 

The table was extremely long, so at some point, you thought you heard Bucky dive over the dinner party rather than continue his trek around to your side. Other sounds filtered past the panic clogging your ears. 

“What’s wrong with her?” 

“I don’t know!” 

“Is she allergic to something? It’s an allergic reaction!” 

“Brown, what is she allergic to?” 

“How should I know?” 

“Well, do something!” 

As you were grappling for your purse, a choked whine fell from your lips. It had been kicked somewhere, pushed out of your grasp, and no one at this damn gala was helping you. Several older women had gone to their knees with worried expressions at your eye line, but they weren’t doing anything. 

“Move.” 

Your head was beginning to spin, and your thoughts were blurring, but you heard Bucky. He came to your side much faster than it felt, moving things around that your blurred vision couldn’t catch. And then, pain. And then relief. 

Your gasping breaths were supported by gentle hands on your face, thumbs brushing along your cheekbones. You grappled at Bucky’s wrists and tried to parse out panic from physical symptoms, but there was so much commotion in the room and your head was still so fuzzy. 

“You’re okay,” Bucky assured you, voice almost too low to catch. Someone was on the phone with 911 in the back. “You can breathe with me. Come on. Don’t—hey—don’t look at them. Look at me.” 

Your chin was pushed forward, and then your forehead connected with his. Ringing persisted in your ears. Your hands were beginning to shake from the epi, your jaw following close behind. 

“I got you, okay?” 

“F-f-feels—” 

“I know,” he hushed. When your breath was somewhat steadier, he tucked your head beneath his chin and began barking out orders. He asked for an ETA on the ambulance, for your jacket, for ten other things you couldn’t register. And then, “You’re a piece of shit, you know that?” 

The chaos of the room went silent. Within your shaking hands clutched in Bucky’s suit jacket, your fingers spasmed out of fear. 

“Excuse me?” Brown scoffed. You were honestly surprised he was still in the room.

“What, throwing things at her wasn’t enough? Had to try and kill her?” 

“B-bucky—” 

“Throwing things at her?” you heard from across the room. “Brown, what is Barnes talking about?” 

“I have no idea,” Brown spat out. He jutted his hand out towards you on the floor. “He never knows what he’s talking about. We’ve established that.” 

“Right,” Bucky deadpanned, pulling you closer to his chest as you gasped for breath. “So what do you call this?” 

“An accident, obviously.” 

Bucky let out a puff of air through his nose, shaking his head in disbelief. Silence blanketed the room once more, and it was clear that he had given up. His hands were glued to the back of your head and your back, and he didn’t have the time or the drive in him to care about Brown right now. 

“I saw you switch the plates.” The quiet voice came from across the table, the young blonde’s face registering in your memory as you peeked out from beyond Bucky’s chest. “She had a card with it, too. It said there was an allergy accommodation.” 

Low murmurs fell over the room. Brown, much to your surprise, looked at a loss for words, his expression betrayed as he stared at the woman across the room. It clicked then, where you knew her from. She was on the front cover of every article you were pressured to get taken down, and the contact photo for the main caller in Brown’s phone. 

“What? No,” Brown refuted, a nervous chuckle escaping him. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about, either. She’s barely even a secretary. She’s—” 

The eyes around the room made his words trail off. “Barely even a secretary” was certainly a degrading title for his mistress, and everyone in the room knew it. If you were to look at your phone, you’d have seen that the newest story of their relationship had been blowing up all night. You guessed she was fed up with him denying it. 

Sirens sounded beyond the doors of the ballroom, breaking up the tension at the wide table. Brown used it as his getaway, throwing his napkin down and muttering something about insolence or idiots or something of the sort. You couldn’t really hear anything over Bucky’s low whisper in your ear, followed by his lips against the side of your head. 

~~

After being monitored in the emergency room for approximately six hours, the night shift staff sent you off with a horde of medication to take for the next month and, of course, a new epipen. You trudged out past the waiting room, prepared to wait in the parking lot for an Uber, when a certain man sitting in a chair far too small for him caught your eye. 

He was half asleep, his face held in his metal hand as he nodded off and woke up just as quickly. His suit looked stiff and uncomfortable as he twisted his wrists, dragging the sleeves up to his elbows. He’d discarded the jacket somewhere, probably lost to the world now. And then he spotted you, your dress awkwardly draped over your body in your haphazard attempt to re-dress, your hair completely out of place, and your hands filled with paper bags of medication.

He shot out of the chair, holding everything in your hands in one of his, and assessed you himself. His gaze roved the mess you’d become. He should have made a joke about it, maybe teased you for almost dying, but instead, he ran a hand over your head and dragged you against his chest. 

“Scared the shit out of me,” he murmured into your hair. He pressed another kiss there, reminding you that the first one hadn’t been your imagination. 

“You didn’t have to stay,” you said, clutching his button-up in your hands. 

“‘Course I did.” He leaned you back, hand still woven at the base of your hair, not caring that he was in the middle of the ER waiting room. “You okay?” 

It only took you a moment to make a decision. 

You pressed up, kissing him even though you were in the ER waiting room. Even though you both looked like a mess and you’d almost died and you had no idea if you still had a job. You kissed him and it startled him, the paper bag of medications crunching in his hand, but he kissed you back without hesitation. 

It wasn’t a passionate kiss—not like the breathless, wanting kisses you would share late, share tomorrow—but it was confirming something. Bucky held you and had his lips firmly against yours, his brows furrowed in a way you couldn’t see, and he confirmed everything you’d suspected. 

You figured you wouldn’t need to work if your boyfriend were a Congressman. 

But, as you would soon find out, Senator Brown didn’t have very much time left as a Senator, anyway. 

[buckysflicker]

just a little biting, a little torture between friends

pairing: best friend!bucky barnes x female reader

summary: your annual halloween movie marathon with your best friend bucky barnes takes a turn when you decide to play a trick on him by wearing a skimpy little outfit to see what he'll do—and he decides to torment you for torturing him.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, biting/marking kink, orgasm delay/denial/control, dirty talk, praise kink, light degradation, fingering (f receiving), cockwarming, choking, pet names (sugar), aftercare

word count: 11.2k

a/n: ok here's another of my 2022 halloween fics!! the author's note i wrote on ao3 said something about how i hadn't written the friends to lovers trope for bucky yet so i wanted to try and i just have to laugh because that's definitely one of my favorite tropes and i now associate it more with bucky than steve. so anyway! enjoy some smutty friends to lovers!

halloween fics masterlist

-

Looking at yourself in the mirror, you felt a little bit evil—and you couldn’t stop the wicked grin from spreading across your face at the thought. It was the night of your annual Halloween horror movie night with your best friend Bucky Barnes and you decided, to get into the theme of the holiday, you’d play a little trick on your oldest friend. You’d had a crush on Bucky for so long and you just wanted to see what he’d do if you provoked him a little.

Checking yourself out one last time, pushing up your tits in your shirt and twisting to get a look at your ass, you gave a satisfied nod and practically skipped into the living room. “Ta-da!” you singsonged, stopping just inside the doorway and making sure your best friend’s eyes were on you before you did a little twirl, giggling at the headrush. “I wanted to dress for the occasion—do you like it, Buck?” you asked, gesturing at your outfit.

You wore what could have been considered a cute and comfy pajama set, but the fact that you’d deliberately ordered it a few sizes too small and wore neither a bra nor panties underneath made the outfit practically indecent. The set consisted of satiny black shorts dotted in ruby red lips with white vampire fangs and a matching black cropped tank top with the same design in the center. Since the clothes were too small, your tits pushed against the top, nipples peaked and obvious in the cool air of Bucky’s apartment, while the shorts completely failed to cover your ass, so the bottom curves hung out the bottom.

With the way the clothes clung to your body, it was easily the most revealing outfit you’d ever worn around your best friend, even more than your bikinis since it left nothing to the imagination. You were hoping to inspire some kind of reaction—and you weren’t disappointed.

For a long moment, Bucky was too stunned to speak, making your smile brighten. Your best friend sat on the couch, lounging in some soft gray sweatpants and a worn white t-shirt—which, if you were being honest with yourself, was just as deliciously tempting as your little getup. His stubble-covered jaw hung slack and his blue eyes turned molten as you watched him devour every inch of your exposed skin with his gaze.

Finally, Bucky seemed to snap himself out of his speechless stupor. He sat up and wolf-whistled as he dragged his gaze back up your body, making goosebumps break out all over your skin. “Sugar, sugar, sugar,” he said, shaking his head as he gave you another onceover, drawing it out to make it obvious he wanted you to know he was looking. “You’re looking so damn bitable in that outfit.”

Giggling, you skipped closer to the couch. “I’m taking that as a compliment,” you told him, with your chin held high, proud of yourself for getting a reaction out of your best friend.

When you were within reach, Bucky suddenly bent forward and snatched you around the waist, dragging you to stand between his knees while he sat on the edge of the couch. You let out a breathless giggle, loving the way his hands felt on your body, their heat seeping through the thin fabric of your pajama set while he manhandled you. Feeling your best friend touch you wasn’t anything new—Bucky liked having you within arm’s reach of him so he could always have his hands on you or arms around you. But when he hauled you around, it always sent a thrill to your core. All you could think about was him using his strength against you and how hot it would be.

Shaking off your less-than-innocent thoughts, your hands settled on Bucky’s broad shoulders, the cotton of his shirt soft under your fingers, and the heat of his skin just beneath enticing you a little too much. You smiled easily down at your best friend, your heart beating faster in your chest just from being so close to him.

“Of course it’s a compliment,” he quipped, a lopsided grin on his handsome face. But the longer you stared down at him and he looked up at you, his ice blue eyes slowly heating and going molten again, a new kind of tension hummed to life between you and your best friend. It felt like a tether, tugging you closer and you felt yourself swaying into Bucky’s chest. When he finally spoke, it was in a lower, more serious voice. “Did you buy this just for me, sugar?”

Unable to trust your tongue, you nodded. For a moment, you wondered if you should go back into his room and change into something else. You’d successfully provoked him, you’d gotten your reaction. But the longer Bucky stared at you with those big blue eyes, his jaw ticking with a tension you’d never seen in your best friend before, the more you wanted to keep your outfit on and see just how far you could push him. Between your thoughts and the way he looked at you, a simmering heat settled in your core and you felt yourself growing damp.

Finally, the thrumming tension between you and Bucky snapped as he sat back and cleared his throat. He straightened and the expression on his face morphed back into one of charming friendliness. “Gimme another twirl, sugar, I wanna see it again,” he urged, his voice somewhere between gruff and his normal tone.

Though you would have preferred to press your legs together against the ache building between your thighs, you twirled in place for your best friend, spinning once and giggling as you got a little dizzy. Before you could settle back on your feet in front of Bucky, his big hands were on your hips, turning you until you faced away from him. His palms settled on your hips, feeling like they could scorch your skin through your clothes.

As you wondered why he was holding you so firmly, his fingers digging into your soft curves, you felt something solid and sharp dig into your butt cheek, not enough to break the skin but hard enough to hurt. You squealed and jumped, jerking against Bucky’s hold but he held you so tightly you didn’t go anywhere. Twisting your torso around, you found your best friend with his teeth sunk into your flesh through your shorts, eyes closed like he was savoring the feel of you. When Bucky’s hot breath exhaled against your satin-covered ass, you shivered in his hands. Feeling the sting of his bite and the warmth of his breath sent electric thrills pulsing directly to your clit.

It took you a moment to remember you shouldn’t be getting off on your best friend biting your ass and you shook your head to clear it of all the filthy thoughts that were starting to take up too much space in your mind. “Did you just bite me!?” you asked in an affronted tone, though you could hear a breathless catch in your voice and hoped Bucky was too preoccupied to notice.

He pulled back, leaving your skin feeling tender and hot and you had to lock your knees so you didn’t squirm. A shameless grin spread across Bucky’s face as he looked up at you with slightly hazy eyes. “Sure did, sugar,” he rumbled in a deep voice.

“Bucky,” you whined on an exhale, trying to break free from his grip, but your best friend wrapped his arms around your body, easily holding you in place. His strength sent a thrill through you, and you could feel your wetness starting to leak into your shorts even as you squirmed.

Bucky pulled you tight against him, his face pressing into your lower back. The feel of his hot breath on your skin only served to make you squirmier and you used your attempts to break free to squeeze your thighs together against the ache in your core. The fact that he was so much stronger than you and still so careful not to hurt you, it was only making you wetter. For the first time since getting dressed, you realized it may have been a bad idea to forgo panties—you could feel the thin satin growing wet where it was pulled tight against your slit.

“You just look so damn bitable, sugar,” Bucky said gruffly, his voice partially muffled from his face pressing into your body. He crushed you tighter to him with his arms, his biceps bulging against the sleeves of his t-shirt. “How could I control myself?”

“Bucky,” you said, your voice a breathless whisper that held more whine than protest. It was a needy sound, the way you said your best friend’s name, and if you weren’t so focused on escaping from his hold before he discovered how wet you were getting in his arms, you would’ve been embarrassed by the obvious desire in your voice. When Bucky chuckled against you, the vibrations of his laugh reverberating through your body and his breath ghosting over the skin of your lower back, it was all you could do to bite back a desperate whimper.

“Just one more,” Bucky mumbled a moment before you felt his teeth dig into your other butt cheek. Even though he’d warned you, the sharp sting of his bite made your hips jerk forward reflexively, the seam of your shorts wedging between your lower lips and pulling against your clit. You had to bite your lip hard to stop yourself from moaning, and even then, it was a near thing. The pain and pleasure of Bucky’s teeth on you, even through the thin fabric, and the teasing pull of your shorts had your head lolling back as you sank into the feeling.

For a long moment, Bucky held himself against your ass, his mouth open and latched onto your ass, his breaths hot and damp as they ghosted over your barely covered skin. He was biting hard enough that you wondered if he’d leave a mark, not just the indents of his teeth in your skin, but a bruise that would take days to heal. The thought had heat flashing through your body, settling heavily in your core.

Slowly, the ache of Bucky’s bite lessened the longer he stayed with his teeth on you and you were able to gather your thoughts enough to remember you should probably protest his treatment of your body. “Best friends don’t bite best friends!” you chided, saying the first thing that came to mind, more than a little relieved when your voice was stronger than you’d expected.

Bucky chuckled against your ass, the sounds vibrating through your skin and sending a pulse of pleasure directly to your core, making your pussy throb with need. Flustered and achy between your thighs, you tried to squirm out of your best friend’s hold. Finally, he let you go and you whirled around to face him, giving him your best pout.

There wasn’t a trace of remorse in Bucky’s big grin or his icy gaze as he stared up at you. Instead, he looked you dead in the eye like he wanted to make sure you heard him loud and clear when he spoke. “You’re my best friend, you’re mine—that makes you mine to bite,” he said, his voice deep and rumbly in a way that did things to your throbbing core.

The way he looked at you, so intense it took your breath away, made you wonder if you’d gotten yourself in over your head with your little trick on Bucky. In an attempt to get things back to normal, you pushed aside the thought of how much you wanted him to be serious and rolled your eyes at his ridiculous statement. Bucky liked to act possessive, but he’d never taken things further than occasionally groping your ass when he hugged you, so you knew his words were just talk. And maybe, deep in your mind, you were still trying to provoke him into finally—finally—doing something more than a little groping. So you scoffed as you turned away from him, calling over your shoulder, “I’m not yours, Buck.”

You padded over to the kitchen, making sure your ass swung back and forth as you walked, and grabbed the bowl of assorted candy Bucky had gotten for the spooky movie night. When you turned around, your heart thumped at the way your best friend was looking at you. His blue eyes were narrowed slightly, but alight with mischief, a smirk curling the corners of his mouth. You’d known your best friend long enough to know that was his scheming face, and your pace slowed as you returned to the couch, wary of what exactly Bucky could be planning for you.

As you got closer, prepared to flop down next to your best friend like you normally did when you watched movies at his house, Bucky reclined back into the couch and patted his thigh with one hand. “C’mon sugar, your seat’s right here,” he rumbled in a low, alluring tone.

Your eyes were drawn to Bucky’s hand. The way it looked against his strong thigh and the invitation inherent in the gesture were giving you too many ideas—like what your best friend’s thigh would feel like pressed between your legs while he groped your ass and kissed you breathless. You and your best friend had never kissed, but you’d spent so much time wondering what his lips would feel like on yours, the craving was familiar.

Your needy thoughts were almost enough to distract you from the outline of Bucky’s cock in his gray sweatpants, and you had to wrench your gaze away from it before you got any more ideas that would leave you soaking through your shorts. You’d looked long enough to notice he was long and thick, and, if you weren’t mistaken, starting to get hard. When you looked up into his face, Bucky wore a smug smile. Even as your cheeks heated at being caught looking at your best friend’s dick, you rolled your eyes at him to try to show you were unaffected by the sight of him in his sweatpants—even though your slit was definitely wetter.

As you neared the couch, you were planning to ignore your best friend’s invitation to sit on his lap, stopping next to his outstretched knee and spinning to plop down next to him. But as you went to sit down, Bucky wrapped his arms around your waist and hauled you into his lap anyway. A startled shriek left your lips as he pulled you down onto his thighs and you were barely able to stop yourself from upending the bowl of candy. As soon as you got your balance, you twisted in Bucky’s arms and glared up at your best friend.

“What if I didn’t want to sit in your lap?” you asked in a bratty tone, unable to stop yourself from protesting, even as you secretly reveled in the way he manhandled you. He shifted you until your ass was on one of his thighs and you were seated sideways across his lap. He grabbed a blanket from the back of the couch and threw it over both your legs.

Bucky took so long to answer your question, you thought he wasn’t going to, but as he tucked you in against his chest and grabbed the TV remote to turn it on, he murmured in your ear, “Hush, sugar, we both know my lap is exactly where you want to be.”

A shiver skated down your spine and you were barely able to hold yourself still so Bucky wouldn’t feel the way he affected you. Instead, you focused on relaxing and settling into Bucky’s arms. It was cozy and your best friend smelled good—like laundry detergent and something earthy like oak. He had one arm circled behind your back, the other settled over your thighs beneath the blanket, his skin warm against yours. You set the bowl of candy on the couch next to Bucky and glanced up to see what movie he’d picked to start off the marathon.

“Oh no, Buck,” you half-heartedly protested. “I heard this one’s really scary.” Horror movies weren’t your favorite, but Bucky loved them, so you indulged your best friend once a year around Halloween for a spooky move marathon where he got to pick everything you watched. Normally, you watched without protest, but all the reviews you’d seen of the one he’d chosen said it was the scariest thing they’d ever seen and you weren’t sure if you could do it. You pushed off his chest until you could look up into his face, giving him your best pleading look.

Bucky looked down at you fondly, his hand on your thigh stroking your skin comfortingly, though it had a naughtier effect on you and forced you to hold back another shiver. “Don’t worry, sugar, I’ll protect you.”

You gave him a skeptical look. “How are you going to protect me from getting scared?”

Bucky’s face morphed into a mischievous smirk. “If you watch it with me, you’ll enjoy it—I promise,” he said, his expression earnest even as his blue eyes glittered with excitement. Whether he was simply excited to watch the movie or to watch you be scared by the movie, you weren’t sure.

You were a little doubtful, but Bucky was your best friend and he knew you just as well as you knew him, so you trusted him. If he said you’d enjoy the movie, he was probably right. With a small, murmured, “OK,” you settled back against Bucky’s chest, plucking some candy from the bowl as he started the movie.

For a little while, you and your best friend watched the movie. You were working your way through all the red and pink Starburst candies while he idly ate some Skittles as the movie introduced the characters and the premise of the story on Bucky’s massive TV screen. You were enjoying yourself—until the first jump scare of the film, when you let out a little shriek and turned to bury your face in your best friend’s chest.

Bucky jumped too, his arm around your back squeezing you tighter, reminding you that you were safe and secure in his lap. Your best friend glanced down at you with a reassuring smile, and his eyes seemed to catch on your lips, which were swollen and reddened from eating the Starbursts. As you watched, Bucky’s ice blue eyes darkened. He pulled his other hand out from under the blanket, cupping your chin and swiping his thumb along your lower lip.

Something about the way Bucky held you had you melting further into his grip, completely forgetting the movie that had scared you in the first place. His eyes traced the curve of your lip as his thumb stroked over it again. His gaze darted up to meet your eyes for a moment and he must’ve seen in your gaze how much you wanted him to keep going because he returned to staring at your lips, then lowered his head closer to yours. “So damn bitable,” he murmured as if to himself.

A breath caught in your throat as you realized what he was doing a second before his teeth caught your lower lip, giving it a teasing bite before retreating. Again, Bucky looked into your eyes and you let him see your gaze go hazy with your need for him. You best friend’s eyes widened slightly and then he was groaning, his lips slanting against yours in a kiss.

Everything you’d imagined about kissing Bucky paled in comparison to the reality of actually having his mouth on yours. His lips were soft as he applied the perfect amount of pressure, contrasting against the stubble that rasped over your skin. Your hands gripped either side of Bucky’s face, clinging to him out of fear that he would pull away too soon. Instead, his tongue licked into your mouth and you could taste the Skittles he’d been eating, the fruity flavor bursting in your mouth as he explored. You couldn’t hold back a moan as your best friend devoured your mouth like he couldn’t get enough of you, your fingers digging into his soft brown hair.

When Bucky finally pulled away, your chest heaved, lungs pulling in much-needed oxygen. He breathed harshly too, his mouth not retreating too far so you could feel him breathing against your lips. Bucky nibbled on your lower lip, the feel of his teeth sinking into your swollen flesh making you moan softly.

“Such pretty sounds, sugar,” Bucky murmured in between teasing bites. “All for me.”

Your mind was too fuzzy and lust-drunk to think too hard, but the knowledge that your best friend had finally kissed you still managed to permeate. The happiness of that awareness was only marred by the confusion you felt. “Wha-what’re you doing, Buck?” you asked in a breathless voice, opening your eyes to look up into your best friend’s face.

His expression was soft and affectionate and just a little bit mischievous as he smiled down at you. “Shh,” he soothed, pressing a peck to your lips before using his hold on your chin to turn your face back to the TV and settle you against his chest. “Just watch the movie.”

You tried to do as your best friend said, eyes staring at the screen, but your body was buzzing too much from Bucky’s kiss to settle down fully. It didn’t help that you couldn’t stop wondering what it meant. You’d wanted Bucky to kiss you for so long, but why now? You tried to puzzle out your best friend’s motivations as you stared unseeingly at the movie on the screen.

The feeling of Bucky’s hand on your thigh, his palm hot on your skin, dragged you out of your thoughts. You squirmed in his lap, hands fisting in his soft cotton shirt over his broad chest. As you wiggled, your ass grazed Bucky’s cock in his sweatpants, his half-hard length hot underneath you.

“So restless tonight,” he murmured in your ear, as if he wasn’t the whole reason you couldn’t sit still. His hand skated further up your thigh until his fingers dug into your soft flesh less than an inch from your heated core. “Tell me something, sugar, are you wearing panties under these little shorts?”

Shaking your head slightly, your answer was barely loud enough to be heard over the movie when you said, “No.” You felt so naughty admitting that to your best friend, your arousal growing slicker between your lower lips. His fingers were so close, just a little further and he’d be able to feel exactly how wet you were from the way you soaked your shorts.

Bucky let out a harsh exhale and his fingers flexed, digging deeper into your soft thigh. “You’re gonna be the death of me, sugar,” he groaned, his voice low and intoxicating. “How’m I supposed to just sit here and watch horror movies when my pretty little best friend is squirming in my lap—and she’s not wearing any panties?”

Before you could gather your thoughts enough to answer, Bucky’s fingers closed the distance between him and your mound, rubbing your slit over your shorts. You could tell by the way he sucked in a sharp breath that he could feel exactly how much you’d soaked through the fabric. Burying your face in Bucky’s neck, his stubble rasping over your temple, your bit down on your lip to hold back a moan at the feel of him finally touching you.

“So wet, sugar,” Bucky mocked with a sweet lilt in his voice like his lips were curled into a smile. He stroked his finger up and down the seam of your pajama shorts, pushing between your folds until you could feel him teasing your entrance through the thin satiny fabric. “Is this all for me—all for your best friend?”

A hiccuping gasp fell from your lips when you stopped biting the bottom one to answer and you gripped his shirt tighter as your hips writhed against Bucky’s finger. “Y-yes,” you admitted, trembling in his lap. Without thinking, since you were too consumed by Bucky to think much anymore, you spread your legs for him, giving his hand more room.

Bucky took advantage of the move, cupping your mound in his big hand, his finger pressing against your pussy through your shorts, teasing you with the thought of filling you up. “Good girl,” he praised in a gravelly voice, rewarding your honesty by grinding the heel of his palm against your clit. You cried out, face pressed into his neck, hips grinding against his hand. “That’s it, sugar,” he encouraged, holding his hand still while you rocked against it, letting out little whimpers. “Get yourself nice and fucking drenched for me.”

Before you could come just from grinding on your best friend’s hand, Bucky pulled away and you arched your back, your hips seeking the friction he was all of a sudden denying you, letting out a desperate little whining sound when you couldn’t grind on anything. Your clit buzzed and your pussy pulsed with need. When you cracked your eyes open and tilted your head back, you found Bucky staring down at you, eyes sparkling with deviousness because he knew what he’d done to you. He brushed his fingers down the side of your face and ducked down for a too-short kiss that left you whimpering and chasing his lips.

“Are you feeling needy, sugar?” Bucky asked in that same sweetly mocking tone, a smug smirk pulling up the corners of his mouth. “Are you feeling desperate to come all over you best friend’s hand like a needy little slut?”

“Bucky, please!” you begged, reaching for his hand, which was resting innocently on your knee, wrapping your fingers around his wrist and tugging. He didn’t move an inch. “If you don’t touch me, I’m gonna die!” You knew you were being overdramatic but you didn’t care. He’d left you hanging on the edge and you were even more desperate than he accused you of being. You tugged harder on his hand, but he still didn’t budge, your strength nothing compared to his.

“Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you came out here looking like such a fucking cocktease,” he said, fake pity in his voice.

Suddenly, you realized Bucky had been planning to get you riled up and leave you hanging since you’d claimed you weren’t his. This is what his scheming face had been about. Call it best friend sixth sense, but you knew how his brain worked and you knew that when Bucky took revenge, he could sometimes go a little overboard. And you’d gone and provoked him, so now you were left with the consequences.

Before you could respond, his hand moved from your knee and your hips wriggled eagerly, still riding the edge of your release, but he bypassed your slit entirely and instead hooked a finger in the neckline of your crop top. He tugged it down harshly until your tits bounced free, wrenching a gasp from your lips as your nipples were exposed to the cool air.

“Bucky,” you whined in half-hearted protest, though you made no move to cover yourself from your best friend’s eager blue eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, trying to play coy, but the breathlessness of your voice as Bucky groped your soft tits drained all the innocence from your statement.

Bucky laughed harshly as he played with your tits, pinching your nipples and rolling the sensitive buds between his fingers. “You knew exactly what you were doing, sugar,” he accused in a growly tone, the underlying current of his own arousal taking all the heat of anger out of it. “You were trying to torture me by strutting around in your little matching PJs showing off these perfect tits and your bitable ass,” he continued, his other hand digging underneath you until he was gripping your ass. His big hand spanned your whole butt cheek, fingers digging in and making you squirm in his hold.

Bucky’s blue eyes blazed with hunger and need as he watched you react to the way he played with your body. “Did you want to see how far you could push me before I went out of my mind and fucked you?” he demanded in the same harsh tone, but he didn’t wait for an answer—not that you could give him one with how consumed you were by the way he touched you. “Well congratulations, sugar, you did it,” he said, his hand trailing down from your peaked nipples to the hem of your shorts, teasing along the hem. “And now you’re gonna have to endure while I torture you a little bit before I give you exactly what you need.” His eyes flicked back to yours, hooded with need. “D’you think you can handle that, sugar?”

Before he’d even finished asking the question, you were nodding. “Yes, Bucky, please,” you begged, wrapping your fingers around his wrist and trying to push his hand into your shorts. He only moved of his own volition, slipping his hand under the hem, his rough fingertips stroking the soft skin just above your mound. “I’ll do anything, just touch me—please!”

A devious chuckle ghosted out of Bucky’s mouth, ruffling your hair. “Y’know for someone who claims they aren’t mine, you sure seem desperate for me to treat you like you’re mine, sugar,” he teased in a sweetly mocking tone that had you squirming in his lap.

Not knowing what to say to that since you wanted to be his, you’d just never known how to tell him without risking your friendship, you whined and yanked on his wrist trying to move him closer to your wet core. Again, he only moved when he wanted to move, sliding his hand against your skin until the tip of his middle finger grazed the top of your slit. Just that little touch was enough to drag a wanton moan out of you, your head falling back even though he’d barely touched you.

Bucky laughed again, the sound low and sinful. “So fucking desperate, sugar,” he said, his words a reprimand but his tone filled with heat. He rubbed your clit once, making you buck into his hand, before sliding his finger lower and circling your hole. “So fucking wet,” he growled before plunging his finger into your grasping channel, your inner walls clutching at him.

Your spine arched and you would’ve fallen off Bucky’s lap if not for his arm bracing against your back, his other hand holding the back of your neck. It was just one finger but it felt so, so good to have him finally inside you. When he didn’t move, you cracked your eyes open and stared up at Bucky, who wore a greedy expression on his face.

“Is this what you needed, sugar?” he asked, starting to pump his finger in and out of you slowly. “You dressed like a slutty little cocktease so your best friend would finger your needy pussy?”

You squirmed in his lap and felt your ass brush against Bucky’s hot, hard length in his sweatpants. Instinctually, you pressed closer, wiggling against your best friend’s cock while he fingered your pussy, moaning when you felt him twitch through his pants. Your core pulsed with need, and grew wetter as you suddenly craved the feeling of being stretched out by Bucky’s dick.

Yanking his finger out of your pussy and his hand out of your shorts, Bucky let out a harsh exhale. “Fuck, sugar,” he grunted, grabbing one of your hands where they were fisted in his shirt and pulling it down until it rested over his hard length through his sweatpants. “Feel what you fucking do to me?”

“Bucky,” you whined, his name a plea from your lips. Your fingers wrapped around the bulge in his pants, gripping his cock and stroking him as well as you could through the fabric.

Groaning as his head fell back against the couch, Bucky’s hips rose up slightly, bucking into your hand while you groped him. He dragged his head back up and stared down at you, tilting your chin up so he could look into your eyes. “Does my best friend want my cock?” he asked, his voice rough and raspy even as his eyes sparkled with ravenous desire. “Is she too needy to be satisfied by my fingers?” A hint of mocking colored his tone, but it only served to make you needier.

“Yes, yes, please, Bucky,” you begged, stroking him harder and faster, not thinking about what you were saying, just voicing your horny thoughts as they came to you. “Need your cock, need to feel my pussy stretch around you while you fill me up to the brim—need you so fucking bad, Bucky, please, please, please.” As you spoke, you tried to pull your best friend’s pants down but he caught your wrists, staying your hands. When you looked up into his face, Bucky’s expression was tense with barely leashed need.

“Fine,” Bucky bit out through clenched teeth, his jaw gritted so hard you were a little worried he’d crack a tooth. “But I’m not done torturing you yet.” Bucky moved the bowl of candy to the coffee table. Then he wrapped his arms around your waist and held you securely as he shifted on the couch until he was propped up against the arm, reclining back against some Halloween-themed throw pillows you’d bought for his place.

The sight of them distracted you for a second and made you smile thinking about the way he’d indulged your love of Halloween decorations while you picked them out at the store. He’d had his hands on you the entire time you were in the store, either holding your hand while he pushed the cart or keeping an arm slung around your shoulders as you stood in line. But you never would’ve thought you’d end up in his lap, about to take his cock, while he laid against them. It was a surreal moment and you felt yourself spiraling a little into your thoughts, wondering what he was doing and what you were doing going along with it. But then Bucky pulled your focus back to him.

Using his strength, he manhandled your body until you were straddling his lap, your soft core pressing on his hard length through both your clothes. You groaned at the feeling and he grunted, his hips thrusting up instinctively. Bucky’s hands settled on your waist and he held you pressed down on his cock, not even letting your ass squirm in his hold.

“Here’s what’s going to happen, sugar,” Bucky started, his voice strained, almost like he was in pain. “I’m going to give you my cock and you’re going to settle down and watch the movie,” he said. The authority ringing in his tone had you leaking through your shorts, almost certainly leaving a wet spot on his light gray sweatpants, but unable to care as your best friend’s blue eyes held you captive with his penetrating gaze. “And don’t you dare fucking come before I give you permission, you got it?”

You sucked in a sharp breath at the command, head swimming, nodding before you’d even realized you were doing it. “Yes,” you agreed on a gasp once you remembered how talking worked. “I got it.”

“Good girl,” Bucky practically purred and you glowed at the praise even as more heat shot straight to your pussy at the sound of his rumbling voice. He reached down and pushed his sweatpants down his hips, lifting both himself and you to slide them down far enough to free his cock.

Your best friend’s cock bounced free of his pants and your hands immediately went to the hard length, fingers circling his girth. Bucky was so thick your fingers couldn’t meet even when you squeezed him slightly. You gave your best friend a slow stroke, reveling in the feel of the veins along the shaft bumping against your palm, following the slight curve of him up to his wide tip. You marveled at your best friend’s cock, distracted by the sudden urge to take him in your mouth.

Before you could follow through on that thought, though, Bucky gently pried your fingers from his dick and fisted the base. His big hand gripping your ass pulled you up onto your knees until you were hovering above his cockhead. But when you pulled your shorts to the side, Bucky stopped you from sinking down on his length.

“Condoms are in the coffee table drawer,” he said, chest puffing up with heavy breaths. His blue eyes were dark and wide as he stared up at you, almost like he was begging you to be quick about it. Your best friend was just as eager to fill you up as you were to be filled by him and that realization sparked another. You didn’t want your first time with Bucky to be with anything separating you two.

You glanced at the coffee table, but turned back to Bucky, shaking your head. “I’m good with no condom if you are,” you said, trying and failing to keep the eagerness out of your voice. You reached down, wrapping your fingers around Bucky’s hand still gripping his cock, lining the tip up with your entrance.

“Fuck yes—you sure, sugar?” Bucky gritted out and your heart thumped in your chest as you were reminded for the hundredth time why you’d had a crush on your best friend for so long. He was holding himself back and checking in with you, prioritizing your comfort over his own. It only made you want him more.

“Yeah, Bucky,” you leaned forward, lips grazing his stubbled cheek until your mouth was right next to his ear. “You’re my best friend, I trust you—and I want you bare inside me.”

“Fuck,” Bucky cursed. His hand shifted from your ass to your hip as he guided you to sink down on his cock. When the wide tip of his cock was enveloped in your tight heat, he groaned loudly, cursing again, “Fuck.”

You braced your hands on his chest for balance, fingers curling into his hard pecs and relishing the feel of him hot and hard under you as you slowly sank down on his dick. Inch by inch, you pressed down until your ass hit your best friend’s thighs and it was perfect. Your spine arched and you tossed your head back, letting a moan slip past your lips as you basked in the delicious feeling of your best friend’s cock stretching and filling up your tight hole. The curve of his dick had the tip of him hitting a spot deep inside you that drove you wild and you started grinding down on him.

Bucky wrapped his arm around your back, pulling you against his chest and thrusting up into you, dragging ragged moans from both of you, before settling you down on his cock. “You feel so good, sugar,” he grunted, his lips finding yours and giving you a slow, drugging kiss. You could still taste Skittles on his tongue and you groaned into his mouth, trying to kiss him more fiercely. But Bucky pulled back, an arrogant smirk on his lips. “Nuh uh, it’s my turn to torture you, remember?”

Reluctantly, you nodded, but you couldn’t help yourself from pulling the corners of your mouth down in an exaggerated frown. Bucky smiled and cupped your face in his big hands.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, pressing a short and sweet kiss to your lips. When he pulled away, he didn’t go far, pressing his forehead to yours and letting his lips ghost against your mouth as he spoke. “Your pussy feels so good wrapped around my cock, sugar, I just wanna sit here and feel you dripping all the way down to my balls while we watch a horror movie, alright?”

He asked you so nicely, you couldn’t help but give in to his request. “OK,” you answered in a whisper when all you wanted to do was whine and roll your hips on his cock. You managed to stop yourself from being bad, but only barely.

A grin spread across Bucky’s face and he leaned in, biting your bottom lip, the sharp sting of his teeth making your pussy clamp down on his cock reflexively. Your moans tripped over each other, your breaths tangling in the tiny space between your lips. Bucky’s teeth clicked against each other as he gritted his jaw to hold himself back while you watched him wrestle to control his desire.

You couldn’t help yourself, you squeezed him again with your inner walls—this time on purpose. It seemed you couldn’t resist the urge to get a reaction out of your best friend, even when his cock was buried deep in your pussy.

Bucky’s blue eyes widened as he grunted in pleasure, but they quickly narrowed into slits. His hand swatted your ass, giving you a sharp smack, making you yelp and jerk against him, but he held you down with his other palm on your lower back. “Be good,” he warned. “Stay still and keep my cock nice and warm while we watch the movie.”

After you nodded to show you understood, Bucky grabbed the remote from underneath his legs and hit the rewind button. While he searched for the spot in the movie where you both stopped watching, you settled into his lap, tucking your head under his chin and getting as comfortable as you could while sitting on your best friend’s cock. You focused on his scent—so fresh and familiar—and the steady sound of his heart beating in his chest. By the time Bucky hit play, you’d stopped squirming and were mostly successful in ignoring the feel of your pussy throbbing while his cock was stuffed deep inside you, stretching you out.

Bucky kissed your temple and smoothed his hands over your back, fingers tracing idly up and down your spine. “Good girl,” he murmured. The praise was enough reward for the moment and you settled down even more, trying to get back into the movie.

In just a few short minutes, your best friend was seemingly engrossed in the horror movie again, while you were struggling to stay still and quiet. Part of you wanted to try to provoke him, and see what he’d do if you weren’t good like he’d told you to be, but another, more significant part wanted to follow his orders. Still, you were finding it difficult to pay attention to the movie when your best friend’s cock was filling your pussy. You could feel your heartbeat in your clit, drumming a constant rhythm of need and if you concentrated, you could’ve sworn you could feel the veins on Bucky’s dick pulse inside you. And you were so wet, your pussy dripping down to the base of his cock. You couldn’t stop yourself from thinking about how easy it would be to slide up and down, get the friction your pussy was begging for.

A loud bang! sounded from the TV as something evil lunged out of the shadows on screen and you jumped in fright, your entire body clenching in response—including your pussy. You clamped down hard on Bucky’s cock, pulling a loud grunt from your best friend as his hips pushed up reflexively against your soft pussy. The scared little scream you’d let out at the jump scare devolved into a debauched moan. You melted against Bucky’s chest, going boneless from just that one thrust.

“Fuck, sugar,” Bucky groaned, his fingers digging into your waist, hard enough you distantly wondered if he’d leave bruises. The thought of him marking you made you burn hotter, your arousal dripping down your best friend’s cock. “Your cunt feels so fucking good, so warm and soft,” he murmured in a tortured voice.

When you lifted your head to look up at your best friend, you found his thrown back, his eyes squeezed shut. Reaching up, you raked your nails through the stubble decorating Bucky’s sharp jaw and he dragged his head up to look at you. Your need was building inside you and before you could control yourself, you leaned up and sucked Bucky’s lower lip into your mouth, teeth digging into his flesh and biting down on your best friend.

Groaning loudly against your mouth, Bucky’s hips jerked under you and he shoved his cock so deep inside your pussy, you pulled away with a sharp gasp. When you opened your eyes, Bucky was glowering at you, but the way his blue eyes were darkened with desire took all the heat out of the expression.

“You were being so good for me, sugar,” he started, pulling you up his chest until his mouth found your neck, kissing and licking just beneath your ear. Your nipples, still exposed by your pulled down top, dragged over the soft cotton of Bucky’s shirt, teasing them and sending sparks down to your pussy. “But my slutty little cocktease of a best friend just couldn’t keep it up, could you?” Bucky bit the sensitive skin of your neck, sucking until he was sure to leave a mark, while all you could do was moan and squirm, his arms holding you pinned against his chest.

“Bucky, please,” you cried out softly, fingers digging into his soft brown hair and clinging to him as he trailed his lips down your neck, nipping and licking at your skin to soothe his little bites. “I need more, I need you to fuck me, please,” you begged, your voice breathless with desperation.

Too distracted by your neediness, you didn’t notice one of Bucky’s hands reaching between your bodies until it wrapped around the front of your throat. With a firm, but not too tight grip, he pushed you back so he could look at you properly. Your best friend’s ice blue eyes raked over your face, lingering on every trace of desire and pleading in your expression.

“Did you finally learn how to use your words to ask for what you want, sugar?” he asked, his tone sweetly mocking even as his blue eyes stared so deeply into your own it felt like he could see right through you and straight to your heart, your soul. “Are you finally sorry for acting like a fucking cocktease and parading around my apartment in your skimpy little outfit instead of using your words to beg me to fuck you like the slut we both know you are?”

A warmth filled your cheeks, and you felt properly chastened by your best friend’s words, ducking your head and tearing your gaze away from Bucky’s long enough to gather your thoughts. You realized you were even more turned on by the way he talked to you, loving the feeling of being called out for how you’d treated him. You liked that Bucky put you in your place. Before you could stop it, the apology tumbled past your lips. “I’m sorry, Bucky,” you whispered while in the background the horror movie played on the TV.

Bucky’s hand still circled your throat like a necklace and he used it to tilt your chin up until he could meet your eyes. Concern swirled in the depths of his blue gaze, but when you smiled and blinked slowly up at him, he relaxed back into the pillows on the couch. Your best friend’s mouth curled up into a smirk like he knew he was right about something. “Are you ready to admit you’re mine, sugar?” he asked, his voice warm and sweet like honey.

Panic swelled in your chest, and you wondered if Bucky could feel the way fear fluttered in your veins beneath his fingers on neck. Wetting your lip, you tried to think about how to answer your best friend’s question without giving away how much you really, truly wanted to be his. You and Bucky had wandered well past the line separating you from just best friends to something more, but you didn’t know how much he meant what he was saying. Did he really want you to be his or would he go back to being your handsy-but-nothing-more best friend after this? Would he act like it had been nothing, just a little biting, a little torture between friends?

You took too long to answer your best friend’s question and his fingers dug gently into the sides of your throat, dragging you out of your panicked, spiraling thoughts. Bucky’s brows were furrowed with concern again and you couldn’t stand the sight so you dropped your gaze to his mouth. Your best friend had such a nice mouth. You loved the way the corners curled up like he had a permanent smirk on his face.

That mouth pressed into a line for a moment before Bucky’s lips parted and he spoke. “Do you not want to be mine, sugar, or do you need me to torture it out of you?” When your eyes darted up to look into his ice blue gaze at the second option, he made a rumbling sound in his chest that sounded like he was coming to a decision. “Torture it is,” he grumbled.

The horror movie he’d picked out played on the TV completely forgotten as Bucky grabbed you around your waist and picked you up, flipping you down onto your back, his hips settling into the cradle of your thighs. You both groaned at the feel of him sinking even deeper into your pussy, his thick cock still stretching you out around him. Before you could wrap your legs around Bucky’s waist, though, he pulled out, sitting back on his heels so he could bring your legs together. He tugged your pajama shorts down over your ass and off your legs so fast it was like they’d offended him. He did the same with your top, yanking it over your head and tossing it to join your shorts on the floor.

Bucky stopped for a moment, going still as he stared down at you naked and bare beneath him on the couch. When your hands fluttered over your stomach, anxiously trying to cover yourself, he batted them away. “No, sugar,” he said in a stern voice that had you quickly obeying. “I want to see just how pretty my best friend is.” His blue eyes darkened as he traced every inch of your bare skin and soft curves. “So fucking pretty,” he murmured almost to himself.

When he’d seemingly looked his fill, Bucky stood quickly, pulling his shirt over his head and shucking his pants off as quickly as possible before he kneeled back between your spread thighs. With one hand, Bucky fisted his cock while the other traced up your chest, plucking at both of your nipples before circling your throat and pinning you to the couch. His blue gaze held you just as captive as he stared you right in the eye while he fed his dick into your pussy, tormenting you with how slowly he moved.

“You want it hard and fast, sugar?” he asked in a gravelly voice, pulling his cock out of your warm, wet channel until only the tip remained.

“Yes, yes, Bucky, yes, please,” you begged, staring past his hand down your body to see his length glistening and drenched with your desire. Your hips bucked up in a wordless plea for him to bury himself inside you, but Bucky held you down with his hand not wrapped around your throat.

Instead, Bucky pushed in slow, slow, slow, making you feel every single inch of his thick cock. You felt every bump of his veins and the press of his curved dick, unable to move to take him faster with him holding you pinned to the couch. A tortured whine sounded deep in your throat, the pathetic sound bouncing off the walls of Bucky’s apartment.

“Bucky, please, please, please,” you chanted, eyes opened wide and staring up at your best friend. “Please, I need you to fuck me!”

Above you, Bucky chuckled, even as his brow started to bead with sweat from holding himself back. Despite your pleas, he pulled out and pushed in as slowly as he could manage, refusing to pick up speed even a little. “What’re you talking about, sugar, I am fucking you,” he teased, his mouth curled up in a ruthless grin. He was glorious and infuriating and you fucking loved him.

The sudden awareness of your feelings was like a livewire in your body, sending your entire being into chaos. Your heart pounded in your chest and your pussy throbbed for more even as panic tried to seize your limbs. It was all too much, and you couldn’t school your features; you didn’t know how much Bucky could see on your face so you screwed your eyes shut so at least it didn’t feel like he was coaxing your soul out to bond with his. But you couldn’t escape your best friend when you were pinned beneath him by his hands and his cock. He knew he finally had you.

“Tell me you’re mine,” Bucky ordered, pressing his thumb and middle finger into the sides of your throat until your eyes popped back open. You found your best friend looking just as wild as you felt, emotions churning in his darkened blue eyes, desperation warring with hunger and need and something else you couldn’t name but you felt your heart lurch in response to it.

A choked sob burst out of your mouth and Bucky’s grip relented only for the words to finally win the fight and escape. “I’m yours, Bucky,” you cried out, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. “I’ve always been yours, I’m always, always, always gonna be yours.”

Bucky fell on top of you, his lips finding yours in a bruising, ferocious kiss. His tongue swept into your mouth, taking possession and tasting every inch of you, overwhelming and consuming you. Your best friend kissed you like he never wanted his lips to part from yours, his hands gripped you like he never wanted to let you go, and his cock slid inside your pussy like he never wanted to leave you empty. When he shoved his dick roughly into your hole, you wrenched your mouths apart so you could moan against each other’s lips.

Pressing his forehead against yours, Bucky stared at you with hooded eyes. “That’s my girl, that’s my good fucking girl,” he praised, fucking you hard and fast just like you needed. His cock pummeled your pussy so hard it nearly hurt, but it was a delicious kind of pain, one you didn’t think you’d ever get sick of. “My girl, mine,” he babbled, pressing kisses to your lips, then your cheeks between each word until he was speaking into your skin. “You’re the love of my fucking life and now that you’re mine, I’m never letting you go, sugar, never,” he promised, his words sinking through you until they were buried deep in your heart and soul.

Hearing your best friend reveal the depth of how he felt about you, and the fact that it matched exactly how you felt about him, drove you wild and loosened your tongue. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” you chanted, your hands clutching at Bucky’s body like you couldn’t get him close enough. Your knees climbed up either side of Bucky’s waist until you were folded in half beneath him, his cock buried as deep as possible and it still didn’t feel like enough.

Thankfully, your best friend seemed to know exactly what you needed and he pounded harder and faster into you, moving with you in a rhythm you easily matched until your bodies were working perfectly in sync. Both of you chased your pleasure, murmuring and moaning your love into each other’s skin.

“Fuck,” Bucky groaned, his lips trailing down to your tits, sucking and biting on your skin, leaving little teeth marks and bruises behind. “Your pussy feels so fucking good, sugar, like you were made to take my cock,” he murmured around your nipple, laving the tight bud with his tongue before looking up at you from under thick, dark lashes. Your hands raked through his short brown hair, nails scraping against his scalp and delighting in the way his eyes fluttered at the feel. When his blue gaze opened again, it was molten hot with desire and determination. “I’m gonna make you come all over my cock until you’re shaking and begging me to stop,” Bucky warned.

You realized you may have provoked your best friend a little too much, but instead of backing down, you smirked at him. “Make me,” you challenged, certain that the hunger you saw in Bucky’s eyes was reflected in your own.

The simple phrase had the desired effect. Bucky pushed your thighs wide and up until you were spread and helpless beneath him, giving him total access to pound into your pussy until the slap of his thighs against yours and his balls hitting your ass were louder than the horror movie on the TV. “You wanna be a bratty little slut, I’ll fuck you like a bratty little slut, sugar,” Bucky ground out through gritted teeth, his hand finding your neck again and squeezing until you struggled to pull in a full breath.

All you could do was lay there and take it and oh god did you enjoy taking it. You basked in the feel of your best friend’s heavy weight fucking you into the couch. You felt your eyes going unfocused as your whole body was consumed by the pleasure Bucky was giving you. Your mouth hung open as you panted for the meager little breaths he allowed, tongue stuck out over your bottom lip.

“Fuck, you’re going so fucking dumb on my cock, aren’t you, sugar?” Bucky teased in that mocking tone you loved so much as he stared down into your lust-drunk face. All you could feel and see and hear was Bucky. “So fucked out, eyes hazy and tongue out—fuck.”

You could feel yourself getting close, your inner walls clasping at Bucky’s thick cock as he buried himself inside you over and over again. Your best friend’s pounding cock and filthy words were pushing you closer and closer to the edge. It was all too much and too good and you didn’t know how much longer you could hold on.

“Fuck, fuck, come for me, sugar,” Bucky huffed, his hips thrusting faster and harder as he rutted into you. He choked you a little harder, holding your throat tight for a long moment and cutting off your air entirely. “Come for me,” he growled out the order, his face feral and beautiful as he hovered over you. “Come all over my cock while I drain my balls deep in your pretty little cunt.”

When he reached down and rubbed your clit viciously, he shoved you over the edge of the precipice you’d been hanging on. Bucky let go of your throat and you drew in a deep breath, letting it out in a scream as you came hard on his cock. Your pussy clenched down on Bucky’s thick length as he pounded into you furiously.

“Good girl, good girl, that’s my girl,” Bucky mumbled, his arms digging under your back so his hands could hook over your shoulders. He used his grip to fuck you harder and faster. He never stopped, never relented even a little, his pace brutal and unyielding through your orgasm.

As wave after wave of pleasure continued to crash over you, you realized he was driving you toward another release. You’d lost control of your limbs, your body writhing uncontrollably beneath your best friend as he pounded into you like he was determined to literally fuck you dumb. Your legs trembled on either side of his waist and you gasped for air, still dizzy and not yet recovered from his hand around your throat or your first orgasm. “I can’t,” you choked out on a gasp. “Bucky, I can’t—not again.”

“You can, sugar,” Bucky argued, his tone sweet but merciless as he kept up his relentless thrusting. “I promised to fuck you until you’re begging me to stop and I don’t hear you saying ‘stop.’”

Bucky’s cock plunged so deep and hard, he hit a spot that stole the breath from your lungs. Even though you didn’t think it was possible, you came again, the orgasm sweeping through you and leaving you shaking and trembling as you screamed, “Stop!”

With a loud groan, Bucky stopped, his cock stuffed deep inside you as he gave in to his own pleasure. Bucky’s teeth sank into the base of your neck, where your throat met your shoulder, hard enough to make you scream again. Your fingers twisted in his hair and held him against you as you rode out your second orgasm, feeling Bucky’s cock throb and twitch inside you as he emptied himself in your pussy. You felt his warm release coat your insides, leaking out and down your ass.

Finally, Bucky collapsed on top of you, his arms wrapping around your waist between you and the couch, while your arms circled his shoulders. After a moment of being pressed into the soft cushions by your best friend’s body weight, he rolled you onto your sides, his softening cock slipping free from your dripping pussy and making you groan softly.

You were both still catching your breath, but Bucky reached around and picked up the blanket from the floor, pulling it over your rapidly cooling bodies to ward off the chill of his apartment. You snuggled into your best friend’s chest, humming happily as you recovered from what was easily the best sex of your life. Thinking back on everything that’d just happened, it reminded you of what Bucky had said while he’d been buried balls-deep in your cunt and you stiffened.

“You better not be having regrets, sugar,” Bucky warned in a deep voice, satisfaction soaking his tone. His heavy breaths started to even out and his voice turned determined. “If you need me to recap where we stand, I will: You’re mine, I’m yours, you’re my girlfriend and my best friend and I’m your boyfriend and your best friend.” He dragged his eyes open and pinned you with his icy stare. “Does that cover everything?”

“Yep,” you squeaked, cheeks heating at how thoroughly he’d read your panic. But then his words fully permeated your mind and your face settled into a smile as happiness unfurled throughout your body. You felt yourself melting into Bucky.

“Good,” he grumbled, rolling onto his back and tucking you into his side between his body and the back of the couch. He retrieved the remote from the floor, accidentally picking up your shorts in the process. They landed on his lap. He held the small garment up between pinched fingers. It was obvious to your eyes that they were far too small for your body and you had a feeling Bucky could tell as well. “Were you trying to torture me with this?” he asked, giving you a look out of the corner of his eyes.

“No, I just…” you trailed off trying to think of a way to put your evil little plan into words that didn’t make you sound too childish. “It was a trick? Like trick or treat?” you tried, but Bucky’s unamused expression told you that you’d have to try again. With a sigh, you finally admitted the truth. “I just wanted to see what you’d do, if you’d react at all.”

“Sugar, sugar, sugar,” Bucky groaned, tossing the shorts back on the floor and the remote on the coffee table. The movie on the TV had long since finished, the picture having gone back to its info screen. “I never had a hope of keeping my hands off you in that getup.” He buried his face in your neck, licking the bite mark he’d left and soothing the ache away with every stroke of his tongue. His voice was slightly muffled against your skin as he went on, saying, “How could I not react to my gorgeous best friend flashing her tits and ass in the tiniest PJs I’ve ever seen?”

You giggled in his arms, squirming to get closer to him, throwing a leg over his thigh. “Well, when you put it that way, it sounds kind of silly.”

Bucky pulled back, tilting your chin up so you looked into his face. “No, I’m glad you did it,” he said, his tone serious. “I’ve wanted to tell you for ages how I felt, but it wasn’t until you pushed me that I finally got out of my head and did something about it.” He ducked down and pressed a sweet kiss to your lips. “I love you, sugar.”

“Love you too, Bucky,” you murmured, pulling him in for a longer, sweeter kiss. “Hmm,” you hummed as you pulled away. “I think I’d better keep those pajamas, though, even if they are a little small.” You gave him a devilish grin.

Bucky groaned good-naturedly, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Only if you want me to bite and torture every inch of you, sugar,” he warned, his blue eyes sparkling with excitement at the idea.

You shrugged as nonchalantly as you could even as you buzzed with anticipation, shooting him a wicked smirk as you quipped, “What’s a little biting, a little torture between best friends?”

With a short laugh, Bucky leaned in and nipped at your bottom lip, soothing the bite with his tongue before slipping inside your mouth. He rolled you onto your back and took his time worshiping your body, leaving a trail of kisses and bites down your neck to your chest, then even lower. Bucky sucked a hickey into your thigh before giving the same torturous attention to your pussy until you were dripping and begging for his cock.

That night, you and Bucky never managed to finish the horror movie he’d originally put on, or watch any others your best friend had picked out for your Halloween horror movie night. But you did wake up the next morning snuggled up in the arms of your best friend and boyfriend. Marks from his teeth and fingers dotted your skin and you both loved the sight so much, he promised never to leave your skin unmarked.

Throughout the following days and months and years, Bucky kept his promise to you. He’d leave hickeys or bruises on your skin, in places where they’d be hidden by your clothes—on your chest and your thighs—but you’d always be able to feel them. You’d return the favor, sucking hickeys into the skin over his collarbone or his shoulder, relishing the sight of your mark on him. They were a secret between you and Bucky, a language meant only for the two of you, your love imprinted into each other’s skin. The marks ensured you’d always know that Bucky Barnes, your best friend and the love of your life, was yours just as much as you were his.

[buckysflicker]

I know a while back you said you liked College!Bucky x Reader au… it’s actually my fav trope and what you described was perfect- any fic recs???

Hi! Sorry for the late reply, here are some of my favorites and the ones I think fit in that category.

As always, these are all 18+. Remember to check the warnings before reading and comment/reblog to support these authors!

Project V @babyboibucky

Like I Want You | Part 2 @tmpestuous

Tardy @emerald-chaos

A Million Summers @intrepidacious

Wanna Be Yours @sinner-as-saint

Hush, Baby @noctumbra

Three Hundred @adrinktostopyourthirst

Need To Know @kikixreverie

Just A Little Biting, A Little Torture Between Friends @witchywithwhiskey

Additionally I have a tag for College!Bucky and Bucky x Reader Friends To Lovers that you might be interested in and can probably find more that I missed. I’ll also keep adding more as I read. Happy reading!

[buckysflicker]

SOOO GOOD!!!

Tactical Comfort | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: When your period hits early during a mission, you try to power through it. But, Bucky Barnes notices everything, and he refuses to let you suffer in silence.

MCU Timeline Placement: TFATWS

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: endometriosis, period pain, nausea, vomiting, chronic illness depiction, mentions of shame/internalized stigma around periods, canon-typical violence, mild language, Bucky being a softie

Word Count: 5.2k

Author’s Note: as someone who used to get such debilitating periods i started skipping the placebo week of my birth control just to avoid the pain altogether—this one’s deeply personal. this was a wonderful request and i really wanted to write something that balances the gross reality of this kind of pain with the kind of quiet, steady care we all deserve. aka bucky barnes. that’s the dream!

You didn’t make a sound as the first cramp hit. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t curse. Didn’t even exhale.

You just adjusted your grip on the rusted pipe beneath your gloves and finished lowering yourself into the corridor shaft below, boots making no more noise than a shadow. Four floors down. Concrete. Rust. Sweat and wire and the buzz of overhead halogen lighting, just enough of a hum to grind behind your eyes.

Bucky dropped down beside you a second later, easy and quiet as breath. He gave you a glance, eyes sharp, and you returned it with the barest nod. His jaw flexed. He kept moving.

You’d worked with him long enough to know what that look meant.

He didn’t like the layout. Didn’t like that intel had changed twice. Didn’t like that Sam was two clicks north on a separate ingress and the local feeds kept glitching out every fifteen minutes.

But what Bucky didn’t know, and what you sure as hell weren’t going to mention mid-op, was that the worst of the day hadn’t been the blackout or the tech delay or the two hostiles you’d already had to drop in near silence with a blade and a nerve pinch.

The worst of the day had hit your pelvis forty-five minutes ago.

And it was only getting worse.

You hadn’t expected it this early.

Not after years of scheduling your mission calendar around those three cursed days. At least the three worst days. You’d learned the cycle, tracked it down to a science. You’d learned how to survive it in a civilian setting, barely, but surviving it on an op was something you hadn’t had to do in years.

Not with this kind of pain.

Not with the dull, wrenching, ache-climb-shatter rhythm of it crawling spineward, wrapping around your stomach like barbed wire and dragging sharp behind your hip bones. Not with the nausea licking the back of your throat or the pressure building low in your gut like something clawing to escape.

You’d been shot in the thigh once on a Baltic raid and limped three miles out without a sound. Bucky had carried you the last half-mile once he found you, swearing the whole time that you were the most stubborn damn person he’d ever met. You’d gotten the bullet out yourself.

But this?

This was worse. This you couldn’t dig out.

You kept moving anyway.

You secured the hallway, cleared the lab, climbed the third flight of stairs despite the heat building behind your eyes. You blinked hard as the flare came again, low and sharp, like being stabbed from the inside. Something tightened in your chest and your hand slipped against the edge of the frame. Just a moment. Just an inch.

Bucky noticed.

He didn’t say anything at first, just looked over his shoulder, long and heavy and quiet. You straightened up before he could say anything. Blinked again. Adjusted your rifle strap.

“Clear,” you said, voice even.

“Mm,” he answered.

You kept going.

He caught you two rooms later.

You didn’t mean to give yourself away again. You thought you had it handled—had trained your face not to show it, had forced your spine straight, your breathing even, your jaw tight but not clenched.

But Bucky was too damn observant.

“You’re limping.”

You kept scanning the data drives. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“It’s fine.”

The silence that followed was thick. Not angry. Not frustrated. Just filled with the weight of him.

Then: “Sit down.”

You didn’t.

“I said—”

“I’m not injured,” you snapped, too sharp.

Another beat.

Then his voice, gentler: “That wasn’t the question.”

You swallowed. Looked up. The overhead light caught the silver edge of his arm, the way it flexed slightly at his side, tension humming beneath the vibranium.

You hated the concern in his eyes. Not because he shouldn’t care, but because you couldn’t take it.

“I’m not bleeding out, okay?” you said. “I’m just—”

You hesitated. Shame crawled under your skin, bitter and hot.

“I’m just in pain.”

He stepped closer, his brows furrowing. “What kind of pain.”

“Not the kind you need to worry about.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“It’s menstrual.”

You said it like a shield. Like a challenge.

He didn’t flinch.

Instead, Bucky just slowly nodded And something in his expression shifted—not horror, not awkwardness, just a quiet kind of understanding. The kind of look he gave Sam when the weight of a loss was too much for words. The kind of look he gave you once, two years ago, when you sat beside him at the compound and told him what it felt like the first time a doctor said the word endometriosis and didn’t act like you were being dramatic.

“How bad?” he asked.

You looked down. “Worse than usual.”

“Scale of one to ten?”

You let out a low breath, nearly laughed. “That scale doesn’t work for this.”

He nodded again, slower this time. “Then give me something to go on.”

You looked at him. Really looked at him.

At the soldier who had once been an assassin. At the man who was now someone’s teammate, someone’s brother-in-arms, someone’s quiet moral compass. At the man who’d learned how to listen without demanding. Who’d learned that silence wasn’t absence, it was presence in another language.

“Feels like getting gutted,” you said finally. “Repeatedly. With… pressure. Like someone’s wringing out everything inside you and dragging hooks through what’s left.”

His jaw twitched. He nodded. Just once.

And then he held out a hand.

“Give me your pack.”

“Bucky—”

“Give it.”

You hesitated, then handed it over. He dug through it without flinching, found the med tab you’d kept buried at the bottom, then took off his own jacket and folded it before lowering himself beside you on the floor.

“Take the meds.”

“They take too long to kick in.”

“We’re not in a rush. Take them anyway.”

You did.

He reached out. Not to touch—but to offer.

You didn’t move for a second. Then you gave in. Let yourself lean sideways. Let your shoulder find his. Let your spine curl slightly and your head tip to rest against his chest, slow and hesitant. His arm came around you a beat later, strong and gentle, and you could feel the metal coldness of it even through your layers. 

“You could’ve said something sooner,” he murmured.

“I didn’t want you to think I couldn’t handle it.”

“You’ve taken bullets for Sam.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re also human.”

You snorted. “So are you.”

He didn’t answer that. Didn’t need to.

Instead, he shifted slightly, angled his body to block the hallway. You realized, distantly, that he was shielding you from the line of sight. Watching both exits. Keeping one arm around you, his hand resting against your bicep in a way that felt more like anchoring than comfort.

You closed your eyes for a second. Just one.

“You get days this bad?” he asked, voice low.

“Worse,” you whispered. “But not on mission. I usually time them right.”

“Body didn’t get the memo this time?”

You breathed a quiet laugh. “Apparently not.”

“We’ll finish sweep, but we’re not pushing north yet.”

“You’ll need backup—”

“I need you,” he said, “not passed out in a stairwell somewhere. We’ll head out when the meds kick in.”

You opened your eyes. He wasn’t smiling. Wasn’t joking.

Just looking at you with that same quiet, intense steadiness.

“Gonna be pissed if Sam hears you went soft on me,” you muttered.

“Too bad,” he said. “He already thinks I’m a sap.”

The motel wasn’t much. One story. Fluorescents that buzzed like they were angry to be alive. A front desk with a bell that stuck. The kind of place you chose not for comfort but because no one would think to look for you there.

The mission had wrapped an hour ago, successful and clean. You and Bucky had swept the last wing, taken out the last remaining security node, and rendezvoused with Sam just before the sun dipped behind the treeline. 

Your body had been merciful enough to dull the pain down to something tolerable, just enough that you could walk without the stagger, talk without your voice shaking at the edges. But the nausea had stuck. It sat at the back of your throat like a second pulse.

You’d made it to your room with barely a nod goodnight.

Neither of them had argued. Sam had looked like he wanted to say something—one of those soft, sideways comments he saved for moments when concern might come off as pity—but he didn’t. He just watched you walk toward the room with that sharp-eyed steadiness that meant he clocked everything. 

Bucky hadn’t said anything either. Just followed you with his gaze, silent and unreadable, before disappearing into his own room two doors down.

Your motel room smelled like old bleach and cheaper carpet. You hadn’t even bothered to take off your boots before curling sideways on the bed, your body folding in on itself the way it always did when the pain gave way to its more insidious cousin, nausea, so intense it made the room feel warped at the edges. 

You laid still. Curled, shallow-breathing. One hand pressed to your stomach, the other gripping the edge of the cheap motel comforter like it could tether you.

You didn’t know how long had passed when you heard the knock.

Three soft raps.

You didn’t move.

Another knock. Then a pause.

“You still up?”

Bucky.

Your voice rasped in your throat. “M’fine. Go away.”

“Doesn’t sound fine.”

You swallowed against the rising bile. “Just need sleep.”

Silence.

Then a rustle. Plastic.

“I brought some stuff.”

You let out something between a sigh and a laugh. “Bucky, I’m good. You didn’t need to—seriously, I’ll feel better in the morning.”

More silence. Then the faint, unmistakable sound of annoyed exhale through his nose. You imagined him standing there in his all-black gear with his jaw working and his metal hand fidgeting against the bags like he was deciding whether to argue with you or kick the door in.

“Good luck getting in without a key,” you added, eyes still closed. “Not getting up.”

Another pause.

A click.

Then, suddenly, the door creaked open.

You turned your head, slowly, sharply. “What the hell—”

He shrugged, already halfway inside, plastic bags hanging from one wrist. “Guess the swiper’s old.”

“You picked a motel lock?”

Bucky gave you a slow blink, then grinned like a teenager caught with a lighter. “Whoops.”

“Jesus.”

“Hey, you said you weren’t getting up.”

You groaned and let your head fall back into the pillow. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah, well, you’re curled up like a half-dead cat and trying to convince everyone you’re fine. So we’re even.”

He kicked the door shut behind him and stepped further in. The lamp buzzed overhead, casting a yellow tint over the small room. 

You finally looked at him properly—hair still slightly damp from the mission, sleeves rolled to the elbows, that old worn jacket tied around his waist. Two plastic bags in one hand. A look on his face that you couldn’t quite pin. It wasn’t pity. It never was, with Bucky.

He set the bags on the rickety desk, then rummaged through the first one. You half-sat, just enough to speak without sounding winded.

“I told you, you didn’t need to—”

“I know, I know,” he said. “But I did anyway.”

From the first bag, he pulled out a cheap hot water bottle, the red rubber kind, still in its drugstore packaging. You blinked. He set it aside like it was nothing.

Next came a box of heating patches, the stick-on kind you’d once mentioned were the only things that worked when you were in the field and couldn’t curl up with a heating pad for eight hours.

Then: ginger chews. Peppermint gum. Two types of electrolyte packets. A can of ginger ale. A bag of frozen peas—presumably in case the water bottle took too long to warm up. And from the second bag: fuzzy socks. Plain black. No frills. But they looked warm. And new.

“You went to a pharmacy?” you asked, voice small.

He shrugged again. “Had Sam drop me off. Gave me ten minutes before the clerk got nosy.”

And then—at the bottom of the second bag—he paused for a second before pulling out a small zippered pouch. Nondescript. Travel-sized. You frowned.

“I didn’t know what brand,” he said, setting it down like it might detonate. “So I just grabbed the… uh. ‘Variety pack.’”

You stared. He cleared his throat.

“Which—by the way—should not be called that,” he added. “Made it sound like I was buying a damn candy sampler. Not… you know.”

Your lips twitched. “You bought tampons?”

“And pads,” he said, almost too quickly. “The overnight kind. And, uh. Some smaller ones. I think. Look, the whole aisle is a trap. I had three different women give me side-eye and one old guy tell me I was brave. Which I’m not. I was just—trying to read the boxes without looking like I was planning a heist.”

You covered your mouth with your hand, trying not to laugh.

“And Sam,” Bucky continued, now visibly annoyed with the memory, “just sat in the damn car like a coward while I tried to figure out the difference between, like, wings and ultra-wings and why the hell some of the boxes had colors like nail polish shades.”

You lost it then. A small, hoarse laugh that cracked in your throat and made your stomach ache, but you couldn’t help it. The image of Bucky Barnes—ex-assassin, actual super-soldier—standing in the period aisle looking deeply betrayed by pastel packaging was too much.

“I think I bought like… six different things. I panicked,” he said with a one-shouldered shrug. “Figured you’d pick what you needed and throw the rest at me later.”

You didn’t. You just looked at him.

The pouch sat on the bed beside you now, zipped neatly, placed carefully within reach but not shoved at you. Nothing in his posture pushed you. He’d done it—awkwardly, maybe—but he’d done it anyway.

You didn’t say anything for a second. Just stared at the other items lined up on the motel desk like they were offerings. Like they were armor.

“How did you know?”

“You told me,” he said simply, kneeling beside the bed. “Back at the compound. Last year. After that debrief. You said sometimes it hits so hard it knocks you sideways. That you keep things stocked just in case.”

You swallowed, throat suddenly too tight.

“I pay attention,” Bucky added, quieter now. 

You looked at him then. Really looked. Not the mission partner. Not the soldier. Just the man kneeling beside a motel bed with two bags full of things he thought might make your body feel even a little less like a trap.

“I’m gonna heat the water,” he said, rising, nodding toward the ancient microwave.

You let him.

You laid still as the water bottle filled, as he returned and pressed it gently against your lower stomach, his vibranium hand careful not to let any of the heat slip out too fast. He didn’t hover. Didn’t sit until you nodded toward the end of the bed in permission.

He dropped into the motel chair backwards, arms resting over the top of it. Quiet.

You reached for the ginger ale after a few minutes. Didn’t have the energy to sit up properly, so you just cracked it open and let it rest on your chest while you sipped slowly. The nausea hadn’t gone away, but it had dulled. Just a little.

“Sam’s ordering takeout,” Bucky said eventually. “Won’t be mad if you skip dinner.”

“He’ll be mad if I don't eat.”

“He’ll live.”

You nodded.

Another pause.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you murmured.

“Didn’t want you to feel alone in it,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Your stomach twisted. Not from the pain this time, but from something slower, warmer. He didn’t look at you when he said it, just stared at the wall, like the words had come out before he could second guess them.

You took another sip of the ginger ale, hand still curled loosely around the can. The carbonation felt weirdly aggressive against your tongue, but it helped. At least kept you from focusing on the bile still hanging out at the back of your throat.

“Sam get Chinese again?” you asked, your voice scratchy.

Bucky nodded. “Yeah. He’s on a real lo mein kick.”

You let out a weak noise that could’ve been a laugh. “Third time this month.”

“Fourth.”

There was another beat of silence. You shifted slightly on the bed, trying to stretch out your legs without setting off another round of cramps. Your body still felt like a punching bag, but it was less urgent now. Less suffocating. That edge where you felt like you might throw up or pass out had finally started to fade.

You stared at the water bottle on your stomach and then at the socks, still sitting untouched in their packaging on the desk. “Where the hell did you even find those this late?”

“Gas station next to the pharmacy. They were hanging next to one of those rotating sunglasses racks.”

“Wow,” you said flatly. “That’s…very sweet of you.”

He shrugged. “They’re warm. You like warm.”

You didn’t respond right away. You just picked at the label on the ginger ale can. “I’m not trying to be dramatic, you know. This just sucks sometimes.”

“I didn’t think you were.”

You glanced over. He was still in that stupid backwards chair, arms folded over the top of it like he was waiting for someone to give him orders.

“Some people do.”

“Well, those people are idiots.”

You snorted and it hurt your stomach muscles, so you stopped halfway through. “I didn’t mean for this to turn into a whole thing.”

“It’s not a thing.”

“You’re in my motel room with frozen peas and gas station socks.”

“Still not a thing.”

“You picked a lock to get in here.”

“Still not a thing.”

You gave him a long look. “You are the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.”

“Says the person who thought they could just white-knuckle it through a full op while actively dying inside.”

“I wasn’t dying.”

“You looked like you wanted to throw me down the stairs.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That was for…something else.”

He cracked a smile. “Yeah, well, get in line.”

That made you laugh again, this time just soft enough that it didn’t hurt. And for a moment, things felt bearable. The bed was lumpy, the lights buzzed, your uterus still felt like it was being put through a blender, but the ginger ale wasn’t making things worse, and Bucky was… here. Being normal. Kind of annoying. Weirdly competent. Your head hurt but your brain didn’t feel so alone in it anymore.

Bucky stood, retrieved the peas—which he’d stuck in the mini freezer just long enough to be icy again—and returned to swap out the now-lukewarm water bottle.

You stared at him while he worked, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’ve definitely done this before.”

“Done what?”

“This. The whole…” You waved your hand. “Mission nursemaid routine.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “First of all—never call it that again. Second of all, no. Not really.”

“Then how the hell do you know all this?”

He shrugged. “I Google things.”

You blinked. “You googled ‘what to do when someone’s in period pain’?”

“Yeah.”

“In public?”

“Incognito tab.”

That actually made you laugh. A real one, this time. He looked slightly pleased with himself.

There was a knock on the door. Muffled.

“You two want lo mein or what?” came Sam’s voice, followed by a sharp “I’m not keeping it warm if you don’t answer.”

Bucky didn’t look away from you. “You up for eating?”

You hesitated. “Give me like twenty minutes.”

Bucky nodded, standing. “I’ll tell him you’re still cursing me out for breaking and entering. But I’ll bring you back some if you want.”

“Please do.”

He turned toward the door, then paused. “You need anything else?”

You shook your head. “I’m good. Really.”

He nodded once more. “Don’t worry about locking the door. I’ll be back.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. You honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he had bribed the front desk lady for a copy of your room key. He left without another word, and for the first time in hours, the room felt… steady. Manageable. Not good. Not perfect. But livable.

You shifted again, pulled the bag of peas closer, and reached for the socks. They were cheap. Soft. Exactly your size.

Asshole knew what he was doing.

Bucky was back in just under fifteen minutes. You knew because the digital clock beside the bed had ticked forward exactly twelve by the time you’d stood up and crossed to the sink in search of cold water to sip before attempting to eat. 

You’d felt a little steadier, even dared to pull on the fuzzy socks he’d brought and shuffle across the creaky linoleum floor. The first half of the ginger ale had settled alright. The alternating cold and hot on your stomach had helped.

But your body had other plans.

The wave of nausea had started in your spine. Then a sharp ache in your ribs. The water bottle slipped from your hand and thudded to the floor as you doubled over the sink. 

Your legs barely carried you the five feet to the toilet before you hit your knees. A cold sweat broke across the back of your neck. It didn’t matter that your stomach was mostly empty. Your body didn’t care. It was going to purge something, even if it had to pull it from nothing.

You barely heard the motel room door open. Didn’t hear the takeout bags hit the desk. Just the shift in air pressure. The sound of boots on the worn carpet. Then—

“Hey—”

His voice was too close, too fast. You lifted a trembling hand toward the open bathroom doorway.

“Wait—hang on—I’m—” You couldn’t even get the sentence out. Your chest heaved.

But he didn’t wait. Didn’t even blink.

He was in the doorway and kneeling beside you in a heartbeat.

You tried to protest, voice thin and shaky. “Bucky, seriously—”

“Stop,” he said. Not harsh. Just final. Quiet. Focused.

You felt his hand sweep your hair out of your face. He gathered it gently, like it wasn’t damp with sweat, like you weren’t shaking so hard your spine rattled. He knelt close enough to steady you without hovering. 

His left arm braced lightly against your side, then wrapped around your lower waist—not intrusive, just firm. The vibranium cold in contrast to your body heat, pressing against the cramping mess of your abdomen. 

You exhaled without meaning to. Not relief, not yet, but your muscles responded to the weight. The pressure helped.

“I’ve got you,” he said, low and steady beside your ear. “Just breathe through it.”

You tried. You really did.

Your hands gripped the porcelain like it might keep you from falling apart entirely. Another dry heave wracked your body. Bucky didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. He shifted with you instinctively, adjusting his grip at your waist, not letting you collapse against the floor.

The tremors didn’t stop immediately. You leaned forward again, gagging hard against nothing, the effort leaving you lightheaded. Your vision blurred for a second. Your arms nearly gave out.

Bucky’s hand slid from your back up to your shoulder and squeezed.

“Easy,” he said, voice like low gravel. “You’re okay.”

You let your weight tip sideways slightly, just enough that your temple brushed against the edge of his chest. His arm tightened around your waist again, firmer now, the curve of his metal forearm pressing down right where the worst of the nausea sat coiled. 

It was like flipping a switch. The pressure hit the right spot, interrupted something that had spiraled out of control in your gut, and for the first time in what felt like hours, your body…paused. The urge to retch faded. Not entirely, but just enough to breathe.

You took in a shaking breath, and Bucky moved with you.

Still kneeling. Still holding you.

“Should’ve figured it’d hit this hard after the meds wore off,” he muttered. Not blaming. Just thinking out loud. 

You didn’t answer. Just leaned your forehead against his sternum, breathing slow, still curled in slightly from the ache.

“I brought crab rangoon,” he added a second later.

You let out something that might have been a groan. “You’re the worst.”

“Sam tried to talk me into dumplings. Said you’d want those.”

“I do want those. But if you say dumplings right now, I will throw up again.”

He huffed a laugh, breath rustling the top of your head.

You stayed like that for another minute, maybe more. The pain was still there, still humming in your hips and low belly, but the nausea had broken like a wave. The pressure from his arm helped, even as your muscles trembled from the effort. You hadn’t realized how unsteady you’d gotten until he’d braced you.

You pulled back slightly, eyes half-closed. “You can let go now.”

“Nope,” he said. “You’re a flight risk.”

“I’m literally on the floor.”

“And yet,” he said, brushing your hair away from your temple again, “I’ve seen you gut through worse with zero warning. So you’re not moving until you can stand up without looking like you’re gonna faceplant.”

You sighed, voice hoarse. “You don’t have to be in here for this.”

“Yeah,” he said evenly. “I do.”

You didn’t have it in you to argue.

Eventually, you let him help you up—slowly, carefully, his hands steadying you the entire time. He guided you toward the sink with a gentleness that never felt fragile. The kind of care you’d only seen from him in moments like this. After missions. In quiet, exhausted corners. Where the armor cracked just enough for softness to slip through.

He handed you a wet washcloth and you pressed it to your face, then leaned against the counter.

“You feeling any better?”

“No,” you rasped. “But less awful.”

“That’s the goal.”

You turned your head toward him. “You still have those dumplings?”

He smirked. “Thought you said you’d puke.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

He moved to the door. “Come sit down when you’re ready. I’ll plate it.”

You blinked. “This motel room doesn’t even have plates.”

He didn’t answer right away, just gave you a look as if to say Really? and then gestured vaguely toward the paper bag on the desk.

“Sure it doesn’t,” he said. “But you know what I meant.”

Which, apparently, meant he was about to pile lo mein, dumplings, crab rangoon, and something fried Sam had insisted on into one large takeout container, like some chaotic buffet. You could hear him rustling foil and crinkly paper in the other room while you rinsed out your mouth and splashed cold water on your face. Your legs were still a little shaky, but you could walk. Mostly.

When you stepped out of the bathroom, the lighting had been dimmed. One of the lamps had been switched off, and the curtain pulled a little tighter. You hadn’t asked him to do any of it. But of course he had.

Bucky was sitting on the edge of the bed, legs spread, plastic fork in one hand, the Frankenstein’d container of food balanced on the blanket between you. He handed you a water bottle without a word.

You raised an eyebrow. “No stolen plates?”

He gave a mock look of offense. “This is a very intentional food presentation.”

You settled beside him, legs curled under you, fuzzy socks brushing his thigh. “It looks like a war zone.”

“Fitting,” he muttered, nudging a crab rangoon your way.

You started slow. Nibbled at the corner of a dumpling like it might betray you. Your stomach was still unhappy but seemed to have decided to keep its grievances quiet for now. After a few bites, the worst of the nausea faded to a tolerable hum.

Bucky didn’t say much while you ate. He never rushed you. Never tried to fill silence with useless words. Just sat there, occasionally nudging food toward your side of the container, nudging the blanket closer to your lap, twisting the cap off your water without being asked.

You caught him watching you a few times—always subtly, like he was assessing something. Not in a worried way, but in that quiet, calculated way he always did when he didn’t trust a situation. You knew that look. It was the one he wore on rooftops and recon. Like he was looking for the next point of impact and deciding how to stand between you and it.

“Thank you,” you said finally, around the last bite of lo mein.

He glanced over. “For which part?”

“All of it.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “You’d do the same.”

“Yeah, but I’d complain more.”

That pulled a smile from him—soft, tired, but real. You both leaned back against the headboard, the now empty container tucked aside on the nightstand.

For a minute, it was quiet. Not tense. Just quiet. The motel AC groaned in the wall. Somewhere outside, a truck passed. You tucked the blanket tighter around your waist, instinctively curling forward, then winced when your stomach gave a familiar twinge. Bucky caught it.

“You hurting again?”

You nodded. “Comes in waves.”

He didn’t ask this time. Just shifted closer, the mattress dipping under his weight. You didn’t move. Didn’t want to.

His hand found your knee through the blanket, a grounding weight. “You need the heating pad again?”

“No. It’s not that bad. Just…”

You trailed off.

You didn’t want to say it.

Didn’t want to admit that the thing that had helped the most all night wasn’t the meds or the food or even the fuzzy socks.

It was him. That moment in the bathroom. His metal arm around your waist. The pressure. The cold. The steadiness of it.

You hesitated, chewing your lip.

Bucky waited.

“…Earlier,” you said finally, eyes flicking to his face. “The thing you did with your arm. That helped. A lot.”

His brow lifted slightly. “The pressure?”

You nodded, sheepish. “It was the only thing that kept me from throwing up again. I know that’s—um. Kind of weird.”

“It’s not.”

“I just—” You exhaled, tucked your hands under the blanket. “Would you mind… staying? Just for a bit. If that’s weird, forget I said anything. Seriously. I just—if you don’t mind.”

He didn’t answer right away. But you felt the shift. Felt him lean forward just enough to look at you head-on.

“Not weird,” he said.

You blinked. “Really?”

“Not even a little.”

You nodded, throat a little tight. “It’s just, you don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

That shut you up.

He stood long enough to toe off his boots and tug the throw blanket from the foot of the bed, then slid in behind you. You stayed curled, trying to get comfortable again, but it was clear your body wasn’t done being difficult. Every few minutes a new cramp coiled behind your hips, and your hand instinctively curled over your lower belly.

Bucky didn’t speak. Just moved his arm around your waist again. Not hard. Just firm. Solid.

You exhaled slowly.

The tension in your gut dulled by half.

Your spine eased against the pressure. Your head tipped toward his shoulder.

“That good?” he murmured.

“Yeah.”

You felt him shift just enough to tighten his hold, adjusting the placement like he’d done it a hundred times.

“I hate seeing you like this,” he said after a while, voice low.

You shifted your head back towards him.

His eyes were on the arm he had wrapped around your lower abdomen. “You’re not exactly subtle when you’re hurt. Even when you’re trying to be.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize I was broadcasting so much.”

“You weren’t. But you… fold in on yourself. Go all quiet and small. And you never go small unless it’s bad.”

Your throat felt tight. You blinked. “It’s not like I can stop it.”

“I know. But if I could take it from you, I would. All of it.”

The words hit a little harder than expected.

You wanted to turn around fully but he had you in a hold that would make it far too difficult. “Bucky…”

“It’s not fair,” he said plainly. “You get stuck with this pain, and people treat it like it’s nothing. Or worse—like you’re weak for having it.”

You blinked a few times. The room felt suddenly too quiet, too still.

“I’ve had injuries that didn’t knock me on my ass the way that did earlier,” you muttered. “And half the time I still feel like I’m supposed to act like it’s no big deal.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched you. You could feel his breath tickling your ear. Then, finally: “It’s a big deal to me.”

He shifted, breath steady, body heat radiating warm and constant at your back. The silence between you this time wasn’t tense or practical. It just was.

After a while, your breathing slowed. The cramps didn’t disappear, but they quieted. Your body, wrecked and worn, finally started giving in to sleep.

Bucky didn’t move.

Not when your head shifted closer on his chest. Not when your fingers curled loosely into the blanket. Not when your body stilled and your breath evened out.

He just stayed there.

Still. Warm. Unshakable.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

[buckysflicker]

He’s the love of my life

[buckysflicker]

A Thousand Times Before

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky travels to an alternate universe for the sake of a mission. But he doesn’t expect to come face to face with a version of you that loves him, completely and openly. Back in his own world, he is left with a truth he can’t keep to himself anymore.

Word Count: 16.5k

Warnings: alternate universe; multiverse; so much yearning; identity confusion; emotional distress; guilt; self-worth struggles; unintentional non-consensual kiss (non-violent, due to mistaken identity); angst; heartbreak themes; slight mentions of Bucky’s past; self-preservation; self-doubt; Bucky is a man in love

Author’s Note: This ended up being longer than I intended. Anyway, I’d love to hear what you think! Also, I’ve been toying with the idea of writing an alternate version where the roles are flipped. This time the reader travels to another universe where Bucky and your counterpart are already a couple. Let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in reading too! I hope you enjoy ♡

Divider by @cafekitsune ♡

Masterlist

The air smells of memory.

As though someone took the world he knew, put it through a sieve, and rebuilt it with hands that were almost - but not quite - shaking.

Bucky walks slow, even though his boots echo down a corridor that used to be silent. Used to be. In his world, the east wing of the Avenger’s compound is always cold, sterile, mostly unused. Here, the lights are warmer. Someone’s installed those vintage bulbs. They buzz faintly and flicker around.

There is a plant in the hallway. A real one. He steps past it. Looks down. A ceramic pot painted with little sunflowers. A tiny sticker peeling off the side.

This version of the compound is lived-in.

It’s unnerving.

He hates how it makes him breathe more deeply as though he is listening for something it shouldn’t. How everything is just off. The couch in the lounge is turned at a different angle. The vending machine is missing. There is a lavender-scented candle burning on the coffee table.

He doesn’t trust this. He doesn’t trust any of it.

Not the way the ceiling seems too low or how the hallways echo the wrong sound the longer he walks. The floor beneath his boots is almost the same. But almost is what gets people killed. And he’s not in the business of dying again. Not even here. Not even in a world that’s supposed to be some mirror image of his own.

It smells of lemon disinfectant and something faintly floral as though someone sprayed a bottle of room freshener and hoped no one would notice the rot underneath.

He runs his metal fingers along the wall as he walks, lets the vibranium whir quietly against the plaster. Feels the microscopic grooves in the paint.

In his universe, there is a crack near the main stairwell. Sam swears he didn’t do it. Clint insists he did. Here, it’s perfectly smooth. That bothers him more than it should.

He takes in this slightly different world as though maybe this is all some trick of the multiverse, some clever illusion designed to fool the worn-down man with the metal arm and the hundred-year-old ghosts. But the walls are still painted in the same color - off-white, barely warmed by the overheads. The hallway lights flicker golden. As though someone decided the compound shouldn’t feel like a facility. As though someone decided it should feel like home. His breath still fogs faintly in the colder patches of the corridor.

This could still be his universe somehow.

Even though it isn’t.

And even though he doesn’t want it to be.

He never wanted to be part of the mission.

He said no. Loudly. Repeatedly. With many adjectives and lots of glares. It didn’t matter. Fury said he was the only one who could go. That this universe had some piece of tech - some half-mythical Howard Stark prototype that their Stark never got the chance to build.

Something with the potential to rewrite temporal coordinates with precision. To fix anomalies. Maybe even to bring back the ones they lost.

He sat through the debrief like a man sitting on a bomb. Not moving. Not breathing more than he needed to.

And Bucky noticed, the way he always did, that you never ask quite so many questions during debriefing - unless the mission involves him. And this time, it’s only him. So that meant more questions from you. More concern you didn’t even try to mask.

And it made his heart clench.

You asked how they knew this tech even existed in that timeline.

You asked why Tony couldn’t just build it himself to which the man gave you a look.

You asked what would happen if Bucky saw someone he knew. If he saw himself.

You asked what exactly Bucky was going to walk into and what was expected of him.

You asked how much they even knew about this universe.

Steve had exhaled, hands braced against the briefing room table, blue eyes clouded. “We don’t know much,” he admitted. “This universe is close to ours in structure, but details are limited. No major historical deviations. No sign of HYDRA still in power. No active wars. Just small shifts. Choices made differently.”

Bucky had watched your face tighten as if the lack of data itself was a warning.

“SHIELD had a file on it, but nothing concrete,” Steve went on. “Stark’s readings say it’s stable - no time fractures, no reality collapses. Just another version of what we know.”

Bucky had listened, fingers flexing against his metal wrist. Close to theirs, but not the same. And he wonders, not for the first or last time, what choices this other world made for him.

The mission is simple. Locate the prototype. Extract it. Avoid unnecessary contact with variants. And get the hell back before anything breaks - him, the people, the timeline.

Bucky stopped listening entirely after receiving all the information he needed.

He only registered you shifting beside him, and it was the tiniest movement, but he noticed. You always get fidgety when something bothers you. He wanted to say something, reassure you, but he didn’t truly know if he even got this.

He knew you were worried. Knew you were angry. The kind that made your eyes too quiet and your hands too still. The kind that made Bucky feel like he was walking through a house where all the lights had been turned off, but every door was open.

When Dr. Steven Strange opened that portal, you stood in the corner of the room, watching him and giving him that guarded look that said you better come back whole. He couldn’t meet your eyes for too long.

And when the world rippled and bent, and the air shimmered as though it might break, and he stepped forward like a man walking into the sun with his eyes closed, he thought of you.

The stairs groan beneath his boots, familiar but not.

Same wood. Same color. But smoother. As though someone took the time to sand down the scars.

In his universe, the fifth step has a chip where Steve dropped a dumbbell. Everyone tripped on it at least once. Here, it is whole. Perfect. No history at all.

That’s what gets him. The lack of damage. As though this place hasn’t lived the same kind of life.

He reaches the second floor and hesitates.

The hallway is dim. Only the lights overhead are on, flickering just slightly. He hates the buzzing. It’s like something alive and trapped.

He turns left.

Your room is down this hall.

Or - your room in his universe is down this hall. He shouldn’t assume anything. Things are wrong here. Tilted just a few degrees off center. The kind of wrong you don’t see until it’s already unmade you.

But his feet are already moving.

It’s not like he’s planning to go in.

He just wants to look. Maybe see how different this version of you really is. Maybe see how different he is, through your eyes.

He reaches your door at the end of the corridor. It’s cracked open. That’s weird. You usually always have it shut.

Your voice isn’t behind it. You’re not laughing, humming, ranting about something. There is only quiet.

He steps closer.

The doorframe is covered in tiny indentations. Not scratches - these are deliberate. Someone’s been marking height on the trim. Two sets of lines. One lower than the other. Two sets of initials scrawled in black ink. Yours. And his.

He knows it’s yours. Because he knows your height. Like a number carved into his bones.

He’s memorized the space you take up in a room. Not just how tall you are, but the way your presence fills the air.

He knows where your head would rest if you stood beside him. Knows it would reach just beneath his chin. Knows the sound your footsteps make when you enter a room, and how the air shifts when you’re near.

He has painted you in his mind a thousand times before.

Eyes open, eyes closed.

In dreams, in silence.

In the echo of a laugh you left behind on a Tuesday.

He’s mapped you in the kitchen. Measured, in his mind, which cabinets you can stand beneath without hitting your head. Which shelves you can’t reach so he can be there, quietly, to help. So he can hand you that mug you always squint up at, the one you pretend you don’t need.

He knows how your arm swings when you walk.

Knows the rhythm of your stride. Knows your pace.

And sometimes, not often enough to be suspicious, he lets his hand brush yours.

Lets his fingers catch a hint of your warmth.

It’s not an accident.

It never is.

He carries you like a story he hasn’t told yet.

And he is aching, aching, aching to write you down.

Bucky stares at the markings like they might reach out and touch him.

He brushes his fingers against one. The ink smudges slightly under the metal pad of his thumb. Fresh.

He doesn’t understand.

Why would he-?

No. It has to be a coincidence. Just a prank. A weird joke. Someone else with your handwriting, maybe. Another version of him. One who doesn’t carry his past like a loaded gun. Or it’s just some odd inside joke he never got to know about in his own universe.

Bucky moves to step back, but his eyes catch on something else.

To the right of the door, hanging crookedly, is a small, square canvas. Acrylic. Textured.

It’s a painting. He knows it immediately. Your style.

He’s seen you paint a thousand times in silence, your jaw clenched, music too loud in your headphones. You always say you paint when you can’t say something out loud. When the words get stuck in your chest and rot.

This painting is familiar. A half-sky. A steel arm. Fingers open, reaching toward a red string that trails off the edge of the frame.

He knows what it means. He knows you.

But the painting doesn’t belong here. Not like this. It’s intimate. Meant for someone who understands the weight in your throat when you speak through colors.

Someone like him.

His stomach twists.

Maybe it is him.

He doesn’t like that thought. Doesn’t like how it makes his heart trip over itself.

He takes a step into the room because his brain told him to and his body didn’t want to argue. And he stops breathing.

Because you're not there.

But the room is.

The room is here.

And that’s almost worse.

It’s too familiar.

Not identical, not exact, but similar enough to tear him wide open.

The walls are a different color. Now necessarily lights. But just not how he remembers it. The books on the shelf are in new places, different spines, rearranged lives.

But the couch is the same shape, the same worn-out comfort.

The window still drinks in the light the same way - slanted, soft, forgiving.

And there’s a sweater messily folded on your dresser.

A book, face-down on the cushion like someone meant to come back to it.

Like you were just here.

Like maybe, if he stays long enough, you’ll walk back into the frame of this almost-life.

He doesn’t touch anything.

He’s afraid to.

Because this version of the world remembers you.

The shape of your existence lives here - in shadows and coffee rings, in the faint scent of something sweet and floral and you.

He walks the room like an intruder in someone else’s dream, eyes cataloguing the differences, chasing the sameness.

He notices that the cabinet doors hang slightly crooked in the same way.

And for just a moment he swears he hears your voice in the next room.

But it’s only silence, mocking him.

He wants to sit.

He wants to stay.

Wants to believe that if he closes his eyes, you’ll be beside him again.

He knows it isn’t true.

This isn’t his world.

This isn’t his home.

And this isn’t his you.

But the ache doesn’t care about reality.

The ache believes in the melodic sound of your laughter and the empty seat beside him.

There’s a coat draped over the back of a chair.

His coat.

Not one like it.

His.

The leather’s too worn in the same places. The collar stretched where he grips it with his right hand. There’s even the tear near the cuff that you stitched together with dark red thread, muttering that you weren’t a tailor but you’d seen enough war movies to fake it.

He steps inside without meaning to.

The room smells like you.

It’s your scent - soft, unassuming, threaded through with something sweet. Like worn pages and old tea and maybe vanilla.

It’s the same smell that clings to your hoodie when you get closer to each other on cold stakeouts to warm the other. The same one that lingers on your gloves when you pass him something, and he holds them a moment too long just to feel the warmth you left behind.

There’s a mug on the nightstand with faded text that reads I make bad decisions and coffee.

He bought that for you. In his world. As a joke.

You still used it until the handle cracked, and then you glued it back together and kept using it anyway.

He reaches out for it.

Stops.

His hand is shaking.

Bucky turns slowly. And sees the photo.

It’s not framed. Just pinned to a corkboard on the far wall, beneath torn paper scraps and to-do lists written in your handwriting.

It’s the two of you.

He recognizes the background - Coney Island. A bench by the boardwalk. Sunlight in your hair. His arm around your shoulder. His face not looking at the camera, but at you.

You’re laughing. And he looks-

He looks in love.

Like he has everything he ever wanted.

His breath hitches.

He steps back.

Back again.

Like distance might undo the gravity of what he just saw.

His ears are ringing.

None of this makes sense. Not fully.

He is stepping into a space he should not recognize but does.

The walls are a little brighter than in his world. Pale blue. Like the sky on cold days. There’s a candle on the windowsill—burned low and forgotten. Its wax has dripped onto a saucer, hardened into a small, messy sculpture. The bed is half-made. A throw blanket in a tangled heap at the foot of it. He recognizes that blanket. You two fought over it last movie night and then ended up sharing it.

There’s another book lying face-down, this time on the mattress. A knife on the nightstand. A half-written grocery list in your handwriting with his name scrawled at the bottom next to coffee and razor blades and more apples.

He stares at the list too long. At his own name like it sits in the wrong place. Like it’s foreign and familiar all at once.

His heart makes a quiet, traitorous sound in his chest.

He shouldn’t be here.

This isn’t his room. It’s not his place. Not his world. He’s just a shadow slipping through someone else’s life.

The longer he stays, the more it feels like the walls are leaning in.

He has a job.

A mission.

A very, very clear objective and a limited window to complete it in. That’s the only reason he’s here. The only reason he agreed to this whole ridiculous plan.

He doesn’t belong to this life.

He doesn’t belong to you.

Not like this.

Especially not like this.

He steps back. Slow. Controlled. As if the room might lurch and pull him in again, keep him held tight inside the heat of it. The scent of lavender on your pillow. A half-drunk mug of something still faintly warm on the desk. A soft blanket, folded neatly over the back of the couch by the window. Woven wool, pale grey, fraying just at the corners. In his world, that blanket lives in the rec room. He draped it over your slumbering body a few times already after you fell asleep somewhere between the second and third act.

The room creaks as though it knows he’s not supposed to be here.

So he leaves.

Each footfall measured like a soldier retreating from a line of fire. Not because of danger.

Because of what it could mean.

He closes the door behind him. Doesn’t let it latch.

He is leaving your room because he has to.

Because he’s still Bucky Barnes, and he still has something to do with his hands that isn’t letting them hover uselessly over photographs he never shot, or standing in the middle of a space that smells like your skin and wondering how long it would take before he forgot this wasn’t real. Or wasn’t his.

The hallway is still and dim. It breathes around him, too familiar and too wrong all at once. Different lungs, but the same bone structure.

His boots scruff over the same tile. The grooves on the walls are the same, the small imperfections in the paint still visible where someone - Clint, maybe - banged a cart too hard against the corner and then tried to cover it up with exactly the wrong shade of touch-up.

There’s a duffle bag sitting outside the laundry chute with a name tag stitched in crooked red thread: WILSON. Of course. Even this Sam never takes his stuff all the way in.

And there is a vending machine. It stands in the wrong corner, but it too has a post-it note stuck to it - out of order, again, thanks Tony - with a penknife stabbed through it, just like Natasha used to do when the machine ate her protein bar credits.

These things shouldn’t exist here. But they do.

Everything feels so carefully replicated, as though this universe is a reflection cast on rippling water - almost right, except where it wavers.

The picture frames are all straight here. No one’s taped up drawings on the elevator doors. But the dent in the wall by the training room door is still there - Tony left it during a particularly aggressive dodgeball game. And the pillow on the corner of the couch is still upside down. Steve never fixes it.

Someone’s sweatshirt is slung over the railing. Sam’s. Same one he wore for three weeks straight after the Lagos op. It still smells like burned rubber and that weird detergent Sam insists is “eco-friendly but manly.”

The common room has a blanket folded over the arm of the couch.

It’s yours.

You always fold it the same way. Two halves, then thirds, then smoothed flat.

The corners of his mouth twitch. Not a smile. Just muscle memory of one.

He walks slower now. Like he’s afraid he’ll wake something up.

He turns down the south hall, toward the kitchen.

He tells himself it’s for the layout. That he’s retracing steps, building a map in his head, keeping sharp like they trained him to. But really it’s you. It’s always you. He knows you’re here, somewhere, and if he turns the wrong corner too fast he might see you in a way he isn’t ready for. Or worse - see you in a way he’ll never forget.

His hand curls into a fist. Flesh and metal both.

The light changes first.

The kitchen here is bigger. Airier. The windows seem to stretch wider than they should, the frame redone in something softer than steel. Someone left the lights low, warm glimmers buzzing faintly above, full of melancholy chords.

And then he freezes. Everything in him turns to stone.

He stops breathing.

Because there are you.

Standing with your back to him.

You are in fuzzy socks, standing at the counter, shoulders relaxed, a pot simmering on the stove, and a sway in your movements that hit him so hard his throat tightens. You shift your weight slightly, hip against the edge of the counter, your hand rising to tuck your hair behind your ear.

The way the light hits you from behind is exactly the same.

You are moving through a rhythm you don’t know he’s watching.

You’re cooking something - he doesn’t know what, can’t smell it through the barrier of this aching distance - but it all is so heartbreakingly familiar. The tilt of your head as you read the label. The absent little sway in your hips as you stir something in the pan.

It’s domestic.

Effortlessly soft.

The kind of moment he’s never had, but has imagined a thousand times before.

His body goes very still. Maybe if he moves, the moment might shatter.

But it cleaves him open.

Because you move the same.

You move the way you do in his world - as though every room bends slowly toward you. As though you don’t know how much of your soul you leave behind in your trail. As though the air makes space for you because it wants to. Because it has to.

He watches.

Rooted to the floor.

This is doing something brutal to him. Seeing you here like this, in this soft golden kitchen that smells like tomatoes and thyme and something slow-cooked with patience and love, tucked into his shirt as though it doesn’t tear his heart apart.

You’re not just wearing it to steal warmth or tease him, the way you’ve done before in his world - tugging on his hoodie after a long mission, smirking when he raises an eyebrow, pretending it was an accident. You always returned it too quickly. Always laughed too loudly when he was too nonchalant about it. Always looked away too fast.

But here. Here you wear it as though you truly mean to.

Here you stir sauce in his shirt and sway slightly to a song you don’t know you’re humming and taste the spoon as though this is just another Saturday. Here, the shirt is not a stolen thing.

The hem skims your thighs. The collar is stretched slightly. The cotton even moves in your rhythm. His name is ghosted into the shape of you, etched along your silhouette. It’s almost too much. It’s absolutely too much.

Your movements are familiar in the way only time can make a person. And God, you move the same way. The same way. Like the version of you he left behind an hour ago. Fluid. Quiet. Self-contained. You hum under your breath, just barely.

He feels it like a bruise forming under his ribs.

His hand curls at his side. Metal fingers flex.

You don’t see him.

He’s not ready for you to. He knows he shouldn’t let you see him.

Not here. Not like this. Not when you’re standing in a kitchen that looks like the one you always complained was too small, in a shirt that is his - or the other Bucky’s - cooking with your whole body curled in that same subtle tension like you’re thinking about something else entirely.

And for one breathless second, he forgets.

He forgets this isn’t his kitchen.

That this isn’t his world.

That the you standing there isn’t the one who left a hair tie on his wrist last Wednesday.

That you’re not the one who laughed at him for not knowing how to use your espresso machine but then proceeded to teach him with that sweet voice of yours he doesn’t mind drowning in.

But God, he wants to walk across the room. Wants to slide his arms around your waist. Rest his chin on your shoulder. Breathe in your scent and feel your heartbeat under his hands.

Because he’s seen you like this before.

In his own kitchen, in his own universe.

Not often. Just enough to be dangerous.

You, in fuzzy socks. You, humming softly. You, squinting into a pot like it might confess its secrets.
You, looking over your shoulder and catching him staring.

Smirking. Amused. But with a warmth in your eyes.

And now, he just watches.

This version of you doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t feel him standing there, made of want and memory and too much tenderness for a heart that was never meant to carry this much.

He grips the doorframe.

Tries to swallow the pain.

Because this is what he’s always wanted, but it isn’t his.

And it won’t be.

But he can’t stop looking.

He knows he should move. Now.

He’s not supposed to linger.

Not supposed to look.

Not supposed to feel.

He’s a shadow in this world, a breath not meant to be heard. A presence designed to pass unnoticed.

But you-

God.

You are gravity and he is weak against it.

You are the glitch in every rule, the exception in every universe.

And he can’t help it.

He looks.

He stays.

Because there is no version of reality where he walks past you untouched.

You are the only thing in this place that hasn’t changed.

The only thing that feels right.

And that’s the worst part.

Because you feel like home.

And you’re not his.

You might never be.

But he stands there, selfish and still, pretending the silence could make him invisible. Pretending this version of you isn’t real. That your shape, your voice, your hands wouldn’t undo him in ways the war never could.

You reach for the spice rack, standing on your toes just a little, the hem of the oversized shirt lifting slightly. His name is written in the way the fabric hangs off your frame. It’s branded into this whole place.

He watches you like a man watches fire from the other side of glass - warmed, lit, and ruined all at once. You move like morning through him - and he, all dusk and dust, knows he is never meant to touch such light.

You wear that shirt on your shoulders as though it is normal for you. As though you want it to be there.

Bucky watches it stretch across the curves of a body he’s only ever worshiped in dreams.

You still feel like you, he thinks and the thought is so sudden and so violent that he has to step back - just a fraction of an inch, just enough to pretend he didn’t feel it, just enough to pretend it doesn’t mean something.

He doesn’t understand how this version of you still reads like poetry he’s already memorized.

He backs away, so slowly, he wonders if time might forgive him for the moment. For his hesitation to leave.

For the way, he just stands there and watches you as though you are the last good thing in the world.

As though you are the world. His world.

You turn, slow, stirring spoon still in hand. You haven’t seen him yet. You’re focused, brow furrowed just slightly, lower lip caught between your teeth, and he knows he should get the hell away from here.

But he is frozen in place. His muscles aren’t working.

He sees the angle of your cheek, the line of your neck, the quick twitch of your nose as though you’ve caught a scent you know too well.

And then you look up.

You see him.

Bucky’s mind is running on empty cells.

Your whole face changes. Clouds lifting. Sun rising. Your smile is instant. As though seeing him is something your body wants to do.

Everything in you brightens. As though the sun cracked open inside your chest. Your whole body jolts. Just a fraction. In surprise, delight. As though seeing him is something that rearranges the air in your lungs and makes it easier to breathe.

He is not prepared for the way you breathe his name.

“Buck-” your voice is thick with shock and joy and something lighter than either. “You’re back.”

He doesn’t move. Can’t.

The word back rattles in his ears. Echoes. Feels like a lie made of gold. He is not back. He is not yours. Not in this life. Not in this room. Not in the way you somehow seem to think he is.

You don’t give him time to speak. You don’t give him space to even think.

Because you’re already closing the distance between you, fast and sure-footed, and he has just enough sense left in him to realize he should say something, before you launch yourself into his chest, arms flung wide, a soft gasp of excitement still spilling from your mouth.

You collide with him hard and certain and unapologetic, and your arms wind around his neck as though they’ve done this a thousand times. So easy with him. Knowing the shape of him.

He stiffens. Every muscle in his body locks up, heart ricocheting against his ribs. He chokes on his breath.

He’s too overwhelmed with this situation to hug you back. His arms stay frozen at his side. His fingers twitch, trying to reach for you but remembering they shouldn’t.

You’re warm. You’re so warm.

You smell like that candle on your windowsill. Like a version of comfort he hasn’t earned.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were back?” you murmur, voice muffled as you bury yourself into the crook of his neck, full of a joy so honest it makes his entire ribcage squeeze the life out of him. “I thought you were still stuck over there. I was starting to get worried. Were you trying to surprise me? Because you definitely surprised me.”

Bucky can’t speak. He can’t do a single thing and that’s absolutely pathetic. He wants to say something clever or distant or safe, but his mouth is a graveyard and the words are bones. He’s not sure he even remembers how to use them anymore.

Your breath fans across his collarbone, your nose brushing his jaw, and it’s too much.

The feeling of you against him is unbearable. You fit. Of course, you do. His body knows you, even if his brain is screaming that this is wrong, that this is not the life he is living, that this version of you is not his to touch.

But you don’t know that. You don’t hesitate. Your hands slide up his back. One of them tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck. The other rests against the curve of his shoulder. His flesh shoulder.

He feels like glass. Like a single breath could rip him to shreds.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

There is something tender in your eyes. Something known. Something that sees him without flinching. You’re beaming. And he is blinded.

You’re looking at him as though he’s something you loved for years and known down to the marrow.

And then, so quickly, so confidently - you kiss him.

Bucky freezes.

All the air leaves his lungs.

His heart stutters in his chest.

Your lips meet his as though the air between you has gravity, as though you have done this before, soft and sure, knowing how he likes it. You kiss him as though you’ve kissed him a thousand times and a thousand more.

Bucky is a rigid wall, thunderstruck.

But he doesn’t stop you.

He should. He knows he should. The second your hands touched his face, he should have stepped back. Should have told you the truth. Should have warned you that this isn’t him. Not the right one. That the man you think you’re kissing is a ghost wearing someone else’s memories.

But he doesn’t. He lets you. For a heartbreaking moment. Lets his mouth press to yours for the span of a beat and a half. Lets the warmth of you crack the ice he’s been carrying in his chest for too long.

Your lips are warm, soft, sweet, tasting of honey and cinnamon and nostalgia and the imaged version of a dream he’s buried too deep to name, one he’s never dared to reach for but still lingers in his bones. Bucky doesn’t know if he’s breathing or if that became something irrelevant.

He lets you press into him as though the whole world hasn’t changed, as though this you is not a stranger wearing your skin, your voice, your tenderness. And for a second, a small and selfish, shattering second, he melts.

His muscles go slack and his eyes fall closed and the universe falls into place. Your lips on his feel like relief, like the end of war, like something he didn’t earn. He lets himself sink into it, into you.

You kiss him as though you know him. As though you know the hollow places and where they go. As though your body is working off muscle memory forged from love he was never around long enough to deserve.

Your hands are on his face and you’re kissing him as though this means something and he wants to pull away, he does, but not for one split-second. He folds like wax in flames, pliant and helpless under your affection.

His heart stutters - skips, crashes, burns.

Your body is pressing forward as though it’s coming home.

His mouth moves with yours, slow and stunned and melted, like a man learning to breathe in a language he doesn’t speak.

This is what he has imagined. This is what has haunted the spaces behind his eyes when he lets his guard down. He has imagined this. Wondered what your breath would taste like when it caught between your mouths, how your fingers would feel fisted in his hair, how it might feel to be wanted by you - openly, without hesitation, without shame.

But then you whisper against his mouth, soft and breathless and full of joy.

“God, I missed you.”

And everything collapses.

The words strike like ice water down his spine. It’s like being shot. He grows tense again. His eyes snap open. His mind catches up to his heart. The sweetness goes sour in his mouth. The warmth becomes poison under his skin. Because it isn’t real. This isn’t real.

You’re not his.

Not his to kiss. Not his to miss him. Not his to touch him with that bright look in your eyes as though he is part of your story.

You think he’s your Bucky. The one who - as Bucky would imagine - kissed you on every hallway in this place, whenever he could. The one who knows which side of the bed you sleep on. The one who earned your trust, your touch, your history.

And so he breaks the sky.

He pulls away - rips himself out of paradise with shaking hands and a jaw clenched so tight it might snap. The breath that leaves him is ragged, torn.

Every muscle in his body is tight. This is not your kiss. Not yours to give or his to take. Not when you don’t know. Not when you think he’s someone else.

And even though it’s you - your warmth, your voice, your heartbeat fluttering against his chest - it’s not the version of you he’s imagined this with.

And it’s not right.

The guilt punches him all at once, shame and grief and confusion he’s never quite learned to survive. He recoils - not even fully on purpose - but instinct, instinct that tells him he has stolen something you didn’t offer him.

He’s just a stranger behind familiar eyes.

You freeze. Blink at him. Confused. Concerned.

Your smile falters. Disappears.

His chest heaves once, twice, too fast, not able to breathe properly with your taste still caught in his mouth. His hands curl into fists at his side, trying to remember what they are for.

And then he sees it - your worry folding into something smaller, something more ashamed.

And it murders him in slow motion, one heartbeat at a time.

Your hands drop away from his face and flutter against your lips for the smallest second as though maybe you’re the one who crossed a line.

And he watches, helpless, as the light behind your eyes dims.

You take a tiny step back, shoulders inching inwards as though you’re suddenly unsure of yourself.

And then your eyes widen, and the guilt spills out of you now, sharp and immediate.

“Buck, I-” you start, your voice soft and hesitant. “I’m sorry. That was… I shouldn’t have just- I didn’t mean to- God, you probably needed a second to just settle, and I-” you trail off and take another step back as though you think you hurt him.

Your face crumples, not dramatically, not completely. But enough to look a little wounded. Vulnerable in that way you only let him see when no one else is around. Even here. Even in this life that isn’t his.

It’s killing him.

That pain in your eyes. The sheen of doubt and confusion that he put there.

You wrap your arms around yourself, retreating inward, your expression far too close to shame.

His chest caves as though something vital just got torn out, and his body hasn’t caught up yet.

Because even if you are not his - you are you. And hurting you, even by accident, even like this, feels like peeling the skin of his ribs.

He feels it in the hollow beneath his ribs, a wound that won’t stop bleeding.

“No!” he forces out quickly, voice low and rough and all wrong. “Hey- no, no, you didn’t- You weren’t- I’m not-”

But he doesn’t know what to say.

He wants to tell you it’s okay, that you didn’t do anything wrong, that it’s him, it’s all him, it’s always him, it’s never you.

He wants to scream that his bones are made of want, that his blood sings only your name, that he is drowning in everything you don’t know you’ve given him.

But none of this is simple. None of it is clean.

And all he does is stand there.

Breath shaking.

Heart breaking.

Hands curled so tightly to keep from reaching.

Because you didn’t give this kiss to him, not knowing who he was. You gave it to the man you think he is. The man you trust.

And he accepted it anyway. Let it happen. For just a split second, but still, he let himself have it.

He feels sick.

And now you look like you’re folding in on yourself, and all he wants in the world is to pull you close and undo every second of pain.

“I just got excited,” you say timidly, even softer now, eyes dropping to the kitchen counter. “I missed you and I didn’t- I thought you’d- Never mind. I’m sorry.”

You’re already turning away, trying to tuck the moment back into yourself, trying to pretend it didn’t just break the air between you. As though you haven’t just handed him a piece of your heart and watched him flinch from it.

And Bucky feels like the worst kind of monster.

Because it’s not your fault. This version of you, who somehow but clearly loves him, who thought she was greeting the man who has kissed her a thousand times and more. Who thought this was welcome. Who probably counted down the days until he walked through that door.

He knows because he does the same thing although his you and him aren’t even a thing.

Because in his world, you’re his friend. Just that. A friend with soft eyes and sharper wit, someone who argues about popcorn toppings and sings loudly in the kitchen when you know he needs some cheering up. You’ve patched him up after missions. You’ve watched old movies with him in silence, both of you staring too long at the screen and not long enough at each other. You’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder. You’ve tucked his hair behind his ear when it stuck to his cheek after a nightmare. You’ve told him - more than once - that you’re here for him.

But you’ve never kissed him.

You’ve never touched him as though you owned the moment.

You’ve never stood in his clothes and cooked dinner for the version of him who let himself be yours.

And god, he wants to hate this version of himself. This man who found the courage to step forward when he only hovered on the edge. Who earned the right to be held by his dream girl like a homecoming.

And now you are ashamed. Now you are hurt.

Because he couldn’t be the right Bucky.

He steps forward, frantic, needing, desperate to fix it, to say something, anything that would wipe that hurt look off your face.

“No- no, hey,” he rasps, voice frayed. His hands are hovering. He wants to touch you. He wants to hold your face in his palms and make this better. “It’s not your fault. It’s not you. I just… I mean, I didn’t think-” He knows he’s not making this better at all right now.

He sighs, mouth open but language failing him, and he scrubs a hand over his jaw as though he can erase the hesitation you saw there.

You search his face, your eyes too deep.

A trembling nod.

“Okay,” you say. “I just thought- I don’t know what I thought. I was just really happy to see you. But I should’ve given you a moment.”

And there it is.

The softness.

The part of you he has always tried to guard. The one he’d go back to Hydra to protect. The one that makes his chest ache and his hands shake at his sides.

He wants to tell you everything. The truth. The mission. That he’s not the man you think he is.

He almost does.

But his throat is choked up.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and that only breaks him in a new way.

Because you think you did something wrong.

“No,” he starts again, firmer this time, softer too. “You don’t need to apologize, sweetheart. I-” he hesitates, and you see it. “I missed you, too.”

He screwed up. Completely.

You bite your lip, unsure. Your eyes flick down to your shirt. His shirt. Not really his shirt. But Bucky’s shirt. You tug at the hem as though it suddenly doesn’t belong to you anymore.

And Bucky knows that this moment will haunt him long after he leaves this world. Long after he goes back to the version of you who wears his hoodies just to tease, who touches him only in passing, who is his friend despite him wishing for you to greet him the same way this you greets her Bucky. For the rest of his life.

You look at him as though he’s a wound.

As though he’s something tender and broken and half-open, and not in the way that frightens you but in the way that makes you reach for the first aid kit. As though you’ve seen the blood already, and you are not afraid to get your hands dirty to make him whole again.

Your voice turns softer now. Maybe trying not to shake the walls around him. Like you’ve already seen him flinch once and you’re afraid of making it happen again. He can hear the thread of caution in your throat, stretched thin with concern.

“Buck,” you say, slow, quiet. “Are you okay?” you ask and it’s not just a question. It’s a doorway. A key turned in a lock he hasn’t let anyone touch. You’re peering through the walls he built up as though you have done it before. Maybe you know all his hiding places. Maybe you’ve kissed every scar on his soul and memorized the way his silences mean different things.

But not this version of him.

Not here. Not now.

And it does something sharp to him.

Because he’s not okay. He is a thousand feet below the surface, lungs full of water and salt and regret. He is standing in a version of his life that is too soft for the callouses on his hands, and you are looking at him as if he means something to you, as if he still matters even after he’s flinched from your kiss, after he’s stood there in a borrowed skin, giving nothing in return.

He wants to say yes. Wants to lie because it would be kinder. Because maybe it would make your forehead smooth out and your mouth curl back up and your shoulders drop from where they’ve crept up near your ears. But the words catch in his throat. He can’t swallow them. He can’t spit them out.

You step closer, slowly now, more careful than before, and the guilt rises more than ever.

“Do you need anything?” you ask, as though you’ve asked him this a thousand times before. “Water? Food? A shower? A-” you falter, “- a second to breathe?”

Your eyes are so gentle he could cry. You’re hurting and you’re still soft with him, still reaching across this invisible crack in the earth, still offering care with both hands like it won’t burn you if he doesn’t take it.

He doesn’t deserve this.

He doesn’t deserve you.

Not when he’s not the man who earned the right to walk through that door and be met with your affection like sunlight. Not when you looked at him like a miracle and he gave you nothing back but a statue.

His hands remain in fists. His chest is too tight. Too small. His own skin is too loud.

“I’m fine,” he answers. Too fast. Too clipped. He regrets it instantly.

Your face drops a little, enough for him to feel it all over again. Another weight, another reminder that he is ruining something delicate, something not meant for him.

“Oh,” you murmur, nodding too quickly, stepping back as though your warmth was a mistake. “Okay.”

And there it is.

That thing he can’t stand.

That thing you do - both of you, all versions of you - when you feel shut out. That pull inward, that retreat behind your own ribs, as though maybe you’d overstepped, and now you need to fold yourself small enough not to take up space.

It crushes him.

Because he made you feel that way.

He made you feel as though you’re making it worse by caring.

He swallows hard, sorrow burning down his throat.

He doesn’t deserve your tenderness. He doesn’t deserve your care. He doesn’t deserve the way you’re moving again, back to the counter, shoulders tense. You’re trying to give him space and comfort in the same breath and it hurts to watch.

You stir something in the pan. Wipe your hands off a towel that looks as though it’s been used too many times. Domestic. Familiar. This life is familiar, too much so, and he is standing in the middle of it like a trespasser.

“I’m almost done here,” you note sweetly, glancing back at him with that look - gentle and worried and wounded. “If you do want something.”

You say it as though you’ve fed him before. As though he likes your cooking. As though this is something you fall into easily, the kitchen your common ground, your voice echoing off the same cabinets.

Bucky can feel his heart cave in.

You’re still looking at him like that. As though he’s someone you’d give your last spoonful of soup to. As though he isn’t just standing there like a coward with your kiss still on his mouth and your concern sitting in the hollow of his chest.

Even when he pulled away, even when he didn’t say a damn word, you didn’t get angry. You didn’t accuse him of anything. You just worried. And you’re still here. Still cooking. Still offering pieces of yourself like they’re nothing when they mean everything.

It makes him feel like a thief.

Because he’s not your Bucky. And he doesn’t know what yours did to earn you, but he can’t possibly live up to it.

His guilt is a creature now - gnawing and breathing heavy in his chest, pacing in circles behind his ribs. He feels it crawling through him, scraping at the back of his throat, making it hard to speak, hard to swallow. You are being careful with him, and all he can think about is how he should have stopped the kiss the second you leaned in.

You wouldn’t have kissed him if you knew who he really was.

And still, he wants to say yes.

Wants to sit at the kitchen table as though he belongs. Wants to take the plate you’d hand him and eat every last bite and listen to your stories and pretend just for a moment that this is his.

But it’s not.

It’s yours.

And it’s his job to leave it untouched.

“I’m good,” he lies, voice a gravel-dragged croak.

You pause, spoon in hand, frowning softly.

He hates that look.

That little line between your brows. The tilt of your head. Maybe you know he’s not telling the truth but don’t want to press. Maybe you’d rather hold the silence in your hands than make him bleed more words than he has.

“Okay,” you say again, quiet but still open, still gentle. “Just let me know if that changes.”

And you turn back to your pan, shoulders remaining to stay curled in. Like a window closing just enough to keep the cold out.

And Bucky just stands there.

Mouth dry. Hands shaking. Jaw tight. Chest full of something that feels like grief and guilt and anguish all tangled up in barbed wire.

And you’re cooking for a man who doesn’t exist in your world.

And the worst part - the part that scrapes down the back of his throat - is that he wishes he could deserve you.

He wishes this was real.

He wishes it were him.

He wishes it more than he’s wished for anything in his life since he lost it.

Since he became something else, since he forgot his own name, since his hands were turned against the world, against himself. Since all he’s done is survive.

He watches you like a man starving for sunlight. Terrified it might disappear if he blinks too long.

The way your shoulders move as you stir. The curl of your fingers around the wooden spoon. The tuck of hair behind your ear. The shift of your weight from one foot to the other.

He watches you move like he’s memorizing. As though this is the last time he’ll see you in motion. Like your movements are things he can bottle and carry with him, tucked deep into some pocket where the world can’t steal it. Where time can’t take it. Where even regret has no reach.

Your fingers fuss over something inconsequential now. Adjusting the position of a mug that didn’t need to be moved, opening a drawer, and then closing it again. You’re pretending not to look at him but he sees the way your eyes keep falling over, the way you keep folding and unfolding yourself. You’re waiting. Giving him the space he didn’t ask for and that he doesn’t actually want but knows he should take. Giving him something kinder than he’s ever learned to give himself.

And you are so familiar. You’re the same here. Even in this place that’s slightly sideways and tinted in colors, he doesn’t recognize. You move the same. You speak the same. You care the same way.

Even if your kindness isn’t meant for him.

Even if your kiss was meant for a version of him he doesn’t even understand.

Because this Bucky - the one you seem to love here - he must have done something right. He must have looked at you one day and not looked away. He must have let himself have you. He must have been brave enough to reach for you with both hands and hold on.

Bucky doesn’t know how to be that man.

He wants to be.

But he doesn’t know how.

Not in his own world. Not where he loves you from afar and pretends that’s protection. Where he swallows the way you laugh like it’s medicine and doesn’t let it show on his face. Where he listens to your questions in briefings - always you, always asking the most, as though you know people better than they know themselves - and he lets the sound of your voice guide him through the fog in his head like a rope he can follow back home.

But he never says anything. Never answers unless he has to. Never tells you how often he thinks about you, about your hands and your hair and your smell and the way your eyes find his in a crowd like a lighthouse built just for him.

Because what would he even say?

Hey, I can’t sleep unless I replay the way you laughed when Sam dropped popcorn all over the floor last month. I still have the napkin you folded into a crane at that terrible diner. I know the shape of your handwriting better than my own.

And what would you say to that?

Would you smile?

Would you run?

He doesn’t know. He’ll never know. Because he never asked. Because he never tried.

But this Bucky did.

And now this is the price.

Standing in the compound’s kitchen that smells of roasted garlic and too many things he’s never had. Watching you move around as though this is all so very familiar to you.

He wonders if you’d greet him like this every day if he were yours. If you were his.

If you’d light up like that every time like he was coming come and not just showing up, arms open, voice warm, like there was no place he could be safer than here with you.

If you’d wear his shirts as though they are yours because of what he means to you, not because they are soft or convenient or too clean not to steal.

He aches with the idea of it.

He wants this.

He wants you.

And not just in the sharp pain that lives under his ribs. Not just in the sleepless nights and the imagined conversations. Not just in the way he stares too long when you’re laughing or how he makes excuses to sit beside you on the couch.

He wants this.

You, warm and open and lit up from the inside. You, the way you could be if you saw him like this. If you let yourself. If he ever earned the right for you to let yourself.

But he hasn’t. He knows that.

He’s just your friend. The one you trust with your coffee order and your spare key and the heavy things you don’t want to talk about until 2 am. The one you steal clothes from, but always give them back because they don’t actually belong to you. The one you fall asleep beside during late movies without worrying about what it means because it doesn’t mean anything. Not to you.

Not like it means to him.

And still, he always watches. From doorways. From shadowed corners of rooms that dim the moment you leave them. Not to possess you - but because to look away would be a small death he cannot bear.

You laugh, and he holds the sound like contraband. You glance past him, and he lets it wound him sweetly. He’ll love you like that forever - at a distance, in silence, in awe. A man carved hollow by devotion, wearing his yearning like a prayer no god will answer.

And this version of you belongs to someone.

Even if it’s just a different version of him, it’s not him. Not this one. Not the one still lost in the burden of everything he’s done. The one who still wonders if the blood on his hands will ever wash off. The one who doesn’t know how to be soft.

He doesn’t know what the other Bucky did to deserve this version of you. Doesn’t know how he got so lucky. Doesn’t know what he offered you, what words he spoke when you were doubting yourself, afraid of being too much.

He’s not sure if he even knows this Bucky. It sounds weird as fuck. But maybe he doesn’t. Because it seems impossible to Bucky that this guy actually managed to get his girl. To get you.

Though he sure as hell would start a fight if the other him ever took this for granted. If he ever walked through this kitchen distracted or tired or in a bad mood and missed the way you smile when you think he’s not looking. If he ever left you waiting too long.

Bucky thinks he’d kill to have what that punk has.

And he hates himself for that.

But he can’t help but watch you, and it feels like the axis of something turning. Like time folding in on itself to offer him one brief, borrowed breath of what could have been.

It feels like being kissed by a future he lost, and forgiven by a present he never dared to ask for.

Because he knows that if you knew his thoughts, if you knew what he is feeling right now, you’d feel betrayed. You’d feel wronged. Because this wasn’t yours to give and it wasn’t his to want and now you’re both tangled in something made of shadows and parallel paths that should never have crossed.

But you’re here. And he’s here. And the moment still smells of cinnamon and citrus and something sweet, like safety, like you.

And he can’t stop wanting.

He wants it so badly he feels like a child in his chest. Like a boy in Brooklyn again, heart too big, hands too empty. Wanting something too beautiful for his fingers. Afraid to touch it in case he ruins it.

He wants this kitchen, this quiet, this life. He wants to be the Bucky who you wrap your arms around without thinking. Without hesitation. The one you miss. The one you think about. The one you care about so deeply. The one you kiss without asking because of course he wants you to.

He wants to be the one you light up for.

He wants it so bad it hurts.

But you are too soft for the ruin of his hands. Too bright for the rooms he lives in. You drink from fountains he was never invited to approach, speak in tones that his rusted soul cannot mimic.

And this is gutting him. To know the shape of your intimate kindness, the tilt of your adoring smile, the poetry of your presence - yet remain nothing more than a silent apostle to your orbit.

And maybe that’s why he finally moves. Why he tears himself away, footfalls too loud in the silence, heart thudding wildly in his chest.

He can’t stay here, not with you standing in the soft yellow light looking like everything he’s ever tried not to need.

He clears his throat, tries to make his voice sound normal, even though nothing about him feels human right now.

Your eyes lift to his. Wary. Still warm. Still worried. Still too much.

“I should, uh,” he mutters, nodding toward the hallway. “I’ve gotta take a shower.”

He bites his lip in frustration at himself.

Your lip twitches. Tugs down ever so slightly. It splits him open.

“Okay,” you say, quiet. There is disappointment in your tone, you weren’t able to overshadow. “You’ll tell me if you need anything?”

He nods too fast. Too tight. “Yeah.”

And then he leaves.

Because if he doesn’t, he’s going to do something worse than kiss you back.

He’s going to beg.

And he knows he has already taken too much.

And he needs to turn away.

Because he has something to do.

Because this world isn’t his. And he wasn’t sent here to collect the storyline he’s too afraid to build on his own.

He’s here for a mission.

He wasn’t sent here to linger in your doorway and let his bones dissolve into longing.

He walks away with you still behind him. He feels your gaze on his skin and with every step, it’s like he’s leaving something behind he’ll never quite be able to touch again.

He almost turns around.

Almost says your name.

Almost asks what this Bucky did - how he said it first, how he reached for you, what it took.

But he doesn’t.

Because he doesn’t get to ask.

So he keeps walking, heart in his throat, your taste still on his lips, and the echo of your smile carved into his spine like something sacred he was never meant to keep.

****

“Did you run into anyone while you were there?”

Steve’s question comes as casually as a bomb dropped from the sky.

Voices rise and fall in the conference room - wooden chairs squeaking under shifting weight, pens clicking, someone’s fingers drumming absently on the table.

The room is too bright. The lights overhead white and clinical, burning a little too harshly through his eyes and down into the back of his skull.

The air smells like ozone and burnt coffee. The kind that’s been sitting in the pot too long, scorched at the edges.

Bucky sits at the far end. Back against the chair but not relaxed, never relaxed, spine too straight, jaw too tight, metal fingers tapping once against the glass of his water before he clenches his hand and stills it.

And he knew this was coming.

Knew from the moment Strange opened that cursed slit in the fabric of the universe and Bucky stepped through like he was boarding a train to nowhere. Knew the second he saw your face - your face, but not yours - that this would catch up with him. That this would unravel under fluorescent lights and scrutiny.

Every muscle in his body coiled tighter. A reflex. A learned thing. His mouth is already dry.

The table is crowded with Avengers, coffee cups clinking, files half-open and untouched because no one is really looking at the paper.

The prototype sits in the center of the table, carefully sealed inside one of Tony’s vacuum-shielded cases. A long-forgotten Howard Stark fever dream, something meant to bend energy fields into weaponized gravity. Or something. It doesn’t matter.

They have it. He got it.

But that’s not what anyone is talking about right now.

Not when Sam is already side-eyeing him. Not when Doctor Strange is seated in his dark robes like the warning label on a grenade, fingertips tented, waiting. Not when you’re sitting two chairs down - his version of you - and you’re watching him with that same knitted expression you always wear when something doesn’t sit right.

“Bucky,” Strange says, voice low and still too loud. “I need to know. Did you encounter anyone significant while you were there? Interacting with alternate selves is risky. Prolonged exposure can ripple. If you spoke to someone who knows you-”

“I know the damn rules,” Bucky mutters, sharper than he meant to, and instantly hates the way your brows lift at the sound of it.

He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. Tries to breathe. His body is still holding something that didn’t belong to him. Your smile. Your voice. The feel of your lips, pressed to his like they had every right to be there. Like you knew him.

He can’t stop thinking about you.

He doesn’t want to talk about it.

He dreads talking about it.

“There was someone,” he says, and the room quiets.

You sit a little straighter. Sam leans forward. Even Clint lowers his cup.

He can feel you watching him.

You, his version of you, sitting across the table with your arms crossed and your head tilted just enough to catch the shadows under his eyes. The real you. The only important you. And it’s so difficult to just look at you because he swears there’s a phantom echo still lingering in his chest. Of another you. Of another kitchen full of light.

“Who?” Strange asks.

Bucky exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the table. The grain of it. The scratch just under his knuckle. He imagines digging his fingers into it, splinters biting through skin, anything to ground himself.

“You,” He meets your eyes when he finally says it, and it feels like swallowing gravel. “I saw her.”

You blink.

“You ran into Y/n?” Sam asks, something like a smirk in his voice.

Bucky nods once. It feels like rust grinding his neck.

He can’t look up anymore. Can’t look at you.

He doesn’t need to look to know your breath has caught. He can feel it in the air. The absence of it. Like the moment before thunder.

He pushes through.

“She was there. She saw me.” His jaw clenches, his fists curl under the table.

Bruce exhales, pushing up his glasses. “That’s not ideal.”

Tony makes a sharp noise in his throat.

“Did you talk to her?” Strange inquiries, voice tighter now, more urgent. And Bucky has to refrain himself from wincing.

He sees you shifting in your seat in his peripheral vision.

“Yeah,” he sighs, quieter now. “We, uh- we talked.”

Silence.

Strange’s eyes are boring through him. “How close did you get?”

Sam leans forward. Bucky doesn’t look at him.

You’re staring at him now. Open. Quiet. You haven’t said a word. Your silence feels worse than anything else.

“I don’t think that matters-” Bucky starts, but Strange interrupts.

“It matters exactly. If she saw you, if you talked, if you touched, if anything that could destabilize your emotional tether occurred-”

Bucky laughs, but it’s hollow, breathless. Rotten. “What the hell is an emotional tether?”

“It’s you,” Strange answers simply. “And her. On a metaphysical level. The same person in different timelines can act as anchors. Or explosives.”

“Jesus,” Bucky mumbles, dragging a hand down his face.

His palms won’t stop sweating.

He hasn’t felt this kind of sick since HYDRA used to strap wires to his temples and ask him how many fingers they’d need to break before he forgot his own name.

The conference room is too still. Too sharp. His chair feels wrong under him, too stiff, too narrow. The soft, predictable sound of conversation from earlier has dropped into something tighter. Focused. Hunting.

He doesn’t want to lie. Not about you. Not when you touched him like that. Not when you said his name like that. Not when it almost felt like it could be true.

So he swallows hard and pushes words through his locked jaw.

“She hugged me.”

A pause.

He doesn’t look at anyone. Just the table. That one dent from Steve’s shield. The scratch Clint made with a fork because he talks with his hands. A small, folded paper crane tucked under your fingers. He doesn’t know where you’ve got that from but your fingers are bending the wings back and forth. He doesn’t think you even realize you’re doing it.

“She hugged you?” Sam repeats, brow raised. “Like… greeted you?”

Bucky nods slowly, heart thudding in his ears. “Something like that.” He can feel your gaze like heat pressed against the side of his face and it almost burns to meet it, so he doesn’t.

“What happened before that?” Steve wants to know, eyes narrowing.

“I-” Bucky starts, and then stops, scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I walked into the kitchen. She was cooking something. Then she saw me. She thought I- he- was back. From something. A mission. I don’t know the details.”

“And she hugged you,” Steve adds.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs.

He doesn’t mean to look at you, but he does. For a second.

And you’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. Something still. As though you are trying to understand.

“And you just let her?” Sam presses, not unkind, but relentless in the way only Sam can be. “You didn’t say anything?”

“What do you think I should have said?”

“Well, I don’t know, man-“

“Did I say anything? Or… she?”

It’s your voice.

And it makes his stomach flip.

His eyes snap to you. But you’re not looking at him directly. You look at the edge of his shoulder. The hinge of his jaw. The tension written across his face.

He shifts in his chair. “You- She asked why I hadn’t told her I was coming back. Thought I was surprising her.” His hands are pressed flat against his thighs as though he can keep himself from shaking if he stays grounded.

“And?” Steve asks, too gently.

“She kissed me,” Bucky manages finally, and the room stiffens around him like a held breath. His voice is almost flat now. Hollowed-out. Maybe he’s trying to bleed the memory dry so it stops spreading in his chest.

There is a momentary lapse of silence that feels like someone dropped something delicate and no one wants to be the first to point it out.

Clint exhales slowly, muttering something under it. Sam leans back in his chair, maybe trying to decide if this is funny or devastating. Steve just blinks.

And you go completely still. Not a twitch of movement. Not even your fingers on the paper crane.

“She kissed you?” Natasha says, brows high.

Bucky exhales. Nods.

“What kind of kiss?” Sam blurts, leaning forward again. “A welcome-home kiss? Or a- like a real kiss?”

Steve sighs exasperated.

“No, I mean- we gotta know. This matters.”

His hand is aching. Flesh thumb pressing hard against the knuckle. “It was- not friendly.”

And the room really freezes. Stunned.

Until Sam lets out this sharp, incredulous sort of whistle, and Clint groans, dragging a hand down his face.

You glance down at your lap, jaw clenched, breath held so still it barely moves your chest. And it twists something in Bucky’s stomach, the way you sit there trying to disappear. He’s not sure who it hurts more - you, hearing this, or him, saying it. There is shame curling behind his ears. Shame and something like grief. And it’s all turned inward.

Sam’s eyes narrow. “So she kissed you thinking you were the other Bucky.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s trying to keep still. Trying not to flinch. Trying not to look left. Trying not to look right. Trying not to look at you.

Because he feels the air around you shift like the press of a coming storm. It’s not anger. He knows that heat, and this isn’t it. It’s just quiet and tight and uncomfortable. A subtle withdrawal as though you’ve stepped behind some invisible wall only he can see.

And he hates it.

Bruce clears his throat carefully. “That implies a romantic connection. At least in her mind. Probably in his, too.”

Tony makes a face. “So we’re saying that Barnes and our girl are a thing in that universe.”

“Looks like it,” Natasha muses, eyes sliding toward you.

“Holy shit,” Clint remarks unhelpfully.

They say it so easily. As though this is nothing. As though this doesn’t wreck something fundamental in Bucky’s ribcage.

And suddenly everyone is quiet. Even the noise of the lights seem muted. It’s hot and awkward and strangely intimate.

Bucky stares down at his hands. They look like someone else’s. He can still feel your touch on them. Still feel the heat of your mouth against his. The softness. The way your lips pressed with such intention.

He says nothing.

He feels terrible.

Because a part of him still wants it.

Still aches with it.

Not the kiss. Not the accident.

The life.

That version of himself who gets to love you out loud. Who gets to be yours in daylight, in kitchens, in the moments that don’t demand heroism but just presence. That version of him that doesn’t have to swallow the way your voice makes something flutter in his chest like a broken-winged butterfly. The one who can kiss you because you already know him. Trust him. Want him. Miss him.

He wants that version to exist so badly.

And it makes him feel like a monster.

You’re sitting just far enough to be untouchable, just close enough that he can feel the space between you aching like a wound.

You are you. You are right there. And you don’t even know that in another universe, you loved him so much you ran into his arms without hesitation.

The light from the high windows drips in thin streaks across the long table, catching on Bucky’s knuckles, the tightness of his body.

There’s a long pause.

Then Tony exhales. “Well, that confirms it. Barnes is getting some in another universe.”

“Tony,” Natasha warns lowly.

Tony holds his hands up in mock innocence, but Strange interrupts them, turning to Bucky with a roll of his eyes. His cloak rustles.

“Did you tell her anything?” His voice is edged. “Did she suspect something?”

Bucky doesn’t answer immediately. He shifts in his seat. His back is too straight, and still, and his hands are bracing for something.

“No,” he relents. His voice is raw and rough like gravel pulled from the bottom of a riverbed. “I didn’t tell her anything.”

Strange’s eyes narrow. “Nothing?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Strange tilts his head slightly. His expression is unreadable. Calculating. “Her behavior. Did she seem disoriented? Odd? Suspicious? I assume you know Y/n well enough to tell if she’s acting off.”

The lump in his throat settles as though it lives there.

“She was hurt,” he admits, and the words punch out of him. “I froze up. She thought she’d done something wrong. But she didn’t suspect anything.”

Across from him, you shift. A small movement. But he feels it in his bones. He looks up. Meets your eyes.

You’re watching him as though you’re trying to learn something about yourself from inside of him.

He swallows hard.

“I didn’t tell her anything,” he says again, and it’s not for Strange this time. It’s for you. “I didn’t compromise anything. I was careful.”

“You were compromised,” Strange says, not unkindly, but without sympathy. “Emotionally. Whether you said something or not.”

Bucky doesn’t argue.

Because yes. He was. He is. He doesn’t even know how to be anything else anymore. His chest still echoes with the memory of your laugh - not your laugh, but close enough to trick him. His arms still remember the shape of your body, the way you buried yourself into him. As though you’d been there a thousand times before and would be a thousand times again.

He wonders what that other you is doing now. If you are still standing in the kitchen, perhaps waiting for him. Still hurt. Still confused. Still so worried.

He wonders what that Bucky is doing now. If he’s back. If he’s home. If you’re in his arms, asking what took him so long. If he knows what he has. If he’s grateful. If he deserves you.

And he wonders too, if you - the you here, right across from him now, quiet and tense and real - will ever look at him that way.

Your eyes are on his and it seems as though you want to say something, as though maybe you’ve been wanting to say something for a while now.

He doesn’t hear the others anymore.

They’re voices in a room, sounds in space, language and logic pressing against the outside of a window he’s no longer looking through.

Because your eyes are on him and they are too open, too careful.

And, unfortunately for him, this is where the hope begins.

Small. Thin. Stupid.

Because there is a version out there who loved him already. Who ran to him as though he was safety and home and joy all wrapped in one reckless heart and it had been so easy for her. Natural, even. Like a reflex. Like a need.

And he has to think that if she could, then maybe you could too.

Maybe - if he just keeps showing up, if he keeps giving you pieces of himself even when it’s terrifying, even when he thinks he has nothing worth offering - maybe you’ll see something in him that you’ll want to keep.

Maybe he’s not beyond that.

Maybe he’s not on the edge of the world after all.

His heart stumbles inside him, a sharp jolt under his ribs, and he realizes too late that his breathing has gone shallow. His palm is sweating. His chest is aching in a way that is not just pain, but hunger, longing, desperate weightless wonder.

Strange is talking. Something about dimensional instability and neural resonance and all that science talk - but Bucky is no longer a soldier at a briefing.

He’s a man staring across a room at the person who has made his worst days survivable, and he’s remembering how it felt to see you in his shirt in a different kitchen, how you stood there with your back to him waiting for him to wrap his arms around you, how your lips tasted like things he should never know but can’t ever forget.

You shift again. Your knee knocks lightly against the leg of the table as you tuck your foot beneath you. And your hair falls forward, soft and a little tangled from the wind that always sneaks through the compound’s side doors. Your lips part, as though maybe you’re going to say something in front of everyone, and he braces for it, all of him going still like a wolf spotting something too delicate to touch.

But you don’t.

You break eye contact and tuck your hair behind your ear as though you caught yourself doing something you shouldn’t.

But Bucky doesn’t stop hoping.

Because he watched you do exactly that in a very different universe. Such a small gesture but it means so much to him.

Because yes, maybe he is not the Bucky she thought she kissed.

He’s not the Bucky who wakes up with you tangled in his sheets.

He’s not the Bucky who lets himself believe he could be loved without earning it first.

But maybe he could become that man.

Maybe if he tries hard enough, he too can get the girl.

Maybe if he works at this more than anything else that matters, you’ll love him too. Not just in some alternate world, but here.

In this one.

In your voice, when you say his name.

In your laugh, when he says something without meaning too.

In your eyes, when you don’t look away.

And he knows he would do anything to earn that.

He would do anything to be enough for you in the only universe that matters.

His fingers twitch. His shoulders square slowly, almost unconsciously, as though some decision has clicked into place without needing permission.

The room is still full. Voices layered over voices like shadows that haven’t realized the sun moved. Chairs creak beneath shifting bodies, Sam’s laughter breaking loose and grating on Bucky’s nerves.

The idiot is grinning, leaning back in his chair as though this whole situation is the best thing to happen this week. “Alternate-universe you is in a relationship, Barnes. What do we think about that, huh?”

“Sounds like he’s living the dream,” Clint mutters, giving Bucky a jab to the arm. “You finally got the girl, Barnes. Took a whole damn reality shift but you got there.”

Someone chuckles. Tony, maybe. Or even Steve. He can’t tell anymore. He can’t hear much over the buzz in his ears, over the sound of his own heart pounding behind his ribs.

“Hell, maybe all our multiverse selves are having better luck,” Sam remarks, amused.

Clint chuckles. “Ah, Barnes just grew a pair.”

“Well, that’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it?” Natasha, calm as ever, lifts one elegant eyebrow.

“Alternate-universe Barnes has game,” Sam says delighted.

“Lucky bastard,” Clint mutters under his breath.

They mean well. They always mean well. This is how they show they care. With ribbing and teeth-bared grins, with shoulders nudged, and things they don’t say louder than the ones they do. It’s how they keep their own wounds in check. How they keep from bleeding all over the carpet.

But Bucky isn’t laughing. He isn’t smiling. His lip twitches but only with frustration at his teammates.

He notices your stillness. The lines around your mouth have gone soft and tight all at once. Your hands are folded too carefully in your lap and your gaze is pinned to the table.

With every mention - every offhand comment, every teasing jab - he can see it.

The way your shoulders stuck in closer to themselves. The way your breath grows quiet and shallow. The way you can’t seem to look at him anymore.

He swallows around it, the sharpness in his throat, but it doesn’t go down.

Everyone else seems to think this is a strange, mildly awkward, maybe slightly endearing detail in a weird mission story.

But Bucky feels sick.

Because he’s seen it on your face. The way the information about the kiss struck you like a misfired bullet. A shadow in your eyes, the small breath that caught in your throat, the way you shifted your legs like you needed to move, to run, to put distance between yourself and what you heard.

God.

He’s such a fool.

A lovesick idiot.

Because he let that brightness curl in his chest. The hope that even though you have every right to feel nothing at all, even though he’s spent so long training himself not to want this, not to wish for things he can’t have - he truly thought that if there was a version of you that looked at him that way, that reached for him without fear, then maybe this version, this you - maybe there was something possible here too.

But now he is watching it close again. Watching you feeling uncomfortable, retreating into yourself, folding inward like the paper crane you left behind. And he knows the fault lines are his. That even his silence can crack things apart.

When the meeting finally breaks - Strange dismissing everyone with a calm nod and a list of inter-dimensional protocols Bucky doesn’t hear - you stand before anyone else. Quiet. Not hurried. Just deliberate.

As though you’ve made a decision.

You don’t look at him. Not once. Just gather your notes and your coffee and the sweater you left draped over the back of the chair.

And you leave.

No goodbye. No glance back. Not even that half-smile you offer when the day has left you tired and the silence between you feels soft instead of loud.

Bucky is on his feet before he realizes it. He ignores Sam calling after him, something about needing to finish signing off the tech. Doesn’t respond to Steve’s “Buck?” Doesn’t glance at Strange, who’s looking at him as though he already knows where this is headed.

All Bucky sees is the hallway.

You, disappearing around the corner, just a whisper of your hair and the sound of your boots against the polished floor. And all he can think is no.

Not like this.

He walks fast, with his pulse in his mouth and panic blooming in his chest.

You’re so graceful even when you’re upset, even when your body is stiff with tension. You carry yourself with that strength that’s always pulled him in, and he hates that he knows it. Hates that he can read you this well, because it means he knows you’re hurting.

He walks fast enough to catch up, to not give himself time to think about it too much. His hands are cold again. The way they get when he’s unsure. When something matters more than he knows how to handle.

“Hey,” he calls out, and his voice comes out too soft. Almost hoarse. “Wait- can you- can we talk?”

You stop. Slow, reluctant. As if the last thing you want to do is this but some piece of you can’t help it.

You don’t turn around at first. You’re breathing hard. He can see your shoulders rise and fall too quickly, your jaw tight, your arms folded across your chest as though you are trying to keep yourself together.

You turn.

And it’s worse than he thought.

Because your eyes are shiny and your expression is made of glass and restraint and you’re biting the inside of your cheek in that way you do when you want to pretend something didn’t bother you.

He hates this. Hates that he did this to you, even accidentally.

But god, you still are beautiful in a way that feels like gravity. Like the ache in his chest could drag the stars down to meet you.

You watch him as though trying not to give too much away.

“Can we talk?” He repeats, breath catching somewhere between hope and despair.

You shrug, not cold, not angry. Just tired. “If you want.”

He steps closer. Not too close. Careful. Always careful with you.

“I know it probably sounded bad in there,” he says, voice rough. “I didn’t want it to come out like that. Like I was… caught up in something.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Bucky,” you say quickly, voice too neutral. “You didn’t know. I get it.”

But he wants to explain. Wants to lay it out, piece by bloody piece. Wants you to understand that for a minute there, he forgot how to breathe because of how you looked at him. That he hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

“I didn’t tell you- I mean, tell her,” he blurts, breathless. “I didn’t tell her who I was. Or where I came from. I didn’t say anything.”

You blink at him. “Okay.”

“She thought I was him. I- I didn’t say anything because I- I wasn’t supposed to engage and I wasn’t planning to. I swear I wasn’t planning to.”

You say nothing. Just stare at him with that sweetly confused expression.

Bucky steps closer. He’s aching, head to toe, something brittle in his chest like cracked glass.

“You kissed me,” he continues, and you bite your lip, looking away, “but I didn’t- I froze. It felt wrong. And when you said you missed me, I panicked. It felt like I was stealing something. From you. From you both.”

He stops. Swallows.

And there it is again. That dangerous spark. That sharp, flickering thing that’s lived inside him ever since he saw that other version of you, ever since your arms wrapped around his neck and your mouth pressed to his and your voice filled his chest with something whole.

He wishes for a version of that hope here, too.

But not if it means breaking you to find it.

You’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. He can’t tell if it’s pain or disappointment or confusion or all of it. He just knows it’s tearing him apart.

“I know it wasn’t me she kissed,” he goes on, quiet, every word dragging out of him as if it doesn’t want to be spoken. “And I know it wasn’t you, either. But it made me think that maybe-” He breaks off, exhales. “I know it’s not fair to say it, but-”

“Then don’t.” Your voice is soft when it comes.

And he flinches as though you touched a nerve.

But your face isn’t cruel. It’s sad. Honest. Tired in the way people get when they’re holding too many emotions all at once.

“I’m not her,” you clarify, but there is something fractured in the way you say it, like the words are paper-thin and barely holding shape. “I’m not whatever version of me you saw, whoever she is to you, that’s not me.”

“I know,” he croaks out. Bucky steps closer, just once. Not touching. Not yet. He doesn’t dare.

“No, I don’t think you do.” Your arms unfold slowly, but not in surrender. You gesture at yourself, the smallest movement, but there is steel in it. “She looks like me,” you go on. Your voice is tight. Bitter. It’s not like you. Not how he knows you - the warmth, the patience, the fire and calm and kindness all mixed together. “She sounds like me. But she’s not. She’s not me, Buck.”

And then you turn as if you’re about to go. As though you can’t stand another second of standing still in front of him.

“No- don’t,” he pleads, and before he can stop himself, he reaches. His hand finds your wrist, not tight, not rough, just enough to stop you. “Please.”

You pause again, with an exhale that is sharp and hurt and too loud in the hallway.

He is closer now. Close enough to see how tight you press your mouth together to keep it from trembling. The twitch of pain in your brow, the soft crease between your eyes he knows only shows up when you’re trying really hard not to cry.

Guilt and desperation roll through him, thorough, like a tide pulling everything warm away. It unspools him from the inside.

“What?” There is no weight behind your words. Your voice is worn. Defeated.

Bucks swallows. His voice feels like rust trying to be rain.

“She hugged me. Said she missed me. She kissed me like she’d done it a thousand times before.” His voice is shaking, even if he’s trying not to let it.

“And I didn’t stop her. Not for a second,” he goes on, quiet. “I should’ve. I should’ve pulled away sooner, but I-”

You pull your arm back, but he doesn’t let go.

“Why are you telling me this?” you question him, voice breaking in the middle. “What am I supposed to do with that, Bucky? Be happy for some other version of me?”

There is so much pain in your eyes, so much confusion and hurt and jealousy and heartbreak and it cuts him right through the heart. He feels it bleeding into his organs.

He closes his eyes, forgets how to breathe for a moment.

“I didn’t stop her,” he says lowly, slowly, “because, for a second, it felt like you.”

The silence between you is thick enough to drown in.

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“For a second, it felt like something I’ll never have,” he confesses, barely audible now. “And I was selfish. I let it happen. Because it wasn’t just a kiss to me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t move. Your chin trembles.

You look at him as though you want to say something but can’t trust yourself to do it.

“I’ve been trying to bury it,” he admits, voice strained. “This thing in my chest. This want. It’s been there for a long time. And I kept thinking- if I just waited long enough, maybe it would go away. Maybe you’d never have to know. But I saw what it looked like when I had it. When I had you. Even if it wasn’t really you. And I- I didn’t want to come back here and pretend I didn’t feel it anymore.”

You don’t move. Just stand there. Staring at him as if you don’t know what to do with the version of the world he is handing you.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he adds quickly, voice thick and gravelly. “Not expecting anything. I just- I couldn’t let you walk away thinking it didn’t mean anything. Because it did. But not because of that other you.”

Bucky loosens his hold on your wrist the way someone lays a weapon down.

Slowly. Gently. Like an offering. Giving you a choice. A chance to run. A way out, if that’s what you need.

His fingers brush fabric as he lets go, every inch of skin unthreading from yours just another stitch in the fabric holding him together.

He steps back. Not far, but enough. Giving you the room to run if you want to. Because he would never cage you. Not you. Not the girl he’s tried so hard not to need and failed so spectacularly at not loving.

The cold creeps in like a punishment.

He swallows, breath shallow, heart trying to climb out of his chest. He doesn’t look away.

“It meant something,” he breathes, and the words are low but steady, dragged out of some buried part of him where he’s kept the truth folded up too long. “It meant something because I love you.”

The words hang there. Open. Unarmored. His voice doesn’t shake but he feels the quake underneath it. He is already bracing for the ruin of it, for the way your silence might cut him down. It’s too much. He’s too much. Too much and too late and he’s saying it anyway, because what else can he do now, what else is left to do but burn with it.

“I love you. You. Only you,” he repeats, and this time it’s quieter, as if speaking it softer might hurt less if you break him.

He is bracing for your silence. For the recoil. For the slow turning of your back and the slam of a door, he won’t ever be allowed to knock on again.

But you don’t run.

You just stare at him.

Wide glassy eyes, lips parted, your whole face carved out of disbelief. Your chest rises with shallow, trembling breaths, and for a second, it’s like the hallway has no oxygen at all. Just the two of you standing in a vacuum made of shattered timing and aching things laid bare.

You look like someone trying to decide if the ground beneath you is real. If you are dreaming.

And Bucky is not breathing.

Doesn’t know how he will ever take in a breath again.

Then you move.

Fast. Sharp. Certain.

You close the distance between you with a speed that knocks his soul out of him, and before he can even process the intention behind the storm in your eyes, your hands are in his collar and your mouth is on his.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not careful.

You crash into him as though gravity has finally won. As though your body has been held back for too long and now it’s surging forward with years of restraint snapped at the root.

It hits him like an impact. Like a whole damn earthquake disguised as your mouth on his.

He makes a noise - somewhere between shock and surrender - and for the barest second, he is frozen.

He’s still.

Because this is you.

You.

One breathless, startled second he forgets everything - his name, the room, the hallway, the mission, the multiverse - and then he’s moving.

He melts.

His arms are around you in a heartbeat, tight, desperate, finding your waist, your back, the edge of your jaw, greedy and trembling and too careful all at once. He pulls you in, tighter, tighter, one hand threading into your hair, the other locking around your waist.

And then he is kissing you back with everything he has, with everything he’s been holding back, with every version of himself that ever wanted to belong.

He is kissing you back as though he’ll never get the chance again.

His whole body folds into yours, heart slamming into his ribs, mouth pressing against yours, like a question he’s been dying to ask. He kisses you like an apology, like a promise, like he’s been holding his breath for a century and only just remembered how to exhale.

It’s not a careful kiss.

It’s years of aching packed into the space between your lips. It’s soft lips and a metal palm and your nails digging in his jacket and his thumb shaking against your jaw. It’s a kiss that tastes of every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every time he looked at you and wondered what it would feel like to have you.

The second your tongue touches his lower lip, a low and tortured sound rips from somewhere deep in his chest. He answers you with open-mouthed hunger, tilts his head just enough to draw you in deeper, slants his mouth over yours as though he’s living out every dream in which he’s imagined this before.

He feels the warmth of your lips and the way you lean into him, the way you give yourself over completely, and he pulls you even closer, as though he’s trying to kiss every version of you that exists in every universe just to get back to this one. You. Here. Now.

His tongue brushes yours and everything goes tight inside him - his stomach flips, his spine arches ever so slightly, his body not knowing whether to hold steady or fall apart entirely.

Your lips are sweet and urgent and you make a sound - quiet, somewhere between a sigh and a gasp - and it knocks the air in his lungs every which way.

His mouth moves faster when your fingers curl into him tighter and tug him closer, dragging him under. His metal fingers are splayed over the small of your back, and his flesh fingers are tangling at the nape of your neck, holding you still as his tongue licks into your mouth, gentle but full of everything he’s feeling.

He moans softly into you, doesn’t even realize it’s happening until he feels the sound buzz against your lips. His pulse is pounding in his ears. His knees feel untrustworthy. There is heat spreading through his chest, through his limbs, and he wants to live in this moment forever, suspended in the place where you chose him.

When you finally pull back, your lips are swollen, flushed. He presses his forehead to yours just enough to breathe, but not enough to let you go. Never that.

His hands are on your face. His thumbs brush under your eyes. His breath shudders out against your lips.

When he opens his eyes, slowly, he is met with yours. Glistening and wide and so full of feeling it almost floors him.

He stares at you as though he’s seeing the sun rise for the first time.

“I love you too,” you breathe against him.

Bucky shivers.

It lands like a heartbeat he forgot to hope for.

Pleasure surges through his veins, straight to his heart. His eyes fall shut, lost in it.

And something in him tells him he will hear this at least a thousand times, maybe even more, if he’s lucky.

“I loved her not for the way she danced with my angels, but for the way the sound of her name could silence my demons.”

- Christopher Poindexter

[buckysflicker]

maybe a reach but does anyone have any protective bucky, shy reader, maybe like college au (doesnt have to be) recommendations🥹🙏🏼

[buckysflicker]

[buckysflicker]

Different, this time

Pairing: Fuck buddy!Bucky x Reader

Summary: After the hospital visit and the doctor’s diagnosis, Bucky is plagued with guilt. He won’t touch you again until he is absolutely sure that you’re okay. Once you manage to reassure him, you both discover what it truly means to make love, rather than just fucking with suppressed feelings. And it’s overwhelming in the best way.

Word Count: 10.3k

Warnings: (18+) explicit sexual content, mdni; sickly sweet smut; oral (f receiving); fingering; soft aftercare; mentions of physical pain during sex (past); mentions of cervical bruising; slight mentions of medical scenes; panic attacks (graphic and mentioned); guilt; emotional distress; crying; themes of healing and emotional vulnerability; sad!Bucky; panicked!Bucky; sweetheart!Bucky; lots and lots of worried!Bucky

Author’s Note: Help, I might have ruined myself for any other real man with this. Y’all, this is my first time writing smut, so please be kind!! But I'm not gonna lie, I genuinely loved writing this. Soo I guess, this won’t be the last time you'll have me sharing some smut!! To make things clear, this is the second part to In too deep!! Btw, I was a bit nervous about whether I’d be able to get back into writing longer fics so smoothly, after the 2k drabble challenge, but I’d say I’ve managed lmao. I hope you enjoy ♡

Part One

Masterlist

The car is too quiet.

Outside, the streetlights flicker as if they’re forgetting how to glow.

You are in the passenger seat, watching the world blur past in smudges of gold and grey, your hands folded in your lap, afraid of what they might do if left unsupervised.

The car makes a soft and steady sound beneath you but everything inside feels tight. Too tight.

Like a breath, you haven’t taken.

Bucky hasn’t said a word since you left the hospital.

His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. White like fear. White like bone. White like guilt.

You glance over at him.

He’s staring straight ahead, eyes fixed, unmoving. His jaw is locked so tightly it looks like pain. There is a muscle twitching beneath the skin. Just beneath the hinge of his jaw, like something trying to break free.

The dashboard casts its pale light against his side profile. The soft stutter of passing streetlamps blink shadows across his hardened face.

You try to speak softly. “Bucky-”

“You sure you’re okay?” he interrupts, fast. Too fast. His voice is low but cracked, words splintering on their way out.

You nod before you realize he’s not looking. “Yes,” you say, slower. “I’m sure.” He’s asked about fifteen times in the last twenty minutes. But you think it actually should be you asking him.

The doctor told you that it was a cervical contusion in that although soft but clipped and clinical tone. Said that the bleeding would stop, that the pain would ease, that you were going to be fine - physically.

And the way Bucky flinched after that suggested he was perhaps doing worse than you.

He’s asked a few questions, asked how to treat it, asked what you might need, asked what he can do, but his voice was rough and close to giving out. He sat beside you in that too-white room, hands clenched in his lap, jaw locked as though he could grind down the guilt if he just kept his teeth pressed hard enough. He kept looking at your legs, at the blanket they gave you, as though he was waiting for the blood to start flowing again. As though he’d never trust your body not to break under him.

He listened when your doctor explained that it was moderate, but healing and there would be no lasting damage. You should just give it time and be gentle.

But Bucky didn’t hear healing.

He only heard damage.

He hadn’t said anything after that anymore. Just nodded, once. Swallowed hard. Signed the papers with a hand that shook so violently you had to cover it with yours.

You watch him now, his breath thinning.

“Buck,” you ease softly. “I’m okay. She said it’s healing, alright? I’ll be fine.”

Bucky shakes his head once. Sharp. A slice through the silence. “She said it could’ve been worse. That it could’ve-” He swallows loud, and doesn’t finish the sentence.

“But it’s not,” you remind him gently, almost wanting to reach out but not knowing if he needs that right now.

But Bucky doesn’t answer.

Then, you do reach for his arm, tenderly. Fingers brushing over his sleeve. But he flinches. Not from you. From himself. From the memory.

“Buck-”

“I should’ve noticed,” he snaps, and his voice breaks. Just a little. A fracture, clean through. “You said yes. You always say yes, and I- I should’ve seen it- I should’ve fucking known-”

His foot slips heavier on the gas.

The lane lines start to blur.

“Bucky,” you say again, firmer.

But he doesn’t answer.

His eyes dart from the windshield to the mirrors, unfocused. His shoulders have hiked up around his ears. His left hand twitches, his right one follows, tapping the wheel with restless, erratic beats.

His breathing is shallow. Too fast.

You can feel the swell of something too big inside him, pressing against his ribs, rising like floodwater. His grip on the wheel has gone rigid, too stiff for control. His shoulders are locking up.

“Bucky-”

His chest heaves harshly.

He blinks - once, twice - too slow.

His jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle fluttering beneath his skin. His breath is sharp, teeth grinding as he sucks in through his nose and lets it out in gasps through his mouth.

“I hurt you,” he croaks, voice undone, shredded. “I fucking hurt you- I was inside you- I didn’t even see-”

The wheel jerks. Just for a second. Enough to drift too close to the lane line.

You shoot forward in your seat. Alarm ringing in your ears.

“I-” he gasps, blinking fast. “Y/n, I can’t- I can’t- I didn’t mean- I didn’t mean to-”

Reaching over to grab the wheel, you wrap your hands about Bucky’s, forcing it steady.

“Okay, okay, I got it. I’ve got you, baby. But we have to pull over.”

Bucky is trembling now. Hands frozen. Breath ragged. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face, catching the glow of a red traffic light.

You guide the car gently to the side, one hand over his as you steer, the other flicking on the hazards, keeping your voice and your movements calm for the sake of Bucky’s rising panic attack even as your heart thunders in your chest.

Bucky brakes too hard and too fast, the tires stuttering on the asphalt as though they are afraid of where he’ll go if they don’t stop him. The moment the engine falls quiet, the silence screams.

And Bucky falls apart.

His head drops forward. Hands over his eyes. Whole body shaking.

He’s still in the driver’s seat but he’s not in his body. His breathing is wild. His chest is heaving in sharp and panicked pulls and you realize he’s trying to get in air but can’t. His left hand is rashly fumbling for the door handle to keep himself tethered.

“Bucky,” you whisper, already unbuckling your seat belt. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

But he doesn’t hear you. He is stuck in some dark, echoing place inside himself and it won’t let him out.

Without hesitation, you move over the console and climb into his lap, settling gently on his thighs, facing him, your knees pressed into the edges of the seat.

Your hands come to his face, cradling it carefully - thumbs brushing over the hollow beneath his eyes, the flushed heat of his cheeks. His skin is clammy, cold.

He still can’t breathe.

You press your forehead to his. Anchor him.

His eyes squeeze together tightly.

“Hey, hey. Look at me, Buck. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

He shakes his head, choking out words you can’t make out because they all end up in a sob.

“James,” you start, and this time your voice is different. This is the sound you make when you’re scared and concerned and you need him to come back. “James. Breathe with me. You’re here with me. We’re okay.”

He shakes his head again, but it’s jerky, frantic.

“I hurt you,” he whimpers. “I hurt you. I should’ve known. I should’ve stopped-”

“No, no. Stop. Listen to me,” you whisper, voice low, brushing his tear-damp hair back from his face. “You checked in on me and I told you I was okay. I said I was fine. You trusted me, Bucky. That’s not your fault.”

He’s still trembling. Still trying to outrun the guilt in his lungs.

But you don’t move. You stroke his hair back, kiss his temples, his forehead, his nose.

His eyes finally meet yours. They are wide and wet and red, brimming with horror. He looks as though he wants to disappear inside himself.

You keep hold of his face, brushing tears away so tenderly. “It was my body. My voice. You didn’t know, and I didn’t tell you. That’s not on you. You never hurt me on purpose. I need you to hear that, Bucky.”

His chest heaves once, twice, then breaks apart with a cry. He pulls you closer, buries his face in your neck. His arms wrap around you like a man drowning.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffs again and again. “I’m so sorry.”

You close your eyes and run your fingers through his hair, slow and grounding.

“I know,” you whisper back. “I know you are. But you don’t have to be. I just need you here with me. Right now. Just breathe, Buck.”

And you guide him through it. Deep breathes. In and out. He follows.

And you hold him. As though he’s the one who’s breakable now.

****

You’ve never known silence like this.

Not the kind that’s empty. Not the kind that comes after slamming doors and burnt-out candles and sharp things unsaid. No, this silence is soft. Living. It seeps into your lungs and expands with each inhale, as though it wants to make space for something new.

Bucky is in the kitchen, stirring a spoon through a mug of tea as though it’s the most important thing in the world.

You’re sitting on his couch, knees tucked to your chest, wrapped in one of his henleys that hangs too big on you in all the right places. It’s quiet in your head for the first time in what feels like weeks.

The sky outside has folded into a kind of blue that feels more like velvet than color. The windows are cracked open, the summer breeze floating in, lazy and gold-edged, breathing over your skin like a whisper of someone who never learned to shout.

You’ve been here since late afternoon.

And everything smells like home at his place. Like Bucky. Cedar and cotton and chamomile. There’s a ticking of the wall clock he always pretends not to hate. Next to you lay the neatly folded blanket Bucky always pulls onto your lap when the AC kicks in too high.

Bucky brings you the tea like he always does and doesn’t let go of the mug until he’s sure your fingers are steady around it.

Then he sits down beside you, careful and close. His arm brushes yours and then he pulls back as though even that was too much. His eyes search yours. They always do now. As if he’s checking the weather behind your gaze before he says anything.

“You feelin’ okay?” he asks, voice rough. He probably hasn’t spoken all day before you came over.

You nod, and it’s mostly true. “I’m okay,” you say softly. “I promise.”

The TV is playing something you’re only half-watching, some indie movie with subtitles and sad music.

Bucky lets his arm drape behind your shoulders, over the back of the couch and you hear his fingers tracing the stitches in the seam of the couch. His gaze drifts to the TV but you know he’s not really watching. His eyes flick across the screen but his mind is somewhere else still. You don’t have to guess where.

That weight, that guilt, hasn’t let up.

And it’s not just the incident itself - it’s the panic he spiraled into afterward, the way you had to calm him down when you were the one who had been in pain. That’s what sits the heaviest on him, you think. That you comforted him, wrapped your arms around his trembling frame, and whispered soothing reassurances while your body was still in fresh pain.

You watch the line of his profile, the glimmer of the screen painting shadows beneath his cheekbone. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and there is a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there when you were only fuck buddies.

You’ve talked a lot. About everything. The incident. The aftermath. Your relationship. About what it all means and what it doesn’t, about what you both want and what you both fear. The hard words are behind you now, sorted and softened. And you’re not just his maybe anymore. You’re his. Official. Quietly, fully.

And still, he treats you as though you might not be. As though you’re a snowflake he caught in his hands and he’s afraid to close his fingers.

He’s still scared. Scared of doing something wrong. Scared of missing something again. Scared of hurting you again. You feel it in the way he touches you now - fingertips like feathers on your skin, always asking with and without words if you’re okay. Always watching, always listening.

He treats you like glass now. But glass that’s already cracked.

And you’ve tried to tell him again and again that you’re fine.

But Bucky has always been hard on himself. Especially when it comes to you and your well-being.

His fingers brush your shin slightly and the contact strikes, heat blooming low in your stomach.

You shift closer and Bucky’s attention snaps to you. He watches you move, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips and then darting back up, catching himself. You’re not sure if it’s nerves or habit, that reflex to hesitate.

But he’s been hesitating for weeks.

Weeks of healing. Weeks of slow walks and softer kisses and quieter touches.

You haven’t had sex since.

You wanted to. You were ready. But Bucky wanted to wait. To be sure. To be careful. To do it right this time.

And you let him. You let him wrap you in all that caution and care. Let him fuss and hover and bring you your favorite snacks, let him hold you through the night without reaching for anything more than the sound of your breathing against his chest. You let him because it’s what he needed.

But you are fine now.

Your body doesn’t ache anymore. You’ve healed. Fully. You know this because you’ve checked. Alone. With your fingers and your breath and the soft test of space. And you’ve told him, more than once. But Bucky is stubborn with his guilt, protective.

So you’ve waited. Because you love him.

But you notice the way Bucky keeps glancing at you, his eyes catching on your thighs, the shape of your mouth, the way his shirt hangs loose on your frame every time you wear it.

You notice it right now.

Moving your feet, you place them right on Bucky’s lap and feel the shift in his thigh muscle beneath you. The way his hand on your shin stills, the way the hand behind your shoulders drifts closer, then stops, fingers curling as though they’ve touched a flame.

“Movie’s boring,” you murmur, leaning your head on his shoulder, voice lazy with comfort.

He chuckles, a little breathless, a little nervous, low in his chest. “Didn’t even know what it was.”

His eyes catch yours. He’s looking at you as though you’ve said something profound.

Your hand slips up to cup his cheek, your thumb sweeping gently across the faint stubble there. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, as though your touch still startles him, still humbles him.

“Hi,” you whisper.

He swallows. Opens his eyes. Immediately, they drop to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. And again.

“Hi,” he breathes.

You lean in first.

The kiss is gentle. Familiar. Something well-loved.

He tastes of cinnamon and hesitation. He kisses you with a kind of slowness that seems almost like another apology, another question if you’re okay.

His hand finds your waist, the other brushes the back of your neck, and they hold you so carefully you want to cry. You press closer. Push into the kiss. Let it deepen.

And for a moment, with a soft groan, he lets go.

His grip tightens. His mouth opens. His body leans into yours, chest brushing chest, thighs pressing close.

His mouth moves with yours as though it remembers exactly where it left off. Deep. Thoughtful.

You sigh against him. The movie flickers behind your closed eyelids.

Your name escapes him in a breath, his hands tighten a fraction, shaking slightly. His breath stutters, the kiss deepens, and suddenly he’s pulling away.

His brows are furrowed and he looks at you slightly panting. “What are you doing?” he asks, cautious, worried.

You blink, lips swollen, a little dazed. You answer with a small, amused tilt of your head. “I’m kissing my boyfriend.”

He flushes visibly, face burning red, but he doesn’t smile, and that line between his brows doesn’t ease. His jaw flexes. “I just- I know we’ve talked,” he starts, voice hushed, breathy. “And you say you’re okay, but I just don’t wanna rush this. You know? I don’t want to push you. Or hurt you. Or do this just because I’m-”

He shifts slightly, adjusting himself. The movement reveals the hardening outline of him in his sweatpants.

“I’m not rushing, Buck. We-”

“I am though. I didn’t mean to- but it got kinda- fast, and-” He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. His voice is tight now. “I just need to be sure, doll. I need to know you’re okay. Completely.”

You press your forehead to his, arms slipping around his neck. Your voice is a soft brush. “I am okay. Really. It’s been weeks, Bucky. Everything’s healed. The doctor said it. I said it. And I’m telling you again.”

He swallows. You feel it. That pulse in his throat working hard to steady itself. He looks at you, hard. Searching. Maybe trying to see inside you.

“I just… I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything.” A rough tremor runs through his voice.

“I don’t,” you ease quickly, shaking your head. “I want this, Bucky. And I’ve been listening to my body. I’m okay.” Leaning down, you kiss his jaw, just below his ear. He shivers. “And I trust you.”

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. His voice is thick, strained. “Still. I don’t wanna rush you. Not if there’s even a part of you that’s unsure. I mean- hell, what if- what if something hurts again? I couldn’t-”

You stop him gently with a hand to his chest. “Then we stop. Just like that. And we talk. Just like we’ve been doing.”

He stares at you for a moment. And you can see how words pool behind his eyes but don’t make it to his lips.

“Okay,” he whispers then, voice coarse. “Okay. Just… don’t want you to ever feel like you have to fix me by doing this. Don’t wanna take something from you just because I’ve got issues.”

“Hey.” You shake your head, fingers in his hair now. “That’s not what this is. I want this. I want you.”

He groans, quiet and exposed, tilting his head back against the cushion. His hands grip your hips. He’s flushed, already half-hard against your thigh and visibly trying to hide it.

You smirk a little. “Let me help with that.”

His eyes widen. “Doll-”

“I feel fine, baby,” you repeat, patient, but smiling. “I promise.”

“I’m not gonna let you do something just for me.” A rasp in his voice makes his words sound slightly scratchy.

You tilt your head. “Then maybe it’s for me. Ever think of that?”

He groans softly, hands squeezing you. “I’m trying to do the right thing-”

“Then let me show you I’m okay,” you state warmly.

His eyes close. A beat. Two. Three. He breathes out, slow.

You grin, your hands tracing circles over his chest. “I’m healed. I’m ready. You’re my boyfriend. What’s the problem here?”

He laughs something broken, something between admiration and disbelief. Then he sighs, eyes soft.

“You’re really okay?”

“I am.”

Pressing a tender kiss to your temple, he whispers into your ear, voice gravel. “We’ll go slow, yeah? Real slow. And you tell me if anything hurts, or if you’re uncomfortable.”

You nod immediately and brush his cheek lovingly and soothingly at the pain that’s still lingering in the corners of his voice. “I promise.”

****

He doesn’t rush.

He doesn’t dare.

Bucky lays you down as though you’re something he’s never been allowed to hold before - as if someone plucked the stars from the sky, wrapped them in silk, and gave them to him with a whispered don’t drop this.

It’s not rushed. It’s not eager. It’s not even lustful, not exactly.

It’s love. In slow motion. In devotion. In the way he arranges your body like a painting.

The cotton sheets are warm beneath you. Bucky kneels beside you, hovering, breathing slow and tight through his nose.

His hand cups your face. And he’s looking at you as though you are light. A glowing and living thing that he’s afraid to reach for too fast, he’s afraid of casting shadows on.

His gaze is soft and dark and unblinking. You can feel how full it is, how heavy. And it warms you. Like honey across your skin. Like sunrise slowly coming alive.

You smile up at him. “Bucky.” His name sounds like an invitation. Open. Safe. As though it belongs between your lips.

“I’m here,” he says, hardly a whisper. “You sure?” he asks, his voice low. Throaty. Careful. His thumb strokes your cheek as though it’s still asking.

You nod. But it’s not enough, so you pull him closer. Whisper against his mouth. “I want you.” A breath. “I trust you.”

He exhales all at once, and it comes out as a shiver.

After a pause, he leans down, kisses your forehead first. Then the top of your nose. Then, back to your mouth - and it’s gentle. It’s so gentle. As though he’s practicing reverence. Reminding himself you’re real.

“Tell me everything,” he murmurs. His hand on your cheek, your waist, your thigh. “I wanna know what feels good. What doesn’t. I want to hear every sound you make. I want to see your face every second. I wanna be right here with you, baby. Every second. You don’t gotta be quiet with me. Not ever.”

You nod, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. Because this is love in a language that isn’t words.

And he’s fluent in it. Fluent in you.

His fingers slide up the hem of the shirt you’re wearing - his shirt. And he pauses again.

“Can I take this off?” His voice is low. Strained. Still asking. Still making space.

You nod again. “Please.”

He swallows. You feel the tremble in his hands as he lifts the fabric slowly, cautiously, peeling away something important. He watches your face the whole time. Checks for flinches. For hesitation. For any sign that you might change your mind.

You lift your arms for him, and he helps you out of it without ever breaking eye contact.

And suddenly your chest is bare.

And Bucky hasn’t looked away from your face.

You almost laugh. Maybe you even almost cry. He’s so careful. As though he genuinely wants to memorize your expression with every inch of skin he reveals.

Only after a beat - when you don’t hide, don’t shift away - do his eyes begin to travel downward.

You watch him watching you. And it’s not hunger you see. It’s awe.

He seems to see you in full color and it makes your skin prickle with pleasurable heat.

His fingers trail down your sides, featherlight. Your ribs. Your hips. He touches you as though he’s learning you all over again.

Then his thumb glides up to brush the underside of your breast. You feel him exhale through his nose, shaky.

“God,” he whispers, rolling the words out with care. “You’re so beautiful.”

You don’t say anything. Just reach up, tangle your fingers in his hair. Pull him down to kiss you again, slow and long and open.

And he melts.

He moves over you, between your legs, still careful, still holding most of his weight off you. And he takes his time kissing you, your lips, until his mouth follows the path of his hands. Trailing across your collarbone, down to the softest parts of you. Every kiss is a question. Every breath against your skin is a vow.

When he reaches your stomach, he pauses again. Resting his forehead there like a man at prayer.

He takes another shaky breath and you soothe your hands over his dark locks, treading your fingers into his hair. Your thumb traces the back of his neck, bringing him back to the present.

He exhales. It sounds like surrender. “You gotta know how much I love you, baby.”

You do. You’ve known it since that day those few weeks ago. You know it by the way he moves. By the way he treats you. By the way he touches you. By the way he doesn’t rush.

“I love you too, Buck,” you whisper sweetly and his breath is broken against your skin.

He presses a kiss to your hipbone. Then lower.

His hands are back at your thighs now - sliding under, lifting gently. He kisses the inside of your knee, then the soft skin just above it, his breath trembling.

“You’ll tell me if anything doesn’t feel right,” he says, looking up but not taking his lips off your skin.

“I will,” you promise, getting breathless already.

“And if you want to stop-”

“I’ll tell you,” you assure him, softly, firmly.

He nods.

Then he leans forward and lays a kiss over your pubic bone. So worshipful. So loving.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until his fingers ghost over the waistband of your underwear - and stop there.

“Still okay?” he breathes, so quiet, it almost doesn’t make it out of his mouth. But it carries so much. Every syllable wrapped in worry, wrapped in memory. He’s still afraid something will crack open inside you if he touches the wrong place, the wrong way.

You nod.

But that’s not enough.

“Say it,” he whispers, and there’s a tremor in his voice again. “I need to hear you say it.”

You reach for him. Take his face in your hands, thumbs brushing over the apples of his cheeks. His skin is warm, flushed. His eyes are already glassy.

“I’m okay, baby,” you whisper, your voice soft but sure. “I want you to do this.”

With a pained exhaled sound and fluttering lashes, he nods and goes to kiss your thigh again. Then the dip of your hip. Then right beside the soft curve of your center. You feel the warm puff of his breath against the fabric and it makes your hips twitch.

And then he hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties and pulls them down. Slowly. Unwrapping something too precious to tear.

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t let his gaze wander greedily. He watches your face, every second of it - watching for hesitation, for discomfort, for pain. But all you give him is anticipation.

When the fabric slips down your thighs, past your knees, and finally off the ends of your toes, he sets it aside so carefully it almost makes you laugh. As though it’s something important.

Then he settles between your legs again. And he just looks.

He drinks in the sight of you, as though he’s parched. As though you’re the first drop of water he’s seen in weeks. His tongue darts out, barely wetting his lips. His hands spread your thighs wider, gently. Tenderly. As though he’s parting pages in a sacred text.

“You’re so-” he swallows. “Jesus, you’re-”

But he doesn’t finish.

He lowers his mouth to you instead.

The first kiss between your legs is featherlight. Half a breath. But it makes your whole body arch, your breath stutter.

Bucky groans softly into you - a sound of both restraint and desperate, helpless desire.

“Sorry,” you pant, chest rising too fast. “I didn’t-”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” he rasps, voice dark with awe. “God, that was- do it again.”

And you do. You can’t help it.

He licks you again - slower this time. Broader. Firmer. His lips move with practice, but not routine. There’s nothing careless about the way he touches you. Every movement is deliberate. As though he’s re-learning you. Learning how you feel like being his. Utterly and completely. Studying the way your body blooms beneath his mouth.

And he keeps checking in.

He doesn’t ask again with words. He does it with his eyes, every time he lifts his gaze to yours. He does it with his hand, the way he curls his fingers around your hip but doesn’t grip, the way he strokes his thumb along your skin in circles, grounding you. The way he takes hold of your hand with his other, encouraging you to squeeze him in your pleasure.

You moan. Soft and breathy.

And Bucky’s whole body reacts - you can see it in the way his hips shift against the mattress, the way he groans into you as though your pleasure is his own.

And he’s holding himself back, still. You can see it in the tight line of his shoulders, the way his hand shakes a little as it holds your thighs open. He’s painfully hard. You can feel the heat of it, see the outline pressing into the sheets, but he doesn’t move to relieve it.

Because this moment is for you.

This is your healing, your pleasure, your gift.

And god, does he worship you.

He takes his time.

He kisses you between licks, soft and open-mouthed, as though he can’t decide whether he wants to devour you or just memorize you. His tongue moves in slow, perfect circles. Then strokes up. Down. Gentle flicks, patient and watchful. Never too much, never too fast.

He listens. Learns.

Every time your breath catches, every time your hips twitch and your fingers tighten against his hand and the sheets, he adjusts. Builds on it. Builds you.

“Tell me what feels good,” he breathes against you.

“Everything,” you gasp, struggling to take in air.

“Yeah?” He kisses your clit once, then again, light and tender. “Right here?”

You nod, too dizzy to speak, sighing softly.

He hums into you. “So good, baby. You’re doing so good.”

Your hands reach down, weaving through his hair and he groans when you pull just slightly.

He’s hard and leaking and untouched, but he still doesn’t seem to care. You’re shaking beneath his mouth and that’s all he needs.

“Bucky,” you whimper, high and trembling. “I’m- close-”

“I’ve got you,” he utters, fingers tightening just slightly on your hips. “I’ve got you, baby. Let go for me.”

And you do. You let yourself fall.

Gasping, shaking, your thighs clenching around his head and Bucky holds you through it. He stays there, mouth softening against you, kissing you through every aftershock. You don’t see him watching you. Slowing his movements. Letting you come down in your own time.

And when he finally comes up, his lips are wet and his eyes wild with wonder.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod. Voice gone. Words gone. Heart full.

And all he does is smile. The softest smile in the world.

You continue trembling when he climbs up your body again.

His hands frame your ribs, then your face, then your hair - as if he can’t decide which part of you he wants to hold first. His mouth is damp from you. His pupils are blown. But even with the flush of his skin, the pulse in his throat, the strain pressing hard against his boxers - he doesn’t rush.

He doesn’t even reach for himself yet.

He’s just looking at you. As though you’re art. His. And he’s still trying to build sense around that.

You lift a hand to his face. Trace his cheekbone, his brow, and he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering.

“Your turn,” you whisper.

Uncertainty flashes through his eyes. “Only if you’re sure. We can stop here, baby.”

You smile warmly. “I’m aching for you, Barnes. Can’t leave me hanging here.”

His throat bobs. His cheeks burn deeper, as though you’ve spoken something too tender, too vulnerable.

But he nods.

And slowly, Bucky rises to his knees.

His fingers go to the hem of his shirt and you watch the fabric lift over his stomach, up his ribs, his chest, and then finally over his head.

And it never gets easier seeing him like this.

He’s stunning.

He is solid and sculptured and beautiful. His shoulders broad and corded with muscle, his waist lean, his skin golden in the soft bedroom light.

And still, he looks at you as if you are the masterpiece.

He hisses softly, when he frees himself out of his boxers, hard and heavy and flushed dark at the tip. He’s leaking, aching, but even now he doesn’t let that take over.

He braces above you, forehead pressed to yours, one hand sliding down to cup your face again.

“You’ll tell me,” he insists lowly, “if anything feels wrong.”

“I promise,” you respond quietly.

“And you’re sure you’re-”

“I feel perfect,” you interrupt gently. “Because of you.”

His breath hitches. You feel his body tense.

And still, he hesitates. He glances down your body, past your hot skin and the slick heat still dripping between your thighs. His fingers hover just below your navel.

“Let me- just one-” he murmurs, already sliding a hand between your legs. “Just want to make sure-”

But the moment his fingers glide through your folds, and he feels how wet you still are from his mouth, he lets out a deep, strangled groan.

His gaze jerks up to yours. Wide. Disbelieving.

“Oh,” you tease softly. “Surprised?”

He reddens deeply. Face and neck and chest. Even the tips of his ears turn pink. He twitches against your thigh.

“You really didn’t know what you were doing to me?” you whisper.

His eyes dart away for half a second - bashful. Then back to yours.

He leans in. Presses his lips to your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth. A trail of kisses.

“I just wanted to take care of you,” he breathes thickly. “Didn’t even think about- fuck, baby.”

You giggle softly, stroking the back of his neck. He groans again, burying his face in your neck and staying there for a few heartbeats, clinging to you.

But his hand stays between your legs. He doesn’t dive in. Just lingers. “Still have to make sure, yeah, baby?” he whispers into your skin.

You nod, soft. “Okay.”

And then he moves. Slowly. Carefully. He pulls his head back and his eyes fall between your legs. Then back to watch you. Watch your mouth, your eye, your breath.

His fingers dip lower, about to touch you in a way that means everything. You see his throat work around a swallow.

He sinks one finger in, soothingly and dragging it out. His other hand braces beside your hip as though he needs the ground. He stops at the first knuckle.

Watching your face. Searching. Always looking for a sign of pain.

You sigh, your mouth parting on a soft moan. Not from discomfort.

From relief. From the feel of him.

Bucky’s gaze flares.

“Okay?” he whispers.

You nod. “Yeah,” you breathe out.

He pushes in a little deeper. Then again. Until the full length of his finger is buried inside you.

You whimper. Arch, just slightly. His name slips out.

And Bucky stills. Blinks. As though the sound alone managed to take his breath away.

“Oh, fuck,” he exhales in a sigh. His gaze is so focused on you. He is all you can think about.

You bite your lip, watching him with stars in your eyes.

His fingers curl a little inside you and your breath catches again, back arching. And that has him groaning under his breath, leaning forward as though he just needs to be closer, deeper.

He kisses your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.

And with his eyes on yours, he gently and ever so cautiously slips in another finger beside the first. This time even slower.

Your body shifts to accommodate him and he feels it. Feels the way you welcome him, wrap around him. How warm you are. How soft.

His breathing stutters.

You moan again.

And still, he stops. Right at the knuckle. Eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?” he rasps, halfway there to lose his voice.

“Yes,” you manage to get out, voice almost pleading. “More, Bucky, please-”

And he gives you more. Goes deeper. Until both fingers are sheathed inside you and he’s filling you just enough to make your toes curl, just enough for his name to fall off your tongue again in a way that almost leaves Bucky gasping.

He watches you. He doesn’t blink.

He curls his fingers gently, once, and when your hips lift off the mattress just a little, when your mouth falls open and your eyes flutter shut in pleasure, he groans again. Buries his face in your shoulder. Just like before.

“Jesus Christ,” he exclaims roughly.

You stroke the back of his neck.

His hands still inside you, as though he needs a second to breathe.

And after a few shaky breaths, he starts moving again. Fingers stroking that spot deep inside you, slow and perfect and gentle. His lips brush your shoulder. Your collarbone. He kisses your heart, trying to memorize how it beats.

And even though you feel his swollen member against your thigh, red and ready, he doesn’t move to use it.

Because you’re not ready until he is sure you are.

Not just wet. Not just eager. Ready.

So he watches you. Watches every moan. Every gasp. Every quiver of your thighs, every arch of your spine.

Until you fall apart on his fingers.

And it’s the way you come undone under the gentlest version of his touch, that truly seems to make him need you.

He slides his fingers out slowly after he guides you through your high, like an apology, like a thank you.

And meets your eyes. They are full. His voice is low when he speaks. Hoarse.

“Okay,” he starts. “Okay. I’m gonna start slow.”

You nod, biting your lip.

And he reaches down to line himself up.

There is a pause. A beat of stillness.

You feel the head of him pressing just barely against you. His breath catches. Your breath catches.

His eyes snap to yours. “Tell me if-”

“I will,” you promise, eagerness in your tone. “Just get in, honey.”

He pushes in. The stretch is slow. So, so slow.

You feel every inch of him, and he feels it, too. His mouth falls open, eyes wide, as though the sensation shocks him. As though it’s different now to be inside you, to be with you like this, now that you wholly belong to each other.

He groans - soft, drawn-out. The sound is being dragged from deep in his chest.

You clench instinctively, and he curses under his breath, forehead dropping to yours, eyes staying on you.

“Shit, baby- fuck-”

You hold onto his shoulders. His waist. Anything you can reach. You’re both shaking.

But he doesn’t push in all the way. Not yet. He pauses halfway in, breathing ragged, eyes continuing to search your face.

You talk before he can ask. “You can keep going.”

“Promise me.”

You kiss him. Sweet and slow and sure.

“I promise.”

And so he moves - just a little more - and the moan that rips out of him is wounded, as though pleasure hurts. As though being this close to you is almost too much.

But he doesn’t let himself close his eyes. Doesn’t let them move away from your face.

And when he’s finally seated fully inside you, his hips flush against yours, you both just breathe.

Still. Connected.

He doesn’t move at first. Just holds himself there - deep inside you. Anchoring himself to the moment, to your body, to the fact that you’re okay. That you want this. That you’re here.

And he’s trying not to cry.

You can see it in the way his lashes flutter, in the glassy sheen on his cheeks that catches the light.

His forehead leans against yours, breath hot over your mouth.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers. One word. As though it contains a hundred.

“It’s okay,” you whisper back. “You’re okay.”

His eyes stay open. You don’t think he’s blinked since he pushed in.

They are pinned to yours like if he looks away for even a second something might go wrong. He’s watching your eyes for any sign of pain. And you know he won’t close his own until he knows you’re safe.

“I can feel how hard you’re holding back,” you start quietly, gently, fingers brushing the sweat-damp strands from his forehead. “You can move, Buck.”

He doesn’t. His throat bobs. Jaw flexing.

“God,” he breathes. “You feel so good- too good- but I don’t want to- fuck, baby, I don’t want to hurt you again-”

“You won’t. You say it firmly, but still with a sweet voice. Your thumb strokes the dimple in his chin. “You didn’t before. It wasn’t your fault. And it’s not going to happen again.”

He breathes in as though your words might soothe something broken in him. But still, he doesn’t move. Not until you speak again.

“I need you, Bucky.”

And something in him crumbles. Slowly, painstakingly, he pulls his hips back just an inch, then slides forward again, keeping his eyes on yours the whole time. He’s watching, reading, studying every twitch of your mouth, your brows, every flutter of your lashes, every breath you take.

“Is that-” he breathes, “-was that okay?”

You nod, voice thick. “Yes. Yes, Buck, it’s perfect.”

And he moves again.

Tiny, tender thrusts. Gentle. Devoted.

It’s not even about pleasure, it’s about closeness. About the feeling of him. The heat of his skin. The tremble in his arms as he holds himself up above you. The way he groans, low and broken, every time he slides a little deeper.

His eyes won’t leave you.

Not even when his lashes are heavy with heat and he has to force them to stay open. Not even when his mouth opens and he exhales a shaky, stuttering breath that tells you he’s feeling everything. But he fights to keep them open. To see you.

You run your fingers through his hair, trying to get him to let go. “I feel good, baby. I’m okay.”

But he just shakes his head. Leans down and kisses you. Slow. Melting. Deep.

“I want to watch you feel good,” he says huskily. “Need it. Need to make sure.”

And then he thrusts a little deeper.

It’s so painfully careful but still enough to steal your breath. You gasp, clutching his shoulders, hips rising to meet his.

His eyes roll back. His whole body shudders. “Fuck,” he groans. “Don’t do that. God, sweetheart, you’re ruining me.”

You smile through the moan that slips past your lips. “That’s kind of the point.”

He laughs, a real and broken little laugh, but it cracks at the edges. He is overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by you.

He rocks into you again. A little deeper. A little more sure. Still slow, still soft - but he’s feeling it now, letting his hips follow the rhythm you’re building together.

You cling to him.

He is panting. Tiny tremors running through his arms. His left hand slides beneath your back, holding your closer, lifting your chest to his so your hearts are touching - so he can feel every beat of you against him.

His voice is low and trembling. “Tell me again,” he pleads, strained. “Please, tell me it’s okay-”

“It’s better than okay,” you gasp, nails dragging down his back. “I’m perfect. You’re perfect. Don’t stop.”

He kisses you. Desperate now. His rhythm falters for a second, too lost in the way your mouth tastes.

Then he pulls back, just far enough to look at you. His gaze is devastated. Open. Admiring.

“I love you,” he sighs.

And your heart bursts.

You take his face in your hands, voice breaking with feeling.

“I love you too.”

And it happens slowly. Then all at once.

He watches you fall apart as though he’s never seen anything more beautiful. As though your pleasure is a sunrise he never thought he’d survive long enough to see. As though every sigh, every gasp, every whisper of his name is another stitch holding his broken heart together.

You feel him shaking. Hear him whisper things he doesn’t seem to know he’s saying. “Shit, baby, look at you- so perfect- so good- fuck, baby-”

One of his hands grips beneath your thigh, thumb stroking soothing circles into your skin. The other tangles in your hair, holding your forehead to his as though he needs the connection to stay whole.

He’s watching your face as if it’s a map. Tracing every change in expression, every whimper and moan, every flicker of ecstasy that breaks across your features.

And you can feel it building. Low and hot, coiling tight in your belly. Your body trembling, hips lifting to meet his in soft, desperate little movements. Your breaths coming fast, faster. His name spilling from your mouth, making him shudder.

“Buck- Bucky- I’m- don’t stop.”

He falters. Just once. Just enough for him to whisper. “You’re close.”

You nod, gasping.

And that’s all it takes for him to shift slightly. Just enough to hit the angle he knows drives you insane. He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, lips at your ear. “Let go for me, my sweetheart. Please. I’ve got you. Always got you.”

And your whole body locks around him, your voice breaking into something wild and soft, pleasure cursing through your veins, hot and blinding and complete.

You come with his name on your tongue.

His eyes snap shut.

That’s all it takes.

He gasps, chokes on a breath, and then he’s gone - spilling into you with a groan that sounds like heartbreak and heaven all at once. His whole body arches, hands gripping you tight, holding on for dear life, burying himself in you. As though he wants to pour every ounce of his love into you and never come back.

His mouth meets your shoulder, kissing your skin as though he has all the time in the world.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “I’ve never- fuck- never felt anything like that.”

Neither have you.

Because this wasn’t just fucking. This wasn’t the kind of sex you’ve been having for so long.

This was something else.

This was love, laid bare. No games. No fear. No walls. Just skin and breath and heartbeats and truth.

He stays inside you. Doesn’t dare move. Not yet.

His face is tucked into your neck, breath hot and trembling.

You card your fingers through his hair, kissing the shell of his ear, the slope of his shoulder. “You okay?”

He nods. A slow, solemn little nod. Then pulls back just enough to look at you.

And the look in his eyes is too much.

As though he’s never going to recover from this. He doesn’t want to.

He brushes his fingers down your cheek and kisses you leisurely.

“I love you,” he says again, still searching for air. “More than anything.”

You whisper it back. Because you do.

Bucky keeps hovering above you even though he already brought you home. The way he presses his lips to your temple and cradles your jaw in his palm as though you’re the last delicate thing in the world.

You breathe him in. He breathes you in. His forehead rests against yours, sticky with sweat, the kind of closeness that makes time irrelevant.

“You okay?” he whispers quietly. His voice cracks right down the middle.

You nod, throat too tight for words, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t take the nod as final. His eyes scan your face as though he is trying to read between the lines of skin and breath and silence.

“I’m serious, doll,” he murmurs, a little firmer now. “You tell me if something feels off. Anything. If you’re sore, or-” he pauses, swallows a cough, “or if it hurt. Even just a little.”

Your hand finds the curve of his jaw, thumb brushing over the edge of his cheekbone, damp with sweat and tenderness. “I’m okay,” you reassure him sweetly. “I promise, baby. I feel good.”

His brows twitch. He wants to believe you.

“I mean it,” you add, lips brushing against his. “I feel more than good. I feel amazing.”

That finally does something to him. His shoulders drop. His hands tremble a little less. But even still, his gaze keeps drifting downward - to where your bodies meet, joined in the slowest, softest way you ever have. Searching for signs of pain that your mouth hasn’t admitted yet.

And then, quietly, with a softness you’re still surprised at - he slides out of you and down the bed. Down your body.

You blink. “Buck?”

“I just wanna check,” he says, already reaching for a soft towel. “Not tryna be weird, just-” his throat bobs. “Just need to know you didn’t start bleeding again.”

You open your mouth, not able to say anything.

Taking hold of your hand, he kisses the back of it before continuing. Every movement is careful, tender, hands working as though he’s handling silk. He wipes you down with warm water, his brow furrowed with a worry so profound it makes your chest ache. He doesn’t rush, not once. His eyes move up to yours every few seconds, silently asking for consent all over again.

“Still okay?” he inquires quietly as he folds the towel, already looking like he wants to run a warm bath and wrap you in a blanket of cloud and honey and safety.

“Still okay,” you nod, voice thick with emotion.

“Good.” He exhales for the first time in what feels like minutes. “Good. You tell me the second that changes. I mean it. I’ll pull the moon out of the damn sky if it hurts you again.”

You smile watery. He kisses your thigh.

And then he lifts you, scoops you into his arms with a care that feels so incredibly intimate. Carrying you to the bathroom, he is holding you so close that your heart forgets what it’s like to feel anything but safe.

With a kiss to your shoulder and your forehead, he sets you down on the edge of the tub.

He draws the bath. He adds your favorite bubbles. Lavender and eucalyptus steam curling through the air, filled with comfort.

He tests the temperature and while it fills, he kneels between your legs, rests his cheek on your thigh, and places more kisses into the bend of your knee, your hip, your ribs.

“D’you feel it?” he asks then, quietly. Almost nervous. Voice low and hoarse.

You run your fingers through his hair. He melts under your touch.

You think you know what he’s talking about.

Because all those times you slept with each other before, it was fast, frantic, bodies tangled and pressed into stolen hours, trying to pretend it didn’t matter.

It never felt like being held in a way that spoke louder than words. Never felt like being chosen in the silence after the fact. Never felt like someone saying I love you without needing to say it.

But tonight, it did.

“Yeah,” you answer, just as silent. “It never felt like that before.”

He lifts his head. Eyes soft. “That a good thing?”

“A very good thing,” you answer, almost teasingly, grinning.

And Bucky’s smile comes wide and real. His hands move up and down your shins. He leans in. Kisses your knee. Eyes on yours.

And when he guides you into the water, hands warm at your waist, his eyes track you constantly, scanning your face, your body. Watching. Worry never leaving, but love, too - love stretched wide across every inch of his face.

He joins you once you’re settled, pulling you into his lap, your back to his chest, water lapping around your waists. His arms wind around you, tightening comfortably, his heartbeat thudding against your back.

He kisses your shoulder. Rests his head in the crook of your neck.

The bath water cradles you as though it knows how hard your body worked tonight, how loved it was, how careful the man at your side has been, every moment before and after.

Your knees are tucked to your chest, curled in his lap, spine pressed to his sternum. His arms are heavy around your waist, long fingers spread wide and warm beneath the surface of the water. One palm pressed flat over your stomach, the other stroking a gentle line up and down your thigh, so painstaking, as though he never wants to stop touching you. He holds you as though you are his heart made tangible.

You breathe together. Quiet. Slow.

The ache between your legs is not painful. It’s soft. A memory of something beautiful.

You feel Bucky’s heartbeat thump against your spine. He kisses your neck. Again and again.

Then - so quiet, so gentle, almost afraid - he asks again. “Are you still okay?”

And it shouldn’t be much. It’s just a check-in. One of a hundred he’s made tonight. The softness in his voice, the worry gathered beneath his breath - it should feel comforting.

But instead, your chest caves in.

Your throat locks up.

You blink once, twice, and suddenly you can’t see. Everything blurs.

Because he means it. He really, truly means it.

Because he loves you. So goddamn much. And he’s holding you as if you matter more than air and he touches you as if you are a living poem and you can still feel him inside you, loving you - and your heart can’t hold all of it. It’s too much. It spills over.

Because he’s been so careful. His hands were so tender and his mouth so full of praise and his eyes tracked you the way the earth tracks the sun. Because even now, when it’s over, when the candle he lit up before getting into the tub flickers low, and the air smells of eucalyptus and his thighs are soaked through with warm water, he still won’t stop caring.

And it hits you. All of it. Everything. The past weeks. The pain. The panic when you tried to scrub away the evidence alone in the very same bathroom you’re in right now and bolt out of his apartment. The way he broke through the door just to get to you, how he wiped you off with hands that trembled but never once let you go.

The guilt he carried. The way he flinched for days when you touched him back. The softness he offered even when he had none for himself.

And now this.

This perfect, intimate thing you just shared. This feeling of being held in a way no one ever held you before. It’s all too much. The bath, his arms, the way he holds your ribcage as though he’s matching your breath. The most amazing sex you’ve ever had. The way he whispered into your shoulder as he moved inside you with so much care.

You want to answer him. Want to tell him you’re okay. But nothing comes out.

You can only inhale sharply, the sound catching in your throat.

And Bucky stills. Goes completely stiff.

You don’t speak. You can’t. Your overflowing heart won’t let you.

Bucky shifts behind you. “Baby?” His voice is quiet. But not calm. Never calm, when it comes to your silence.

And you stay silent. Turning your head away.

His arms tighten and you feel him trying to look around at your face. “Hey, hey. Honey. What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Are you- did I- did something hurt again? Are you hurting? Something feel wrong?”

You shake your head, but his voice is shaking harder.

“Sweetheart, look at me,” he croaks in a whisper, his fingers coming to cup your jaw, about to tilt your head, but you don’t want him to see the tears forming, don’t want him to panic. He is frantic, not sure what he’s afraid of more - your pain or your silence. “C’mon, baby, please talk to me. I- did I do something? Did I hurt you and you didn’t wanna say? Are you bleedin’?”

You can feel him check the water for any signs of red and you hate yourself for not getting your voice out of your throat. But the only thing coming up is a choked breath.

“Talk to me.” He talks fast, swallowing words, swallowing breaths. “Please, baby. You have to tell me. You’re scaring me.”

He can’t see you like this. Not with your face turned away, not with your chest shaking in silence. So he moves, carefully but with uncoordinated and frantic hands, guiding you to turn in his arms until you’re straddling him in the water, your body trembling with the force of emotion you hadn’t braced yourself for.

You try to speak, but all that comes out is a wet hiccup of a breath and a soft, unsteady sob - not from pain, not from fear, just from everything. Your chest stings with it. Tears fall. Two, three, falling down your cheeks.

And Bucky panics. “No, baby, no, please don’t cry. Fuck, I don’t-”

He’s sitting up straighter now, water sloshing around you both, almost lapping over the tub. His face crumbles. His hands scramble, checking your sides, your arms, trying to study every inch of you, to figure out what’s wrong here, where it hurts, what he missed.

“Shit, shit, I knew it! Baby I knew we should’ve waited. I shouldn’t have- fuck- I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry- please talk to me-”

“No,” you finally manage, voice cracking, catching his hands and trying to squeeze the quiver out of them. “No, no, Bucky- I’m okay, I’m okay.”

But his eyes are wide, a glossy sheen already there and you would like to kick yourself. The guilt is already spinning in those pretty blue depths, the fear and dread all bubbling and building and ready to crescendo into another panic attack.

You press your forehead to his. You breathe in, slow. You breathe out. Your hands move to cup his cheeks. “It’s not that,” you breathe, and your voice is wet and cracked and soaked in love. “It’s not- Baby, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

His breath is uneven, hectic. He doesn’t blink.

You kiss his lips. A soft, barely-there brush. “I’m just overwhelmed.”

His brow furrows. His hands pull you closer to his chest, but his eyes stay locked on yours.

“I’m okay,” you whisper. “I’m not in pain. I promise. It’s just-” You break off with another hiccup of a laugh-sob. “You’re being so wonderful. And it’s been so much. In the best way.”

Bucky stills. Eyes blinking fast, jaw tight with the restraint of a man trying not to fall apart.

You pull back to look at him clearly. “I just-” you try to laugh, but it’s mostly just a breath shivering on the edge of something enormous. “I love you. So much. And it just- hit me. How much. I’ve never felt like this before. And it was just a lot, all at once.”

Bucky stares at you as though you split the earth open beneath him.

And then his hands are everywhere. On your cheeks. On your back. In your hair. Holding your face, trying to keep you in this moment with him. As though this is the most important moment in his life.

“God.” He chokes on a breath, and his lips land on your forehead, your nose, your eyelids, kissing your tears away. “You- you’re crying because you love me?”

You nod against him, laugh through your tears.

He exhales and his whole body sags with it.

“Shit,” he breathes, voice wavering. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

He presses you even tighter into his chest, cradling the back of your head. “Fuck, you scared me. I thought I hurt you again. I thought- thought I messed it all up again.”

“You didn’t,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You didn’t. Not even close.”

He is breathing harder than before, but the panic is softening now, bleeding out into the warmth of your body against his.

“I just love you so much,” you repeat, voice just a small breath. “And I didn’t expect it to feel like this. This… intense.”

He nods against you. Kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your wet lashes. “Yeah,” he exhales and there is a sheen to his voice, as though it passed through his own unspilled tears on the way out. “I know what you mean.”

You bury yourself against him, cheek to his chest, and his arms curl tight around your back. He rocks you just slightly, water lapping quietly against the porcelain, even now wanting to soothe you, hold you through it, make sense of all the things your tears said before your voice could.

His touch never stops. Always checking. Always there. One hand rubbing soft circles into your hip. The other brushing your damp hair back behind your ear.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you apologize eventually, brushing your nose against his cheek.

His laugh is soft and shattered, something frail, but there’s relief in it. Adoration. “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

You tilt your face up. Find his lips. It’s not a kiss that needs anything. It’s not even a kiss that asks. It’s just gentle. Soothing. Comforting. Sweet. Home.

“I’m more than okay,” you whisper softly.

And his eyes are shining.

He presses a kiss into your hair, then another. Then three more in a row because he can’t help himself. And he tells you he loves you, because he can’t help himself.

And he doesn’t let go. Not for a long time.

He won’t let you move. Not until the water cools. Not until the stars settle outside the bathroom window.

He won’t let you reach for a cloth or dry yourself off or even think about standing without him.

He refuses to let you go through one more thing alone.

“To love at all is to be vulnerable.”

- C. S. Lewis

[buckysflicker]

his hair is FLAT IRONED TO THE BONE! 😭 luxurious waves bucky will always be superior

SEBASTIAN STAN as BUCKY BARNES THUNDERBOLTS*

[buckysflicker]

Change your mind

Pairing: College!Athlete!Bucky x College!Reader

Summary: Natasha drags you to an NYU baseball game. And despite yourself, one player catches your attention.

Word Count: 6.5k

Warnings: Bucky’s charm; Bucky being flirty; Bucky showing off; Reader checking out baseball players lol; Reader not being interested in baseball (at first)

Author’s Note: I've been craving some flirty college Bucky after all the angst I've been writing. So that’s what I came up with. It is also meant as a little celebration fic because I've got over 1500 followers and that’s so amazing! Thank you so much!! Hope you enjoy! ♡

Divider by @thecutestgrotto ♡

Masterlist

You haven’t been to a single game since the semester started - since any semester started, to be real. And honestly, you have been content with that. Satisfyingly so.

Your time is better spent attending to assignments, slogging through your part-time job at the library, or doing literally anything else besides sitting in the stands and watching a bunch of guys chase a ball around a field, or whatever the hell this sport even is about.

Baseball isn’t your thing, it never has been and it never will be.

You’ve been complaining about it the whole way here. Dramatically so, but you didn’t care. Your best friend can handle you and your antics.

“You know, I can think of at least a dozen things I should be doing right now instead of this,” you grumble, trailing behind her as she weaves through the crowd in search of seats.

Natasha sighs sharply and throws you a glare over her shoulder. “God, would you quit whining? This is good for you.”

“I fail to see how,” you shoot back, adjusting the strap of your bag as you begrudgingly follow her.

But Natasha just smirks. That dangerous little smirk that means she’s about to say something you won’t have a comeback for. “You know,” she muses, eyes darting playfully in your direction. “I didn’t think I’d have to twist your arm to come watch a bunch of hot guys running around out there.”

A brow of yours lifts. “Alright, hold on-” you jab a finger in her direction “-I never said I was against that part.”

She scoffs, clearly pleased with herself, and you grin, nudging her with your elbow as the two of you settle into your seats.

“Besides,” you continue, voice dripping with amusement. “I don’t think you should be making comments like that when we both know you’re here for one guy in particular.”

Natasha only shrugs, all nonchalant, but the corner of her mouth tugs lightly upward. “So what if I am?”

You snicker. “I mean, nothing. I just think it’s cute how whipped you are.”

She rolls her eyes, but her lip is still twitching. Natasha and Steve have only been dating for a few weeks, but you see the way she looks at him. And as much as you complain about being dragged here, you suppose watching your best friend fall stupidly in love is kind of entertaining.

Even if you have to suffer through a baseball game to witness it.

You lean back against the hard metal bleachers, arms crossed as your gaze falls across the field.

It’s a decent night, warm with just enough of a breeze to keep the air from feeling stifling. And even though you’d rather be anywhere else right now, you can’t deny that seeing Natasha like this - light in her eyes, a weird softness in her expression - makes the whole ordeal slightly less painful.

Steve is out on the field, stretching with his team, and Natasha is watching him with this reserved kind of smile. The kind that sneaks up on a person when they don’t realize they’re doing it. You smirk to yourself. Yeah, she’s got it bad. But honestly, you are happy for her. They look good together, and she certainly deserves someone who looks at her the way Steve does.

Natasha must catch you watching her because she suddenly turns, an all-too-knowing glint in her eye. You don’t like that look.

“And who knows,” she says, spreading her legs out in front of her, voice hinting at humor, “maybe your future husband’s down there right now.”

You snort, rolling your eyes so hard they might get stuck. “Oh, yeah, sure. He’s just waiting for me to sweep him off his feet in the middle of a stretch.”

She smirks. “Could happen.”

You shake your head. “Yeah, no thanks. I'm all for watching a bunch of hot guys get all sweaty and run around in tight pants, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” You gesture vaguely toward the field. “That’s just spectating. Everything else is a hard pass.”

Natasha quirks a brow, tilting her head at you. “Oh, come on, Y/n. It’s not that bad.”

You shoot her a look. “Nat, the last guy I went out with, Peter Quill, you remember?-” You don’t wait for her nod “-he told me, verbatim, that he doesn’t believe in seasoning his food. And the guy before that showed up to our date in cargo shorts and a fedora and spent two hours explaining why The Wolf of Wall Street is the peak of cinema.”

She winces. “Oof.”

“Yeah. So forgive me if I’m not that eager to throw myself back into the trenches.” You pause. “Also, I’m super busy.”

Natasha laughs, shaking her head as she turns back toward the field. “Well, if you ever change your mind, I’ll be sure to put in a good word with one of Steve’s teammates.”

You scoff. “Wow, generous and delusional. I’m so lucky to have you as a friend.”

She nudges you with her shoulder, smirking. “The luckiest.”

Huffing, you sink deeper into your seat. Well, at least there is one upside to all of this. If nothing else, you can at least appreciate the view.

Your eyes wander over the team as they move across the field, warming up, adjusting their gloves, casually tossing a ball back and forth.

And yeah, you can admit it - objectively speaking, they look good. Athletic builds, toned arms, legs that fill out those pants just right. It’s a nice view, even if you’re not about to go throwing yourself into the dating pool again, so soon.

Your gaze drifts back to Steve, mostly because he’s the only one you actually know - if only a little. But before you can really focus on him, someone steps into your line of sight, half-blocking the blonde from view.

The number 17 fills out your vision.

Your head tilts instinctively, curiosity sparking before you know it. The guy in front of Steve is tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy stance that suggests he’s completely at home out there on the field.

His uniform fits him in a way that makes you annoyingly aware of just how well built he is - jersey stretched firm across his upper back, the sleeves tight around his biceps, pants snug in all the right places. His chestnut hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck underneath the baseball cap he is wearing, and he stands so casually confident that it makes it impossible to not look at him.

Have you maybe seen him around campus before? You should have, right? Someone like him doesn’t just blend into the background. Maybe in the halls, in one of those massive lecture rooms, passing by in the library, maybe when you're on shift. But you are sure, that if you saw that guy, you would have remembered him.

“See something you like?”

Natasha’s smug voice snaps you out of your thoughts and you catch the smirk she is throwing your way.

Scoffing, you tighten your arms around yourself and glance back at the field. Number 17 is still standing there, talking with Steve, completely unaware of the fact that you’ve just spent the past minute analyzing every inch of his backside.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you deny, keeping your tone even.

Natasha snorts, bumping her knee against yours. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“For what?”

She nods her head to the field. “For dragging you here. For the eye candy. For giving you the opportunity to meet your future ex-husband.”

You huff out a laugh. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll see.”

Inevitably, your eyes move back to number 17, and you can’t help but think that if you haven’t seen him before, why it feels like you should have.

He’s turning.

Wait, he’s turning.

Your breath hitches and stays stuck in your throat uncomfortably, and suddenly he’s looking at you. Did he feel your eyes on him? Does he somehow know that you eyed him up like a complete creep? But just as the heat of panic can spark in your chest, you realize he’s not even looking at you.

He’s looking at Natasha.

Your shoulders loosen slightly. Steve also has turned his gaze toward the stands, his affective smile directed at your friend as well. He probably told the brunette that she’s here.

Number 17 lifts a hand in a casual wave, movement smooth, and even that simple gesture kind of looks way hotter than you want to feel right now.

Natasha only gives a small, lazy nod in return.

You expect the brunette to turn back around after that, to go back to whatever pre-game thing they were doing. But he doesn’t.

His attention shifts. To you.

Your stomach makes a flip before your brain can decide how to handle it.

His eyes are sharp, the exact color lost to the distance, but it seems to be something blueish. His expression is unreadable, his head tilting slightly as if assessing you. The stadium lights cast a glow over his features, highlighting the sharpness of his jaw, and the way his mouth seems to settle into something just shy of a smirk.

Immediately, you whip your head around to Natasha, eyes wide.

“Do you know that guy?” you ask, trying to sound more casual than you feel.

Natasha doesn’t even bother looking at you. She’s still watching Steve, her lips curving higher as if knowing what she’s doing.

“He’s Steve’s best friend.”

You blink. “Steve’s best friend?”

Your gaze falls back to the field against your better judgment but Number 17 has already turned back to Steve, talking to the blonde who now is sporting a smirk just like Natasha’s.

“You never mentioned him before,” you comment, though it comes out a little too measured.

Natasha of course picks up on it immediately.

“Should I have?” she counters, dragging the words out just a little.

You narrow your eyes at her but she only continues smirking.

And again, your gaze falls back to Number 17. God, why can’t you stop checking him out. The white baseball pants of his do absolutely nothing to hide the strength in his legs. His hair at his nape is slightly messy from running around and you wonder if it would feel soft if you put your hands on it.

You shake that thought right off again.

It’s not like it matters.

Still, you shift in your seat, arms tightening. “I just think it’s interesting that you never brought him up before when he’s his best friend.”

Natasha exhales a laugh through her nose, finally glancing over at you, her eyes glinting with something mischievous. “I mean, I could have.”

“And you didn’t because…?”

“Because,” she says sultry, shrugging one shoulder. “I figured you’d meet him eventually.”

There is something pointed in the way she says it, something deliberate, and you don’t like that it sends a small tingle of anticipation through you.

“So, what’s his deal, then?” you keep going, not even knowing why.

Natasha hums, stretching her limbs languidly. Her voice is sly. “His deal?”

“You know,” you press, trying not to sound too interested, although, fucking hell, you are. “Like, what’s his major? Have you seen him around before?”

She turns to you again, and oh, that look on her face is entirely too smug. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You huff. “Nat.”

Her smirk only deepens. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Before you can answer, she looks past you, over your shoulder, down the steps.

Her expression doesn’t change but her smirk gets a little too satisfied, a little too wicked.

You quickly follow her gaze and, oh shit.

A heavy beat thuds against your ribs before your heart remembers how to move properly as your eyes follow the unmistakable figure making his way up the stairs.

Number 17.

And he is coming right toward you.

You inhale sharply, sitting up a little straighter, trying to act like this isn’t throwing you off balance. His steps are easy and unhurried as if giving you the time to check him out some more. And even though you should know better, you do.

His uniform is wrinkled from warm-ups, the fabric clinging in ways that are frankly unfair, and his dark hair curls enough to look annoyingly good.

He reaches your row. And despite the fact that Natasha should logically be the person he came up for, he isn’t looking at her when he speaks.

His eyes land directly on you.

“Steve sent me up,” he says, voice low and smooth, a pleased drawl rolling through his words. “Said he forgot his water bottle or somethin’.”

You blink and try to shake off what his voice does to your body. Crossing one leg over the other, you feign indifference.

“Yeah,” Natasha says, sounding way too delighted. “She’s got it.” She slaps your arm lightly with her hand.

You turn to her confused. “Huh?”

“I asked you to put it in your bag since mine’s smaller.” She raises an eyebrow.

“Didn’t know it’s Steve’s,” you mutter, then glare at her for a second before reaching down to retrieve the damn thing.

Natasha looks triumphant.

When you pull the bottle free and hold it out to the guy standing in front of you, he takes it with his fingers brushing against yours in a way that feels very intentional.

“Thanks, doll.”

His tone is silk spun into sound and hell, it glides over your skin, making it prickle underneath your sweater.

He has the bottle now but doesn’t step away yet. His eyes linger on you.

“Never seen you ‘round here before,” he remarks, studying you with open interest. His lips tug a little as if he is holding back a full grin. As if he is pleased.

You meet his gaze and swallow, keeping your expression open but neutral even as something sparks under your skin. “Yeah, it’s my first game.”

His lips press together like he’s trying not to fully smirk. “No kiddin’.” There is something about the way he says it that you can’t place.

You lift a brow and tilt your head slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs, feigning innocence. “Just figured I woulda noticed you before, is all.”

Oh.

Oh, damn.

You know flirting when you hear it. And that was flirting.

You clear your throat, but a smile is trying to makes its way over your mouth. “Do you say that to all the girls in the stands?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Nah. Just you.”

Heat winds through your stomach. Because there is an easy, matter-of-fact kind of confidence in his voice.

Biting his lip, he studies you some more. Eyes intensely on you. “So you ain’t much of a baseball fan, then,” he hums. His voice is a low timbre.

You scoff, but can’t help the amused smile lifting your lips. “Not quite my thing.”

“Maybe I can change that.”

You almost choke on your next breath, because oh. He’s good. And hell, that came fast.

Natasha cackles. You ignore her.

Your fingers play with the fabric of your jeans. “Smooth,” you assess, unable to help the wry lilt in your voice.

He grins. Lopsided. Charming. Devastatingly handsome, oh god so help me. “Yeah? That workin’ for me?”

You roll your eyes, but it’s all for show. “Debatable.”

Natasha snorts.

His smirk is deep. There is a twinkle in his blue eyes. He stares at you like that for a second.

“I’m Bucky.” His voice is softened a fraction. His tone is genuine.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”

His head moves to the side a little, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And you are?”

You tell him your name and his gaze lingers, his smirk edging into something thoughtful.

“Huh,” he muses.

You frown slightly. “What?”

He shrugs, still watching you, maybe even looking a little bashful. “Dunno. Just- I like it. Suits you.”

That somehow feels worse than the flirting.

You feel your face heat and you hate that Natasha can probably see it.

There is a shout coming from the dugout. “Barnes, get your ass down here, now!”

That must be their trainer Fury.

But Bucky stays standing there, looking at you for a beat longer, biting his lip and scratching the back of his neck. Then he takes a step back, spinning the water bottle once in his hand. “Guess I’ll see ya next game, doll,” he charms.

You blink, eyebrows up. “That’s a bold assumption.”

He just grins, throwing you a wink. “Nah. I got a feelin’.”

And just like that, he turns, heading back down toward the field, leaving you sitting there slightly dazed.

It takes a moment for your brain to start working again.

You feel Natasha leaning in but are not ready to meet that sly expression.

“We both know you’ll be here next time.”

Infuriatingly, you know she is right.

“I hate you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The game kicks off, but you are not watching it the way you thought you would.

Because he’s on the field.

And, well damn.

You tell yourself you’re just curious. That’s all it is. You’re not actually watching him. You’re just keeping an eye on him. Casual observation. A purely academic interest in how the game works.

Except, the longer you watch, the more you have to admit that he is good.

Really good.

His movements are seamless. It’s like an unbroken flow of precision and control as if the game is merely responding to him, not the other way around. He’s so natural, seems so at ease, and yet he moves so fast and sharp.

You can see the innate understanding he has, of how the game breathes. It’s impressive.

When he’s at bat, his stance is balanced to perfection, knees bent just enough, shoulders loose but poised. The pitcher winds up, releases, and before you can even register it fully, Bucky crushes that ball.

The sound of it is sharp, a crack that echoes through the field.

You track the ball as it soars high, way over the outfield. And then he’s running. He’s a cloud of white and navy as he rounds first base, feet hitting the dirt hard.

Natasha whistles low beside you. “Not bad, huh?” She doesn’t hide her smirk.

You press your lips together, determined to be neutral. “Yeah, well. Maybe I was just expecting less.”

Your best friend lets out a half-amused, half-exaggerated breath through her nose. “You weren’t.”

You want to throw her a glare but that would mean you’d have to take your eyes off Bucky and somehow you can’t manage that.

So you only huff and lean further into your seat.

But even as he plays, you can’t shake the feeling that perhaps he somehow tries a little more than necessary.

There are subtle indications. The way he lingers just a bit longer when he looks up toward the stands, the slight, extra flourish in the way he moves. The exaggerated ease of it all.

Oh, hell.

As he rounds third base, his gaze snaps up.

Right at you.

And he winks.

Your stomach plummets. Heat boils along your spine, and you freeze for half a second, caught completely fucking off guard.

The grin he shoots you is smug and holds a knowing edge, seeing the way your eyes are already on him, seeing your reaction, and thriving on it.

Natasha grasps your arm, gasping. “Oh my God.”

She is overly dramatic on purpose and you hate it.

You tear your gaze away from him and glare at her. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I'm starting,” she laughs, delighted. “That guy’s showing off for you.”

“He is not,” you hiss, trying and failing to ignore the warmth along your neck. Spreading and spreading up to your cheeks.

“That was textbook showing off, babe.”

You bite your lip, refusing to give her the satisfaction of the reaction she wants to see.

But maybe she’s not wrong.

The game continues, and despite your best efforts, your eyes keep finding him.

The more you watch, the more obvious it becomes.

The smooth way he catches the ball in the outfield, hardly needing to look before launching it straight to second base. The way he moves just a little bit slower after a play like he knows there are eyes on him. The way his grin sharpens when he hears the cheers, the teasing comments from his teammates.

And apparently, Steve notices, too.

Because after a particularly showy throw - one that was definitely more dramatic than necessary - Steve jogs past him and smacks him on the back of the head.

You faintly hear Bucky’s startled grunt from the bleachers.

Natasha snickers beside you.

Steve is muttering something to him, but the brunette only grins, backing away with his arms outstretched and shoulders pulled up in an unbothered shrug. And his eyes immediately find you. You look away hastily.

Your best friend leans in, voice low and teasing. “Change your mind about dating yet?”

Sinking lower in your seat, you move your hand through your hair. “This is ridiculous.”

But even as you say it, you glance back at Bucky.

And he’s still looking at you.

This time, you don’t look away.

Another smack lands across the back of his head and he is forced to drag his eyes away from you to grumble at the guy who is grinning from ear to ear, enjoying whatever the hell this is between Bucky and you.

“You’re actin’ real thirsty right now, Barnes,” the voice of the other player sounds out, loud enough for you to make out some words. “Hey, I mean, I get it. She’s cute. But can you focus, man?”

Flustered, you shove your hands between your thighs and curl a little bit inward.

“Shut up, Sam,” Bucky warns, rolling his shoulders and throwing a hard look at his teammate before jogging back to his position.

You don’t miss the way he shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair after lifting the cap for a moment as if he is trying to gather himself.

Your heart is beating in a weird rhythm. Your hands are a little sweaty and you hate that Natasha notices.

“Well, well,” she teases, watching Bucky get into position. “Looks like you’re a motivator.”

“Do you ever stop?”

“Not when it’s this much fun,” she grins, eyes swimming in mischief. “And clearly not when my best friend’s about to have my boyfriend's buddy ask for her number.”

It’s your time to smirk. “Boyfriend?” you chirp. “I'm sure Steve would like to know you calling him that behind his ba-”

“There’s no turning this around, babe. I’m the one with the power here,” she chides, but she is suppressing a smile. “No go ahead and continue to watch your future boyfriend.” She turns your shoulder forward to the field.

“He’s not-”

“Watch.”

You do.

And the longer the game goes on, you try to keep telling yourself that you’re going to stop watching him. But no matter how much you try to focus on anything else - the scoreboard, the crowd, even the actual game - your eyes don’t listen.

They keep wandering back to him. To the way he moves, his effortless command of the field.

It’s the way he seems to own every second he’s out there like he is meant to be on the field. And he seems to love it. His body moves with an instinctive kind of grace, muscles shifting under the snug fit of his uniform, every motion thought through but natural.

When he takes his spot at shortstop, you admire the confidence of his stance. He’s completely at home. He stands relaxed but his eyes are sharp and focused, scanning the field.

And when the ball comes his way, his gloved hand snatches it mid-air before his arm whips it across the diamond in a clean throw.

It’s irritatingly impressive.

You try to convince yourself that he plays like this all the time - that this isn’t for you at all - but there is something nagging at the back of your mind. Something in the way he carries himself, the extra little flair in the way he moves.

He really seems to be putting on a small show and you can’t shake the feeling that you might be the only one in the audience that actually matters to him. You don’t know how to feel about that.

Natasha catches you watching again. “Mhm,” she hums, knowingly. Not at all subtle about it.

You throw her a burning look. “Shut up, Nat.”

She smirks and tilts her head. “You want to be the one he’s showing off for.”

You release a sharp breath, looking at the darkened sky faintly lit by the stadium lights. “If I did, I’d be enjoying it, wouldn’t I? I just think he’s- trying a little hard. Like he’s-”

You don’t get to finish that sentence because the crowd erupts again. The score is tied. This is the final inning.

Your throat constricts as Bucky walks up to plate, adjusting his cap like he’s been waiting for this moment. He taps the bat against the plate once, twice, and tilts his head at the pitcher. You watch the way Bucky’s muscles coil, the readiness, the concentration.

The pitcher winds up. The stadium is silent.

The ball is pitched.

Bucky swings.

Crack.

The sound echoes across the field as Bucky swings and connects perfectly, the entire stadium staring with bated breath. The ball rockets up into the night sky, impossibly high, soaring straight over the center field fence.

It’s gone. A home run.

The crowd erupts, students leaping to their feet, fists pumping, voices carrying through the air. Natasha is already up, grabbing your wrist and yanking you up beside her.

“That’s your man,” Natasha yells over the noise, pointing at the field. “That’s your home run, babe!”

“Oh my god, Nat, he’s not-” you start, but you are cut off by the thunder of feet around you, students leaping onto the bleachers, fists raised, chanting his name.

Just like the others, you are watching Bucky jog around the bases at a confident pace, brushing a hand through his sweaty hair again.

You’re honestly a little overwhelmed with this whole thing. Trying to catch up to the way Bucky moves as if it’s the easiest thing in the world for him, like sending a ball out of the park is just something he does on a casual Tuesday.

And then, just as he crosses home plate, the team swarming him, he turns his head up.

Right to you.

The whole world seems to slow for just a second. Your breath is lost in your throat when your eyes lock. There is a heat in his gaze, but it shifts from exhilaration to something softer. He beams up at you for that special moment, blue eyes shining under the stadium lights, his grin wide.

Your pulse hammers in a way you really don’t want to acknowledge.

You are clapping, like all the others.

And there is something changing in his expression. The corner of his mouth curls in a way as if he can’t believe what he is seeing. His confidence falters for a brief second, replaced by something almost sheepish. His hand scrubs over his face, attention caught by his teammates, but there definitely is a hint of pink dusting his cheeks at your small cheers.

The other players pull him into a rough embrace and for a moment you don’t see him at all, the rest jumps around him in celebration.

“Alright, come on, let’s get down there,” Natasha says, grabbing your wrist again.

“Wait, what?” you sputter as she pulls you toward the railing, making her way down the steps, dragging you with her.

“You are not going to be the only one still sitting while your boyfriend-”

“Stop that-”

“-just won the damn game,” she finishes, waving you off as you scowl at her.

Before you know it, you’re at the very front of the stands, your hands coming together as the roar of the crowd vibrates through your bones.

You see Bucky looking over the chaos, his arms slung around his teammates, his chest rising and falling from exertion, when suddenly, his gaze catches you again.

That bright, wide grin now definitely softens. In a shit, you really were watching kind of way. His blue eyes scan your face as though he is trying to read every single thought rushing through your head right now.

Natasha is practically jumping beside you, cheering happily, so you don’t want to be a bummer and start clapping again. Looking at him.

His smile tries to widen, but Bucky bites his lip. And then, he actually looks bashful.

He dips his head just slightly, running another hand down his face, and this time it’s him looking away first.

But not before you catch that tiny flicker of something almost shy. For all his confidence, for all the easy charm he’s been throwing at you, all the flirtatious lines, something about your reaction to him is what makes him falter that little bit.

And oh how it does something to you. You don’t even fight the little smile on your lips as Natasha bumps her shoulder into yours.

“Shut up,” you murmur, but it sounds too light.

Natasha smirks. “I didn’t say anything.”

You roll your eyes and fold your arms over your chest to hide the way your hands are still itching to continue clapping.

The roar of the crowd slowly begins to settle, the energy of the game remaining charged in the air. The bleachers empty languidly, students pouring onto the field or shuffling toward the exits, their excitement buzzing in hurried conversations and triumphant chants.

The players begin filtering off the field, disappearing into the tunnel leading to the locker rooms. Some of them are still exchanging shoves and laughs, adrenaline still pumping through their veins.

Bucky walks alongside Steve, his uniform tightly handing off his frame.

But before he disappears with the rest of them he glances behind one last time. And, of course, it’s at you again. You shiver.

His glance is just a flicker of blue under the harsh stadium lights but it’s just a beat longer than you would expect. As if he is making sure you’re still here. As if he is worried you won’t be when he comes back out.

Then he’s gone.

“You see that?” Natasha assesses, leaning her weight into one hip, arms crossed.

“See what?” you ask, obviously annoyed.

She’s unbothered. “That boy just looked at you like a man checking to see if his car’s still parked outside.”

You groan. “God, shut up.”

“That never worked on me. You should know better.”

With an impish grin, she tugs at your wrist and guides you away from the bleachers.

“Come on, we’re waiting for them,” she says, already pulling you toward the tunnel exit.

“What? Nat-”

“Well, I’m waiting for Steve,” she says, “and you, my dear, have been eyefucking his best friend all night, so don’t even try to act like you don’t want to see him again.”

“Okay, come on,” you defend. “I have not-”

“-been staring at him, sure,” she interrupts, her smirk widening. “But only every time he wasn’t looking. Which, by the way, wasn’t often.”

You groan again but follow her anyway, because, at this point, you’re not even sure if you’re protesting for show or out of actual resistance.

Minutes go by as more people slowly tickle away, leaving only a few clusters of them lingering around, chatting under the lights.

The air is still warm, but the breeze carries enough of a chill to make you shift on your feet, arms folding over your chest as you wait.

And then, Steve and Bucky emerge from the locker room, side by side.

Steve’s blond hair is still damp from the shower, his team jacket slung over one shoulder. The moment he spots Natasha, his whole face softens. His stride quickens as he reaches her and he pulls her in for a kiss that is far sweeter than you expected from someone fresh out of a game.

Your best friend, for all her teasing confidence tonight, melts against him, fingers gripping the fabric of his jacket.

You feel happiness for her but you look away, feeling like you’re intruding on something intimate.

And before you can prepare yourself, Bucky is standing right in front of you.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he says, voice lower, less playful than before.

His hair is damp too, looking darker like that. He doesn’t wear his cap anymore, short brown tendrils resting on his forehead. His uniform is gone, replaced by a dark hoodie and jeans. And yet, he still looks every bit like the man who just stole the game with a home run. He looks handsome. You can even admit that.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll leave with Nat,” you answer, voice a little quieter than you would have liked it to be.

Bucky smiles. He shifts his weight, hands slipping into his pockets.

“Well, had to make sure you actually enjoyed yourself,” he says, tipping his head to the side, smirk slowly appearing. “Didn’t want you to suffer through it since you’ve already been dragged out here.”

You huff out a small laugh, looking at the ground before up at him again. “It wasn’t terrible.”

“Not terrible?” he echoes, feigning offense. “Sweetheart, I won the damn game. You were cheerin’ for me.”

It’s as if he needed to say it out loud. As if he’s been telling that to himself the whole time.

You bite your lip. Those nicknames will send you tumbling to the floor if you’re not careful. “Yes, well. You put on a good show.”

He grins something slow and smug. “And here I was thinkin’ you weren’t much of a baseball fan.”

You shift, laughing softly. “Still not, really.”

He hums, studying you so deeply. In a gentle way. But he takes his sweet time and it’s making you nervous. “I’ll change your mind.”

Your stomach does something weird - something that has everything to do with the way his voice dips slightly, the way it rumbles out so smoothly.

You narrow your eyes, trying to keep your cool. “I’d like to see you try.”

Bucky chuckles softly, rocking on the balls of his feet. He can’t stop watching you, moving his eyes around your features, your whole frame, as if wondering where you have been the whole time. He looks like he is trying to read every little thing written across your face.

Your chest feels a little too tight, and your pulse picks up the longer you look at him, the longer he looks at you.

The air is cooler now that the game is over, the heat from the crowd dissipating into the open night, and although you feel plenty heated up by his gaze and presence, you instinctively rub your arms, shifting on your feet.

“You cold?” Bucky’s voice is lower, and there is a soft gentleness to his tone, that sounds so sincere, you feel your knees grow weak.

You shake your head. “I’m fine.”

“I’ve got an extra jersey in my bag,” he offers as if he didn’t even hear you, already moving. “Or you can take this one-” He seems about to shrug off his hoodie instead.

You quickly hold up a hand to stop him. “No, really. I’m okay.”

Bucky pauses, squinting at you, mouth quirking as he eyes you a second longer. Then, as if he’s figured something out, his lips form a real smirk again.

“Alright,” he concedes easily, his weight tipping slightly to one side, then back again. “Guess I’ll just give it to you next time, then.”

You freeze just slightly, blinking up at him.

Next time.

You don’t quite know what to do with that.

You clear your throat, forcing words out. “Yeah. Next time.”

Bucky beams.

It’s a full-on, dazzling grin, cheeks high and rosy, eyes bright in a way that makes something overturn in your stomach.

He looks way too pleased with himself now. And you are way too aware of how warm your face feels.

You try to push yourself past the sudden rush of flustered energy. “Well, I guess I will see you around campus, then.”

Bucky hums, considering, still not taking his eyes off you. “Maybe,” his head turns to the side, making a pause. “Or I could just make sure.”

“Make sure?”

He pulls his hands from his hoodie pocket, adjusting his footing and running a hand through his hair, messing with the damp strands a little. He might just seem the slightest bit nervous.

Flipping his palm up expectantly, he looks at you with a glint of hope in his eyes. “Your phone.”

Your stomach does that turning-over thing again as you realize what he’s going on about. “Oh.”

You are fumbling to grab your phone out of your bag, fingers perhaps wavering a little and you are glad that Natasha is preoccupied at the moment to see this. Unlocking it, you hand it over to him.

Bucky takes it gently, fingers brushing yours. Again, it feels intentional.

The glow of the screen illuminates his face as he punches in his number, and presses to call himself so he’ll have your number as well before handing your phone back to you.

You glance down.

A new contact. Bucky Barnes.

Bucky watches you with a soft smile.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve calls, still standing with Natasha. You don’t see the triumphant smile those lovebirds share, busy trying not to show your disappointment of the night coming to an end. “We heading out?”

Bucky sighs, but he doesn’t break eye contact with you just yet.

“Guess that’s my cue,” he murmurs.

“Guess so.”

His feet shuffle against the floor. He seems not quite ready to end this conversation, taking a slow step backward, not turning away from you.

“See you next game, doll,” he says, words landing softer, quieter in a way. He speaks as if it matters.

You fidget with the sleeve of your sweater and let out an almost shy laugh. “Sure.”

Bucky smirks, holding up his phone and waving with it when walking further backward to Steve. “I’ll remind you.”

You watch him walk off with his best friend, watch him throw another grin over his shoulder at you, still feeling the heat that won’t stop tingling along your skin.

Your own best friend throws her arm around your shoulders.

This time, she keeps her mouth shut. She knows she doesn’t have to say anything anymore. There is no denying it any longer and you are well aware.

Because yeah, you might not be into baseball.

But you might be into Number 17.

“Flirting is a promise of something more.”

- Milan Kundera

[buckysflicker]

Glutton for Punishment | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Hello, hello! I am back back back again. My life has been busy, y'all. School is kicking my ass. But this fic has been like 94% complete for like a month, and I finally got to finish it! yay!

wordcount: 8939

Warnings: angst, self harm, Bucky's trauma

Bucky collapsed onto the bed with a defeated huff. The mattress rippled under his weight and jostled the computer resting on your thighs. His chest rose and fell with another dejected sigh. His meetings with Fury never went well- but they weren’t always bad. Sometimes, things between them were cordial. Neutral. This was not one of those times. Bucky wanted to sink into the bed and never come out. He wanted to dissolve into the earth and disappear. The only thing anchoring him to reality was, as always, you. 

“Hey, how’d it go, babe?” The comforting lilt of your voice floated through the air. Maybe drenching your words in overt positivity was too much, but it seemed necessary. Maybe if you could coat your voice in optimism, it would fix whatever plagued Bucky. But you knew it was useless to hope. 

He didn’t answer. He just stared up at the ceiling, a blank expression on his face. Coming home to you after a bad day or a shitty meeting was always his saving grace; being near you brought him peace. But he hated bringing the shame home with him. 

“That bad, huh?” you ditched your laptop and laid next to him, propped up on one elbow. “What happened?”

Silence. He didn’t tear his eyes from the ceiling. Didn’t even blink. He just gazed upward- hopeless. 

In the quiet, your fingers traced up and down his arm. You pressed kisses to his shoulder. He always had a way of shutting you out before allowing you in. It wasn’t personal; it was just his process. He opted to suffer without your help until the pain ate away at him. And when there was almost nothing left, he tore down the walls and welcomed the onslaught of comfort. 

“He said it was my fault.” Bucky tried not to sound too pathetic. He knew you worried about him- a lot. Knew that his misery always hurt you. Seeing him in pain brought you nothing but heartache. But his efforts did nothing to hide the anguish in his voice. 

You didn’t want to make him repeat the whole ordeal, to relive whatever messed up shit Fury said to him- but you needed context. Your words were soft, your voice gentle. “He said what was your fault, baby?” Bucky didn’t deserve more blame, more guilt. Though none of what he did was his fault, a lifetime of remorse rested heavy on his shoulders after his Winter Soldier days. You wondered how much unjust blame he could carry before it crushed him. 

Bucky sighed, “All of it. Everything that went wrong on that last mission- the explosion, all those agents getting hurt-”

“What? You weren’t even the lead on that job- how is any of it your fault?” Heat rose in your chest. Your heart pounded against your ribs. Defending Bucky was your first instinct, your first priority. And while he accepted the shame with which Fury saddled him, you immediately turned to protection. To rage. 

Bucky shrugged, “he said I’m the most experienced, so I should’ve known better than to let the lead take our team into the lab.”

 “Wait- he said you should’ve argued with the mission lead?”

Bucky nodded. 

“But didn’t he reprimand you last month for that exact reason?”

Again, he nodded. 

“What the fuck?” Wrath sizzled beneath your skin. No one was allowed to treat Bucky this way- not even Fury. He contradicted himself and put his hypocrisy on full display, knowing Bucky hated himself too much to argue. 

“I can-” Bucky’s voice came out hollow. Empty. Guilt had him in a chokehold. “I can see where he’s coming from…”

“No, don’t do that.” It wasn’t a reprimand- but a reminder. You laced your fingers with his, “You know it wasn’t your fault.”

He refused to make eye contact. “I mean, I could’ve spoken up-”

“You weren’t even with them, were you? Didn’t Fury tell you to hit the warehouse on your own?”

He nodded.

“So how is any of it your fault, Buck?” Fury sent Bucky into a tailspin with almost no effort. He knew exactly which buttons to push, which wires to pull. Fury made him his puppet, his scapegoat. He made Bucky work harder than anyone else and never delivered the praise he deserved. Instead, he met Bucky’s efforts with tongue-lashings and bitter insults. With blame. 

“I don’t…” he shrugged. “I don’t know- but it feels like it’s on me. A lot of people got hurt and I am the most experienced. I should’ve said something-”

“But if you did, Fury would’ve called you into his office to tell you that you’re arrogant- like he did last time.” A deep breath filled your lungs and calmed your system; anger wouldn’t help Bucky. You needed to channel that energy into comforting him, easing his mind. 

You softened your tone, “You know you can’t win with him, Buck.”

“Maybe because I tried to kill him… twice.” Finally, he looked at you, “And I can handle being called arrogant- those agents got hurt, doll. That’s different.”

“I know it’s different. I’m just saying… you weren’t involved. You did what you were told- what Fury told you to do.” Your hand cupped his cheek, he leaned into your touch. “And if he wants to get mad at you for that, he’s a piece of shit. He knows he fucked up, and he’s pinning it on you.”

Bucky pulled you close. He curled in on himself with you at his center, his head resting against your chest. The logical part of his brain believed everything you said. It disregarded Fury’s false accusations and willed the blame to dissipate. But the rest of him took Fury’s every word as gospel. It rejected your assurances, categorizing them as obligatory kindness from a significant other. Shame feasted on his soul. He didn’t want to feel this way, but it came easily. By now, it was second nature. 

“Thanks, doll…” He lifted his head and brought his face to yours, “I appreciate you.” He meant it; no one ever supported him like this. But you always listened. You were always there for him, even when he was too ashamed to look you in the eye. You showed him patience and kindness and led him out of the dark more times than he could count. 

He dotted a few soft kisses to your lips, “I’m gonna take a shower.” 

“Wait-” Your hand caught his as he tried to get up, “I love you.”

A shy smile pulled at Bucky’s lips. He once again met your lips with his, needier this time. “And I love you.”

He stripped off his shirt and, immediately, your eyes landed on it. By now, you knew better than to stare. But sometimes, you couldn’t stop yourself.  

The first time it caught your eye, you couldn’t avert your gaze. You noticed it right away- how could you not? It drew your focus the first moment Bucky removed his shirt in front of you. You didn’t think anything could ever distract you from his perfect body- but you were wrong. 

A massive bruise splashed across Bucky’s skin. The cluster of broken blood vessels was dark at the center- nearly black. It exploded into by purples and blues that stained his right shoulder and eclipsed his chest. Sometimes, an angry, red haze leaked from the edges like a wine stain. Greens and yellows- signs of healing- colored the border every now and then. But no matter how many times you bore witness, they never seemed to overtake the tones of violet and navy. 

For whatever reason, this thing refused to heal.

On more occasions than you could count, you asked Bucky about this large indigo mark. And he always had an answer:

“Ran through a wall”

“Jumped out of a plane”

“That John Walker asshole hit me with Steve’s shield”

He did, indeed, have a dangerous job and a penchant for peril. For taking risks. But no one else on the team ever seemed to have a bruise like that. Even you received your fair share of stitches and broken ribs, but never anything as persistent as Bucky’s bruise. 

Wasn’t he a super soldier? Wasn’t he supposed to heal fast- really fast? His other injuries disappeared like they’d never happened; why did this bruise stick around? 

“I think you need to get that looked at,” you told him once, “it can’t be good that it never heals...”

Bucky shrugged it off with a smile. He kissed you on the forehead and thanked you for your concern. But he didn’t get it checked out. He downplayed the massive bruise eclipsing his body and moved on, just like he always did. 

“What are you lookin’ at?” Bucky quirked a brow at you, his shy smile making another appearance.

You shrugged, “Doesn’t it hurt?”

“It’s not- it’s not that bad,” Bucky did his best to hide his bruise with his vibranium hand, but the colors extended far past what he could cover. “I’m used to it.”

Something had to be wrong with him, right? Something inside his body had to be out of order. The first time you saw it- the first time you saw him without his shirt- was six months ago. How long could a bruise last? And how long did he have it before he showed it to you? 

Why hadn’t the serum fixed it by now?

Bucky was well past his expiration date. He lived more years than the universe intended, and his body suffered enough trauma for a hundred lifetimes. He was strong, he was a survivor. But every time you stole a glance at the inky spot on his skin, anxiety blocked your airway. Part of you wondered if this mark signaled his end. There was a chance that his body already started breaking down, that all those years of abuse caught up with him. Maybe his bruise was a harbinger. Maybe his days were numbered. Maybe he was dying. 

Maybe you were about to lose him.

Those kinds of thoughts pushed bile into your throat. You shoved them into the darkest corners of your mind and did your best to lock them away, but they reappeared from time to time just to hurt you. Taunt you. Bring you to tears. And while Bucky made his way into the bathroom and turned on the hot water, you remained fixated on the inky spot. On his demise. 

Bucky did his best to let the shower cleanse his mind. He told himself he’d let it all go- all the guilt and the blame. He knew he didn’t deserve it. But his shame didn’t run down the drain. It didn’t wash away with the warm spray of the shower. No, he remained coated in it, dripping with it, no matter how hard he scrubbed. And though it wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling, he never welcomed its reemergence.

A sliver of levity wriggled into his chest as he emerged from the bathroom. He found you reading in bed, your brows knit together in that cute way he loved. But your focus shattered when he stepped into the bedroom. He watched you dogear your page and shut your book as he climbed into bed. 

“You don’t have to stop reading because of me, doll-” 

“I was only reading while I waited for you,” you extended a hand in his direction and tugged him closer. He didn’t need to know that you only opened your book to distract from your crippling anxiety about his condition. He didn’t need to know that you read the same paragraph over and over and over without retaining a word. “Now that you’re here, I don’t need any other form of entertainment.”

“Is that so?” He narrowed his eyes at you and gestured to the book resting on your chest, “I’m better than Dracula?”

“Way better. So, the guy drinks blood and sleeps in a coffin-” You shot him a wink and knocked your book to the floor, “big whoop.” A dramatic eye roll and a quick laugh accompanied your comments about Bram Stoker’s masterpiece. But a sudden seriousness banished your playful tone as you gave Bucky a once over. He didn’t look any better- not that he ever looked bad. But the hot shower did nothing to help him relax. All his muscles remained taught. His brow still furrowed. The tension in his jaw seemed to turn to concrete. He was hurting. 

“How you doin’, Buck?” A gentle hand smoothed over his shoulder and slid down his arm. “You okay?”

A manufactured smile spread across his face. His shoulders rose and fell in an all too casual shrug. “I’m fine- I’m good.” He couldn’t seem to maintain eye contact for more than a few seconds.

Another tug of his hand brought him closer. “You don’t seem fine…”

“No, really. I’m okay,” he brought your hand to his lips and pressed kisses to your palm. He was the farthest thing from okay; it was written all over his face. And though he did his best to put on a façade for you, you saw through the cracks. A heaviness lurked behind the grin he wore. A deep sadness darkened his gaze. You knew he probably spent the entirety of his shower replaying Fury’s words and berating himself within an inch of his life. 

An extra helping of guilt dropped upon Bucky’s shoulders as he studied you. One of your nails dug into the cuticle of another. Your smile remained tight and tense. He could practically see the anxiety surging through your nervous system. And it was all his fault. You were worried about him, upset about him. How could he do this to you when you brough him nothing but peace?

He found it in him to take a deep breath, to let his shoulders fall a fraction of an inch. “It’s just gonna take a little time for me to get out of the shitty headspace Fury put me in. I’ll be alright-” He pressed a kiss to your cheek, “I promise.”

Fucking Fury. He seemed to allow everyone else chance after chance; he granted grace to every other member of the team. Everyone but Bucky. “You wanna get some sleep, then?” you cupped Bucky’s cheek, “hopefully, you’ll feel better in the morning.”

Bucky nodded. He reached over and flipped off his bedside lamp before giving his pillow a few adjustments. He got settled under the covers and waited for you to do the same- but you didn’t. You laid there, watching him. 

“You gonna turn your lamp off, doll?”

“Not until you’re all situated.”

Bucky looked down at his perfectly arranged covers and then back at you, “I’m um, I think I’m settled, baby.”

You quirked a brow at him, “Are you though? Come on-” you found his hand under the covers and pulled him closer. “Assume the position, Barnes.”

He let out a labored, tired laugh. “Baby, thank you, but I can’t. My hair’s still wet, you’re gonna be cold-”

“I don’t care- you had a rough day.”  You could practically see the war raging within Bucky’s psyche. He was dying to crawl into your embrace a disappear into your warmth. But he couldn’t- not tonight. 

“It’s okay, doll. You don’t have to, it’s-” 

“Come onnn, Buck. You knowwww you waaaant toooooo.” You gave your chest a few light pats, beckoning him to you. “I know it always makes you feel better.”

Of course, he wanted to. Something about resting his head on your chest, listening to your heartbeat, and feeling your hands in his hair eased his soul. Even on his darkest, most soul-crushing days, he found solace with you. But guilt still gnawed at him; Fury’s rant played on a constant loop inside his head. And after what he’d supposedly done, he didn’t feel as though he deserved your love. 

“Baby, I know you feel bad; And I know you’re trying to deprive yourself. But guilty or not- which you are not-” you gave his hand a squeeze, “you deserve comfort.”

A touch of heartbreak colored your voice. You were desperate to help Bucky, nearly begging him to grant himself some grace. Some care. In his attempts to hurt himself by staying far from your embrace, he’d hurt you instead. He’d made you sad, filled you with worry. He wondered if he’d ever be able to do anything right. 

In an instant, he did as you asked; he’d do anything to make you feel better. His head rested against your chest, his wet hair dampening your shirt. It sent a rush of goosebumps over your skin- but you didn’t care. A deep sigh left Bucky’s chest as he melted against you. He often swore his body was made to fit yours, that he only existed to touch and be touched by you. 

“See? Isn’t that better?”

“Mhmm…” he sighed, “much.”

You ran a hand through his wet hair, “Good. Now, let’s get some sleep. Okay?” You flicked off your lamp and wrapped your arms around Bucky, willing every ounce of your love into his body. He’d feel better in the morning- you knew he would. He just needed time and rest and a little love. And you gave him more than he ever dreamed of. 

But around two in the morning, a strange sound vibrated on the edges of your consciousness. The dense ‘thud’repeated endlessly, like an eternal metronome. It resounded inside your head, mixing itself in with your dream until it finally woke you. 

With your face still smushed into your pillow, you muttered Bucky’s name. The sound stopped- maybe you imagined it. Maybe it really was just part of your dream. Silence settled over your room once again and lulled you back to sleep. 

But only a few minutes later, that sound woke you once again.

Your words came out sloppy, heavy with sleep. “Whass tha noise?” 

No answer. 

“Baby,” you said, more alert this time, “You hear that?”

Bucky didn’t respond. 

With a groan, you forced your eyes open. There was no sign of disturbance or struggle; nothing out of the ordinary caught your eye. Everything was in its place- except Bucky. And when you pressed your palm against his side of the bed, the sheets lacked any remnants of his warmth. 

This wasn’t like him- not anymore, anyway. Back when you first got together, Bucky left the room when he woke from a night terror. He’d slip out of bed and escape to the living room, forcing himself to withstand his panic attack all alone. But one night, you found him on the living room floor- desperate for breath. He clutched the corner of the rug and gritted his teeth, willing the anxiety to receded. 

He flinched when you touched him; he didn’t hear you approach over the pounding in his ears. But the second he saw you, he reached for you. His sickly white knuckles regained their color as he released his fists and collapsed against you. He dropped his head into your lap, falling forward with the weight of his trauma. And he allowed your voice to soothe his racing mind. He let you guide him out of the agony. 

Of course, he apologized for waking you. For inconveniencing you. Of course, you wouldn’t hear it. And when the panic finally subsided, he let you walk him back to bed. He buried his face in your chest and thanked you a million times over. After that night, you made him promise to wake you when these things happened- no matter what time it was. You made him promise not to suffer in silence. And he agreed. 

You didn’t know he had his fingers crossed. 

“Buck?” the anxious pounding of your heart boomed in your chest. “Baby?” You kicked the blankets from your body and abandoned your bed. Slivers of light made their way through the blinds and splashed across the floor, allowing you to search through the darkness. He wasn’t sitting on the floor or in the armchair near the window. Nor did you find him in the en suite bathroom.  

“Bucky?” The hall was empty and the office void of Bucky’s presence. And while you searched for him, the sound refused to cease. It echoed through seemingly every fiber of the apartment. It haunted every space. Unfounded worries threw themselves at you, fighting to topple you to the ground. What if Bucky was hurt? What if he was gone? 

No- he was fine. Of course, he was. Right? He had to be. The home you shared was safe. Nothing here could hurt or harm him in any way. 

Well, maybe not nothing.

The thudding of your heart grew loud in your ears, nearly eclipsing the mystery sound all together. Part of you even doubted the existence of the noise- maybe it was just your anxiety getting to you. Maybe Bucky was in the kitchen grabbing a late-night snack, perfectly safe and happy. 

But when you rounded the corner into the living room, all doubt fell away. Shards of your heart did the same as you stood in shock, watching the source of the sound reveal itself. 

Bucky sat on the floor near the window, his back resting against the couch. 

His metal fist hammered against his right shoulder again and again, beating the flesh a sickly blue. 

“Buck? Hey-” In only a few strides, you made your way to his side. But he didn’t look at you. He didn’t meet your eyes when you sat down in front of him, nor did he stop his assault. “Bucky, baby, can you look at me?” 

He didn’t. He simply forced his hand against his chest over and over, no matter the pain. 

“Bucky,” you didn’t recognize your own voice. It came out more strained, more desperate than you’d ever heard it. The sight of Bucky doing this to himself almost made you sick, the sound covered you in goosebumps. Every time you asked about it, every time you wondered what caused that bruise- you never imagined it was self-inflicted. 

“I need you to stop, okay?” Your words came out frantic, “Can you- can you just look at me for a second?”

His hollow gaze remained fixed on the floor. Anguish twisted his features, pulling his face into a pained mask. But his eyes held no life. 

“Please-” your palm landed on his bruised shoulder mere seconds before the next strike. The force of his vibranium fist was sure to shatter your hand, but you didn’t care. You’d do anything to stop him from hurting himself. Anything to ease his pain. And if you couldn’t make him stop, maybe you could soften the blow. 

But just as his fist once again neared his shoulder, he stopped. “Move,” his voice was low, almost timid.

“No.”

“Doll,” his eyes remained downcast, “I need you to move your hand.”

You refused. “I’m not gonna move, Buck. I’m not gonna let you hurt yourself.”

Finally, he dragged his shame-filled gaze upward. His despondent look sliced through you, cutting right to the bone. This was worse than the vacant stare he wore moments ago; this was utter misery. “Please…” his voice caught in his throat, barely pushing its way past the tension. “Move.”

But your hand remained; you’d keep it there until the end of time if you had to. 

Warm, salty tears breached your lips as you spoke, and only then did you realize you were crying. “Buck, why are you doing this?”

“Because I know you won’t.” He clenched and unclenched his metal fist in a never-ending cycle, itching to resume his efforts. “None of you will. Not Sam. Not Hill. Not ever Fury. So, I have to.”

“Of course, we won’t. Why- Why would we?” It was an unfathomable thought. 

“I need- I deserve to be punished. I deserve to face consequences for my actions.” The words fell from his lips in what resembled a recitation, like he had a script to follow. Like he’d said this before. “There are always consequences…” Again, he pulled his hand into a fist; the vibranium whined under his strength. “There have to be consequences.”

“There were consequences- your meeting with Fury? That was the consequence.”

He shook his head, “It’s not enough- people got hurt.”

“It’s more than enough…” With your free hand, you reached for Bucky’s cold fist. He resisted at first, almost scared to be without his method of punishment. But he never could resist your touch. One at a time, you uncurled his fingers from his tight fist. You pressed his cold palm against your chest and held it there, allowing the beat of your heart to vibrate through the metal. “Especially because you didn’t do anything wrong. People got hurt- but it’s not your fault.”

Bucky ached to maim himself. He needed to feel pain. Needed to get what he thought he deserved. But he couldn’t bring himself to tear his hand from your chest. And though you blocked his bruise and made punishment impossible, he liked the way your palm felt against his black and blue skin. It was the one part of him you always shied away from for fear of hurting the already tender flesh. But your touch soothed the deep ache.

“Baby, how…” you swallowed the lump forming in your throat, “how often do you do this?” You weren’t sure you wanted the answer; just the thought of Bucky doing this to himself day in and day out filled your chest with storm clouds. But you needed to know.

His words held a deep shame, “Whenever I deserve it.”

“Buck, you’ve had that bruise for at least six months...”

He shrugged, “I deserve it a lot.”

Everything inside you burst into flames. You wanted to tear Hydra apart, to destroy them for what they did to Bucky. They altered his sense of self so violently, so irreparably, that they changed who he saw in the mirror. He viewed himself only as a vehicle for destruction, a receptacle for other peoples’ wrongs. They drilled into him an acceptance of abuse, of pain, of torture. And now, he didn’t know how to operate without it. 

“No, you don’t- you don’t deserve this.” A small quiver forced its way into your voice, “even if this whole thing was your fault- which it wasn’t- you wouldn’t deserve to be hurt.”

He stared at you for a long moment. Sometimes, he didn’t understand. He couldn’t comprehend the sentiment that he didn’t deserve pain and suffering; that he wasn’t always to blame. It was almost like you spoke different languages. Shuri may have eliminated the Winter Soldier programming and rendered his trigger words useless, but she couldn’t remove his shame. His guilt. His instinct to assume blame.  

“I can’t do anything right-” His right hand gripped the edge of the rug. He needed some way to release his tension, his anxiety. The fabric bunched inside his fist and twisted with his every move. 

“It seems like no matter what I do- or don’t do- someone ends up hurt. That says something about me, doesn’t it?” 

“No. It doesn’t.” You slowly removed your hand from his metal wrist and found his right fist. He eased the tension in his grip with your help and released the corner of the rug. It fell crumpled against the hardwood, struggling to regain its shape. “Buck, you always say that you blame yourself because you think you’re a bad person. But I actually think you blame yourself because you’re a good person.”

He gave a small shake of his head. 

“You’re willing to shoulder whatever guilt or blame other people put on you- regardless of whether you deserve it- because you’re not selfish.” He was, in fact, the least selfish person in the world. He’d set himself on fire to keep you warm. Would move heaven and earth to make you smile. He was loyal, devoted. He cared about you, about his friends, without ever putting himself first. 

“And you haven’t buried yourself in ego or pride like some of the other guys we work with.” 

Bucky let out a soft laugh. 

No, he didn’t bury himself in ego; he had no ego. His self-image wasn’t inflated or overexaggerated. He just wanted to do his best. To help. To offset with light some of the darkness he caused. 

“And maybe it’s your way of seeking redemption- not that you need to be redeemed,” you gave his hand a squeeze. “But maybe part of you feels like if you accept enough responsibility, it’ll make up for the things you were forced to do as the Winter Soldier.” 

He let out a sigh from somewhere deep within him, somewhere he didn’t know he had. It seemed to him like he’d been holding on to this truth, this breath, since the day he escaped. And here, in the darkness, he released it. “I just… I don’t want to be the bad guy anymore.”

“That’s the thing Buck,” you gently stroked a few fingertips across his massive bruise, “You never were.”

His forehead fell against yours. The two of you sat there, motionless, for what felt like forever. Cars moved on the streets below. Thunder rolled through the sky. Rain drops tapped against the large windows. But neither of you noticed. 

“If I move this hand-” you tapped your once again fingers against his bruised shoulder, “are you gonna do it again?”

He shook his head. 

With great hesitancy, you removed your palm from the evidence of his self-inflicted punishment. It looked worse in the eerie 2am lighting, like a black hole formed on his skin; you feared it might envelope him completely if you let it. Your lips replaced your hand, leaving the softest of kisses across his skin. Bucky let loose a small sound- something like a whimper- as you traced the bruise with your mouth. He let a few tears slip down his cheeks. 

“Thank you…”

You took a moment to drink him in. He was stronger than humanly possible. Hugely muscular. Nearly indestructible. But in the middle of the night on the floor of your living room, he looked so small. So fragile. His shoulders caved forward, and his read remained bowed. His voice wavered. His right hand shook ever so slightly. He was a man haunted, possessed by his past. Fearing the future. He was hurt. Broken. Lost in others’ perceptions of himself. He lay trapped under his need for validation from those around him. He sought approval from people who never dreamed of granting it. 

You wondered if he’d ever be free from his ghosts, or if they’d follow him until he became one himself. 

“You don’t have to thank me,” you pressed a kiss to his forehead. “All I ever want is to be there for you when you need me.” The tremor in your voice matched Bucky’s. Pure hurt rendered the air around you thick and heavy. You ached for Bucky, and he, in return, ached to be anyone but himself. 

“What do you wanna do? We can go back to bed. Or if you don’t feel like sleeping, we can hang out in here and watch some tv.” You ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, “Up to you.” 

Bucky’s mind still raced. His brain sat stewing in a deep pit of sorrow and anguish. But he was tired- exhausted. And while his mind wanted to stay up for a while, he let his body decide. His chest and shoulder screamed with pain. His skin stung. Each breath forced a sharp agony into his consciousness; he knew he must’ve cracked a rib. “Let’s-” he grimaced as an inhale filled his lungs, “let’s go back to bed.”

As gently as you could, you helped Bucky from the floor. He smiled when your hand found his as you led him in the direction of the bedroom. The two of you shuffled down the dark hall in silence with no clue what to say. Bucky wanted to apologize; you wanted to drown him in promises of your love. 

Bucky stopped short when you paused, almost running into you. You turned to him suddenly, eying his bruise in the dim light. “You go ahead, okay? I’m gonna grab you an ice pack.”

“Doll, thank you, but I’m fine-”

You narrowed your eyes at him, “does it hurt?”

He shrugged; the motion made him wince. “I mean, yeah. But it’s-”

“Exactly.” You pushed up on your tip toes to press a kiss to his cheek, “I’m gonna get you an ice pack. You get your ass to bed- I’ll be there in a second.”

Bucky whispered a ‘thank you’ and headed in the direction of the bedroom, leaving you alone. But just as he turned the corner down the hall, guilt wrapped around his ankles like a ball and chain. He was stuck; his need to apologize rendering him frozen. He watched you turn in the direction of the kitchen and wondered what he did to deserve you. “Hey, doll…” he called after you. “I’m sorry for waking you.”

“Nothing to apologize for. I promise.”

“But I-”

 “You’re doing your best. You’re coping in the only way you know how. That’s not something to be sorry for.”

Bucky shrugged, winced, and disappeared into the bedroom, eager to escape your line of sight. Everything you did, you did for him. And though that knowledge should’ve eased Bucky’s soul, it only added to his guilt. He marked yet another tally to the long, long list of ways in which he didn’t deserve you. 

The walk to the kitchen wasn’t long- but it provided a sliver of extra time for you to cope in private. If Bucky knew just how much this upset you, how heartbroken you were, he’d never forgive himself. He, instead, would add that knowledge to his ever-growing mountain of shame. He’d adopt a new method of self-punishment, something more subtle, easier to hide. And he’d never express his guilt or shame to you ever again, all to save your feelings. You couldn’t do that to him; he deserved an outlet, a sounding board, a space to vent. You’d never dream of robbing him of that. 

“Alright, here we go,” you pushed open the bedroom door. “I got you one of the big ones, cause that thing is massive, and-” If you didn’t look up at the right moment, you would’ve crashed right into Bucky. 

He stood near the foot of the bed, just inside the door, almost vibrating with anxiety. It rolled through him in waves and placed tremors in his hands. He didn’t stand a fighting chance. 

His massive frame looming in the darkness almost blocked your path completely- and scared the hell out of you. “Shit-” You tripped over your own feet and stumbled backward, but Bucky wouldn’t let you fall.

He caught you in the nick of time, snatching you from the air and righting you on your feet. “Oh, hey- I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Without a word, you pressed the towel-wrapped ice pack to his skin. Though he detested the cold, the sensation awarded him much needed relief. A deep sigh left his chest as his pain receptors deadened and the constant, months-long throbbing subsided. This was the first thing to put his pain on pause in- he couldn’t remember how long.

You searched his face for any indicators of discomfort, “How does that feel?”

All he could do was nod. The two of you stood there a while as Bucky drank in the relief. The muscles in his shoulders released their tension, his breaths came a bit easier. But something dark lurked beneath his quiet surface. 

“Such a gentleman, waiting for me to come back before getting in bed,” you threw him a wink.  

Bucky’s attempted laugh came out broken, disjointed. To his credit, he tried to laugh for real. He wanted to put this whole night behind him and slide into bed with you. Under the covers, surrounded by your body heat, nothing could hurt him. The skeletons of his past couldn’t claw out of the ground and wreak havoc on his psyche. But a nagging dread yanked at his heart. 

He couldn’t pretend things were resolved. He couldn’t forget his troubles and intertwine his body with yours like the knit of a well-loved sweater. The crushing weight of Fury’s blame sat atop his shoulders, growing heavier by the second. But he couldn’t find it in him to tell you, to ask you for help. 

“Come on, let’s go back to sleep. Okay?” You tucked the ice pack into Bucky’s hand and started toward your side of the bed, “I know you’ve gotta be exhausted.”

But Bucky didn’t follow. He didn’t join you, didn’t even nod. He stood there, stuck, his feet anchored to the floor. The cold pack ate through his nerve endings until his hand went numb. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t fill his lungs. They felt shallower, somehow- like they lost all capacity. 

His deadened fingers fell open, allowing the ice pack to fall against the floor. The sound pulled your focus, halting your efforts to right the sheets and blankets. 

“Buck?”

He didn’t answer. 

“Hey…” Quick steps brought you face to face with his empty stare. “Is everything-”

His knees met the hardwood as the weight of his anxiety forced him into submission. He fell against the cold floor with a sickening thud, his body shaking with the force. His head bowed; his spine curved forward. Ragged inhales forced their way into his ever-constricting lungs.

“Please-” he begged through choppy breaths, “if you won’t let me do it myself, I need- I need you to.”

“Buck, I’m-”

“I need you to hurt me.”

His words gutted you. 

“Baby, no.”

He begged over and over for punishment. For pain. 

Bucky fell against you the moment you joined him on the floor. His head lay buried in your neck, his sharp breaths fanning your skin. He begged through the tears, through the torment, for pain. And you refused. Instead, you gave him the lightest, softest affections you could manage. 

Under different circumstances, your gentle touch would’ve saved him. It would’ve brought him comfort in his moment of distress, grounded him during a bout of panic. But he didn’t want kind hands. For the first time, your soft touches prolonged the agony. The light circles you rubbed against his back filled him with impending doom. With misery. He wanted torture. Agony. 

And even if he were dying, he’d willingly sacrifice his last breath to ask for punishment. 

As carefully as you could, you helped Bucky lay down on the floor. How his body continued to run remained a mystery to you. He was drained, physically and emotionally. He was hurt. Panic ravaged his nervous system and pumped him full of cortisol. He was running on empty. 

“Let’s try to relax a bit, okay? Let’s try to breathe-”

He shook his head against the rug, “No, I need- I need it. I need you to- can you…” His words came out weak- but desperate.

Your hands raked through his hair and massaged his knotted muscles. Over and over again, you swore your love to him. You showered him in assurances and words of kindness. And though he was grateful when sleep won him over, it didn’t stop his efforts. Even as he finally dozed off, he begged. 

“P- please…” he sighed, his eyelids fluttering. “Need you… need you to.” His hand twitched, his brow furrowed. “Hurt- hurt me.” Hearing it didn’t get any easier. 

For what must’ve been the millionth time, you refused. 

And while Bucky slept in your arms, you remained wired. Every cell in your body swam in a cocktail adrenaline and cortisol. You wondered if you’d ever sleep again.  Just when you thought Bucky’s story couldn’t get any darker, it seemed to do just that. His life was all shadows and wormholes wrapped in an inky abyss. No stars, no moon. Just shapeless, unsettling, endless night. 

He deserved better. 

The sun rose as you fell asleep. Your mind shut off; your body gave out. Thinking yourself in circles while Bucky slept in the safety of your arms depleted your every ounce of energy. Worrying this much didn’t seem healthy; you didn’t think it was even possible to feel such deep concern. You never knew how taxing crying could be. But Bucky was worth it- hands down. 

No part of you wanted to fall asleep; Bucky couldn’t be left unsupervised. But a biological need for rest demanded you get some shut eye. And while you slept off the gut-wrenching night you’d spent with Bucky, anxiety seeped into your dreams. Images of Bucky maiming himself flashed behind your eyes. You saw him bloodying his body, abusing himself. His bruise haunted you. 

Waking in bed threw you for a loop. Only a few hours ago, you’d dozed off on the throw rug covering your bedroom floor. But when you opened your eyes, you found yourself snuggled under the duvet with Bucky’s body under yours. His arms held you tight, your face nuzzled into his neck. This was how things were supposed to be. 

It was then you realized- your head lay against his bruise. Even in your sleep, you did your best to protect him from himself. He wouldn’t dare strike his shoulder and risk hurting you. But the weight of your skull had to hurt him, didn’t it? He was sore, miserably so. Just the pressure of your palm resting against his bruise the night before made him wince- surely, your head was too much. With the utmost caution, you pulled your head from his chest.

“It’s okay- doesn’t hurt,” his voice was weak, full of exhaustion. You didn’t know he was awake. 

“Oh. Okay, good. I, um,” you looked around for a few seconds. “I don’t remember getting in bed.”

“We didn’t- well, you didn’t.” He couldn’t believe that after everything he put you through the previous night- all the pain, the heartache, the worry- he let you fall asleep on the floor. It was selfish of him, inconsiderate. He should’ve insisted that you get in bed. He should’ve done what you asked and crawled under the covers with you. He failed you- again. “I didn’t want you to sleep on the floor…” 

Your lips met his skin in a chain of soft kisses, “You know I don’t mind.”

“But I do,” he returned every kiss you granted him.

He woke nearly half an hour after you finally dozed off and found you curled up against him. Your head rested against the cold hard wood; the itchy rug left marks against your skin. A small shiver rattled up your spine and pushed you closer to Bucky’s warm embrace; it was too cold for you to sleep without a blanket. His body begged him to go back to sleep, but he couldn’t- not yet. He lifted you from the floor, his shoulder aching with the effort, and tucked you into bed with all the care in the world. Only then could he fall asleep once again. 

“I’m sorry about- about all of it,” he said. “Last night was-”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” you pulled your face from his chest, “I just wanna know what that was about.”

Bucky hoped that acting innocent would save him. “What?” Maybe if he pretended like he didn’t know what you were talking about, you’d move on. Maybe you’d tell him to forget it and save him the explanation. You didn’t.

“When you asked me to…” you gave a small shake of your head, “to hurt you.” The pain in your voice sliced through Bucky. He wondered if words could make him bleed. 

“Oh. Yeah. That was… I was out of line,” his jaw tensed. “That wasn’t okay. I know I made you uncomfortable- I’m sorry. I never wanna upset you. I was being stupid. And selfish. It wasn’t fair of me-”

The shame practically dripped from Bucky’s lips. You could almost see in running down his chin, staining his skin. He expressed his remorse for things that weren’t his fault, for things he couldn’t control. He told you how sorry he was for his trauma responses and the anxiety that held him hostage. Maybe one day, he’d believe you when you told him he didn’t have to apologize. Today was not that day. 

“I’m just worried about you, Buck. And I wanna help in any way I can-” you took a deep breath, “I just can’t help in that way.”

“I know.”

“Can you maybe tell me- can you help me understand?”

He remained silent for a long while. If he stayed quiet long enough, he could avoid any further distress on your part. With his silence, he could provide solace. But no. You had a penchant for knowing what made Bucky tick, no matter the pain it caused you. 

Your unflinching stare drilled through him until he couldn’t take it any longer. “I needed you to hurt me because that’s what I’m used to. I’m used to punishment,” he finally said. “Because when I fucked up at Hydra, there were consequences. They’d beat me within an inch of my life to get the message across.”

Of course, this was a sad truth you already knew. But hearing it aloud- from his lips- gutted you. The image of a cowering, broken Bucky sent bile rushing up your throat. You could see him lying in a cell somewhere, his blood staining the concrete as Rumlow tore him apart. And of course, he’d never fight back- he couldn’t. Not unless ordered to. 

“And now, that’s what I’m accustomed to,” he rested a hand against his bruise, almost on instinct. “I don’t know how to operate without it. I thought I’d be happy to never experience it again but… I feel like I need it.”

Showing Bucky kindness and understanding sat atop your priority list- but you couldn’t grasp his perspective. It didn’t make sense. He lived a life so foreign to you, so utterly other, that the things he said often left you confused. While the two of you had many similarities and things in common, some experiences would simply never be relatable. Some stories could never be shared. 

And similar to how Bucky couldn’t understand your flagrant disregard for locking the front door, you couldn’t fathom why he’d beat himself blue.  

“Why, Buck?” It wasn’t that you wanted to know. No, the truth could only serve to hurt you. But you needed to understand. You needed to untangle every knot within Bucky’s psyche and help mend his frayed edges. In order to help him, you had to first grasp his perspective. “Why do you ‘need’ it?”

“Because I know I deserve it.” The words came out course, almost aggressive. Bucky shot you a sheepish look, his method of a wordless apology. The next time he spoke, his voice was softer, his tone more even. “I’ve been conditioned to expect it. And waiting for that pain is- it’s torture. It’s almost worse than the punishment itself.” 

He thought back on all the beatings he received as result of fucking up missions. On one occasion, they broke all twelve of his ribs in one sitting. Another time, they turned almost his entire body blue with bruises. But the times they made him wait it out were far worse than any bloodshed. He jumped at every sound, lost the ability to think. To sleep. To breathe. Every moment fell prey to the anticipation of agony. Bucky shuddered. 

“I keep expecting pain. I feel like I have to look over my shoulder.” The urge to tear himself apart scratched at the inside of Bucky’s skull. If he could just deliver his punishment- if he could just get what he knew was coming- he’d be okay. By destroying his body, he could soothe his mind. But with you so close, staring at him with your blood shot, heartbroken eyes, he was stuck. “It’s like this sense of impending doom that doesn’t end unless I get what I know is coming.”

Things fell quiet as you thought over his words. Anxiety was an old friend you knew well. It accompanied you through everything, never leaving your side for more than a few days. But what Bucky described- that was the stuff of nightmares. That was misery. 

“Hang on,” you tripped over a detail in his story, “then what happened last night?” You didn’t mean to sound skeptical- it wasn’t like that at all. You believed every word Bucky said. One part, however, didn’t quite make sense. “Last night, you got your punishment. You got the pain. Why did you ask me to-”

He sighed, “Last night was different. You caught me. I had to stop- I’ve never done that before. I’ve never stopped right in the middle. I was only out there a little while before you found me.” His vibranium hand pulled into a fist and slowly released. He did this time and time again as the urge hurt himself gnawed at him. “I didn’t do enough. It felt like holding in a sneeze or something. And when we came in here to go to sleep, I still had this sense of looming pain, an impending punishment. And I knew you wouldn’t let me give it to myself. So, I asked you to do it.” 

The far-away look in his eye dissolved as he came screeching back to the present. Guilt dragged his features downward into a near scowl. “But I shouldn’t have done that. I’m so sorry.” The remorse weighed more than he could shoulder. If he thought he knew what guilt felt like before, he was wrong. 

“It’s okay, Buck.” You knew the memory of Bucky begging you for punishment would haunt you forever. It took up prime real estate in your mind and cut you deeper each time you paid it attention. But he couldn’t help it; this was part of his journey. When you started dating Bucky, you knew he wasn’t a ‘regular’ person. Darkness and demons followed him wherever he went, filling his mind with horrors most people could never imagine. Of course, there were going to be speed bumps and rough patches on the road of your relationship. But he never did anything with malice in his heart. He was simply trying to survive. “I know you’re just doing your best-”

“My best is pretty shitty.”

He was always so callous with himself, so unforgiving. It wasn’t fair. “Baby, you’ve made a lot of progress.” He was a completely different person than he was a few months ago. He’d worked hard every day to wade through his trauma and find himself on the other side- all while saving the world. “But it doesn’t all have to happen at once. You can’t heal from everything in one fell swoop. It’s not linear. It’s a slow process-”

“Really slow.” He let out a huff and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. Part of him wanted to run; he couldn’t believe he’d subjected you- the kindest, most loving person on earth- to this corner of his awful reality. But he knew being without you was a fate worse than death. Worse than Hydra. 

“I don’t want to do this-” he motioned toward his bruise. “I don’t want to hurt myself. But I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know how to heal the part of me that’s always looking over my shoulder for a punishment.”

You smoothed his hair back and let your hand drift down his cheek, “You don’t have to do it on your own, Buck. Maybe you should talk to someone-”

He shot you a pointed look.

“Not Dr. Raynor. Someone else. Someone with empathy.” 

Bucky gave a firm nod and a quiet laugh. “Okay, yeah. That works. 

“And in the meantime, whenever you feel that impulse, I want you to tell me, okay? I want to help you through in whatever way I can.”

He tried to protest, but you silenced him. “I’m in this with you- full stop. I’m with you for all the hard stuff and the things you hate about yourself. I’m always in your corner.”

He snaked his arms around you and pulled you as close as possible, relishing in the feeling of your heart beating against his skin. 

“This is a pain-free household, okay? We don’t do punishments here. We don’t hurt ourselves, and we don’t hurt each other.” You wiggled a hand free and offered Bucky your pinky, “promise?”

Not hurting you was a given; Bucky would never dream of causing you pain. But refraining from hurting himself was another story. The need sometimes possessed him, drove him to harm himself when the guilt grew too heavy. The look in your eyes, though, pushed him to promise you. You held such love for him, such adoration. And he knew you meant every word you said. You were going to help him through, to support him, no matter what. 

He linked his pinky with yours, “Promise.”

“Good.” You pressed a quick kiss to his lips before pulling away, “hey, do you have Fury’s address?”

Bucky cocked his head to the side, “Uh, yeah. I think it’s in my notebook in the office. Why?”

In one swift motion, you slithered from Bucky’s arms and slid out of bed. “Oh, no reason,” you sighed as you headed for the door, “I’m just gonna egg his house.”

———————

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[buckysflicker]

ᴏɴᴇ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟᴇ ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ

Summary: Bucky is trying to get used to being around other people again and turns to you for comfort, one simple touch is all it takes to make him feel at peace with himself.

Pairing: Beefy!Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 5.7k

Warnings: I think it's mostly fluff, maybe a teeny tiny bit of angst for 0.01 second

Requests: Fluffy piece with Bucky where reader is trying to get Buck to feel more comfortable with touch so reader braids his hair and he gets really relaxed and soft because he’s not used to it. Like a gentle kiss or something too.

Maybe after Wakanda, he and reader are friends and Reader asks to braid Bucky’s hair and it’s just really fluffy. Maybe with a head massage and Buck has never gotten one before so he just melts?

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

Bucky found it difficult to get used to being around people again. For over 70 years the people that were always circling around him were usually probing, poking or hurting him. Steve had suggested to Bucky to move in the tower, join the group. He assured him he would have his own living space and no one is going to force anything on him if there's something he doesn't want to do. Bucky had his doubts but fortunately he was proven wrong. He had almost an entire floor to himself, the doors in his apartment locked from the inside and if someone wanted to see him they knocked and waited for him to allow them inside. Privacy had almost become a foreign concept to him but now that he had it, he never wanted to let it go again.

It took him a couple of months before being comfortable enough to join the rest of the group when they hung out together or ate together. It was a lot of people to deal with at the same time, lots of loud noises and voices overlapping. Bucky was used to silence, calm, darkness and solitude. Hanging with the Avengers was everything but any of those things.

You had joined the Avengers only a few months before Bucky moved in. Steve had been the one to find you and introduce you to Tony. You were a little genius, even more so than Tony and it didn't take long to realize that your wonderful brain was a needed addition to the group. You always came up with weapons ideas, battle strategies and flawless plans. The way your brain worked was almost magical. You could analyze something and within seconds you had come up with a solution or an idea. When Steve brought you in he thought you were only going to work in the labs but as it turns out, you had very useful skills for the battlefield as well and now you were pretty much around all the time.

You were quite reserved, no matter how many times you had tried breaking out of your shell. You were like Bucky in that way; solitude and silence had been your only companions for so long that it was hard to get used to being with so many people all at once.

Even if you weren't familiar with being around people, there was something about you that made others gravitate towards you. Your presence was soothing, calming. You were soft in more than one way and your colleagues liked that. You were always smiling, even if you were having a rough day. You always made the time to listen to other people's problems even when you should have focused and used your energy on your own problems.

Steve was your favorite from the group. Tony liked to make the joke that you were both elderly in some type of way and that's why you got along so perfectly.

You could see a small part of you in Steve. Not Captain America, but the little Brooklyn boy that was still there buried under pounds and pounds of muscles. He always made you feel like you could be your true self around him, he never judged you or made fun of you. He was a great friend and you told him that almost every day.

Bucky liked being around you, even if he had never actually talked to you except for the occasional hi and how are you, in passing. He gave himself small goals to achieve and when he'd be ready to try to make more friends aside from Steve, you were his very first choice. The top of his list. It terrified him and excited him at the same time, there's always the fear of being rejected because of who he is, who he was and what he has done. None of it is a secret, apparently people can read about him on the internet though he's never checked. Steve tried to tell him time and time again that no one would judge him for the things he did when he didn't have control over his mind but Bucky found that hard to believe, so he didn't.

One night, Bucky woke up from a nightmare which wasn't unusual. The throbbing pain in his head was a new, unwelcomed addition. He can't even remember the last time he had a headache, even less a migraine. He turned around in bed trying to find a comfortable position with his neck stiffening with every second that passed but he quickly realized that lying down was only making it worse. He got out of bed and went down to the shared living room to sit in the dark, hoping it would help get rid of the pounding in his head. He hadn't expected to find you already there, sitting in a corner of the room with a few books scattered around you.

He wanted to turn back around to leave you in peace but it was too late, you had already seen him.

"Hi, James." You greeted him quietly with a smile that rapidly turned into a frown. "Are you ok?"

"Mh-mh. I'm fine. Why?"

You tilted your head to the side, narrowing your eyes as you looked at him. "You seem in pain."

"You've been looking at me for 5 seconds and you can tell I'm in pain?" He asked, surprised. People usually have a lot of trouble figuring him out but he should have known that you were going to be different.

"What's wrong?" You asked, avoiding answering his question because that would mean telling him that you liked looking at him from time to time and that's just creepy.

"I woke up and my head's pounding. I can't make it stop." He admitted, knowing it was useless to try and lie to you.

"I'm guessing medication wouldn't have any effect on your system because of the serum?"

"Not even a little bit."

Your brain worked its magic to find a solution to his problem.

"Relaxing your muscles will help get rid of your migraine."

"I don't know how to do that." He sighed.

"I can help, if you want. I'd have to touch your head, maybe a little bit of your neck and shoulders."

"At this point I'm willing to try anything."

"Sit on the couch."

He did as you said and you made him sit sideways so that you could kneel behind him on the couch.

"You say the word and I'll stop, ok?"

He nodded. "Just do your thing."

You started by massaging his temples with your fingertips, drawing small, soothing circles there. You then moved up to the top of his head where you ran your fingers through his hair, moving them away from his face. With your thumbs, you followed down the tension from the sides of his neck all the way to the middle of his shoulder blades.

Bucky's eyes fluttered closed under your touch. It gave him goosebumps and shivers every time your fingers touched his skin.

He didn't even flinch when you started rubbing at his neck and slowly worked your way down to his shoulders. You were massaging directly onto the skin, thanks to the tank top he wore to bed giving you easy access. You started with the right one and when you moved to the other side, you hesitated.

Bucky could feel your hesitation and knew you wouldn't want to touch him there.

"Is it ok if I do your left side?" You asked him quietly.

It was such a simple question but it left Bucky speechless. Like having headaches, he can't remember when was the last time someone asked permission to touch his left arm. You didn't hesitate because you were uncomfortable or disgusted, you hesitated because you wanted to respect his boundaries and he could have cried just from the simple question. Truthfully, he almost did.

"Yes." He whispered, not trusting his voice to go any louder.

You were very careful when you massaged his left shoulder. There was so much scarring tissue, you weren't sure if he could even feel anything because of it.

"Do you still have nerve endings?" You finally asked, still gently massaging where metal met skin.

"Yes."

"Does it hurt sometimes?"

"All the time." He admitted.

"I'm sorry." Not for asking the question but for everything he went through and Bucky could tell simply by the tone of your voice. It wasn't pity, it was empathy. A sincere apology for something you didn't do but it still felt nice to have someone say those words to him and mean them.

When you feel him starting to really relax, you let your hands roam from his temples to his shoulders, and back again.

"How's your head?" You asked, 10 minutes later.

"A lot better. Thank you."

You smiled even if he couldn't see it. "Anytime. I'm glad I could help."

"Could you maybe… run your fingers through my hair a little while longer?" He asked quietly, slightly embarrassed and most definitely shy.

"You got it."

This time you used both hands and, though you didn't time it, you're pretty sure you did it for a full hour but never once did it bother you.

Bucky showed up in the living room a few more nights before it slowly began to become a routine for the two of you and your newly found friendship.

At first, Bucky only came to you in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep and he knew that you were most likely sitting in the dark, surrounded by opened books while your mind was racing all over the place. It didn't take long for him to notice that you took a lot on your shoulders, put a lot of pressure on yourself and you always felt like you needed to be perfect by fear of them kicking you out. This was your home, these were your friends, you didn't want to be left out on the street by yourself.

They would never do something like that but it was a constant fear at the forefront of your mind.

Soon after he realized that, Bucky was now coming to you every night. Even when he felt fine, because he was worried about you and he wanted to make sure that you would stop and rest, go to sleep even.

"Sweets, we talked about this." He said to you from the doorway, leaning his left shoulder on the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest. "1:30 is your cut off time. Then you go to bed."

You looked up at him. "What time is it?"

"1:45"

"Oh. It's not that bad." You started closing the books around you.

"Because I came down. Wanna bet I would have found you here, like this if I had come an hour or two later?"

"I know, I know." You mumbled, stacking up your books neatly in the corner.

While you had your back to him, Bucky pushed himself off the doorframe and walked over to you to offer you his hands and help you up.

‘’Off to bed, sweet girl.’’ He gently nudged you towards the door, following behind you to make sure you actually headed to your room.

Already in your pajamas, you climbed into bed right away and gestured for Bucky to do the same. He shook his head.

‘’Another time, you need to rest. I’ll survive one night without you playing with my hair.’’

‘’Please.’’ You pouted. ‘’You know it helps me, too.’’

He stared at you. ‘’Fine.’’ He huffed, getting on your bed. ‘’Just for a few minutes, sweets. I’m serious, you need to sleep. That incredible brain of yours needs a break from time to time.’’

‘’A few minutes.’’ You repeated, like a promise.

Bucky sat with his back to you while you kneeled on your mattress behind him. You started the way you always do by massaging his temples and then moving up to his scalp. You could feel the way his skin rippled from the shivers and goosebumps, which never missed to make you giggle. Bucky loved hearing that sound coming out of you, it made his heart flutter in his chest every single time.

It didn’t take long for Bucky to start melting under your touch, his eyes fluttering close and his neck going almost limp. You knew you did a good job when you could see his shoulders slouch, a sign that he was fully relaxed. Only then would you stop massaging his head and start playing with his hair. What you loved to do was braid his hair, it’s just so soft and fluffy that you can’t help yourself. Bucky loved it too. He loved the feelings of your fingers running through his hair and the way you’d sometimes scratch at his scalp, barely grazing him but just enough to get to a hitch he didn’t know he had until you touched him.

You’d braid his hair, then undo it by running your fingers through it and then you’d start all over again.

You always ended your little routine by massaging his left shoulder where skin met metal, now that you knew that Bucky could still feel through the scar tissue. You were currently working on something for Tony and Bruce but the moment you are done you will be focusing on trying to find why and how his metal arm could irritate his skin so much.

You are the only person Bucky trusts enough to touch that arm. He doesn’t think he’d be that comfortable even with Steve. There’s something about you that just makes him trust you, almost as if he could tell just by looking at you that you were never going to do anything to harm him in any way.

He trusts his gut, it never stirred him wrong so far.

The little yawn that escaped your mouth broke him out of his trance to look at the clock on your nightstand.

‘’We said a few minutes.’’ Bucky groaned after realizing that it’s been 45 minutes.

‘’I know but you looked so relaxed, I didn’t want to stop.’’

He stood up from your bed, shaking his head. ‘’Go to sleep.’’

You chuckled and got under the cover, watching Bucky walking to the door.

‘’Good night, James.’’

‘’Good night, sweet girl.’’

You smiled at him before he turned off the light and walked out, silently closing the door behind him.

After that night, he started seeking you out during the day to make sure you’d always go straight to bed at night.

One day he knocked at your bedroom door and when you saw him walk in you could tell that he was mad.

‘’What’s wrong?’’ You sat up, looking up at him as he came closer.

‘’Don’t want to talk about it.’’ He mumbled, climbing on your bed.

He sat with his back leaning against your headboard and scooped you up long enough to sit you down between his legs with your back to his chest. Without a word, he started playing with your hair and did to you everything you do to him that he loves so much. It didn’t take long for his bad mood to be gone, back to his peaceful and relaxed state that he’s always in when you’re around.

Another morning he walked in after knocking looking sad. You sat up in your bed and felt your heart break at the sadness in his eyes.

‘’Nightmare?’’

He simply nodded and this time when he got on your bed instead of sitting he laid down, resting his head on your lap and closed his eyes. Your hands found their way to his head and you softly stroked his hair, whatever you could reach without disturbing him. You kept stroking his hair with your left hand and with your right hand you traced his features with your fingertip. You barely touched him, if he wasn’t so focused on your touch he probably wouldn’t have even known you were doing it but he could feel your finger moving along his hairline down to his ear, then your finger followed the curve of his ear down to his neck and went back up to his nose. You did this until he fell asleep.

One afternoon, you were the one looking for Bucky.

‘’Jamie.’’ You greeted him cheerfully when you found him sitting on the couch of the living room. You were clearly excited about something as you walked over to him. You stopped moving when you noticed that he was watching a documentary. ‘’Oh. You’re busy. I’m sorry.’’

‘’It’s ok, what’s up?’’ He turned his head to look at you.

‘’It’s nothing important. It can wait until you’re done.’’ You smiled.

He turned off the tv and put the remote down on the coffee table. ‘’Come here, sweet girl. Tell me.’’ He patted the empty seat next to him.

You were too excited to argue so you quickly joined him on the couch, sitting with your legs tucked under you. ‘’You know that tech that I’ve been working on that Tony came up with but it kept failing and he couldn’t figure out why?’’

He nodded, turning slightly to his side to look at you.

‘’It’s been driving me crazy because I couldn’t figure it out either and you know how much I hate it when I can’t solve something.’’ Your words were coming out so fast, Bucky had trouble keeping up sometimes but he was getting used to it. That’s how you get when you’re excited about something.

Without even realizing it, you were running your fingers through Bucky’s hair as you kept talking. ‘’I tested it over and over again, took it apart then put it back together, tested it again. It was driving me nuts, which is exactly what I said in my head and then I figured it out. I took it apart and instead of putting it back together like Tony showed me to, I did it my way and I added those tiny little nuts to tighten it all up. It fixed everything. Everything. But that’s not even the best part.’’

Bucky smiled as he listened to you but the position started to get uncomfortable so he grabbed you by the hips and made you straddle his lap instead so you could keep playing with his hair. He laid his hands flat on your back to keep you from falling backwards and none of it slowed you down in the slightest.

‘’I thought it was tech for you guys but turns out it was for Stark Industries, he’s going to patent it under my name and he’s going to pay me every time it’s sold. Around the world. Can you imagine? Something I did is going to be sold to people, under Tony’s name and he said he doesn’t put his name on just anything; it has to be perfect, flawless and genius. Those are the words he used.’’

Bucky chuckled when he noticed you were getting breathless from talking so much. ‘’That’s amazing, sweets. I can’t believe you said it was nothing and that it could wait. That’s huge news. You should be proud of yourself. I’m proud of you.’’

You smiled brightly at him and tucked his hair behind his ears. ‘’Sorry for messing with your hair.’’

‘’It’s ok.’’ He smiled back at you.

‘’How was your day?’’ You asked while moving a little closer, getting ready to listen to him.

As time went on and your friendship solidified, you could tell how Bucky was feeling just by the way he was seeking your touch. You didn’t need to say a word, you just watched him and waited to see if he wanted to talk about it.

When he curled up on your lap, you knew that he was either sad or feeling guilty and sometimes even both. When he sat behind you to play with your hair it meant that he was too angry to speak or sit still. When either of you was happy or excited and had something to share with the other, Bucky would sit you on his lap facing him with your legs on each side of his body so that he could look at the way your eyes would lit up at good news whether it was yours or his.

Bucky had never realized how touch starved he was until he let you into his life. He was so sure that other people’s touch terrified him, that he’d be spending the rest of his life literally pushing people away so they wouldn’t try to touch him but as it turns out, he loved it and craved it. Sometimes there were little pieces of his mind he would get back, snippets of his life from before the war of who James Bucky Barnes was before he was turned into a killing machine. He remembers smiling a lot. He always had this goofy grin plastered on his face and he could almost remember how light his chest used to feel without the crushing guilt that gnawed at him now. He used to laugh too, he used to make jokes and tease Steve. He wasn’t scared of anyone, quite the opposite. He was always surrounded by people; friends, family, girls he’d easily picked up by using his signature grin and a few charming words. It wasn’t unusual for him to be seen hand in hand with a woman he met earlier in the day. You brought that side out of him, you brought out the man he used to be and wanted to be again.

Steve had started to train and work out with Bucky. Every day they would go down to the gym and go at each other, full strength no holding back. They both loved it but Bucky was exhausted all the time. He had just enough energy to take a shower and then he’d crash. The first week was especially rough and Bucky was so tired that you hadn’t seen him at all. Steve noticed that it started to affect you, you weren’t as cheerful and without Bucky to tell you to go to bed you had spent a lot of nights awake and working.

Come Friday night, Steve had suggested watching a movie and even went to get Bucky from his room but came back down without him.

‘’Sorry.’’ He said when he saw your disappointment. ‘’He was sleeping and I don’t think he heard me through the door. I left a note under his door in case he wakes up.’’

‘’It’s ok. He’s better, he’s sleeping. That’s good.’’ You smiled but it didn’t really reach your eyes.

You were happy that Bucky had found something to keep him busy and make him feel good enough to sleep through the night but a selfish part of you was sad that you weren’t that something anymore. You missed your friend and the little moments you used to share together. It had been really hard for you to trust someone this much, to be completely yourself and let down all your guards. You went from being alone most of the time to having someone waiting for you and back to being alone and it left a bitter taste in your mouth.

You let Steve choose the movie and sat down on the couch, staying on your side and leaning your head against the armrest.

About halfway through the movie, a very sleepy Bucky walked into the living room holding up Steve’s post-it he had slid under his bedroom door.

‘’Got your note.’’

He hadn’t even noticed you when he first walked in because of how small you made yourself all curled up in the corner of the couch but he smiled when he saw you.

‘’Hey, you.’’ He walked over to you and sat down beside you. ‘’Got some hugs to spare for a bruised old man?’’

You untucked yourself and stood up. ‘’Sorry, I’m not feeling so great. I think I’m just going to head out to bed. Good night guys.’’

Before either of them could say something, you were gone.

‘’Is she ok?’’ Bucky turned to look at Steve.

Steve shrugged and turned off the TV. ‘’She’s been having a bad week.’’

‘’Really? What happened?’’

Steve waited a few seconds before speaking again, thinking of how he could explain it to Bucky. ‘’You’re not the only one who’s been having trouble fitting in, trusting people and allowing them into your life.’’

‘’What’s that supposed to mean?’’ Bucky frowned.

‘’She’s had trouble too. She always feels out of place and she doesn’t like being around other people because they always make her feel like she’s different.’’

‘’Did someone say something to her?’’ Bucky stood up, ready to go to whoever it is that said something hurtful to you.

‘’Bucky, she used to be alone all the time and then you became friends and she wasn’t alone anymore because you were always together.’’

‘’Steve, get to the point.’’

‘’She’s been alone all week, she misses you.’’ Steve finally admitted.

‘’You could have lead with that, punk.’’ Bucky didn’t wait for Steve’s answer and left to find you.

He had hoped he could have caught up with you before you got to your room, and he probably would have if it wasn’t for Steve playing Riddler downstairs. He knocked on your door softly.

‘’Sweets, it’s me. Can you open up, please?’’

‘’It’s open.’’

He sighed with relief, he had been scared you weren’t going to let him in.

Bucky opened the door slowly, walked in then closed it. He got on your bed and lied down behind you over the covers. ‘’You must feel really bad because you’re in bed before 10.’’ He teased you, speaking softly. ‘’I’m not feeling great either. Maybe we got the same thing.’’

You quickly turned around when you heard Bucky wasn’t ok. ‘’What’s wrong?’’ You asked him, your worry was showing in your eyes and the little crease between your eyebrows.

‘’I miss my girl. I haven’t been able to hangout with her for almost a week and that’s way, way too long.’’ He kissed your forehead. ‘’I’m sorry I have been such a shitty friend.’’

‘’It’s ok, you’re busy and you have things to do. You can’t always have time for me.’’

‘’From now on, I’ll always make time for you.’’ He smiled and put your foreheads together. ‘’I really want to spend time with you because I really do miss you but right now all I have energy for is sleeping. Can I do that here? With you?’’

Your grin was all the answer he needed. He quickly put his arms around you and brought you with him when he turned to lie on his back. He tucked you into his side with the covers between you, letting you rest your head on his chest which allowed him to run his fingers through your hair to help you fall asleep.

‘’Good night, Sweets.’’

‘’Good night, Jamie.’’

Within a minute, the both of you were out cold.

Now that you had added this new ‘’activity’’ to the list of things you did together, it got a little easier to spend time together during busy days. It was easier for you to go to bed at a reasonable hour when you had someone waiting for you. It always made you laugh whenever Bucky would come into your bedroom, half-asleep from the day he’s had because he’s a super-soldier he’s not supposed to be this tired but you guess that’s what happens when your best friend is Steve Rogers, the overachiever who doesn’t like taking breaks. Ever.

Those nights, Bucky would come in wearing sweats and a tank top and get on your bed, crawl to you for dramatic effect and then lie down on top of you. He’d hide his face in your neck, stay awake long enough to ask you how you were doing and then he was out. If you were stroking his hair, then he’d just pass out mid-sentence.

Bucky went from avoiding people at all costs, to learning to trust people and himself around people, to craving being touched or hugged all the time. Not by just anyone though, it had to be you. Always you.

‘’Where’s Bucky?’’ You asked Steve after entering the gym, one afternoon.

‘’His room. Why? Something wrong?’’

"Thank you.’’ You said over your shoulder already halfway through the door and in the hall.

You knocked on his door and waited for his permission before entering.

‘’Hey, Sweets.’’ He smiled from where he was sitting on his bed, reading.

‘’Why aren’t you training?’’ You frowned, coming to stand next to his bed.

‘’My shoulder.’’

‘’I was hoping you’d say that!’’ The excitement in your voice made him frown and close his book.

‘’What did I do for you to be excited that I’m in pain?’’

You froze, slightly embarrassed. ‘’Oh, no. I’m sorry.’’ You shook your head and held out your hand in front of you to show Bucky a little tub of cream. ‘’I’ve been trying to stop getting so excited. I’m sorry. It’s just that I finished the cream for your shoulder and I think this time I got it right. I was happy that’d you’d be able to try it and hopefully it’ll work and you won’t be in pain anymore in a few minutes.’’

‘’Hey.’’ Bucky said softly, putting an end to your rambling. ‘’Never apologize to me for being yourself.’’

You almost apologized again but Bucky gave you a warning glare, making you laugh instead.

‘’Now, come on. Let’s try it.’’ He took off his shirt and watched as you straddled his lap and started rubbing in the cream.

You were very meticulous, you needed to make sure all the skin directly connected to his arm was covered.

‘’Now we just have to wait a few minutes to see if it works.’’ You put the cream down on the mattress next to you. ‘’What have you been reading?’’ You asked pushing his hair to his right side, making sure not to get cream on them.

‘’One of my favorite books from the 30s, Steve got it for me.’’

You smiled. ‘’That was sweet of him. What is it about?’’

‘’Nothing interesting.’’ He shrugged.

‘’Something has to be interesting if it’s one of your favorite books and Steve took the time to find it for you. C’mon. You listen to me talk about my work and research all the time, I want to hear about what you like.’’

‘’Are you sure?’’

You nodded with a big smile to show him you really were interested.

That’s when the flood gate opened and now Bucky couldn’t stop talking even if he wanted to. He had tried talking about his book with Steve but Steve was never interested and barely listened to him. He liked having someone to talk to that actually listened to him from start to finish. He spent most of the time explaining the book to you with his head down, flipping through pages as he did so. At some point Bucky looked up at you and his breath hitched in his throat at the sight in front of him. You were looking at him, truly listening to what he was saying and you had this cute little smile you always have whenever you’re happy and relaxed. What caught his breath though was the look in your eyes. He can’t remember the last time someone looked at him with that much love and adoration in their eyes, he wonders if it ever even happened before.

He couldn’t resist any longer and leaned in to kiss you. He was severely out of practice but he couldn’t think of anyone better to have his ‘’first’’ kiss with.

He started to panic when you didn’t kiss him back and started pulling away but you stopped him by kissing him back. He had forgotten all about kissing. He had forgotten how soft lips could be, how one simple touch like that could make him feel weak and strong all at once, how his heart would flutter and butterflies roamed free in his stomach. Most of all, he had forgotten how intoxicating it was to kiss someone you love and now that he remembers, he never wants to stop. When you broke apart, Bucky leaned back against his headboard to look at you and smiled his big goofy grin. The James Bucky Barnes grin. He couldn’t feel any pain now in his shoulder, he just didn’t know whether it was because of your cream or just you and the power you have over him.

‘’The only thing I’m sorry about is how rusty I am at kissing.’’ He said to let you know that this wasn’t just a spur of the moment kind of thing.

‘’Apparently, practicing helps a lot with those kinds of problems.’’

‘’You’re probably right.’’ He put down his book on his nightstand and then brought his hands to your waist to pull you closer. ‘’Think you can help me with that?’’

‘’Definitely.’’

You wrapped your arms around the back of his neck just as he kissed you again. One of your hands held onto the back of his neck while you ran your fingers through Bucky’s hair with the other.

Maybe Bucky should feel embarrassed about how one simple touch from you makes a big, strong super-soldier like himself melt so easily but he honestly didn’t care.

Bucky had spent decades trying to avoid people touching him at all costs, even as he slowly began to become the man he once was. Just the thought of having someone put their hands on him made his skin crawl. Yet here he was needing and craving your touch, he loved the way his skin felt on fire wherever you were touching him. It made him feel alive, human and no longer like the emotionless assassin he used to be.

He had spent so much time avoiding other people’s touch and now he’d be ready to do or give anything to make sure that it would never stop.

For the first time since he woke up after falling off the train Bucky isn’t afraid to give control to someone else. You were the one thing since 1943 that Bucky wasn’t afraid of, that he didn’t regret.

One simple touch is all it took to change everything.

It's been so long since I've written anything for Bucky! Hopefully this is not too bad!

@n3ssm0nique | @lover-of-bucky | @beingagodsucks | @littlemissthistle | @dancer3205 | @thatblondebrownie | @rainbowkisses31 | @benbarnesbussy | @bucky-hues

[buckysflicker]

Fight for me - Series Masterlist

Summary: After years in an abusive relationship, you finally get out. When the Avengers decide to raise awareness for your Battered Women’s Home, you bump into Bucky Barnes, the hottest, most complicated man you’ve ever met. He thinks you’re too good for him, but when your abusive ex reappears, Bucky knows he has to keep you safe - by any means necessary.

Pairing: Beefy!Bucky x reader

Series warnings: Language, talking about previous abuse, talking about kinky times, violence, eventual smut.

For more info, see individual parts…

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Finale